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Harvard College
Library

FROM THE BKQOBST Or

JOHN HARVEY TREAT

or LAVKKN CB, MASS.
CLASS OF 1S(S

tfm<<><i»>>»il^»ir

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^ THE

CATHOLIC WOKLD.

GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

VOL. n.

OCTOBER, 1865, TO MARCH, 1660.

NEW YORK:

LAWRENCE KEHOB, PUBLISHER,
7 Bbbkuan Strbbt.

1866.

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CP^3,3

N-^

^ 1^ - -^ P

HARVARD COLLEQC LfBRARy

ilr ^^^^

TpEAT FUND

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CONTENTS.

JldTBntora, The, 848.

AogUean snd Greek Church, Attempt at Union

hetween the, 66.
AU-Hallow Bve ; or. The Test of FntiirltT, 71,

IW. 877, 507, 007, 818.
Andes t Lavs of Ireland, The, ISO.
An^lcaBlam and the Greek Schism, 4S0.
Ancient Facnlty of Faria, The, 406, 681.

BeU GoMip, as.
Birds, MiCTation of, 67.
fimgee. The Capuchin of, 88T.
Boeaaet and LeibniU, 4S8.

Catholic Oongressea at Xallnea and Wflnsbnrff,

1, S21, SI, 519.
Constance Sherwood, 87, 160, 804, 466, 614, 759.
Chinese Characteristics, 108.
Catholic Settlements In Pennsylvania, 146.
Ohpnchin of firoges. The, 887.
Christmas Carols, A Bpndle of, 840.
Christendom, Formation of, 856.
CaictttU and ite Vicinity, A Bide through, 886.
Oiristmaa Bv« : or, The Bible, 807.
Oiarles H. and his Son, Father James Stnart,

677.
Omton, Up and Down, 666.
California and the Charch, 70O.
Charles IL*s Last Attempt to Emancipate The

Gatholica, 887.

Doc d^Ayen, The Danghters of the, S58.

Epidemics, Fhat ajid Present, 490.

Fonoation of Christendom, The, 856.

Gallltzin, Rev. Demetrins Angostin, 145.
Q«rtrade, Saint, Thonghte on, 406.
Oenxano, The Inflorata of, 608.
Glaatonbory Abbey, Past and Present, 669.

Baadwritiiig, 686.

Inside the Bye, 110.

Ireland before Christianity, 641.

Kingdom without a King, 706.

Leibnlte and Boasnet, 488.
Law and Literature, 660.

Malines and WUrzbnrg, Catholic Congresaea in,

1, 991, 889, 619.
Marie Loolse, Napoleon's ICarriage with, 19.
Klgrations of Bnropean Birds, 67.
MiMellany, 186, 976,668, 714, 868.
Moridere, General De La, 980.
Malta, Sitge of, 488.
Mistaken Identity, 707.
Mary, (^neen of Soots, The Two Friends of; 818.

Natural Hiatory of the Tropics, Gleanings from.
Novel Ticket-of-leave, A, 707.

Pierre Pr6voet's Story, 110.

Pen, Slips of the, 279.

Paris, The Ancient Facnlty ot. 486, 681.

Pnsey, Dr., on the Church of England. 680.

Positivism, 791. * ^

Plain- Work, 740.

Procter, Adelaide Anne, Poema of, 887.

Ricamler, Madame, and her Friends, 79.
Rome, Facts and Fictions about, 836.
Religious SUtistics of the World, 491.
Rhodes, The Colossus of, 644.

Steam Engine, The Inventor of, 911.
Saturnine Observations, A Few, 966.
Slips of the Pen, 979.
Saints of the Uesert, 976, 876, 468, 666, 886.
Saint Catharine of Siena, Public Life of, 647.
Saint Patrick, The Birth place of, 744.

True to the Last, 110.

The Eye, Inside of, 119.

Tropics, Gleanings fh>m the Natural Hiatory oi;

The Clouds and the Poor, 918.
The Bible; or, Christmaa Eve, 807.
The Adventure, 848.

World, Religioaa Stetiaties of the, 401.

POETRY.

An Boi^h Maiden^s Love, 97.

Better Late than Never, 464.
Books, 49S.

I thy Seed, 618.

Children, The, 70.
Christmas Carol, A, 419, 6S9.
City Aapirationa, 680.

I Spiro Spero," 169.

FUUngStera, 848.

Inqiiletaa, 101

B3xicatall Abbey, 86.
Xo^aar, PUgrimaga to, 197.

litUe things, 886.

Propenla Rossi, 986.
Patience, 819.

Resigned, 664.

Song of the Year, 490. {

Saint ElijBabeth, 690.

Tender and True and Tried, 886.
The Round of the Waters. 886.
The Better Part, 767.

Unshed Teara, 789.

TnnterSigna,19&

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IT.

QnUenti.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Archbishop Hnghes^i Oompleto Works, 883.
American KepoDllo, The, 714.
Andrew Johnson, Life of, 8Sd.

Banim*8 Works. 886.

Baker, Rey. F. A., Memoir and Sermons of, 666.
Brownson's American Republic, 714.
Brlncker, Hans, 719.

Catholic Anecdotes, 887.
Cobden, Richard, Career of, 860.
Complete Works of Archbishop Hughes, 888.
Croppy, The, 8G9.

Darras' History of the Church, 148.
De Ga6r1n, Eugenie, Journal of, 716.
Draper's Civil Tollcy of America, 868.

England, Fronde's History of, 676.

Faith, the Victory, Bishop MjsGlirs, 676.

Hedge's Reason in Religion, 480.
Holmes, Oliver W., Humorous Poems, 6TS.

Uvea of the Popes, 888.

Mother Juliana's Sixteen BeTelattons, 881.
MetropoUtes, The, 887.

Memoir and Sermons of Rev. F. A. Baker, 666.
Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Qhost,

Merry Christmas, A Cantata, 719.
Monthly, The, 719.
Mozart, Letters of, 866.

Newman's, Rev. Dr., History of ReUgloiui Opiii«

ions, 189. ^ "• F

Nicholas of the Floe, 718.

Remy St. Remy, 987.
Reason in Religion, 480.

Sixteen Revelations of Mother Juliana, 881.
Sherman's Great March, Story of, 888.
Saint John of the Cross, Works of, 488.
Spelling Book, The Practical DicUtlon, Om.
Spare Hours, 718.
St. Teresa, Life of, 866.

Thoreau's Cape Cod, 888.

The Old House by the Boyne, 886.

The Christian Examiner, 678, 717.

United Stotee Cavalry, History of, 86S.

Vade Mecnm, The Catholic's, 869.

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THE

CATHOLIC WOELD.

VOL. n., NO. 7.— OCTOBEB, 1865.

Translated from the German.

MALINES AND WURZBURG.

4 SEBTGH OF THE CATHOLIC OONGBESSES HELD AT HALINES AND wUrZ-

BUBO.

BY A2n)REW NIEDBBMA8SBR.

CHAPTER I.

The Catholic Congresses in Belgium
are of more recent date than the gen-
eral conventions of all Catholic so-
deties in Germany. The political
commotiona of 1848 burst the chains
which had fettered the German
Church, and ashered in a period of
renewed ivligious life and activity.
This new and glorious era was in-
aogaraled bj th6 council of twenty-six
German bishopa at WUrzhurg^ which
lasted from Oct 22 to Nov. 16,
1848. There it was that our prelates
boldlj seized the serpent of German
revolation, and in their hands the ser-
pent was turned into a budding rod,
the stay alike of Church and state.

Since then sixteen years have roll-
ed by ; sixteen general conventions
haive been held, each of which gained
for its participants the respect of the
pubHc Powerful was the influence
exerted by these meetings on the le-
ligiooB life of the hdij, aa is shown

both by the numerous and active as-
sociations that arose everywhere, and
by the general spirit of enterprise
which they fostered. By their means,
the spirit and principles of the Church
were made known to the Catholic
laity, whose actions they were not
slow to influence.

To tttese meetings may be traced,
directly or indirectly, whatever good
was accomplished within the past six-
teen years in Catholic dermany;
every part of Germany has felt their
beneflcial efiects; they were well
suited to perform the task allotted
them ; and have thus far at least at-
tained the end for which they were
called into existence.

These meetings were associations of
lajrmen ; of laymen penetrated with
the spirit of faith, devoted to the
Churdh, and fully convinced that in
matters relating to the government of
the Church, to the realization of the
liberty and independence due to the
Church, their only duty was to listen
to the voice of their pastors, and to
follow devotedly the lead of a hier-

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Mdine$ and Wurtburg.

arcHj tLej respected and reyered.
Though for the most part but one
third of the members of the annual
conventions were laymen, the lay
character of the conventions is still
theoretically asserted, and appears to
some extent at least in practice, inas-
much as the presidfflit of the conven«
tion is always a layman, and the prin-
cipal committee is mamly composed of
laymen. The preference is also given
to lay orators. The society of laymen
submitted the t^onstitution drafted and
adopted at its first meeting, held at
Mayence in 1848, not only to the
Holy Father, but to all the bishops of
Grermany, who joyfuUy approved its
sentiment, and expressed their interest
in the welfare of the society. The same
course is pursued to the present day ;
each of the sixteen genersd conventions
maintained the most intimate relations
with the GSennan bishops and the
Holy See.

In honor of the present pontiff, Pius
IX., these associations at first adopted
the name of Piusvereine^ thus paying
a just tribute of respect to the Holy
Father. For Pius IX., during his
long pontificate of almost twenty years,
has -become the leading spirit of the
age ; we Uve in the age of Pius IX,
It was he who brought into vogue
modem ideas, and he was the first to
do justice to the wants of the age.
As the historian now speaks of the
age of Gregory YII. and Innocent III.,
so will the future historian write of
the age of Pius IX. The true sons
of the nineteenth century are gathered
to fight under the banners of the
many Catholic associations which,
founded for the purpose of putting to
flight the threatening assaults of infi-
delity, have spread during the pontifi-
cate of Pius IX. over every portion
of the globe. In Switzerland the
original name of these societies is re-
tained; in Germany, owing to their
branching out into numerous similar
associations, it has disappeared, and
we now speak of a " general conven-
tion of the Catholic assodations in
Germany."

The first general convention took
place toward the beginning of October,
1848, in the ancient electoral palace
at Mayence. Hundreds of noble spir-
its from every quarter of Germany
met here, as if by magic ; the Spirit
of God had convened them. Meet-
ing for the first time, they felt at once
that they were friends and brothers.
There was no discord, no embarrass-
ment, for on all hearts rested a deep
consciousness of the unity, the power,
and the charity of their conmion faith.
Whoever was present at this first
gathering of the Catholics of Germany,
owned to himself that by no scenQ
which he had previously witnessed
had he been so profoundly impressed.
Opposite the stand from which the
spieiakers were to address the meeting
sat Bishop Kaiser, of Mayence, whilst
most prominent among the orators of
the occasion appeared Us destined suc-
cessor, Baron Emmanuel von Ketteler,
who was at that time pastor of the poor
and insignificant parish of Hopsten.
Writing of him, Beda Weber said:
^ His determined character is a fresh
and fiving type of the German nation,
of its universality, its history, and its
Catholic spirit In his heart he bears
the great and brave Grerman race with
all its countless virtues, and hence
springs the peculiar boldness of his
words, asserting that ftie revolution
is but a means to rear the edifice of
the German Church, an edifice des-
tined to be far statelier than the ca-
thedral of Cologne. His form waa
tall and powerful, his features marked,
expressing at once his fearlessness,
his energy, and his Westphalian devo-
tion to God and the Church, to the
emperor and the nation. The words
of Baron von Ketteler acted irresisti-
bly on all present, for they were but
the echo of their own sentiments."
Such was the impression then pro-
duced by the man who is now looked
upon by the Catholics of Germany aa
their standard-bearer.

The voice of Beda Weber too waa
heard on that occasion. Frankfort
had not as yet become the scene of his

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MaUnu and Wurzburg,

laboETB as pastor, for he was still pro-
fessor at Meraa. He was a meinber
of the Germaa parliament, then hold*
ing its sessions at Frankfort, and like
many other Catholic fellow members
had come to Majence for the purpose
of assisting at the first general reunion
of the Catholic societies. His elo-
qnenoe likewise called forth immense
enthusiasm. Strong and energetic,
sometimes pointed and unsparing, a
Tigorous eon of the mountains, manlj,
ndble, and respected, he came forth at
a most opportune moment from the
solitode cf his mouniains and his cell,
in order to take part in the struggles
of his age and become their historian.
A master at painting characters, he
has written unriyalled sketches of
the Greiman parliament and clergy.
Equally successful as . an orator, a
poet, a historian, and a contributor to
periodical literature, Beda Weber was
distinguished no less by a childlike
heart and a nice appreciation of the
beautiful in nature and art, than by
manly force and an untiring zeal for
what 18 true and good. His deep and
extensive learning has proved a use^
ful weapon at all times. His writings
were read throughout Gennany, and
to the rising generation Beda Weber
has been an efficient instructor and
director.

DoUtnger of Munich was also pres-
ent; he spoke foe the twenty-three
members of the German parliament,'
maintaining that the concessions grant-
ed to Catholics by that body would
necessarily lead to the entire inde-
pendence c^ the Church and the liber-
ty of education. At a meeting of the
Bhenish-Wes^haHan societies, held at
Cologne in May, 1849, the learned
(HOYOst delivered another speech,
which was at that time considered one
of the beeif most timely, and most tell-
ing efforts ci German eloquence.
Dollinger^s speech at the third gener-
al oonventioa, which took place at
B^ensborg in October, 1849, was
hailed as one of the few consoling
signs of that gloomy period. It was
a masteipiece of onUory, that brought

conviction to all minds, and which
will prove a lasting monument of Ger-
man eloquence. The interest Dollin-
ger displayed in these conventions
should not be forgotten. He is enti-
tled to our respect and gratitude for
his aid in laying the foundations of
the edifice; its completion he might
well leave to others.

The other members of the parlia-
ment that spoke at Mayence were
08terrath,o£ito,ntzlc; tH>nj5b%,aSile-
sian; A. Reichensperger, of Cologne;
Prof. Sepp, of Munidi; and Prof.
Knoodt, of Bonn. One of the most
impressive speakers was Forster of
Breslan, at that time canon of the
Metropolitan church of Silesia, now
prince-bishop of one of the seven prin-
cipal se^s in the world. Germany
looks upon him as her best pulpit or-
ator. Listen to the words of one who
heard Forster at Mayence: ^The
chords of his soul are so delicate that
every breath calls forth a sound, and
as he must frequently encounter the
storms of the world, we may readily
pardon the deep melancholy which
tinges his words. Ab he spoke, his
heart was weighed down by the trou^
bles of the times, and grief was pictured
in his countenance, for he saw no
prospect of reconciliation between the
conflicting elements. He has no faith
in a speedy settlement of the relations
between Church and state, such a
settlement as will allow freedom of
action to the former. To him the
revolution appears to be a divine
judgment, punishing the clergy for
their negligence, and chastising the
liuty for their crimes. His voice pos-
sesses a rich melody, which speaks in
powerful accents to the heart It
sounds like the solemn chimes of a
bell, waking every mind to the convic-
tions ^ which burst forth from the
depth of his souL He is an orator
whose words seem like drops of honey,
and whose ftdtii and devotion csJi
forth our love and our gratitude.**

The best known of the Frankfort
representatives were, Amdts, of Mu-
nich; Aulickey of Berlin; Flir, of Lan-

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MaUnei and Wurxhurg.

deck ; Kutzen, of Breslau ; von Linde,
of Darmstadt; Henuaa MUllery of
Wtirtzburg; Stiilz ,of St. Florian;
Thiimes, of Eichfitadt ; and Vogel, of
Dlllingen.

The noble Baron Henry yon And*
law also assisted at the convention in
Majence« For sixteen years this
chivalric and devoted defender of the
Church has furtliered by every means
in his power the success of the Cath-
olic convendons, and his name will
often appear in these pages. Che-
valier Francis Joseph von Buss, of
Freiburg, was president of the meet-
ing at Mayence. Bu^s is the founder
of the Catholic associations in Ger-
many ; to him above all others was
due the success of the convention at
Mayence, and he it was who laid down
the principles on which are based
the Catholic societies througl^ut Ger-
many, and which are the chief source
of their efficacy. In 1848 Buss was
In the flower of his age, fresh and
vigorous in body and mind* All
Germany was acquainted with his
writings, his exertions, his sufferings,
and his struggles. He was no novice
on the battle-field, for he had passed
through a fiery ordeal, and bore the
marks of wounds inflicted both by his
own passions and by jthe broken
lances of his enemies. Naturally an
agitator, and an enthusiast for ideas,
bold, quick, and intrepid, he united
restless actinty and unquenchable ar-
dor with the most self-sacrificing de-
votion. He is distinguished for ex-
tensive learning, a powerful imagina-
tion, and for the force and flow of his
language. So constant and untiring
have been his exertions for the liberty
and independence of the Church, that
one who is no mean painter of men
and character has lately styled him
the Bayard of the Churdi in the tiine-
teenth century. The last time I saw
and heard the Chevalier von Buss was
in the convention held at Frankfort in
1862. His imposing figure, his bold
commanding eye, his fiery patriotic
heart, his glowing fiuicy, his power-
ful ringing voice, all were unchanged.

His speeches exert the magic influ-
ence which belongs to an enthusiastic,
powerful, and penetrating mind. Age
has whitened his hair, wrinkles fur-
row his noble features, his life is on
the wane. A glance at Catholic Ger-
many and the growth of the Church
during the past sixteen years, will re-
flect a bright consoling radiance on
the evening of his life.

We mu^t still mention one of the
founders and chief stays of the Catho-
lic general conventions, and one who,
alas, is no more. I refer to Dr.
Maurice Lieber, attorney and coun-
sellor at Camberg in Nassau, one of
the most active members at Mayence
in 1848 ; he was elected president of
the second general convention at Bres-
lau in 1849. He was present at the
flrst seven general meetings, and at
Salzburg in 1857 filled the chair a
second time. At Cologne, in 1858,
this honor would again have been con-
ferred on him had he not declined.
Maurice Lieber seems by nature to
have been designed to preside at
these assemblies. Of a noble appear-
ance, he combined dignfty with gen-
tleness, force and decision with mod-
eration ; his remarks were always to
the point An able and spirited
writer and journalist, he contributed in
a great measure to make the public ac-,
quainted with the aim and object of
the newly founded association. He
never grew weary of scattering good
and fruitftil seed, and his writings as
well as his speeches were life-inspir-
ing, strengthening, purifying produc-
tions. The name of Maurice Lieber
will ever be honored.

Beside the eminent men above
mentioned, those whose exertions aid-
ed in calling into existence the Catho-
lic general conventions in Germany
are Lennig, vicar-general at Mayence,
Prof. Biffel, Himioben, now dead,
and lastly, Heinrich and Moufang,
who have been present at almost
every meetmg.

So many illustrious names are con-
nected with the foundation of the

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MaHfUB and WUnAurg.

GEUhoHc congress in Belgkon that to
do all justice will be extremelj diffi-
calt

The political and religions status of
Belgium is snffieientlj well known.
In Belgium there are but two parties ;
th6 one espouses the cause of God,
the other supports that of Antichrist.
These parties are on the point of lay-
ing aside entirely their political chu*«
acter and of opposing each other on
reli^otts grounds. War is ineritable,
war to the knife; either party must
perish. ^ To be or not to be, that is
the question."

Outnumbering the Catholics in par-
liament, the foUowers of Antichrist
eagerly use thehr superiority to tram*
pie their opponents m the dust and,
if possible, annihilate them. The
people is the stronghold of the latter ;
for the great majority of the Belgians
axe Catholics, sincere, fervent, self-
sacrificing Catholics. They yield
support neither to the rationalists nor
to die solidau-es and affranchis. Day
by day the influence of the Catholic
leaders increases ; they are whetting
their swords, and gadiering recruits
to fight for Christ and his Church.
The congress ftt Malines is their ren*
dezYous, as it were. Even the first
congress, that of 1863, exerted a
magic infiuence; the drowsy were
aroused from their lethargy, and the
fiunt-bearted were inspired wiA con-
fidence ; they saw their strength and
felt it. In Hhat congress we see the
beginning of a new epoch in the roll-
gioos history of Belgium.

The Bel^um congresses are imita-
tions of the Catholic conventions in
Germany. A number of men used
their . b^t endeavors to bring about
the congress of 1863, and for tibis they
deserve our respect and gratitude.
We shall mention but a few of the
many.

Dumortier will head our list. He
is one of the most powerful speakers
in Belgioniy a ready debater, a valiant
champion of the Catholic cause,
whose delight it is to fight for his
principles. Dumortier has the power

of kmdling in his hearers his own en-
thusiasm, as he proved in 1863 at Aix-
la-chapelle. He has all the qualities
of an agitator, and these qualities were
the cause of his success in bringing
about the congress of 1863. When
indignant, Dumortier inspires awe;
his brow is clouded, and like a hurri-
cane he sweeps everything before
him. It is the anger of none but noble
spirits that increases our affection for
them. Once only I saw Dumortier
swell with just indignation, and I
seldom witnessed a spectacle more
sublime.

Ducpdiaux was the soul of the
congresses at Malines. To singular
talent for organization he joins a burn-
ing zeal for the interests of Catho-
licity, and to them he devotes every
day and hour of his life. No sacrifice
is too great, no labor too exhausting,
if it is needed to further the Catholic
cause. As general secretary, he is in
communication with the leadiiig men.
of Catholic Ettrope. At his call
Catholics from every country fiocked
to Malines. Ducpetiaux was the rul-
ing mind of the congress, for the pres-
ident had intrusted him, to a great
extent, with its management Cau-
tious, subtle, and quick, he is prompt
in action, though no great speak-
er. The most numerous assembly
would be obedient to his nod. Duc-
petiaux is no stranger to Germany,
for he was among us at Aix-la-cha-
pelle in 1862, and at Wtirzbuigin
1864, and the whole-souled remarks
made by him on the latter occasion
will long ring in our memory. He is
an international character, a type of
the nineteenth century. By the inter-
est a man takes in the movements
and ideas of his age, and by his inter-
course with prominent characters, we
may easily estimate his infiuence.
To Germany a general secretary like
Ducpetiaux would be of inestimable
advantage.

Viscount da Kudckofoe vxoAt not be
passed over in silence. A thorough
well bred gentleman, he is familiar
with the natiras and languages of

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MaUnes and Wurzhirg,

Europe. He is a man of mind, en«
ergj, and prudence, and of a dazzling
appearance. He seemB the embodi-
ment of elegance. His speeches
sparkle with delicate touches and are
distinguished for refinement His
voice is somewhat shrill and sharp,
but melodious withal. In Belgium the
viscount ranks as an orator equal to
Dechamps and Dumortier. His fa«
vorite scheme, to the promotion of
which he gives his entire energies, is
the closest union among Catholics
of aU countries. At times he ex-
presses this idea so forcibly that he
is misunderstood, but in itself the
scheme is pnuseworthj, and has been
more or less realized in the age of
Pius IX.

Baron van Gerlaehe now demands
our attention. He was president iji
the congress both in 1863 and in
18iS4. If I were writing his biogra-
phy, how eventful a life would it be
my lot to portray I Baron Gerlaehe
is identified with Belgian history since
1830 ; for more than forty years he has
been acknowledged by the Catholics
in Belgium as their head. In 1831
he had no mean share in forming the
Belgian constitution, a constitution
based on political eclecticism, which
at that time satisfied all parties, and
which promised even-handed justice to
alL Gerlaehe has ever been tiie loyal
defender of this constitution ; Belgium
has not a more devoted son. He is a
historian and a statesman. But the
Church too claims his affection, the
great and holy Catholic Church. All
Belgium listens to his voice, and his
words sometimes beKsome decrees. He
speaks with dignity and moderation,
with caution and prudence; he is al-
ways guided by reason, and never
loses sight of &cts. His energies
spent in the course of a life of seventy-
two years, he is no longer understood as
well as formerly ; his voice has become
too weak to address an assemblage of
six thousand persons ; but there is in
it something so solemn, so moving, that
his hearers seem spell-bound. His lan-
guage is appropriate, and at times ap-

proaches sublimity. Baron Gerlaehe
is as much the idol of the Catholics of
Belgium as O'Connellwas of the Irish:
he is as respected as Joseph von
Grorres was in Germany; he is the
Godfrey de Bouillon of the great Bel-
gian crusade of the nineteenth oto-
tury. Great men seldom appear
aliHie; around them are grouped many
minor characters, well worthy of a
niche in the temple of fame. The
most prominent of those who have
fought side by side with Baron von
Gerlaehe are the Count de Theux, a
veteran in political warfare, generous,
able, and experienced in the art of
governing ; the Baron della Faille, a
man distinguished for the dignity of
his demeanor and the nobility of his
character; his manners are captivat-
ing, and his features bear the impress
of calmness, moderation, and judg-
ment; the Viscount Bethune,of Ghent,
a venerable old man, whose counte-
nance beams with piety, and who in
the course of a long career has gath-
ered a store of wisdom and experi-
ence; General Capiaumont, a man
immovable as a rock, and full of chiv-
alrous sentiments. These venerable
men were seated on each side of the
President von Gerlaehe. But the
other members are no less worthy of
notice. To hear and see such men
produces a profound impression.

Dechamps, the mighty Dechamps,
the lion of Flanders and Brabant,
must not be forgotten. He stands at
the head of the Belgian statesmen,
brave as Achilles, the terror of the so-
called liberals. Dechampt was one
of the pearls of the last congress ; his
mere appearance had a magic effect ;
the few words he addressed to the as-
sembly before its organization called
forth a storm of applause ; he electri-
fies his hearers by his bold and spark-
ling ideas.

We must next call attention to Jo-
seph de Hemptinne. The owner of
immense factories, he employs thou-
sands of laborers, and freely devotes
his fortune to the cause of the Church.
He also contributed to the success of

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MaUnes and Wiirxburg.

the congress of Malines. His em-
ploy^ ovre ium a debt of gratitude.
like a fieUher, he cares for their cor-
poral and spiritual wel&re, accompan-
ies them when going to assist at mass,
and with them he sajs the beads and re-
ceives the sacrament. Do Hemptinne
is entirelj devoted to his country and
his faith ; his countenance is a mirror
that reflects a pure and guileless soul,
deeply imbued with religious feeling.
It has seldom been my good fortune to
meet as amiable a man as Joseph de
Hemptinne.

Perin next demands our notice. He
fills a professorship at Louvain, and
is well known to the public by his
writings. In the congress be was no-
ted as an adroit business man. Pos-
sessing a refined mind, stored with
manifold attainm^its, he exerts a pe-
culiar, I might almost say magic, in-
finence on those with whom he deals.
His fine piercing eye beams with
knowledge, not mere book learning,
but the ^lowledge of men, whilst his
noble forehead is stamped with the
seal of uncommon intellectual power.
In his language as well as in his ac-
tions Perin is extremely graceful ; he
might not inaptly be styled the doC'
tor degcaUisnmus. Count ViUermont
of Brussels is well known in Grer-
many, and respected for his historical
researches. At Malines he displayed
cxtraordinaiy activity. True, he seems
to be no favorite of the graces — the
warrior appears in all his actions. On
seeing him, I imagined I beheld the
colonel of one of Tilly's Walloon regi-
ments. This circumstance must sur-
prise us all the more, as the count is not
only a diligent student of histoiy and
a generous supporter of the Catholic
press in Belgium, but also a man who
takes a lively interest in every charit-
able underUbking and in the social
amelioration of his country. Would
to Crod that Germany bad many
Counts Yillennontl Monsignor ds
JSoMy the rector magnificus of the uni-
▼ersity of Louvain, was the represen-
tative of Belgian science at Malines.
£ver since its establis^Mnent, he has

been at the head of that institution,
which he has governed with a firm and
steady hand. He is the pride of Bel«
gium, eminent, perhaps the most emi-
nent, among all her sons. His author-
ity is most ample, and to it we must
probably trace tihe majestic calmness
that distinguishes his whole being, for
to me de Ram appears to be the per-
sonification of dignity. At the proper
moment, however, he knows how to
display the volubility and affable man-
ners of the Roman prelate.

Many illustrious Belgian names
might still be mentioned, but we will
speak of them in a more appropriate
place.

The Belgian congresses differ in
some respects from the Catholic con-
ventions in Germany, for the latter
are by no means so weU attended as
the former. At the German meetings,
the number of members never ex-
ceeded fifteen hundred ; only six hun-
dred representatives were present at
the convention of Frankfort in 1863,
whilst that of Breslau in 1849 mus-
tered scarcely two hundred members.
In 1863 four thousand, and in 1864 no
less than five thousand, were present
at the Malines congress. The sight of
this army, full of fervor and of zeal to
do battle for the faith, involuntarily
reminds us of the warriors who were
marshalled under the banners of God-
frey for the purpose of achieving the
conquest of Jerusalem and the Holy
Land. Or it recalls to our mind the
great council of Clermont (Nov., 1095),
at which the entire assembly, hurried
away by the eloquent appeals of Ur-
ban IL, shouted with one accord ^^Detu
lo vok,*' " God wills it,'* and swore to
deliver Jerusalem from the tyranny of
the Moslems. The members of the
Catholic congresses are the crusaders of
the nineteenth century, for in their own
way they too battle for Christendom
against its enemies, fiadsehood and
malice,

Belgium is a small kingdom, Ma-
lines the central pomt where all its raU-
roads converge; it is a Catholic coun-

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MaUnet and WUrzburg.

try, boasting of a numerous clergy
both secular and regular ; it is an inter-
national country, the Lombard/ of the
north. Its position has made it the con-
necting link between the Bomanic and
Teutonic races, between the continent
and England. Thus situated, Bel-
gium is a rendezvous equally conve-
nient for the German, the Frenchman,
and the Briton. Moreover, Belgium
has ever been the battle ground of
Grennan J and France : where can be
found a more suitable spot on which
to decide the great struggle for the
freedom of the Church? This ex-
plains sufficiently the numerous at-
tendance of the Belgium congress.
In addition to the foreign element,
the congress at Malines calls forth the
entire intellectual strength of Belgium,
both lay and clerical No one re-
mains at home ; all are brethren
fighting for the same cause ; all wish
to imbibe new vigor, to gather new
courage for the struggle, for the con-
gress acts like the spiritual exercises
of a mission.

Very different is the situation of
Germany. Much larger than Bel-
gium, its most central point is at a
considerable distance from its extrem-
ities. Beside, the conventions do not
even meet at the most convenient
point, but change their place of meet-
ing every year. Suppose, therefore,
/ the convention is held in some city on
the French border, say Freiburg, or
Treves, or Aix-la-chapelle, this ar-
rangement will render it very difficult
for the delegates from the opposite ex-
tremity of the empire to attend, the
more so since it is not likely that the
German railroad companies will re-
duce their fares to half price, as was
done by the Belgium government
roads. Lastly, our language, difficult
in itself, and especially so to the Bo-
manic races, who are not distinguished
for extensive philological learning, will
prevent many £ix)m attending our
meetings.

For these reasons, the German re-
unions are hardly an adequate repre-
sentation of the Church militant; com-

paratively few can attend, the major-
ity must remain at home. For the
most part, our conventions are chiefly
composed of delegates from the dis-
trict or diocese in which they are
held. Nevertheless, every German
tribe has its representative, and Ger-
many, with its many tribes and states,
is by no means an inappropriate em-
blem of the European £unily of na-
tions.

The hall of the Petit Seminaire at
Malines, where the Belgian congress
meets, is spacious and well fitted for its
purpose; it will seat six thousand
persons. Nevertheless, only such as
have admission tickets, which cannot
be obtained except at extravagant
prices, can assist at the sessions.
The public in general are excluded,
and but few seats are reserved for la-
dies. On the other hand, the German
convention, which meets now in one
city, then in another, desires and .en-
courages, above all things, the attend-
ance of the inhabitants of the dly
where it meets. In every city it has
scattered fruit-producing seed. At
one place, the convention called into
existence a society for the promotion
of Christian art ; at another, an altar
society, a conference of St. Vincent
de Paul, or a social club; and in
many cities it inspired new religious
life and activty. In fact, if the city
for some reason cannot assist at the
meetings, as was the case in WUrz-
burg, one of the most important ends
of tiie convention is defeated. The
congress at Malines is too numerous
to travel from place to place ; more-
over, its meetings are not annual,
as are those of ti^e German conven-
tions.

The congress of Malines, like the
German convention, claims to be a con-
gress of laymen. But though here,
too, the principal committee is mainly
composed of laymen, the assembly has
almost lost its lay character. Among
the laymen, however, who attend the
Belgian congress, there are many ex
cellent speakers, in fact these are
more numerous than in Germany.

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.MaKneg <xnd Wiirzhurg.

AH the Belgian bishops were pres-
ent at Malines. Whilst in Germany
but one or two bishops assist at the
coQTention, the daily meetings of the
Malines congress were attended bj
the primate of Belgium, Cardinal Ste-
rez, and the bishops of Brages, Na-
mar, Ghent, Liege, and Doomik. The
bishops took part in the debates, and
in 1864 the speech of Monseigneur
Dnpanlonp was the event of the day,
whilst the congress of 1863 had been
distingaished by the presence of the il-
Instrious archbishop of Westminster,
Oardinal Wiseman. Whenever the
bishops appeared, they were welcomed
with bursts of enthusiasm. For a
ftill week might be witnessed the
most friendly intercourse between the
bishops and the other members of the
ocmgress, and thus the bonds of affec-
tionate love already existing between
the hierarchy, the clergy, and the laity
were drawn still closer.

The nobility too of Flanders and
Brabant, nay of all Belgium, ^as well
and worthily represented. On the
rolls of the Malines congress we meet
the most illustrious Belgian names,
names pregnant with historic interest.
The Grerman nobles, on the contrary,
have thus far paid little attention to
what is nearest and dearest to man-
kind, the interests of humanity and re-
ligion. True, the Rhenish- Westpha-
lian nobility appeared in considerable
numbers and displayed praiseworthy
aeal at the conventions of Aiz-la-cha-
pelle, Frankfort, and Wilrzburg, never-
tiieless there is still room for improve-
ment. Thus far the Bavarian and
Franconian nobles have taken' no part
in furthering the restoration of the
Church in Germany, and of the same
indifference the Austrian nobility were
accused by Count Frederick von Thun,
of Vicmna. Still, what a blessing for
the nobility if they devoted their in-
fluence to the service of the Church I
The consequence would be the regen-
eration of the German nobility. May
God grant that the Grerman nobles,
like those of Belgium, will join in cor-
dially promoting our great and sacred

cause. Leaders are not wanting, men
of talent, energy, and devotion, such as
the Prince Charles of Lowenstein,
Werthheim, and Prince Charles of
Isenburg-Birstein.

The professors of the university at
Louvain were not only present at Ma '
lines, but worked with their usual en-
.ergyand ability in the different sec-
tions of the congress. They present-
ed to the world the noble spectacle of
laymen uniting learning with zeal for
religion and devotion to the Church,
a spectacle seldom witnessed in Ger-
many. Of the two thousand profes-
sors and fellows of the twenty-two
German universities, how many are
there who, untainted by pride and
self-sufficiency, call the Church their
mother ? It is the union of knowledge
and piety that produces genuine men,
worthy of admiration, and at Malines
such men were not scarce.

At Malines the foreigners were weU
represented; in the German conven-
tions but few make their appearance.
Twice did France send her chosen
warriors to the congre^ — the first time
in 1863, led by Montalembert, at pres-
ent the most brilliant defender of the
Church, and again in 1864, under
the Bishop of Orleans, called by some
the Bossuet of our day. In August,
1863, the Tuileries were anxiously oc-
cupied with the speeches held in the
Petit Seminaire at Malines, for in
France despotism has gagged free
speech, and there a congress of Cath-
olic £urope is an impossibility; the
CsBsar's minions would tolerate no
such assembly.

Next to the French delegation, the
Grerman, led by A. Reichensperger, of
Cologne, was the most numerous.
There might also be seen a noble
band of Englishmen, and their speaker,
Father Herman the convert, seemed
another St Bernard preaching the
crusade. Spain, Italy, Ireland, Hun-
gary, Poland, Brazil, the United
States, Palestine, the Cape of Good
Hope, almost every country on the
globe, were represented at Malines.
True, the assembly was by no means

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MaiUneM and Wun^rg.

as large as the muldtude that met in
Borne on June 8, 1862, when Pius
IX. saw gathered around him in St
Peter's church three hundred pre-
lates, thousands of priests, and fotfj
to fifty thousand laymen, representing
every nation of the earth. Still, the^
congress at Malines brings to recollec-
tion those immense gatherings of by-
gone times, where princes and bishops,
nobles and priests, met to provide for
the wel&re of the nations committed
to their ^^harge.

The Malines congress is in its in-
fancy, still the general committee has
displayed rare ability. All business
matters are intrusted to a few, whilst
in Geimany there is a great want of
order, owing partly to the inexperi-
ence of the local committees, and part-
ly to the scarcity of men versed in
parliamentary proceedings. At the
Mayence convention in 1848, want of
preparation might be excused; the
subsequent meeting had not the same
claims on our indulgence. The
Frankfort reunion in 1863 attempted
to remedy the evil and partly succeed-
ed, but until an efficient general com-
mittee be established, many irregular-
ities must be expected. At Malines
the delegates are furnished with a pro-
gramme of the questions to be dis-
cussed in the different sections; at
Wurzburg, on the contrary, the conven-
tion seemed at first Scarcely to know
the purpose for which it had been
convened. In Germany, the bureau
of direction is composed of three pres-
idents and sundry honoraiy members
and secretaries ; at Malines it cx>nsi6ts
of fifty to sixty officers of the congress,
and the list of honorary vice-presidents
is at times very formidable. In Bel-
gium secret sessions are unknown,
whilst in Germany it often happens
that the most important proceedings
are decided, upon in secret session,
whereas the pubhc meetings are
mainly devoted to the delivery of bril-
liant speeches. At Malines the reso-
lutions adopted by the different sec-
tions are passed upon in a short ses-
sion, seldom attended by more than

one-fifth of all the delegates. One
evil at the Belgium congress is the
imperfect knowledge of the German
character and of the religious status of
Germany. As the Romanic nations
will never learn our language, it re-
mains for us to supply the deficiency.
We must go to Malines, and expound
our views in French both in the sec-
tions and before the full congress. A«
Beichensperger pursued the proper
course in the section of Christitm art.
With surpassing ability he defended
the principles of the Church, triimiph-
antly he came forth from the contest,
and many were prevailed upon to
adopt his views. No doubt men like
Beichensperger are not found every
day, nevertheless we might easily send
one or two able representatives to
every section of the congress. If some
one were to do for Germany what
Cardinal Wiseman did for England
in 1863, when he set forth in dear
and forcible language the state of
Catholicity in that country, he would
deserve the everlasting gratitude of
the Romanic races.

Leaving these considerations aside
for the present, one thing is certain,
we must profit by each other's wisdom
and experience. Whatever may be
the defects of the Belgian congresses
or of the Grerman conventions, they
mark the beginning of a new era for
Belgium and Germany. For when
in the spring of 1848 the storm of
revolution swept away dynasties built
on diplomacy and police regulations,
the Catholics, quick to take advantage
of the liberty granted them, made use
of the freedom of assembly, of speech,
and of the press to defend the inter-
ests of religion and of the Church. To
Germany the liberty t^us acquired
for the Church has proved a blessing.
This liberty, attained after so many
years of Babylonian captivity, acted
so forcibly, that many called the day
on which the first general convention
met a '^ second Pentecost, revealing
the spirit, the force, and the charity of
Catholicism." We Catholics have
learned the language of freedom, we

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Mdinu and Wun^rg.

know the power of free speech.' Next
to the Uberfy of speech, it is their
publicitj that gives a charm to these
ooaventioiis. Whoever addresses
these assemblies speaks before the
whole Qmrch, and his words are re-
echoed in every countiy. There the
prinee and the mechanic, the master
and the journeyman, the refined gen-
tleman and the child of nature, all
alike have the right to eatress their
opinions. They afibrd a general in-
sight into the social and religions con-
dition <£ onr times, disclosing at once
their defects and their fair side* How
inspiring it ia to see men, thorough
men, with sound principles, full of
vital energy, and of experience ac-
qoired in public life, men of intellect-
ual vigor and mental refinement 1
Hence arise great and manifold ac-
tivity, unity of sentiment, and zeal for
the weal of all, in short, feelings of true
brotherly love. Great events arotise
deep feelings, and the glory of one
casts its radiance ovj^r many. There
is something beautiful and grand in
these Catholic reunions. They tend
to awaken society to a consciousness
of its nobler feelings and to spread
Catholic ideas ; they give strength and
unity to the exertions of all who en-
deavor seriously to promote the inter-
ests oi Catholicity; they are, as it
were, a mirror that reflects an exact
image of the life of the Church. Be-
fore their influence narrow-minded-
ness withers ; we take an interest in
men and things that had never before
come within the scope of our mental
vision, and on our return from the
congress to the ordinary pursuits of
life, we foiqget fossil notions and take
np new ideas. As we feel the heat of
the sun afle^ it has set, so long after
the adjournment of each convention do
we feel its influence. The eloquent
words of the champion of their fiuth
kindle in the hearts of Catholic youth
a giowingardor which joomises a bright

and glorious future. All are impressed
with the conviction that it is only by un-
flinching bravery that victories are won.
^As in nature," s^iys Hergenrother,
^ individuals are subordinate to species,
species to genera, and these again to a
general unity of design, thus in the
Catholic Church all submit freely to
the triple unity of faith, of the sacra-
ments, and of government Whether
they come from the north or the
south, from beyond the Channel or
from the banks of the Ehine, from the
Scheldt or the Danube, from the
March or the If itha, all Catholics of
eveiy country and every clime are
brethren, members of the same family,
all speak but one language, the lips of
all pronounce the same Gttholic pray-
er, and all ofi*er to their Heavenly Fa-
ther the same august sacrifice. Ev-
ery Catholic convention is a symbol
of this great, this universal society.
And as in nature we admire the most
astonishing variety, and the wonderful
display of thousands of hues and tints,
so in ihe Church we behold a gathering
of countless tribes and nations, difler-
ing in their institotions, their customs,
and in their application of the arts and
sciences.''

Some of my readers, perhaps, are
impatient of the praise here lavished
on contemporaries. Fame, it is true,
has ever dazzled mortal eyes, but I
am not now dealing with the misera*
ble characters who consider fame as
merchandise that can be bought and
sold, who are always panting for hon-
ied words, and who never lose sight of
themselves. No ; I am in the presence
of Catholic men, purified by Catholic
doctrine and discipline, who hold fame
to be vain trumpery. Claiming to be
no infallible judge of men, my aim has
been to note down what I have seen
and heard, for I have been at no spe-
cial pains to study the characters of
those here mentioned.

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NapoUarC$ Marriage fvith Marie-Louite.

• From The Month.

NAPOLEON'S MARRIAGE WITH MARIE-LODISE.

Thebe are many drcamstances
where eTen an excess of caation may
not be injudicious, and few things cnn
be more important than to ascertain
the veracitj of historical facts. There-
fore we would fain preface this second
episode drawn from the memoirs of
Cardinal Consalyi, by pointing out the
grounds on which meir au&enticity
rests. We pass over the editor him-
self, Monsieur Cr^tineau-Joly, to ar-
rive at the account he gives of the
manner in which these papers fell into
his possession. Written for the most
part by the cardinal during his ex-
ile at Bheims, they were hastily
penned, and carefully concealed from
the French officials that surrounded
him. When dying. Cardinal Consalvi
intrusted these important documents
to friends on whom he could i*ely.
They have since been transmitted as
a sacred deposit from one fiduciary
executor to another. The last clause
of his will relates to this matter, and
runs thus :

*< My fiduciary heir (and those who
shall succeed him in the admimstra^
tion of my property) will .take parti-
cular care of my writings : on the con-
clave held at Venice in 1799 and 1800;
on the concordat of 1801; on the
marriage of the Emperor Napoleon
with the Archduchess Marie-Louise of
Austria; on the different epochs of
my life and ministry. These five pa-
pers (of which some are far advanced,
and I shall set about the others) are
not to be published till after the death
of the principal personages named
therein. As the memoirs upon the
conclave, the concordat, the marriage,
and my ministry relate more espe-
cially to the Holy See and the pontifi-
cal government, my fiduciary heir will
be solicitous to present them to the
reigning pontiff; and he will be^ the

Holy Father to have these writings
carefully preserved in the archives o^
the Vatican. They may serve the
Holy See more than (Hioe ; especially
if the history of events therein related
comes to be written, or if there were
some false account to refute. As to
the memoirs concerning the different
epochs of my life, the extinction of
my family leaving no one whom they
may interest, these writings can remwn
in hie hands of my fiduciary heir and
his successors in the administration of
my property (or they might go with
the others to the archives of the Vat-
ican if they are thought worth pre-
serving). My only desire is, that if
herea^r, as will probably be the case,
the lives of the cardinals are con-
tinued, these pages written by me may
then be made 'known. For I wish
that nothing contrary to truth should
be published concerning me; being
desirous to preserve a good reputation,
as is recommended by holy Scripture.
With regard to the truth of the facts
contained in my writings, it suffices
me to say : ^ J}eus sett qtda non men-
tiarJ

^ (Signed) E. Card. Consalvi.
« Borne, 1st August, 1822."

In 1858 it was deemed that the
time for publication had come. Mon-
sieur Crdtineau-Joly was then staying
at Rome ; and the papers were con-
fided to him for that purpose by
^^ those eminent personages who,
through gratitude or respect, had ac-
cepted the deposit of Consalvi's man*
uscripts.** Accordingly, a part did
come out the following year, and the
remainder is now before the public
The part; which appeared first, embod-
ied in ^L^EglieeRomaine en face dela
Evolution," won for M. Cr^tineau-Joly
in 1861 a flattering brief from Pope

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No^poUon*» Marriage with Marie'Lauise*

Pius IX., whick heads the third edidon
of the work.

Nine years had rolled on since the
conoordiU. Ten months after the
Pope's presence had given solemnitj
to his coronation, Napoleon caused
the French troops to occupy Ancona ;
Pius YIL, having refused to hecome
virtuaUj a French prefect, was de-
prived of his temporal sovereignty, and
then at last dragged from his capital to
be transferred a prisoner to Florence,
Grenoble, and finally Savona. £x-
communication had been pronounced
against those who perpetrated these
deeds of violence. Meanwhile, Napo-
leon, at the summit of earthly grand-
eur, longed for an heir to whom he
might transmit his vast dominions.
The repudiation of Josephine offered
some difficulty to his heart, we believe ;
but hi& strong will soon triumphed
over that and every other obstacle.
Proud Austria stooped to court his
preference. Napoleon, disappointed
in his wish for a Russian alliance, but
in too much haste to wait negotiations,
let his choice fall with equal pleasure
on a daughter of the house of Haps-
burg ; Marie-Louise, just then eight-
een, came a willing bride to share the
splendors of the imperial throne. To
prepare for her reception, a state
comedy had been enacted at the Tuile-
ries, when Napoleon, holding his good
and well-beloved Josephine by the
hand, read from a written paper his
heroic determination to renounce her
for the public weaL Poor Josephine
could not get on so well ; sobs choked
her utterance when she essayed to
read her paper in turn. Convulsive
fainting-fits had followed when Napo-
leon first broached in private the re-
solve he had taken, and called upon
her to aid it by consenting to become,
instead of his wife, his best and dear-
est friend. But all that was over
now.

One only difficulty had arisen, which
even the imperious will of Napoleon
fiuled wholly to break. It was the
same that had ever thwarted him. He
could destroy all temporal barriers

to his ambition ; but the spiritual ele-
ment would rise up and protest. How
cut asunder the religious tie that Imked
hun to Josephine? For the Church's
blessing had been giVen to their union
ere the Pope would consent to perform
the ceremony of the coronation. Full
well Napoleon knew that he could
with an iron hand pat down clamor for
the present ; but would that dispel the
feelmg in men's consciences? would
that suffice to establish the legitimacy
of a future heir to the throne r

M. Thiers gives a curious account
of the whole transaction. Cardinal
Fesch, usually so pliant to all his
nephew's wishes, appears to have been
the first to start the difficulty ; M. Cam-
bac4r^, the chancellor, transmitted his
observations to Napoleon. The latter
was highly indignant, declaring that
a ceremony which had taken place
privately, in the chapel of the Tuile-
ries, without any witnesses, and with
the sole view of quieting Josephine's
scruples and thoseof the Pope,couldnot
be binding. Finally, however, it was
agreed to look at the marriage relig-
iously as well as civilly, and to dissolve
both ties. For both, annulment was
preferred to the ordinary form of di-
vorce, as more honorable for Jose-
phine ; and a defect in procedure or a
great state reason were to constitute
file grounds of dissolution. It was re-
solved that no reference should be
made to the Pope in any way, as his
feelings toward Napoleon under pres-
ent circumstances could not be friendly.
The civil marriage had been easily
dissolved by mutual consent of the
parties and for public reasons, as seen
above, when l^apoleon and Josephine
read their respective papers before the
assembled council. With the views
just stated, a committee of seven bish-
ops was formed to pronounce on the
religious tie. They declared the mar-
riage irregular ; as having taken place
without witnesses, and without suffi-
cient consent of the parties concerned.
With regard to the absence of wit-
nesses, M. Thiers puts in a note : ^< It
was through a fiilse indication given

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NapoUoiCB Marriage mth Mcarie^Louise.

by a ooQfcemporary mannseript that I
before mentioned MM. de Tallejrand
and Berthieras having been present
at the religious mairiage privately
celebrated at the Tuileries on the eve
of Napoleon's coronation. The au-
thor of this manuscript held &e facts
from the lips of the Empress Jose-
{diine, and had been led into error.
Official documents which I have since
procured enable me to rectify this as-
sertion."

What more likely than that Jose-
phine told the simple truth, and that
official papers were made to meet fu-
ture contingencies? If it had not
been intended to annul the marriage
by any means, why was the certificate
of it wrested from Josephine ?

Agreeably to the decision of the
bishops, it was resolved to pursue the
annulment of the marriage as defec-
tive in form before the diocesan offi-
dalty in the first instance, and after-
ward before the metropolitan author^
ity. Canonical proceedings were qui-
etly instituted, and witnesses sum-
moned. Hiese witnesses were Car-
dinal Fesch, MM. de Talleyrand, Ber^
thier, and Duroc. The first was to
testify as to the forms observed ; and
the three others as to the nature of
the consent given by both parties con-
eenied. Ciurdinal Fesch declared he
had received dispensations from the
Pope authorizing the omission of cer-
tain forms, and thus justified the ab-
sence of witnesses and of the parish
cur^ MM. de Talleyrand, Berthier,
and Duroc affirmed having heard from
Ni^leon several times that he only
intended to allow a mere ceremony
for the purpose of reassuring the
Pope's conscience and that of Jose-
phine; but that his formal determi-
nation had ever been not to complete
his union with the empress, being un-
happily convinced that he must one
' day renounce her fcnr the good of his
empire.

A strange conscience is here man-
ifested by Napoleon. Josephine does
not appear to have been summoned to
tell her tale.

After this inquiry, the ecclesiastical
authority recognized that there had
not been sufficient consent ; but out of
respect to the parties this ground of
nullity was not specially insisted on.
The causes assigned for dissolving the
marriage rested on the absence of all
witnesses, and of the parish cur§. The
general dispensations granted to Car-
dinal Fesch were not considered to
have superseded these necessities. M.
Thiers says on this point, ^ En cons^
quence, le manage fut cass^ devant
les deux jurisdictions dioc^aine et
m^tropolitaine, e'est k due, en pre-
miere et en seconde instances, avec
le d^nce convenable, et la pleine ob-
servance du droit canonique ! Napo-
leon ^tait done libre."

M. Thiers makes no reference to the
Pope, who surely must be supposed to
have known whether the ceremony
performed for the sole purpose of al-
laying his and Josephine's scruples
were perfectly vaUd by canon law.
It is not possible to admit that he could
have insisted on the same, and being
present on the spot could yet have
failed to ascertain beyond doubt the
religious legality of the marriage;
more especially as he could have at
once removed the obstacle by a dis-
pensation.

This topic must have been men-
tioned between the Pope and Cardinal
Consalvi ; it is evident.fFom the con-
duct of the latter thai i^^'lSP^ many
other cardinals considet^^^Jthe mar^
riagewith Josephine as mja^g in a
religious point of view. ^OM' charac-
ter of Consalvi precludes thlb possi-
bility of supposing any petty motives
for lus opposition; conscience alone
could have dictated it. Evidently he
yielded as far as he could ; and what
he withheld firom duty was with man-
ifest peril to himself, and, humanly
speaking, even to the Church, whose
interests were so dear to him. As to the
number of cardinals holding opposite
views, or at least acting as if they did,
the weakness of human nature, alas,
and the selfishness of human inter-
ests, too well explain that drcnm*

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Naip6leon*$ Marriage tokh Marte-I/mise.

stance. Gmre lustoiiaDB and writers
of genius do not always take sufficient
account of conscience in their estimate
of men and things, and thence flow
manj errors. Those who are politi-
cians also, from their wide knowledge
of human vices, fall still more readily
into this mistake. Thus Napoleon
probably never believed the Pope to
be In earnest, of at least his ndnd
could not hold such an idea long to-
gether. To himself state policy waii
all, or nearly all. His negotiations
with the Holy See, his appreciations of
Consalvi, all bear the stamp of that
Btarting'-point; to him it was a trial of
strength in will, or of skill in diplo-
macy: he ignored conscience. In
the same way, a mind eminently lucid
as that of M. Thiers judges facts in a
rery difiereut manner than he would
do if he could see that with some
minds conscience is the spring of ac-
tion. If this were not the case, he
could not, while speaking of the Pope
with due respect, pass over his motives
so slightly ; nor would he construe as
he 'does Gonsalvi's conduct with re-
gard to the marriage and that of the
otfcer bladk cardinals. The opinions
of such men deserved to raise a doubt
in the mind of the historian, and to
lead to investigation that might have
had other results. We purposely lay
stress on Uiis matter because M.
Tluers is popular with a large dass of
readers, who justly admire his talent^
but who erroneously consider him a
fair exponent on ecclesiastical affairs.
He does respect religion ; but evi-
dently fiuls to apprehend the idea of
men constantly swayed by duty and
conscienee; whose judgments may
err, as all things human do, but whose
supernatural principle of action ever
lives.

Toward the close of January, 1810,
the ocmdusion of a matrimonial alli-
ance to take place between Napoleon
and the Ardiduchess Marie-Louise
was made public in Paris. The cere-
mony was to be performed by proxy
at IHenna in the early part of Mieoxsh ;
the Archduke Charles being chosen to

represent Napdeon on this occasion,
and Berthier was the ambassador ex-
traordiaary named to ask formally the
hand of the princess. The subse-
quent flutes at Paris were to vie in
splendor with those given at Vienna.
Napoleon wished to surround himself
with all the members of the Sacred
College ; a large number had already
been summoned to Paris soon afler
the Pope's captivity; they had been
ordered to partake in the festivities of
the capital, and we regret to say that
they complied. Bome, it must not be
forgotten, was now called a French
provincial town; Napoleon was pro-
gressing on to becoikie the emperor of
the West, with the Pope, the spiritual
father of Christendom, as his satellite.
The other cardinals in Rome were
called to Paris. Some found pretexts
for delaying obedience; Cardinals
Consalvi and di Pietro replied that
they could not thiok of leaving with-
out the Pope's permission, but would
immediately refer to him, at the same
time declining the pension offered in
Paris. Afier the lapse of a few days
an express order enjoined them to
quit Rome within twenty-four hours.
They alleged that no answer had yet
arrived from the Pope. But at the
expiration of the period fixed, French
soldiers visited their houses to carry
them off by force. Yielding to vio-
lence they departed, and reached
Paris together on the 20th January,
1810.

Twenty-nine cardinals, including
Fesch, were then assembled in the
French capital How they should act
with regard to the new marriage be-
came soon a subject of grave consulta-
tion for them* Consalvi and di Pi-
etro had not long arrived when it was
publidy announced. Napoleon seemed
disposed to treat them with courtesy.
Consalvi had his audience six days af-
ter his arrival. Five other car^als,
new comers also, were presented at
the same time. They were ranged
together on aae side, while the other
cffirdinals remained opposite. Further
on were the nobles, ministers, kings.

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NapoUanU Marriage mth Mane^Lauise.

queens, princes, and prinoesses. When
the emperor appeared. Cardinal
Fesch stepped forward and began pre«
senting the five. '^ Cardinal Plgna«
telli," said he. ^Neapolitan," replied
the emperor, and passed on. '< Car-
dinal di Pietro," continned Fesch.
The emperor stopped a moment, and
said, ^ You have grown &t; I remem-
ber haying seen 70a here with the
Pope at mj coronation." ^ Cardinal
Salozzo," said Fesch, presentmg the
third. <^ Neapolitan," replied the em-
peror, and walked on. ^Cardinal
Desping," said Fesch, as the fourth
saluted. ^Spanish," replied the em-
peror. " From Mfyorca," cried Des-
ping, in alarm. But Napoleon had
already reached Consalvi, and ere
Cardinal Fesch could saj the name,
he exclaimed, in the kindest tone, and
standing still, <<0h, Cardinal Con-
salvi ; how thin 70U have become I I
should hardly have recognized you."
"Sire," replied Consalvi, "years ac-
cumulate. Ten have passed since I
had the honor of saluting your ma-
jesty." " That is true," resumed Na-
poleon; "it is now almost ten years
since you came for the concordat.
We made that treaty in this very
hall ; but what purpose has it served ?
All has vanished in smoke. Bome
would lose aJL It must be owned, I
was wroi^ to displace you firom the
ministry. If you had continued iu that
post, tlungs would not have been car^
ried so far."

Listening only to the fear of having
his actions misconstrued by the public,
Consalvi instantly replied with energy,
" Sire, if I had remained in that post^
I should have done my duty." Na-
poleon looked at him fixedly, made no
answer, and then going backward
and forward through the half-circle
formed by the cardinals, began a long
monologue, enumerating a number
of grievances against ^e Pope and
against Rome for not having adhered
to his will by refusing to adopt the
systeni offered. At length, being near
Consalvi, he stopped, and said a second
time, "No, if you had remained at

your post, things would not have gone
so far." Again Consalvi replied,
"Your majesty may believe that I
should have done my duty." Napo-
leon gave the cardinal another fixed
glance, and then without reply recom-
menced his walks, continuing his for-
mer discourse. At last he stopped
near Cardinal di Pietro, and said for
the third time, "If Cardinal Consalvi
had remained secretary of state, things
would not have gone so far." Con-
salvi was at the other end of the little
group of five, and need not have an-
swei^ ; but earnest to exonerate him-
self from all suspicion, he advanced
toward Niq>oleon, and seizing his
arm, exclaimed, " Sire, I have already
assured your majesty that had I re-
mained in that post, I should certainly
have done my duty." The emperor no
longer containing himself, and with
eyes steadily bent on Consalvi, burst
forth into these words, " Oh I I repeat
it, your duty would not have allowed
you to sacrifice spiritual to temporal
things." After this he turned his
back on Consalvi, and gmng over to
the cardinals opposite, asked if they
had heard his words. Then returning
to the five, he observed that the Col-
lege of Cardinals was now nearly com-
plete in Paris, and that they would
do well to see among themselves il
there was anything to propose or reg-
ulate concerning Church afiairs. " Let
Cardinal Consalvi be of the commit-
tee," added Napoleon; "for if, as I
suppose, he is ignorant of theology, he
knows well the science of politics."

At a second and third audience,
Napoleon showed similar kindness to
Consalvi, always asking after his
health, and remarking tibat he was
getting fatter now. The cardinal
only answered by deep salutations.

Principally through Consalvi's in-
fiuence, the cardinals, in a collective
letter addressed to tiie emperor, de-
clined acting in any way while sepa-
rated from their head, the Pope. Na-
poleon had angrily torn their letter to
pieces ; but even this opposition to his
will had not changed his courtesy to-

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Nap6leori» lHarriage with Mctrie^LautMe.

ward CoDsahi, as seen aboye. He
was beni on creating a schism be-
tween them and the Pope. Fesch,
his ready instroment, proposed sev-
eral steps as beneficial to religion^
bat the nugoritj of cardinals refused to
do anything. Unlike many of his col-
leagues, Consalvi held aloof from all
society. Beside the prohibition of the
Pope, who at Rome had forbidden the
members of the Sacred College to as-
sist at festivities while the Church
was in mourning, he considered it un-
worthy conduct for them to take part
in amusements while their head re-
mained in captivity, or to seem to
court one who had brou^t such ca-
lamities on the Holy See.

While invited to discuss ecclesiastic
cal matters in committee for presenta-
tion to the emperor, the cardinals
were not by any means requested to
give an opinion <hi the new marriage.
But it became very necessary that
they should have one as the time ap-
proached for the arrival of Marie-
Looise, and for the celebration of the
marriage ceremonies in Paris.

She reached Compiegne on the
27th of March. Napoleon, to spare
her the embarrassment of a public
meeting, had surprised her mi the
road, and they entered the little town
together. A few days after they pro-
ceeded to St. Cloud. Four ceremo-
nies were to take place. First there
was to be a grand presentation on the
31st of March, at St. Qoud, of all the
bodies in the state, the nobles and
other dignitaries. The next morning
the dvU marriage w&s to be cele-
brated also at St Cloud. The 2d of
j&{>rii was fixed for the grand entrance
of the sovereigns into Paris, and for
the solemnity of the religious mar-
riage in the chapel of the Tuileries ;
the following morning another pre-
sentation oi the state bodies and the
court was to take place before the em-
peror and the new empress seated on
their thrones.

Twenty-seven cardinals had taken
coonsel together; for Fesch, as grand-
ahnoner to the emperor, was out of

VOL. u. a

the question, and Caprara was dying.
They had decided, after deliberate re-
search, that matrimonial cases between
sovereigns belong exclusively to the
cognizance of the Holy See, which
either itself pronounces sentence at
Borne, or else through the medium of
the legates names local judges for in-
stituting the affair. »

According to Consalvi's account,
the diocesan officialty of Paris on this
occasion refused at first to intervene,
on the ground of incompetency ; but
the emperor caused competency to be
declared by a committee of bishops
assembled at Paris, and presided over
by Cardinal Fesch. The words, how-
ever, " declared eompeterU^ were not
eventually inserted in the documents
drawn up of the meeting; it was pre-
tended instead that access could not
be had to the Pope. But this
pretended impossibility coidd of
course arise only from the will of
Napoleon.

Consalvi assures us that the pre-
amble used by the committee in the
first instance ran thus :

^The officialty, being declared com-
petent, and without derogating from the
right of the sovereign pontiff, to whom
access is for the moment forbidden,
proclaims null and void the marriage
contracted with the Empress Jose-
phine, the reasons for such decision
being stated in the sent^ce." But
when it was remarked how prejudicial
this avowal would be, the government
made it disappear from among the acts
of the ecclesiastical curia. For it had
been previously arranged that all pa-
pers relative to this affidr should be
submitted to government Accord-
ing to general report in Paris, some
of the papers were burnt, and others
changed. A person belonging to the of-
ficialty succeeded, however, in secretly
saving a part, and especially the begin-
ning of the sentence, which was as
given above.

Consalvi does not so much as name
the validity or invalidity of the mar-
riage ; the point to establish for him
was that theright of cognizance belong-

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Nap6UofC$ Marriage tpith Marie^LouiMe*

edsoIeljtotheHoljSee. Theinddent
he mentions of the papeiB destrojed
has no other importance than as show-
ing how conscience at first pronounced
and how a strong hand silenced its
expression*

Thirteen cardinals resolved to
hrave any consequences rather than
consent to a dereliction of duty ; for
their oath, when raised to the purple,
hinds them to maintain at all haziurds
the rights of the Church. The names
of these thirteen were : Cardinals
Mattel, Pignatelliy della Somaglia, di
Pietro, Litta, Saluszo, Ruffo Sdlla,
Brancadoro, Galeffi, Scotti, Gahrielli,
Opizzoni, and ConsalvL The other
fourteen held different shades of opin-
ion, and only agreed in deciding not
to oppose thQ emperor.

The sole means hy which the thir-
teen could protest, under the circum-
stances) was not to sanction the new
marriage hy appearing at the ceremo-
nies. This resolve was accordingly
taken, and the fourteen were apprised.
Mattel, tha oldest cardinal among the
thirteen, called upon most of the four-
teen to acquaint them with the resolu-
tion ; other members of the thirteen
likewise spoke of it to *their col-
leagues ; but no result was produced
on the minds of the fourteen. To the
shame of the latter it must be said
that they afterward untruly declared
themselves Ignorant of the line of con-
duct which the thirteen had intended
to adopt. Consalvi positively asserts
that such was not the case. The thir-
teen spoke with the caution com-
manded by prudence on so delicate a
matter, not seeking ostensibly to pre-
vent the others from following their
own opinions, and anxiaus to avoid
giving any pretext for the accusation of
exciting a feeling against the govern-
ment. But this reserve did not pre-
vent them from clearly expressing
their intention to uphold the rights of
the Pope and of the Holy See by ab-
staining from all participation in the
marriage ceremcmies.

Though called upon by duty to act
in the way mentioned, the thirteen

cardinals naturally wished to avoid, as
much as possible, woonding Napoleon.
With this view Matte! was deputed to
seek an interview with Fesch, for the
purpose of informhig him what course
they felt obliged to pursue. At the
same time Mattel gave him to under-
stand that all publicity might be
avoided, or any bad effect on the pub-
lic obviated, by addressing partial, in-
stead of general, invitations to the
cardinals. This was to be done with
regard to the senate and the legisla-
tive body, and, indeed, the smallness
of the enceinte offered a plausible
pretext; for it was impossible that
all entitled to^ appear on the
occasion could be present. Car-
dinal Fesch evinced great surprise
and anger, endeavoring to reason
Mattel out of this view ; but finding
it was of no use, he promised to speak
to the emperor, who was then at
Compi^gne.

According to Fesch's account, Na-
poleon fiew into a violent passion on
learning the decision cometo by the thir-
teen ; but he declared that they would
never dare to carry out their plot,
and utterly rejected the idea of not
inviting all the members of the Sacred
College.

At the proper time a spedal invita-
tion reached each cardinaL Therowas
no possibility of escape. To feign
illness or invent a pretext they rightly
deemed would be unworthy.

Nevertheless, anxious as they were
to avoid offence, when they came to
consider moro closely the nature of the
different ceremonies, it was considered
by some that they might, without failing
in duty, assist at the two presenta-
tions that wero to take place before
and afler the marriages. Consalvi
was among those opposed to this view
on grounds of honor at least; but,
not to provoke any further schism
in their ranks, the minority yielded,
and this mode of proceeding was de-
cided on. Both marriages were to be
eschewed; but they would assist at
both presentations. The cardinals
hoped thus to prove that they did all

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Naptkovf$ Marriage tokk Mari&'LouUe*

they poflsiblj oo^Id to please Napo-
leoDy consistently ^th their sense of
duty. It was wo considered highly
desirable to shield the fourteen fixnn
remark as much as could be, for it
was a grievoos matter to right-
minded men to see the honor and
dignity of the Sacred College thus
abased.

Accordingly, on the eyening fixed,
all the cardhials went to St Cknid.
Together with the other dignitaries,
they were in the grand gallery wait-
ing the arriyal of Napoleon and his
new empress, when Fouch6, the min-
ister of police, came np. Consalyi
had been yery intimate with him, but
haying paid scarcely any yisits since
his xetom to Paris, from the motiye9
stated aboye, they had not hitherto
met. Fonch^ drew him aside, and
aaked with much cordiality and inter-
est if it were true that seyeral cardi-
nals refiised to be present at the em-
perox^s marriage.

Consalyi was silent at first, not
wishing to name any one in particular.
But when Fonch6 insisted, saying
that, as minister of police, he knew €£
course all about it, and only asked
through politeness, Consalyi replied
that he bdonged to the number.

*^ Oh, what do you say ?* exclaimed
Pouch^ ^ The emperor was speak-
ing of it this morning, and in his an*
ger named you; but I affirmed that it
was not likely you should be of the set"

Fouchd then pointed out the dan-
gerous consequences of such a pn>-
oeedmg, saying that the non-interven-
tion of the cardinals would seem to
Uame the state, the emperor, and
even to attack the legitimacy of the
future succession of the throne. He
tried to persuade Consalyi to be pres-
ent hiniself at leasts or if ike whole
thirteen would not come to the dyil
marriage, to attend, howeyer, the re-
ligioas ceremony. Consalyi could not
of course consent ; but he told the ef-
forts they had made to ayoid inyita^
tiona for all, and promised, at Fouch^'s
leqaest, to repeat this conyersation to
tbe twelve.

Their discourse was interrupted by
the appearance of the emperor and
empress. Napoleon came in holding
Mitfie-Louise by the hand, and he
pointed out eadb person to her by
name as he drew near. On approach-
ing the members of the Sao^ Col-
lege, he exclaimed, ^Ah, the cardi-
nals r and presented them, one after
the other, with great courtesy, naming
each, and mentioning some qualifica-
tion. Thus'ConsfJyi was designated
as he who arranged the concor£tt

It was said iSterward that Napo-
leon's kindliness had been intended to
win them oyer.

They all bowed in return, without
speaking. When this ceremony was
over, the thirteen returned to Paris
and met at the house of Cardinal Mat-
teL Consalvi then related his con-
yersation with Fouch^; they saw
clearly what there might be to appre-
hend, but none waver^ in the resolu-'
tion taken.

The following day, the civil mar-
riage was celebrated at St Cloud.
The thirteen cardinals abstained from
appearing. Of the fourteen, eleyen
were present: one was ill, and two,
seized with tardy misgiving, said they
were.

Monday, the 2d of April, had been
fixed for the triumphal entrance of
the soyereigns into Paris, and for the
religious marriage in the diapel of the
Tuueries. A successfixl representa-
tion of the arch of triumph was made ;
afterward reproduced in the (me at
the top of the Champs Elys^s. Na-
poleon passed under it, with Marie-
Louise at his side, in a carriage that
afforded a fair view of both to the
spectators* Arriyed at the gate of the
Tnileries, on the Place de U Con-
corde, they alighted, and he led her
tiirougfa the giwdens till they arriyed
at the chapel of the palace, prepared
for the nuptial ceremony.

It was crowded densely, and many
more persons longed to enfter, but
there were thirteen yacant seats I

It had been hoped that Fouch^'s
words would produce some effect, and

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Nap6kwi% Marriage with Mxrie^Louise.

that the thirteen cardinals might, at
least, be induced to attend the re^
ligions marriage. Their seats had
been left up to die last moment ; but as
Napoleon drew near, thej were hast-
ily removed. His eye, however, fell
inmiediatelj on the group of cardinals,
always conspicuous from their red
costume, and as he marked the small-
ness of their number, anger flashed
from his countenance.

Indeed, only twelve cardinals, in-
cluding Fesch, were present One
was r^dlj too ill to go, and two others,
as before, pretended sickness. But,
as thej wrote to this effect, they were
considered as absent from accident.
And they encouraged this version.

During both these days and nights,
the thirteen remained at home, care-
fully abstaining, as became their po-
sition, from all semblance of participa-
tion in any rejoicings.

On the morrow was to take place
the final ceremony of presentation to
both sovereigns seated on their thrones.
All the cardinak went, and, accord-
ing to injunction, in full costume.
Two hours passed waiting for the
doors of the throne-room to be opened*

Then the stream began to move to-
ward the spot in the middle of the
grand galieiy that connects the Tuil-
cries with the Louvre, where Napo-
leon and Marie-Louise were seated
on their respective thrones, surround-
ed by the members of the imperial
family and officers of state.

The crowd entered slowly, one by
one, according to the rule of prece-
dence prescribed, and each individual,
stopping before the throne, made a
profound obeisanoe, passing out after-
ward by the door of the saloon be-
yond*

In conformity with French etiquette
at that time, the senators were first
introduced ; and Fesch had the little-
ness to go in with them, rather than
with the Sacred College. After these
followed the councillors of state and
the legislative body, and then came
the turn of the cardinals. But at this
mcxnent, Napoleon, with imperious

gesture, beckoned an officer toward
him, and gave a hasty order to have
all the cardinals who had not been
present at the marriage immediately
expelled from the ante-chamber, as he
should not condescend to receive them.
The messenger was precipitately quit-
ting the hall, when Napole6n, with
rapid change of thought, called him
back, and ordered that only Cardinals
Opizzoni and Consalvi should be
turned out But the officer, confused,
did not clearly seize this second order,
and imagining that the two cardinals
named were to be more particularly
designated, acted accordingly.

The scene that followed may be
conceived. It rises up vividly. The
order for expulsion was as publicly
intimated as it had been publicly
given ; and scores of eager eyes turn-
ed on the thirteen culprits so ignomin-
iously dismissed. The report of what
was coming got whispered from hall
to hall, and flew on to the numerous
groups that thronged even the vesti-
bule and staircase ; if the buzz ceased
as the cardinals drew near, it followed
swiftly on their receding steps, while
they traversed each apartment
Friends began to tremble for their
personal safety: the bloody tragedy
of Yincennes rose up in remembnuice
to many an anxious heart

Their equipages had disappeared in
the confusion of the day. The Paris-
ian crowd were astounded that morn-
ing to mark thirteen rich scarlet
dx^sses wending about in seardi of
conveyances or homes.

Within the palace, meanwhile, pre-
cedence, contrary to custom, had been
given the ministers; but after them
the other cardinals were at length in-
troduced. As each, in turn, drew
near the thrones, and, not feeling very
pleasantly we may believe, made his
respeetftil salutation. Napoleon was
giving way to a rapid flow of violent
language. Sometimes he addressed
the empress, or sometimes those stand-
ing near. The Sacred College, as a
bcd^y, came in for its share of abuse ;
but two cardinals were special objects

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NapaleoifCs Marriage toith Marie'Lom$e»

of reproachful epithets* ^Hemi^ht
spare the others," siad Napoleon, ^as
obstinate theologiana fall of prejudice ;
bat CazdinalB Conaalyi and Opiszooi
he never could forgive." Opizsoni
iras ongratefal, owing, as he did, to
him (Napoleon) the archbishopric of
Bologna, and the cardinal's hat ; hot
Gooaahi was the most goiltj of alL
^Coosalvi,'' cried the emperor, wann«
ing as he went on, ^ does not act from
theological prejadice : he is incapable
of that; but he hates me for having
caased his &11 from the ministry.
And this is now his revenge. He is
a deep politidan, and he seeks now
to lay a subtle snare, whereby hereaf*
ter to attack the legitimacy of afritare
bur to the throne."

Marie-Lonise, accostomed to the
stalely etiqaette of Austria, must have
been rather surprised at this outburst
Periii^ her own destiny, as bride of
that crowned soldier of fortune, did
not then look quite so brilliant to her.
It » easy to fancy courtiers around
with their varied shades of amaae,
horror, and fear at such delinquency,
and its consequences, painted on their
&ces.

Conaalvi tells us in his memoir on
the marriage, and also in that of his
private life, that the fury of Napoleon
on the day of the religious ceremony
had been so intense, Uiat on coming
oat from chapel he actually ordered
thiee cardinals to be shot, afterward
confining the sentence to Consalvi
abne. And the cardinal each time
says that he probably owed his life to
the intervendon of Fouch^.

But in a note which 2^ Gr^taneau-
Joly mentions as detached from the
memoirs, Consfdvi writes thus of Na-
poleon : ^ In his fits of anger,— -ofren
more feigned than real, especially at
first, — ^he would threaten to have per'-
unu $koty as he frequently did with re-
gard to myself; but I am persuaded
that he never would have signed the
order for execution. More than once
I have heard his devoted followers
and intimate confidants relate that the
ffiorder of the Duke d'Enghien had

been a surprise rather than a deliber*
ate act of will. I should not be as-
tonished at the truth of this, for it was
a useless crime, leaving only shame
and romorse, which Boni^rte' might
easily have spared himself."

The contradiction in these passages
is remarkable. M. CMtineau-Joly
does not give the date of the note, so
we aro reduced to oo]:\}ecture. It
seems likely to have been written at
a later period, when the downfall of
Napoleon would naturally call forth
from Consalvi the deepest charity and
most lenient interpretations. The
two memoirs, it will be remembered,
wero penned during the cardinal's
captivity at Bheims.

The day after their expulsion, those
among the cardinals who were bish-
ops had orders to resign their sees im-
mediately, under pain of imprison-
ment. They signed the deed as re-
quired, but with the {unoviso of the
Pope's consent. At eight o'clock on
the same evening each one received a
short note from the minister of pub-
lic worslup, enjoining him to wait on
that frinctionary in an hour's time, for
the purpose of hearing the emperorii
orders.

The whole thirteen met in the min-
ister's ante-chamber, and were intro-
duced together to his cabinet Fouch^
was with him, and from a kindly in-
tention, says Consalvi. Both seemed
grieved at the business they had to
transact

As soon as Fouch^ pero^ved Con-
salvi, he exclaimed,

'^Ah, cardinal, I warned you the
consequences would be terrible. What
pains me most is that you should be
of the number."

Consalvi thanked him for his sym-
pathy, but said he was prepared for
all that might follow.

The thirteen wero then made to sit
down in a cirole, and the minister of
public worship b^an a long dis-
course, which could not much have
benefitted the culprits, as only three
understood FrondL The substance
of it was that they had committed a

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Magpokon^9 Marriage wiik Maris^Lwiu^

state cnme, and were guilty of irea*
80D, having conspired against the em-
peror. The proof of l£is lay in the
secrecy they had obseryed toward
him (the minister) and toward the
other cardinals. They ought to have
spoken to him as their superior, and
he would have enlightened them with
regard to their erroneous idea of the
privative right belonging to the Pope
in matrimonial cases between sover-
eigns. Their crime, he said, might
have the most serious oonsequenoes
on the public tranquillity, unless the
emperor succeeded in obviating them,
for their mode of acting had tended to
nothing less than to cast doubts on
the legitimacy of the succession to the
throne. He concluded by declaring
that the emperor, judging the cardi-
nals to be rebels guilty of conspiracy,
had ordered them to be informed :

1. That they were from that mo-
ment deprived of all their property,
ecclesiastical and patrimonial, for the
sequestraticm of which measures had
been already taken.

2. That his majesty no longer
considered them as cardinals, and for-
bade them henceforth to wear any en-
signs of that dignity.

8. That his majesty reserved to
himself the ri^t of afterward decid-
ing with regard to their persons.

And the minister gave them to un-
derstand that a criminal action would
be brought agtunst some.

Even going back as fully as we can
to the ideas of the times, there is
something equally startling and absurd
in the noticn of a lay minister of state
undertaking to enlighten princes of
the church on matters of canon law,
coolly naming himself as their supe-
rior, and treating them to a long hom-
ily <m their duties and misdemeanors.
The same pretensions are doubtless
reproduced in all revolutionary times ;
but still the absurdity strikes us forci-
bly as we read this account

Consalvi replied that they were er-
roneously accused of conspiracy and
rebellion^Hsrimes unworthy of the
purple, and also of their individual

characters. No secret, he said, had
been made of their opinion to the
other cardinals, though it had been ex-
pressed without seeking to gain prose-
lytes. If they had not communicated
with the minister, they had neverthe-
less spoken quite openly to Cardinal
Fesch, their own colleague and the
emperor^s undo, begging him to lay
their determination, founded solely on
motives of conscience, before Napo-
leon. Consalvi also explained how
they endeavored to avoid all the blame
now laid to their charge by requesting
partial invitations, which request, Sf
complied with, would have prevented
their views from being made public.
The other two cardinals who could
speak French likewise expressed
themselves in similar terms.

Both ministers appeared convinced,
and, regretting the emperor had not
himself heard their defence, suggested
that they should write it out for hb
perusaL No difficulty was made in
complying with this proposal. The
ministers then said that the cardinals
must not, however, bring forward the
real motive of their absence, namely,
the Pope's right, as that was just what
irritated Napoleon; but lay the cause
to sickness, or some excuse of that
kind. The cardinals declined taking
this course, as incompatible with their
duty.

Here we must remark that the
whole scene appears to us got up to
make them yield at last ; but Consalvi,
ever charitable, says not a word to
that effect.

One of the ministers then tried to
make out a draft of a letter for the
emperor that should be satisfactory to
both parties ; and one of the cardinala
had the imprudence to copy these
rough sketches, for the purpose of
comparing them and seeing after-
ward what could be done. The min-
ister insisted much on having the pa-
per then and there drawn up, as Na-
Eleon was going to travel, and would
ire Paris immediately. But Con-
salvi, pleading his colleagues' ignor-
ance of the French language, sno-

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IfapoleovCt Marriage mA JWarie'Lomie.

eeeded at length in obtquning consent
ibr them to retire together and delib-
erate among themselves.

It was eleven o'clock when thej
withdrew ; and some of the cardinals
had the further imprudence to assure
the ministers that the expressions used
bj the latter liad been faithfully copied.

As soon as Consalvi was alone with
his cf^eagues and oould speak freely,
he showed them the full meaning of
the French terms sn^ested, and the
impropriety, to say the least, of using
than. All agreed to hold staunchly
lo their duty. But now appeared the
further difficulty, ereated by having
eopied the ministers' words, which it
would thus be impossible to seem to
forg^ Fouch4 was to see Napoleon
soon after leaving them, and would
dodbdess hasten to assure him that
the cardinals were writing a letter
C0Dfi>rmable to his wishes. Thus Na-
poJeon, prepared for submission, would
give way to tenfold anger on finding
the reverse.

The letter was dictated by consci-
ence alone, but its expressions were
as much as possible tempered by pru-
dence. Every- word was carefully
weighed; and five hours passed in
drawing it up. By its tenor, they
sought to exculpate themselves from
ail Buapicion of revolt and treason,
saying that the real cause of their ab-
sence was because the Popo was ex-
dnded from the matter; that they had
not pretended thereby to institute
themselves judges, or cast any doubts
amcMig the public either on the valid-
ly of the first marriage,' or the legiti-
macy of the children that might follow
the second. In conclusion, they as-
sared Napoleon of their sulmussion
and obedience, without making any re-
quest for the restoration of ^eir {nto-
perty or their purple. The thirteen
signed by order o£ seniority in the
caidinalate.

Gardmal Litta immediately con-
veyed this document to the minister
of public worship, who pronounced
fam^lf tolerably satisfied. But Na-
poleon quitted Paris the next day

sooner than had been anticipated, and
without giving the audience to the
minister which had been agreed on.
Consequently the latter could not give
the letter then, and h^ informed the
cardinals that they must therefore
conform to the orders already received.
Accordingly they laid aside the en-
signs of their dignity, and hence arose
the designation of black and red car-
dinals. Their property was imme-
diately confiscated, and their revenues,
contrary to custom, were thrown into
the public treasury.

Afker a short excursion in the
Netherlands, Napoleon returned to
Paris. Meanwhile the cardinals had
put down theu* carriages, and hired
more modest abodes, better suited to
their fallen fortunes. Contradictory
rumors were afloat abroad as to their
fate. Two months and a half passed
ere any change took place.

But on the 10th of June each cardi-
nal received a note from the minister
of public worship, appointing a time
for him to call ; two cardinals being
designated for each successive hour.
Cardinals Consalvi and Brancadoro
were those summoned for the first
hour. When they reached his cabi-
net, the minister informed them that
they were to set out for Rheims in
twenty-four hours, and to remain
there until further orders should be
gi^en. Passports were in readiness.
All the other cardinals successively
received a similar sentence ; the only
difierence lay in the place of abode.
They were exiled by twos, and care
was taken to separate those sup-
posed to be intimate. The minister
offered to each cardinal fifty louis
for the expenses of his journey;
some accepted, and others declined;
Consalvi beiog among the latter.
Soon after their arrival in the towns
designated, each cardinal had an inti-
mation ftom the minister that a
monthly pension of 250f. would be
duly paid. Cons^^vi refused to profit
by tlds allowance, and he thinks the
others did the same. On the lOth of
January, 18J.1, both he and his corn-

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NapoUon*8 Marriagt t^AA Mane^Lauise,

panion received a note frbm the snb-
prefect of Rheims, requesting them to
call and give iiiformation on certain
orders that had arrived from the su-
preme anthovitj- in Paris. The two
cardinals went The sub-prefect then
informed them that he was required
to ask what sums thej had received
for their subsistence since their exile
at Rheims, through what conveyance
or persons, from whom, and to what
amount Consalvi was able to an-
swer that he had not accepted a pen-
ny from any one. ^< But how then do
you live, since the government has
seized idl your property?^ "My
banker at Rome sends the necessary
sums through his correspondent at
Paris. Under other circumstances I
would have borrowed from my friends."

This measure of the government
was caused by irritation on learning
that charitable persons had united to
make up a general fimd eveiy month
for the support of the cardinals, and it
was wished to put a stop to the pro-
ceeding. Consalvi concludes the me-
moirs of his private life about this
time, expressing a fear that the busi-
ness mentioned above will not end
with the interrogatory, but may bring
about disastrous consequences. He
also says, " We live in exile ; forego-
ing all society, as becomes our situa-
, tion and that of the Holy See and the
sovereign pontiff our head. The red
cardinals, I am told, remain in Paris,
and go much in the world, but are not
esteemed for their late conduct"

It is curious to contract with the
preceding account the manner in
which M. Thiers disposes of this
same* episode. "On the day of the
emperoPs marriage," says that histo-
rian, " thirteen out of twenty-eight car-
dinals faOed to be present at the cere-
mony. The motive, which they dared
not assign, but which it was desired
to make the public understand, was
that, without the Pope, Napoleon
could not divorce, and thence, the first
marriage still subsisting, the second
was irregular. This motive was un-
founded, since no divorce had taken

place (for in effect divorce being for-
bidden by the Church could only have
been pronounced by the Pope), but
simply annuhnent of the marria^
with Josephine, pronounced by thei>r-
dinaiy after all the degrees of ecclesi-
asticid jurisdiction had been' ex-
hausted."*

In reality, however, this conduct of
the thirteen cardinals, acting in con-
formity with their head, Pope Pius
Vn., though cut off from all commu-
nication with him, was the protest of
the Church against temporal despotism
in things spiritual. The Churdi was
in chains, but God had left her a liv-
ing voice to proclaim her rights.
Consalvi never for one instant quits
his ground — ^the Church's right of
judgment — ^to give a shadow of pe^-
sonal opinion on the matter in ques-
tion. It is a fine spectacle also to see
him with his few colleagues, deserted
by so many of their own body, quietly
discussing what degree of excommu-
nication Napoleon had incurred,
whether all contact was forbidden,
while they inhabited his very capital,
and knew well the stem nature of
that inexorable will.

The black cardinals continued to
inhabit their different places of exile
until Napoleon, working on the weak-
ness and the affections of the aged pon-
tiff, drew from him that semblance of
a second concordat dated the 25th of
January, 1813. Then, restored to
liberty, they hastened to the feet of Pins
vn. ; and found him overwhelmed
with grief at the concessions he had
made, at what he called his guilt
Truly he had but yielded in his feeble-
ness to the unceasing persuasions of
the red cardinals, bi^ed by Napo-
leon's promises in favor of the Chnivh,
and to the charm exercised by that
mighty genius when he stooped to
court affection. The proviso made
that the new concordat, to become
binding, should first be submitted to
the S^sred College assembled, happi-

• IC. Thiers here &ll8 into agrare error: dl-
Torce being contrary to the law of God, no Pope
can pronoonoe one. The qaestion was whether
Josephine were lawfuUj married or not

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Napole(m*i Marriage with Mcarie-Lowiie.

\j afforded the opportimiiy of annul-
ling it. That was fullj and worthily
done bj the papal letter addressed to
the emperor on the 24th of March fol*
lowing.

When the course of events in Eu-
it^ brought about such a change in
bis own position, Napoleon, still pow-
erful notwithstanding, began to wish
for a reconciliation with the Holj See.
On the 23d of Januaiy, 1816, Pius
Vll. was allowed to set out for Rome,
restored to his paternal sovereignty.
Strangely, however, Consalvi was not
permitted to accompany him. He re-
ceived instead a note from the minister
of public worship, informing him that
orders would shortly be transmitted
concerning himself, the execution of
which admitted neither appeal nor yet
delay.

And accordingly, two days after the
Pope's departure, a letter came from
the Due de Rovigo, minister of police,
telling Consalvi that he was condemn-
ed to another exile in the town of
B^ers, and was to set out immedi-
ately for that destination in the strict-
est incognito, and escorted during the
whole journey by an officer of gen-
darmerie.

Nothing more is said of this inci-
dent. Consalvi does not carry his
mem<Mi8 beyond 1812. Two notes
found among his correspondence, and
signed by the functionaries above
named, reveal the orders for this sec-
ond exile. Napoleon abdicated on
the 4th of April, 1816. On the 19th
1^ May, in the same year, Pius VU.
oflkaally recalled Con^vi to his office
of secretary of state.

TbuB did Providence terminate the
struggle between the spiritual and tem-
poral powers; thus closed for Consalvi
the ecle consequent on his opposition
to the imperial marriage.

On the very day that restored Con-
lahri to his councils, Pius VIL learned
that all the nations of Europe refused
to receive within their territories the
pcoecribed fiunily of Napoleon* Rome
opened her gates.

Madame Mere, as she was called,

the mother of Napoleon, wrote thus to
Consalvi, 27th May, 1818 :

^ I wish and I ought to thank your
eminence for all you have done in our
favor since the burden of exile has
faUen on my children and myself. My
brother. Cardinal Fesch, did not leave
me ignorant of the generous way in
which you received the request of num
grand et malheureux proscrit dt SL
JSffine, He said that on learning the
- emperor^s prayer, so just and so Chris-
tian, you had hastened to interpose
with i^e English government, and to
seek out priests both worthy and able.
I am truly the mother of sorrows ; and
the only consolation left me is to know
that the Holy Father forgets the past^
and remembers solely his affection for
us, which he testifies to all the mem-
bers of my fitmiiy.

^ My sons, Lucian and Louis, who
are proud of your unchanging friend-
ship toward them, have been much
touched likewise by all that the Pope
and your eminence have done, un-
known to us, to preserve our tranquil-
lity when menaced by the different
powers of Europe. We find support
and an asylum in the pontifical states
only ; and our gratitude is as great as
the benefit. I beg your eminence to
place the expression of it at the feet
of the holy pontiff, Pius VII. I
speak in the name of all my pro-
scribed family and especially in the
name of him now dying by inches
on a desert rock* I^ holiness' and
your eminence are the only persons
in Europe who v endeavor to soften
his misfortunes, or who would abridge
their duration. I thank you both
with a mother^s heart,-*and reWin
always, eminence, yours very devote
edly and most gratefiilly,

"Madame."

Another letter, from the ex-king of
Holland, fitther of the present empe-
ror of the French, addressed to Car.
dinal Consalvi, still further demon-
strates the charity shown by Rome,
and suggests many reflections. With
these extracts &om Consalvl's corre-

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Napoleorit Marriage with Mctrie-Laui$$.

spondence as a sequel, we shall close
our episode of the imperial marriage ;
the circumstances they recall form a
not uninstructlve commentarj on an
event that seemed to place Napoleon at
such a high point of worldly greatness.

^ Eminencb, — Following the advice
of the Holy Father and of your emi-
nencCy I have seen Mgr. Bemetti, who
is specially charged with the affair in
question; and he, with his usual
franknessy' explained the nature of the
complaints made by foreign powers
against the family of the Emperor
Napoleon. The great powers, and
principally England, reproach us with
always conspiring. They accuse us of
being mixed up, implicitly or explicitly,
with all the plots in existence ; they
even pretend that we abuse the hos-
pitality granted us by the Pope to fo-
ment divisions in the pontifical states,
and stir up hatred against the august
person of the sovereign.

'^I was fortunately able to furnish
Mgr. Bemetti with proofs to the con-
trary; and he will hunself tell you the
effect produced on his mind by my
words. If the emperor's family, ow-
ing so much to Pope Piiis YII. and
to your eminence, had conceived *the
detestable design of disturbing Europe,
and if it had the .means of so doing,
the gratitude that we all feel toward
the Holy See would evidently arrest
tts on such a course. My mother,

brothers, sisters, and unde owe too
much respectful gratitude to the sov-
ereign pontiff and to your eminence to
draw down new disasters on this city,
where, while proscribed by the whole
of Europe, we have been received and
sheltered with a paternal goodness
rendered yet more touching by past
injustice. We are not conspiring
against any one, and still less against
God's representative on earth. We
enjoy in Rome all the rights of citi-
zens ; and when my mother learned in
what a Christian manner the Pope
and your eminence were avenging the
captivity of Fontainebleau and the ex-
ile of Rheims, she could only bless
you m the name of her ^and et mal'
heuretix mort, shedding sweet tears for
the first time since the disasters of
1814.

^To conspire against our august
and sole benefactor would be an in-
famy that has no name. The family
of Bonaparte will never merit such a
reproach. I convinced Mgr. Bemetti
of it, and he will himself be our surety
with your eminence. Deign then to
listen to his words, and to grant us the
continuance of your favor, together
with the protection of the Holy Father.
— ^In this hope, I am, eminence, your
very respectfiil and most devoted ser-
vant and iriend,

**L. DE Sajnt-Lku.

"^ Bomej 30th SepL 1821."

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Jn JSBngUik Mmd&n'i Lowe. tJ

FiromOncoA'Week.

AN ENGLISH MAIDEN'S LOVE.

I iB&D fUs laddeiit when % mere girl in % ferj stnpld old move) foimded npon it and which I
never eoald raoeeed in meeting with again. The preface stated that In some church InSogland
there yet remained the monnment of ue knight with hie noble one-armed wife beside him. I
■hooU be glad if any of yonr readers could tell me wher '"' " ^- - .- --^ .^ .

1 baTe foxgotien) ol the knight and lady.

dbe ghid if any of your readers could tell me where this monument is to be seen, and the real

iCwmSTii -

1Va:s in the grand heroic dxiys,

When Coeur de Lion reigned and fooght ;
An Engliah knight ta'en in those frays

To Sultan Saladin was brought .

The sultan sat upon his throne,

His oonrders stood around ;
And enuTy prince, and padisha

Bent lowlj to the ground

Thej senred him upon bended knee— •

«To hear is to obey ;•*—
For the fierce and cruel Moslem race

An iron hand must sway.

The monarch gazed on each stem face ;

* Te Moslem chiefs are brave ;
But I know a braver man than ye,

Bring forth the Christian slave ! ^

The slave was brought, and at a sign

The scimitar waved high,
But the English captive gazed unmoved,

With cahn unshnnking eye.

Then spoke Ike sultan : << Hugh de Vere,

Fve need of men like thee,
And thou shalt bo the first man here,

In this land, after me.

'^ Thou shalt have gold, and gems, and land,
Palaces shall be thine.
And thou shalt wed a queenly bride, •
And be a son of mine.

"^Qnly forsake thy fathers' faith,

Mah'med and Qod adore,
And forget thy love and &therland.
Which thou shalt see no more."

Then Hugh de Yere obeisance mado; -

" Since I must make reply,
I will not diange my bve or £uth,

Far liever would I die.

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28 - An En^i$k McddetCt Lave.

^I have a God who died for me.
His soldier I am sworn.
Shall I, whose shoulder bears the cross,
Upon the cross bring scorn ?

^I haye a love, a gentle girl.
Whom I loTC as my wife ;
I cannot bear a Moslem name.
Nor wed a Moslem wife."

<< Bethink thee now," the sultan said ;
^ How knowest thou that the maid
Is not now wed, since thj return
Hath been so long delayed ?

*< Fickle and false is woman's heart,
It chanffes like the sky ;
The showirs that fall so fast to-night
To-morrow's^un will dry.

*< Nor — trust me— e'er was maiden yet
Constant as is the dore,
Who dies of grief for her lost mate,
And knows no second love.'*

Then at the monarch's feet bowed low
The saintly fr^res who came

To ransom slaves, bound by their yow,
For Jesu's holy name.

And at lus footstool wealth untold

With lavish hands they pour:
^ His bride sends thee her gems and gold ;
Sir Hugh de Vere restore !"

The sultan spoke : ^ The other knights
And men may go with thee.

But not for gold or jewels bright
Shall Hugh de Vere go free.

**I love him with a brother^s love,
His love I hope to win.
And in this land raise him above
All men save Saladin.

« What is a woman's love to mine?
A hundred slaves I'll give,
Let him his Cliristian faith resign,
And in my shadow live.

** His lady-love sends pearls and gold|
She'd give them for a shawl,
But she must give a dearer thing
Before I jiM my thralL

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A» BngU9h<Miudm'8 Love. 29

^ni try how Christian maideos love-^

This answer to her bear,
< Thj faith and fealty to prove,
Give what is far more dear.

'''This is the ransom I demand,
No meaner thing I'll take,
Thy own right arm and lilj hand
Cut off for thy love's sake."

^ Betum, good fr^res,** Sir Hugh then said,

^ To my betrothed bride,
And speak of me henceforth as dead,
Since here I must abide.

'^ For rather would I die this day

Beneath the paynim swords,
Than ye should bear Agnes de Bray
The sultan's cruel w<»ds.

« For well I know her futhful heart

Both arm and life would ^ve
To ransom mine ; — and will not prove
Her death, that I may live."

Then moumflilly the ransom sent

The good fibres took once more.
And with the captives they had freed

Sailed to the English shore.

And Earl de Bray's castell they sought,

And to fair Agnes teld,
How that her lover could not be

Bansomed for gems or gold.

And that the cruel sultan asked,-^

Nor meaner thing would take,-^
Her own right arm and lily hand,

Cut off for her love's sake.

A shudder ran through all who heard,

Her mother shrieked aloud,
Her father, crimsoning, clutched his sword,

And death to Moslems vowed.

Her little sister to her ran,
And clasped her tightly round :
^ Sure, sister, such a wicked man
Cannot on earth be found ? "

But Agnes smoothed the child's long hair
And kissed her, then spoke low,
^ That cruel is the ransom asked.
My dear ones, well I know.

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80 Jn BngUsh Maidm*$ Love.

** Bat did not God for ransom give

His own beloved Son ?
And do not churls and nobles give
Their lirea for king and throne ?

^ Has not my lord and father bled

By GoBor de Lion's side ?
And would he bid his daughter shij^
Duty — whatever betide ?

^ Am I not Hugh de Yere's betrothed,
Fast pledged to be his wife ?
Do not I owe him fealty,
Even though it cost my life ?

^ What is my life? Long days and years
Li vain repining spent,
And orisons to God to end
My dear love's banishment

*^ And he has heard. At last mv prayers
Have reached up to God's thronoi
God gives me back my long lost one,
Nor leaves me sad and lone.

^ Only, he asks a sacrifice,
A proof my love is pure :

For such great gain, a little pain.
And shall I not endure ?"
• • * * •

Once more the Sultan Saladin
Sat in his royal court,

At his right hand stood Hugh de Yere
Grave-eyed and full of thought.

A herald came. '< Sultan, our lord,
The Christians' holy men

Who come to ransom captive slaves,
An audience crave again."

.The friars came,luid, bowing low.

They placed before the throne /

A silver casket richly chased :
And spoke in solenm tone. .

^ Monarch, to whom women are slaves,
Toys of an idle hour,
Learn in a nobler fidth than thine
Love's pniity and power.

^The cruel ransom thou didst ask
For Hugh de Yere here take,
His love's right arm and lily hand
"Cut off for her love's sake."

Then Hugh de Yere, beside himself,
The casket seised, and said^

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Jn Bns^ Mnden's Love. dl

^ O eroel monks, why told je her ?
I bade ye call me dead.

** O fair sweet aim I O deair white hand I

Cat off for my poor sake I**
And to his breast prest it and sobbed,
As if his heart would break.

Bat Saladin the casket oped.

And lo 1 embahned there lay
The &ir white arm and lily hand

Sent by Agnes de Bray.

And as he gazed his tears flowed down.
His nobles also wept
^ Oh I would ere I sucli words had said /

rd with my fathers slept r

The lily hand foil reverently
And like a saint's he kissed.
^ O gentle hand I 9^hat noble heart
Thee owned, I never wist

^ I never dreamed that woman lived

Who would, to save her lord,
Thus freely give her own right ana
And hand unto the sword.

** Mah'med and God witness for me,
I loved Sir Hugh de Vere 1
And thought if I this ransom asked
I should retain him here.

« Fair arm, fair hand, and true brave love !

My kingdom I'd resign —
Richer than any king of earth
In such a love as thine I

** Take, Hugh de Vere, thy freedom, won
So nobly by thy love ;
Take gems, and silks, and gdd, — all vain
Saladin's grief to prove.

** Tell her I yield my selfish love :
Well may she claim thy life I
She who was such a noble love
Will be a noble wife I

** Unloose the sails, make no delay.
Depart ere close the day.
While I among my precious things
Thy ransom stow away.

^That, 'mid my treasure placed, it may
To future ages prove
How holy Christiaas' plighted troth,
How pure their maidena' love P*

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AC Gouip.

Wvjm. Ghainben*fl Journal.

BELL GOSSIP.

These are Bome competent artistic
observers who contend that bells were
the origin, the cause, the ruling mo-
tire, of one of the most impor-
tant parts of a Christian church —
perhaps the most important, in regard
to external appearance. The Rev.
J. H. Sperling, in a paper read re-
cently before Uie Architectural Insti-
tute, dwells at considerable length on
the influence of the turret, campanile,
or bell-tower in determining the char-
acter of a church. As a means of
summoning the faithftd to mass (there
were no Protestant churches, because
no Protestants, in those days), or to
bid them pray wherever they might
be, a bell was needed with a sound
that would reach to a distance; and
this could only be insured by placing
it in a tower at some elevation. The'
Gothic architects made everything
contribute to the design of their cathe-
drals and churches ; and this elevation
of the bell was just the thmg to call
forth their ingenuity. They made the
bell-tower one of the chief features in
their design. It was often entirely
detached from the building, and was
known generally as. the campanile.
Examples of this are observable at
Canterbury and Chichester cathe-
drals, at Becdes, at Ledbuij, and at
West Walton in Norfolk Salisbury
cathedral had originally a campanile ;
but modem wiseacres, who' thought
they knew better than the men of old,
removed it. Tlie central towers of ca-
thedrals and churches were intended
as lanterns to let in lights not as tur-
rets to contain bells; this was a later
innovation. Many towers have been
altered from their original purpose to
convert them into bell-towers, but in-
juriously — as at Winchester and
Ely. Mr. Sperling, as a matter of
usefulness as well as of style, advo-

cates the detached or semi-detached
campanile; and recommends archi-
tects to direct their attention more
frequently to this matter.

Another way in which church bells
manifest, if not a scientific or artistic,
at least a historical value, is in their
connection with the saints of the Catho-
lic Church; they are still existing re-
cords of a very old ecclesiastical cus-
tom. The beU of a church was fre-
quently, if not generally, named after
the patron saint of that church ; and if
there were more bells than one, the
lowest in tone was named after the
patron saint, and the others after
saints to whom altars, shrines, or cha-
pels within the edifice were dedicated.
Probably, in such case, each bell was
appropriated to the service of its own
particular saint ; for the use of many
bells in a peal is comparatively mo-
dem. At Durham cathedral, and at
the church of St Bartholomew the
Great near Smithfleld, are (or were
recently) examples of a family of
bells receiving names bearing special
relation to the particular fabric for
which they were intended.

Archaeologists daim for church bcDs
a certain value in regard to the in-
scriptions which they nearly always
bear, and which serve as so many
guide-posts directing to facts belong-
ing to past ages. Each great bell-
founder (and many of them belonged
to monastic institutions) had his own
particular style of ornamentation, and
his own favorite inscription, mono-
gram, or epigraph. Sometimes it was
only his own name; sometimes a name
and a date ; sometimes a pious ejacu-
lation. The towns of Norwich, Lynn,
Colchester, Salisbury, ete., had all cel-
ebrated families of bell-founders, in the
days when the later Grothic cathedrals
and churches were buOt. The ear.

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Belt Goaip.

Best known dated bell is at Fribonrg,
beaiing the year 1258, and the inscrip-
tion: ** O Rex Grlori€e, veni cum pace ;
me remnumie pia pwulo tuccurre Ma--
riaJ* The oldest in England is supposed
to he that at Doncton in Su38ez, dated
1819. London can boast one a little
over four oentories old, at All Hal-
lows Staining, Mark Lane. The in-
ecriptiona on the bells, in the days
when siunts patronised them, were
mostly in Latin, in most cases inclnd-
ing Ae entreaty, ^Ora pro nobis**
(Pray fbr us). Sometimes the mot-
toes adverted to the many uses which
dmrch bells subserved, such as :

''Lando Deum Teranu plebem toco, congrego
clemm,
Deftmctos ploro, pestem fkigo, fata deooro."

Even this did not exhanst the list;
for we meet with an enumeration of
nearljL twen^ purposes answered by
diurch bells--«ome of which we
fihoold be little disposed to recognize
in these acieiitific days of ours. The
UQawiag is not an actual motto on a
bell, bat an elegy on the subject :

''En ceo CampanA, DUDquam cfenmitlo vana,
Laii£» Denm Tcnun, plebem toco, ooogrego
clemm.

tItoc toco, Mmina flrango.
Vox mem, tox vltae, toco tos, ad sacra Tenile.
Sanctcw collando, tonltnu ftego, ftinera claodo,
FnwrapUDgo, ftalffnra flrango, Sabbaths pango,
Bxdto tenUM, diaupo Tcntoa, paco craenfeoe.'^

Occasionally, some of the more pe-
cnliar of these uses were expressed in
English:

''Som^tlmea joy, lometlmet sorrow.
Marriage to-day, and Death to-morrow/*

They generally lose their point when
they iMe their Latinity.

The mottoes on oldbeUs, other than
those which were dictated by the rev-
erential feeling of the middle ages,
eoiiq»rise instances of Taaity, ignor-
ance, and silliness, such as woald
hardly be expected in these matters.
Sometimes a kind of moral aphorism
is attempted, with more or less suc-

"^^Ibmlcliid, like as, too oft are found
Po a aes aed of nought but empty soond.

When backward rang, I tell of Are ;
lliliik bow the world shall thus expire.

Wbfln aonla are from their body torn,
*ns aol to die, but to be bon.**

T0L.IL

One, very short, bids us to

"Embrace trew musick."

A bell-founder named Pleasant used
to put all kinds of punning mottoes on
his bells suggested by his name.
Some record the flnan<aal virtues of
the persons who supplied the money
for casting the bell:

** Pm giTen here to make a peal,
iknd soond the praise of Mary Noale."

" All ye who hear my solemn sound.
Thank Lady Hopton's hundred pound." *

'* Robert Forman collected the money for cast-
ing this bell: ,
ni surely do my part aa well.**

The name of the founder is some-
times supplanted by that of the.
churchwarden, or they may appear in
companionship. ^

" John Martin of Worcester he made wee, "
Be it known to all that do wee tee/'

** John Draper made, as plainly doth appeare.

This bell was broake and cast agalne wich
tvme churchwardens were,

Edward Dixon for the one who stode close to
histacklln.

And he that was his partner then was Alexan-
der Tacklyn."

The rhymster was evidently driven
to his wits' end by the name of Tack
lyn. Some had a touch of loyalty ia
tiiem:

** Ood BSTo the Church,
Our Queen, and Realme,
And send us peace in Xt."

The following are examples of a
more or less dbildish dass, marvels to
find perpetuated in hard metal :

** My sound Is good, my shape Is neat :
Perkins made me all complete."

** I am the flrat, although but small,
I will be hoard aboTc you all.*'

** I sound aloud from day to day :
My sound h*th praise, and well it may."

" I ring to sermon with a lusty boom,
That all may come, and none may stay at
home."

•• Poll on. braTe boys ; I am metal to the back-
bone, ru be hanged before r 11 crack."

The letters of the inscription are not,
as some persons may suppose, cut
or engraved on the metal by hand:
they are formed in intaglio^ or sunk in
the sand of the mould, and thus appear
in relief on the outside of the bell
when cast What can be done in this
way by that strange people the Chin-

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BM Gossip,

ese may be seen in the British Mu-
seum ; we might search long enough
to find an English bell equal in elabo-
rate ornamentation to the Chinese bell
there deposited.

The musical tone of a bell unques-
tionably depends on the scientific prin-
ciples of acoustic^ as applied to music.
The pitch of any one bell is deter-
mined conjointly by the size and the
thickness. Of two bells equally large,
the thicker gives the higher note ; of
two bells equally thick, the smsdler
gives the higher note. But then bell-
founders look to the quality of the tone
as well as to the pitch ; and on this
point there is much divergence of (pin-
ion among them. Concerning the
metal used, some combination of cop-
per and tin predominates in nearly all
church bells; generally from two to
three times as much copper as tin.
Small additions of other metals are oc-
casionally made, according to the the-
oretical views of the founder. The
popular belief that silver improves the
tone of a bell, is pronounced by Mr.
Sperling and Mr. Denison to be a mis-
iake ; if added in large quantity, it
would be as bad as so much lead ; if
in small quantity, it does neither good
nor harm. Whether there is or is not
really silver in two well-known bells,
called the ^ Acton < Kightingale" and
the « SQvcr Bell" of St John's College,
Cambridge, it is believed by these au-
thorities tiiat the sweetness of the tone
is due to other causes. A feeling of
piety probably influenced the wealthy
persons who, in old days, were wont
to cast silver into the furnace contain-
ing the molten bell-metal. Mr. Sper-
ling thinks that the old bells were, as
a rule, better than the modem, by hav-
ing more substance in them— obtain-
ing depth and fulness of tone by
lai^i^ess in height and diameter,
rather than by duninishing the thick-
ness at the part where the hanmier
or clapper strikes* ^^ Nothing is more
easily starved than a church belL*' A
.long-waisted bell (high in the sides) is
considered to give forth a more reso-
nant tone than a shallow or low waist.

because there is more metal to ad as a
kind of sounding-board; but a lower
bell is easier to ring in a peal ; hence,
as Sperling thinks, a reason for the
difference in the richness of tone in
old and modem bcjlls. There are iii-
dications that the old founders some-
times tune^ a set of bells in what is
called the fninor mode, the source of
much that is tender and plaintive in
Scotch and Irish melodies ; but in our
days they are always in the nu^or /
mode. Where the ringing is done by
clock-work, the sounds of several bells
constitute a chime — ^where by hand, a
peal — but in either case the actual tone
or note of each bell is fixed before-
hand. It is by many persons believed
that the quality of the tone is im-
proved by age, owing to some kind of
molecular change in the metal ; this is
known to be the case in some old or-
gans, and in instruments of the violin
class, in the metal of the one and the
wood of the other; and so far there is
analogy to support the opinion. For
good peals of bells, the founders gen-
erally prefer D or E as the note for
the tenor or largest bell.

As to largeness in a bell^ its inten-
tion bears relation rather to loudness
than to pitch, as a means of throwing
the sound to a great distance. This
is the reason for the mighty bells that
we are told of — St. Paul's weighing
something like 13,000 lbs. ; Antwerp,
16,000 lbs.; Oxford, 17,000 lbs.;
Rome, 18,000 lbs.; Mechlm, 20,000
lbs. ; Bmges, 28,000 lbs. ; York, 24,000
lbs.; Cologne, 25,000 lbs.; Montreal,
29,000 lbs.; Erfurt, 30,000 lbs.;
"Big Ben," at the Houses of Parlia-
ment, 31,000 lbs. ; Sens, 34,000 lbs. ;
Vienna, 40,000 lbs. ; Novgorod, 69,000
lbs.; Pekin, 119,000 lbs.; Moscow,
141,000 lbs.; and, giant of all the
giants, another Moscow bell weighing
192 tons, or 430,000 lbs. Our own
Big Ben is more than twice as heavy
as our own St. Paul's bell, which used
to be regarded as one of our wonders,
and its sound travels much further;
but whether its quality of tone is eqnal,
is a point on which opinions ^9er.

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BeU Gossip.

The hktory of the two Big Bens must
be more or less familiar to most of our
readers — ^how that three chief com-
missioners of works, and two archi-
tects, and three bell-founders, and two
beU-doctors, quarrelled year afler
year ; how that both the Bens cracked,
and got into disgrace ; how that one
of them recovered its voice again;
and how that we have paid the piper
to the tune of something like four
thousand pounds for the two Big Bens
and the four smaller bells. If a mu-
sical reader wishes to know, he may
be told that the four quarter-bells give
out the notes B, E, FJ, GJ, and that
Big Ben's tone is E, an octave below
the first £. Remember, when Big
Ben is heard six miles off, it is half a
minute bdiind time, seeing that sound
takes about half a minute to travel
that distance.

As to hsBrringing^ the adepts insist
upon it that this is a science ; and they
give it the name of campanology* We
aU know, ever since we learnt about
permutation and combination at school,
that if there are six, eight, ten,
or any number of distinct things, we
may arrange them in an enormous
number of ways, each way differing
from every other. The things in this
case are bells of different tones ; and
according to the order in which they
are stru^ by the hammer or clapper
so many changes may we produce.
Out of the almost infinite number of
these changes, campanologists select
certain groups which to their ear seem
most musical and agreeable ; and
these changes are known by the names
of their proposers or inventors, just as
we speak of a work by a great artist.
It is not clearly known whetibier change-
ringing h^an earlier than the seven-
teenth century; but it is certain that
the art is practised much more in Eng-
land than in any other country. There
are peals from two or three to ten or
twelve bells. Sixteen of twelve bells,
and fifty of ten bells, are mentioned
in the books as peals now existing in
England. The largest peals now in
England are at Bow church, Exeter,

and York, each of ten bells ; at Bow
church and at York they vary from
eight hundredweights to fifty-three
hundredweights each ; at Exeter fz^m
eight to sixty-seven hundredweights.
From these weights, it must be evi-
dent that it is no small labor for men
to pull such bells for several hours at a
time. Just as the achievements of
celebrated pedestrians and race-horses
are placed upon record, so are the fra-
ternity proud to refer to the bell-ring-
ing exploits of their crack pullers.
Twenty-four changes per minute are
frequently reached. We are told that
in 1787, 5,040 changes were rung in
three hours and a quarter ; and that
on other occasions there were 6,876
changes rung in four hours and a
quarter, 7,000 in four hours, 10,008 in
six hours and three quarters, 14,224
in eight hours and three quarters, and
(the magnum opus) 40,320 changes
rung by ^irteen men in twenty«seven
hours, working in relief gangs. In one
of the old churches, North Parret in
Somerset, the belfty contains a set of
rhyming rules, purporting that a six-
pence fine shall be imposed on the
ringers for cursing or swearing, for
making a noise or telling idle stories,
for keeping on their hats, for wearing
spurs, or for overturning Ihe bell. This
overturning does sometimes occur,
even to the loss of life. One ringer
was killed about the time when his
brother was drowned ; and the follow-
ing delectable epitaph records the
double catastrophe :

** These 3 youths were by misfortan eeroanded ;
One died of his wound, and the other was
drownded."

Whether bell-pinging is really a sci- •
ence, or whether it is only an ingen-
ious art, as most people would prefer
to call it, certainly the technical terms
are most profuse and puzzling. Let the
reader make what he can out of the
following, taken at random from one
of the books on the subject : Treble
lead, plain work, course, call word, re-
verse method, direct method, doubly
method, balance, hold up, cut down,
following, handstroke, rounds, back-

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Kirkstatt AUey: A Sonnet.

stroke, plain hunt, toncfaes, course
ends, hunting up, huntmg down, phice
making, dodging, double dodging, Bob
doubles, singles, observation, grandsire
doubles, slow course, principle, Bob
minor, double Bob minor, treble Bob,
superlative surprise, wrong wajr, Bob
triple, tittums. Bob caller, Bob majcxr,
double Bob major, treble Bob mi^or,
Bob caters, grandsire caters. Bob
royals, Bob cinques, Bob mazimus,
treble Bob maximus. Bob certainly
seems to be in the ascendant here.
When the reader has marvelled at
these funny names, let him try to un*
derstand the directions for ringing one
particular set of changes: *^ Call two
Bobs on 9, O, X ; bring them round.
Or, if ihe practitioner pleases, he may
call the tenth and eleventh to make
the ninth's place ; the former will be
a six before the course end comes up.
Then a Bob when the tenth and elev-
enth dodge together behind completes
it In this course the beUs will be
only one course out o( the tittums" —
which it is very satisfactory to hear.

Once more ; and here we would ask
whether the directions do not suggest
the idea of a damsel going through a
sort of country-dance with seven
swains all rejoicing in the name of
Bob ? << When the s€?venth has been
quick, call a Bob when she dodges
the right way behind, which will make
her quick again ; then, if the sixth
goes up before the seventh^ keep her
behind with Bobs, until the seventh
comes up to her ; but if the sixth does
not go up before the seventh, call her
the right way behind again, and the
sixth is sure to be up before her the
next time." Afler a little more of
these extraordinary evolutions — ^^If
not out of course. Bob with the seventh
down quick till the fourth comes
home ; if out of course, a single must
be called when the seventh goes down
quick, to put them right But if it
happens that the fourth is before the
fifUi comes home, call when the seventh
does her first whole term, and down
quick with a double." And we hope
that they lived happy ever afterward.

From The MonUu

KIRKSTALL ABBEY: A SONNET.

Boll on by tower and arch, autumnal jiver ;
And ere about thy dusk yet gleaming tide
The phantom of dead day hath ceased to glide,
Whisper it to the reeds tiiat round thee quivers-
Yea, whisper to those ivy-bowers that shiyer
Hard by on gusty choir and cloister wide :
^ My bubbles break ; my weed-flowers seaward glide :
My freshness and my mission last for ever I"
Young moon, from leaden tomb of doud that soarest^
And whitenest those hoar elm-trees, wrecks forlorn
Of olden Airedale's hermit-haunted forest,
Speak thus : ^I died; and^lo, I am reborn !"
Blind, patient pile, sleep on in radiance I Truth
Fails not; and fiuth onoe more shall wake in endless youth.

AUBBBT De Ybss.

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Obxitaiev Sherwood.

From The Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.

▲N ▲trrOBIOGBAFHT OF THE SISTEENTH CENTX7BT.

BY LADY QEOBGIANA FULLBBTON.

GHAFTBBXm.

Obtb day there was a great deal of
companj at Mistress Wells's house,
idueh was the onlj one I then haunt-
ed, bdngy as afore said, somewhat
sickened of sodety and diversions.
The conversation which was mostly
Biinistered amongst such as visited
there related to public affairs and for-
eign countries, and not so much as in
smne other houses to private scandals
and the tatde of the town. The un-
certainty I was in concerning my fa-
thei^s present abode and his known
intent soon to cross over the sea from
France woriced in me a constant crav-
ing for news from abroad, and also an
I4>prehensive curiosity touching re-
ports of the landing of seminary
priests at any of the English ports.
Some woold often tarry at Mr.
Wells's house for a night who had
lately come from Rheims or Paris, and
even Rome, or leastways received let-
ters from such as resided in those dis-
tant parts. And others I met there
were persons who had friends at
court; and they often related anec-
dotes of the queen and the ministers,
and the lords and ladies of her house-
hsM, which it also greatly conceined
me to hear of, by reason of my dear-
est friend having embarked her whole
freight of happiness in a frajl vessel
hnnched on that stormy sea of the
court, so full of shoals and quicksands,
whereby many a &ir ship was daily
chanoed io be therein wrecked.

Nothing notable of this kind had
been menticmed on the day I speak of,
wlndi, howsoever, proved a very nota-
ble one to me. For after I had been
in the house a short time there came

there one not known, and yet it should
seem not wholly unknown to me ; for
that I did discover in his shape and
countenance somethmg not unfiEuniliar,
albeit I could not call to mind that I
had ever seen this gentleman before.
I asked his name of a young lady
who sat near to me, and she said she
thought he should be the elder brother
of Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who was
lodging in the house, and that she
heard he tabled there also since he
had come to town, and that he was a
very commendable person, above the
common sort, albeit not one of such
great parts as his brother. Then I
did instantly take note of the likeness
between the brothers which had made
the elder's face not strange to me, as
also perhaps that one sight of him I
had at Bedford some years before.
Their visages were very like; but
their figures and mostly their counte-
nances different I cannot say where-
in that great differency did lie; but
methinks every one must have seen,
or rather felt it. Basil was the tallest
and the handsomest of the twain. I
will not be so great a prodigal of time
as to bestow it on commendations of
his outward appearance whose inward
excellences were his chiefest merit.
Howsoever, I be minded to set down
in this place somewhat touching his
appearance ; as it may so happen that
some who read this history, and who
have known and loved Basil in his
old years, should take as much plea-
sure in reading as I do in writing the
d^cription of his person, and limoing
as it were the resemblance of him at
a period in this histoiy wherein the
hiUierto separate cun'ents of his life
and mine do meet, like a noble river

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Qnutanee Sherwood.

and a poor stream, .for to flow onward
in the same channeL

Basil Rookwood was of a tall
stature, and well-proportioned shape
in all j^arts. His hair of light hrown,
very thickly set, and of a sunny hue,
curled with a graceful wave. His
head had many becoming motions.
His mouth was well-made, and his
lips ruddy. His forehead not very
high, in which was a notable dissem-
blance from his brother. His uoee
raised and somewhat sharply cut. His
complexion clear and rosy ; his smile
so full of cheer and kindliness that it
infected others with mirthfulness. He
was veiy nimble and active in all his
movements, and weU skilled in rid-
ing, fencing, and dancing. I pray you
who have known him in his Late
years, can you in aught, save in a
never-altered sweetness mixing with
the dignity of age, trace in this picture
a likeness to Basil, your Basil and
mine?

I care not, in writing this plain
showing of mine own life, to use such
disguises as are observed in love-
stories, whereby the reader is kept
ignorant of that which is to follow un-
til in due time the course of the tale
doth unfold it. No, I may not write
Basil's name as that of a stranger.
Not for the space of one page ; nay,
not with so much as one stroke of my
pen can I dissemble the love which
had its dawn on the day I have noted.
It was sudden in its beginnings, yet
steady in its progress. It deepened
and widened with the course of years,
even as a rivulet doth start with a live-
ly force from its source, and, gathering
strength as it flows, grows into a
broad and noble river. It was ardent
but not idolatrous ; sudden, as I have
said, in its rise, but not unconsidered.
It was founded on high esteem on the
one side, on the other an inexpressible
tenderness and kindness. Religion,
honor, and duty* were the cements of
this love. No blind dotage; but a
deathless bond of true sympathy,
making that equal which in itself was
unequal; for, if a vain world should

have deemed that on the one side
there* did appear some greater bril-
liancy of parts than showed in the
other, all who could judge of true
merit and sound wisdom must needs
have allowed tliat in true merit Basil
was as greatly her superior whom he
honored with his love, as is a pure dia-
mond to the showy setting which en-
cases it.

Hubert presented to me his brother,
who, when he heard my name men-
tioned, would not be contented till he
had got speech of me ; and straight-
way, after the first civilities had passed
between us, began to relate to me that
he had been staying for a few days
before coming to to^vn at Mr. Roper's
house at Richmond, where I had oft-
en visited in the summer. It so be-
fel that I had left in the chamber
where I slept some of my books, on
the margins of which were written
such notes as I was wont to make
whilst reading, for so Hubert had ad-
vised me, and his counsel in this I
found very profitable ; for this method
teaches one to reflect on what he
reads, and to hold converse as it were
with authors whose friendship and
company he thus enjoys, which is a '
source of contentment more sufficient
and lasting than most other pleasures
in this world.

Basil chanced to inhabit this room,
and discovered on an odd by-shelf
these volumes so disfigured, or, as he
said, so adorned ; and took such de-
light in the reading of them, but most-
ly in the poor reflections an unknown
pen had affixed to these pages, that
he rested not until he had learnt from
Mr. Roper the name of the writer.
When he found she was the young
girl he had once seen at Bedford, he
marvelled at the strong impulse he
had toward her, and pressed the ven-
erable gentleman with so many ques-
tions relating to her that he feared he
should have wearied him ; but his in-
quiries met with such gracious answers
Uiat he perceived Mr. Roper to be as
well pleased with the theme of his dis-
course as himself, and as glad to set

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Cbnstance Shenffood.

forth her excellences (I be ashamed
to write the words which should id*
deed imply the speaker to have been
in his dotage, but for the excuse of a
too great kindness to an unworthy
creature) as he had to listen to them.
And here I must needs interrupt my
narrative to admire that one who was
no scholar, yea, no great reader at
any time, albeit endowed with excel-
lent good sense and needful informa-
tion, should by means of books have
been drawn to the first thoughts of her
who was to enjoy his love which never
was given to any other creature but
herself. But I pray you, doth it not
happen most oflen, though it is scarce
to he credited, that dissemblance in
certain matters doth attract in the
way of love more than resemblance ?
That short men do choose tall wives ;
bvers of music women who have no
ear to discern one tune from another ;
scholars witless housewives; retired
men ambitious helpmates; and gay
ladies grave husbands ? This should
seem to be the rule, otherways the ex-
ception ; and a notable instance of the
same I find in the first motions which
did incline Basil to a good opinion of
my poor self.

But to return. ^Mistress Sher-
wood," quoth Basil, " Mr. Boper did
not wholly praise yon; he recited
your firalts as weU as your virtues."

1 answered, it did very much con-
tent me he should have done so, for
that then more credit should be given
to his words in that wherein he did
commend me, since he was so true a
friend as to note my defects.

" But what," quoth he, archly smil-
ing, ^ if the faults he named are such
as pleased me as well as virtues ?"

•* Then," I replied, " methinks, sir,
the fault should be rather in you than
in her who doth commit them, for she
may be ignorant, or else subject to
some infirmity of temper ; but to com-
mend faults should be a very danger-
ous error."

"But will you hear," quoth he,
''your faults as Mr. Boper recited
them?"

" Yea, willingly," I answered, ** and
mend them also if I can."

" Oh, I pray you mend them not,"
he cried.

At ^which I laughed, and said he
should be ashamed to give such wan-
ton advice. And then he :

" Mr. Boper declares you have so
.much inability to conceal your thoughts
that albeit your lips should be forcibly
closed, your eyes would speak them
so clearly that any one who listed
should read them."

« Methinks," I said, willing to ex-
cuse myself like the lawyer in the
gospel^ ^that should not be my fault,
who made not mine own eyes."

" Then he also says, that you have
so sharp an apprehension of wrongs
done to others, that if you hear of an
injustice conmiitted, or some cruel
treatment of any one, you are so
moved and troubled, that he has
known you on such occasions to shed
tears, which do not fiow with a like
ease for your own griefs. Do you cry
mercy to this accusation, Mistress
Sherwood ?"

" Indeed," I answered, « God know-
eth I do, and my ghostly father also.
For. the strong passions of resent-
ment touching the evil usage our
Catholics do meet with work in me
so mightfully, that I often am in
doubt if I have sinned therein. And
concerning mine own griefs, they have
been but few as yet, so that 'tis Httle
praise I deserve for not overmuch re-
sentment in instances wherein, if
others are afflicted, I have much ado
to restrain wrath."

"Ah," he said, ^methinks if you
answer in so true and grave a manner
my rude catechizing. Mistress Sher-
wood, I be not bold enough to continue
the inventory of your faults."

^ I pray you do," I answered ; for
I felt in my soul an unusual liking for
his conversation, and the more so
when, leaving off jesting, he said, " The
last fault Mr. Boper did charge you
with was lack of prudence in matters
wherein prudence is most needed in
these days."

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C&ntUmce Sherwood*

<<Ala£!" I exclaimed; "for that
also do I cry mercj; but indeed,
Master Rookwood, there is in these
days so much cowardice and time-serv-
^ig which doth style itself prudence,
that methinks it might sometimes hap-
pen that a right ^Idness should be
called rashness."

Raising my eyes to his, I thought
I saw them clouded by a misty dew ;
and he replied, " Yea, Mistress Con-
stance, and if it is so, I had sooner that
myself and such as I have a friend-
ship for should have to cry mercy on
their death-beds for too much rash-
ness in stemming the tide, than for too
much ease in yielding to it And
now," he added, " shall I repeat what
Mr. Roper related of your virtues P*

" No," I answered, smiling. " For
if the faults he doth chai^ me with
be so much smaller than the reality,
what hope have I that he should
speak the truth in regard to my poor
merits ?"

Then some persons moving nearer
to where we were sitting, some general
conversation ensued, in which several
took part ; and none so much to my
liking as Basil, albeit others might
possess more ready tongues and a
more sparkling wit. In all the years
since I had left my home, I had not
found so much contentment in any one's
society. His mind and mine were
lik.e two instraments with various
chords, but one key-note, which main-
tained them in admirable harmony.
The measure of our agreement stood
rather in the drift of our desires and
the scope of our approval, than in any
parity of tastes or resemblance of
disposition. Acquaintanceship soon
gave way to intimacy, which bred a
mutual friendship that in its turn was
not slow to change into a warmer
feeling. We met very often. It
seemed so natural to him to affection
me, and to me to reciprocate his af-
fection, that if our love began not,
which methinks it did, on Ui&t first
day of meeting, I know not when it
had birth. But if it be difficult pre-
cisely to note the earliest buddings of

the sweet flower love, it was easy to
discern the moment when the bitter
root of jealousy sprang up in Hubert's
heart. He who had been suspicious
of every person whose civilities I al-
lowed of, did not for some time ap-
pear to mislike the intimacy which
had arisen betwixt his brother and
me. I ween from what he once said,
when on a later occasion anger loos-
ened his tongue, that he held him in
some sort of contempt, even as a fox
would despise a nobler animal than
himself. His subtle wit disdained his
plainness of speech. His confiding
temper he derided ; and he had me-
thinks no apprehension that a she-wit,
as he was wont to call me, should
prove herself so witless as to prefer to
one of his brilliant parts a man nota-
ble for his indifierency to book learn-
ing, and to his smooth tongue and
fine genius the honest words and un-
varnished merits of his brother.

Howsoever, one day he either did
himself notice some sort of particular
kindness to exist between us, or he
was advertised thereof by some of the
company we frequented, and I saw
him fix his eyes on us with so arrested
a persistency, and his frame waxed so
rigid, that methought Lot's wife must
have so gazed when she turned to-
ward the doomed city. I was more
frighted at the dull lack of expression
in his face than at a thousand frowns
or even scowls. His eyes were reft
of their wonted fire ; the color had
fiown from his lips ; his always paJe
cheek was of a ghastly whiteness ;
and his hand, which was thrust in his
bosom, and his feci, which seemed
rooted to the ground, were as motion-
less as those of a statue. A shudder
ran through me as he stood in this
guise, neither moving nor speaking,
at a small distance from mc. I rose
and went away, for his looks freezed
me. But the next time I met him
this strangeness of behavior had van-
ished, and I almost misdoubted the
truth of jrhat I had seen. He was a
daily witness, for several succeeding
weeks, of what neither Basil nor 1

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Qmtianee SherwoofL

cared much to ccmoeal — the mutaal
oonfidence and increasing tenderness
of affection^ which was visible in all
our words and actions at that tiaoie,
which was <me of greater contentment
than can be expressed. That sum*
mer was a rare one for fineness of the
weather and its great store of sunj
shmj dfiys. We had often pleasam
diTcrdsem^its in the neighborhood
of London, than which no city la more
fiunous for the beauty^ of its near
scenery. One while we ascended the
noble river Thames as far as Rich-
mond, England's Arcadia, whose
smooth waters, smiling meads, and
bilk clad in richest verdure, do equal
whatsoever poets have ever sung or
painters pictured. Another time we
dbported ourselves in the gardens of
Hampton, where, in the season of
roses, the insects weary their wings
over the flower-beds — ^the thrifty bees
with the weight of gathered honey —
and the gay butterflies, idlers as our-
selves, with perftune and pleasure. Or
we went to Greenwich Park, and un-
derneath the spreading trees, with
England's pride of shipping in sight,
and barges passing to and fro on the
broad stream as on a watery highway,
we wbiled away the time in many
jqyoos pastimes.

On an occasion of this sort it hap-
pened that both brothers went with
us, and we forecasted to spend the
day at a house in the viUago of Pad-
diagton, about two miles from London,
whaie Mr. Congleton's sister, a lady
of fortone, resided It stood in a veiy
fair garden, the gate of which opened
on the high road; and after dinner we
sal with some other company which
had been invited to meet us under the
laige cedar trees which lined a broad
gravel-walk leading from the hoi^se to
the gate. The day was very hot, but
now a cooling air had risen, and the
yoang people there assembled played
at pastimes, in which I was somewhat
loth to join ; for jesting disputations
and Naming of questions and answers,
an amusement then greatly in fashion,
minded one of that &tal encounter be-

twixt Martin Tregony and Thomas
Sherwood, the end of which had been
the death of the one and a fatal injury
to the soul of the other. Hubert was
urgent with me to join in the argu-
ments proposed ; but I refused, partly
for the aforesaid reason, and me-
thinks, also, because I doubted that
Basil should acquit himself so admir-
ably as his brother in these exercises
of wit, wherein the latter did indeed
excel, and I cared not to shine in a
sport wherein he took Do part. So I
set myself to listen to the disputants,
albeit with an absent mind; for I had
grown to be somewhat thoughtful of
late, and to forecast the future with
such an admixtore of hope and fear
touching the issue of those passages of
love I was engaged in, that the trifles
which entertained a disengaged nund
lacked ability to divert me. I ween
Polly, if she had been then in London,
should have laughed at me for the
symptoms I exlnbited of what she
styled the sighing malady.

A little while after the contest had
begun, a sound was heard at a distance
as of a trampling on the road, but not
discernible as yet whether of men or
horses' feet. There was mixed with
it cries of hooting and shouts, which
increased as this sort of procession
(for so it should seem to be) ap-
proached. All who were in the garden
ran to the iron railing for to discover
the cause. From the houses on both
sides the road persons came out and
joined in the clamor. As the crowd
neared the gate where we stood, the
words, "Papists — seditious priests-
traitors,'' were discernible, mixed
with oaths, curses, and such opprobri-
ous epithets as my pen dares not
write. At the hearing of them the .
blood rushed to my head, and my
heart began to beat as if it should
burst from the violence with which it
throbbed ; for now the mob was close
at hand, and we could see the occasion
of their yeUs and shoutings. About a
dozen persons were riding without bri-
dle or spur or other furniture, on lean
and bare horses, which were fastened

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Oomtance SkerwaoeU

one to the other's tails, marching
slowly in a long row, each man's feet
tied under his horse's hellj/and his
arms hound hard and fast behind him.
A pursuivant rode in front and cried
aloud that those coming behind him
were certain papists, foes to the gospel
and enemies to the commonwealth, for
that thej had been seized in the act of
saying and hearing mass in disobedi-
ence to the laws. And as he made
ibx9 proclamation, the rabble jelled
and took up stones and mud to cast at
the prisoners. One man cried out,
" Four of them be vile priests." O ye
who read this, have you taken heed
how, at some times in your lives, in a
less space than the wink of an eye,
thought has outrun sight? So did
mine with lightning speed apprehend
lest my fathei: should be one of these.
' I scanned the &ces of the prisoners as
they passed, but. he was not amongst
them; however I recognized, with a
sharp pain, the known countenance
of the priest who had shriven my mo-
ther on her death-bed. He looked
pale and worn to a shadow, and hardly
able to sit on his horse. I sunk down
on my knees, with my head against
the railings, feeling very sick. Then
the gate opened, and with a strange
joy and trembling fear I saw Basil
push through the mob till he stood
close to the horse's feet where the
crowd had made a stoppage. He
knelt and took off his hat, and the
lips of the priests moved, as they
passed, for to bless him. Murmurs
rose fix>m the rabble, but he took no
heed of them. Till the last horseman
had gone by he stood with his head
uncovered, and then slowly returned,
none daring to touch him. ^ Basil,
dear Basil!" I cried, and, weeping,
gave him my hand. It was the first
time I had called him by his name.
Methinks in that moment as secure a
troth-plight was passed between us as
if ten thousand bonds had sealed it.
When, some time afterward, we
moved toward the house, I saw Hu-
bert standing at the door with the
same stony rigid look which had

frighted me once before. He said not
one word as I passed him. I have
since heard that a lady, endowed with
more sharpness than prudence or
kindness, had thus addressed him on
this occasion : ^^ Methinks, Master Hu-
bert Rookwood, that you did perform
four part excellently wcU in that in
enious pastime which procured us so
much good entertainment awhile ago ;
but beshrew me if your brother did
not exceed you in the scene we have
just witnessed, and if Mistress Sher-
wood's looks do not belie her, she
thought so too. I ween his tragedy
hath outdone your comedy." Then he
(well-nigh biting his lips through, as
ibe person who related it to me ob-
served) made answer: << If this young
gentlewoman's taste be set on tragedy,
then will I promise her so much of it
another day as should needs satisfy
her."

This malicious lady misliked Hu-
bert, by reason of his having denied
her the praise of wit, which had been
reported to her by a third person.
She was minded to be revenged on
him, and so die shaft contained in her
piercing jest had likewise hit those
she willed not to injure. It is not to
be credited how many persons have
been ruined in fortune, driven into
banishment, yea, delivered over to
death, by careless words uttered with-
out so much as a thought of the evil
which should ensue &om them.

And now upon the next day Basil
was to leave London. Before he went
he said he hoped not to be long absent,
and that Mr. Gongleton should receive
a letter, if it pleased Grod, from his fa-
ther ; which, if it should be favorably
received, and I willed it not to be oth-
erwise, should cause our next meeting
to be one of greater contentment than
could be thought of.

I answered, " I should never wish
otherwise thaii that we should meet
with contentment, or will anything
that should hinder it" Which he
said did greatly please him to hear,
and gave him a comfortable hope of a
happy return.

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Omtkmee Skerwood.

He csonvened also with Mistress
Ward toacbing the prisoners we had
seen the day before, and left some
money with her in case she should
find means to see and assist them,
which she stroye to do with the dili-
gence used by her in all such manage-
ments. In a few days she discovered
Mr. Watson to be in Bridewell, also
one Mr. Richardson in the Marphalsea,
and three laymen in the Clink. Mr.
Watson had a sister who was a Prot-
estant, and by her means she sncoeed*
ed in relieving lus wants, and dealt
with the gaolers at the other prisons
80 as to convey some assistance to the
poor men therein confined, whose
names she had fomid out.

One morning when L.was at Kate's
hooae Hubert came there; and she,
the whole compass of whose thoughts
waa now circled in her nursery, not
minding the signs I made she should
not leave us alone, rose and said she
must needs go and s^ if her babe was
awake, for Hubert must see him, and
he should not go away without firat he
had beheld hhn walk with his new
leading-sdings, which were the taste*
Ibllest'in the world and fit for a king's
son; and that she doubted not we
eould find good enough entertainment
in efich o&er's company, or in Mr.
Lacy's books, which must be the wit-
tiest ever written, if she judged by her
husband's fondness for them. As soon
as the door was shut on her, Hubert
began to speak of his brother, and to
insinuate that my behavior to himself
was changed since Basil had come to
Ixmdon, which I warmly denied.

^If," I said, "Ihave changed—"

"Tj'T' ^^ repeated, stopping my
speaking with an ircmical and disdain-
ful smile, and throwing into that one
little word as he utt^^sd it more of
meaning than it would seem possible
it should express.

** Yes!" I continued, angered at his
defiant looks. ^ Yes, if my behavior
to you has changed, which, I must
confess, in some respects it has, the
eanse did lie in mj uncle's commands,
laid CD me before your brother's com-

iog to London. You know it, Master
Bookwood, by the some token that you
charged me with unkindness for not
allowing of your visits, and refusing
to read Italian with you, some weeks
before ever he arrived."

" You have a very obedient disposi
tion, madam," he answered in a scorn
ful manner, ^ and I doubt not have at-
tended with a like readiness to the be-
hest to favor the elder brother's suit as
to that which forbade the receiving of
the younger brother's addresses."

^ I did not look upon you as a suit-
or," I replied.

<< No !" he exclaimed, <'and not as
on a lover ? Not as on one whose lips,
borrowing words from enamored poets
twenty tunes in a day, did avow
his passion, and was entertained on
your side with so much good-nature
and apparent contentment with this
mode of dis^ised worship, as should
lead him to hope €or a return of his
affection ? But why question of that
wherein my belief is unshaken ? I
know you love me, Constance Sher-
wood, albeit you peradventure love
more dearly my brother's heirship of
Euston and its wide acres. Your eyes
. deceived not, nor did your flushing
cheek dissemble, when we read to-
gether those sweet tales and noble
poems, wherein are set forth the dear
pains and tormenting joys of a mutual
love. No, not if you did take your
oath on it will I believe you love my
brother I"

^What warrant have you, sir," I
answered with burning cheek, ^to
minister such talk to one who, from the
moment she found you thought of mar-
ria^, did plainly discountenance your
suit?"

^ You were content, then, madam,
to be worshipped as an idol," he bitterly
replied, ^ if only not sued for in mar-
riage by a poor man."

My sin found me out then, and the
hard taunt awoke dormant pangs in
my conscience for the pleasure I had
taken and doubtless showed in the dis-
guised professions of an undisguised
admiration ; but anger yet prevailed,

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Otmttance SherwoodL

and! cried, ^< Think you to adviuioe
your interest in my friendship, sir, by
such language and reproaches as
these?"

"Do ypu love my brother?" he
said again, with an implied contempt
which made me mad.

" Sir," I answered, " I entertun for
your brother so great a respect and es-
teem as one must needs feel toward
one of so much yirtue and goodness.
No contract exists between us; nor
has he made me the tender of his
hand. More than that it behoves you
not to ask, or me to answer."

"Ah ! the offer of marriage is then
the condition of your regard, and love
is to foUow, not precede, the settle-
ments, r faith, ladies are very pru-
dent in these days; and virtue and
goodness the new names *for fortune
and lands. Beshrew me, if I had not
deemed you to be made of other metal
than the common herd. But whatever
be the composition of your heart, Con-
stance Sherwood, be it hard as the
gold you set so much store on, or, like
I wax, apt. to receive each day some new
impress, I will have it ; yea, and keep
it for my own. No rich fool shall
steal it from me."

"Hubert Bookwood," I cried in an-
ger, " dare not so to speak of one whose
merit is as superior to thine as the sun
outshines a torchlight."

" Ah !" he exclaimed, turning pale
with rage, "if I thought thou didst
love him!" and clenched his hand
with a terrible gesture, and ground his
teeth. " But 'tis impossible," he added
bitterly smiling. "As soon would I
believe Titania verily to doat on the
ass's head as for thee to love Basil I"

" OhI " I indignantly replied, "you
do almost constrain me to avow tiiat
which no maiden should^ unasked,
confess. Do you think, sir, that learn-
ing and scholarship, and the poor show
of wit that lies in a ready tongue,
should outweigh honor, courage, and
kindliness of heart ? Think you that
more respect should be paid to one
who can speak, and write also, if you
will, fair sounding words, than to him

who in his daily doings shows forth
such nobleness as others only incul-
cate, and God only knoweth if ever
they practise it ?"

"Ladyl" he exclaimed, "I have
served you long; sustuned torments
in your presence; endured griefs in
your absence ; pining thoughts in the
day, and anguished dreams in the
night ; jealousies often in times past,
and now — ^

He drew in his breath; and then
not so much speaking the word " de-
spair" as with a smothered vehemence
uttering it, he concluded his vehement
address.

I was 60 shaken by his speech that
I remained silent : for if I had spoken
I must needs have wept Holding my
head with both hands, and so shielding
my eyes from the sight of his pale
convulsed face, I sat like one trans-
fixed. Then he again: "These be
not times. Mistress Sherwood, for wo-
men to act as you have done ; to lifl a
man's heart one while to an earthly
heaven, and then, without so much as
a thought, to cast him into a hellish
sea of woes. These be the dealings
which drive men to desperation; to
attempt things contrary to their own
minds, to religion, and to honesty ; to
courses once abhorred — ^

His violence wrung my heart then
witli so keen a remorse that I cried
out, " I cry you mercy, Master Book-
wood, if I have dealt thus with you ;
indeed I thought not to do it I pray
you forgive me, if unwittingly, albeit
peradventure in a heedless manner, I
have done you so much wrong as your
words do charge me with." And then
tears I could not stay began to flow ;
and for awhile no talk ensued. But
ailer a little time he spoke in a voice
so changed and dissimilar in manner,
* that I looked up wholly amazed.

"Sweet Constance," he said^ "I
have played the fool in my custom-
able fashion, and by such pretended
slanders of one I should rather incline
to commend beyond his deserts, if
that were possible, than to give him
vile terms, have sought— I cry you

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Qmttanee Sherwood,

-marcy for it — to discover your seifti-
mentB, and feigned a resentment and
a paaaion which indeed has proved 'an
excellent piece of acting, if I judge by
joor tears. I pray yon pardon and
forget my brotherly device. If yoa
loTe Basi l oa I misdoubt not he
loTeByoo — where shall a more suita-
ble match be found, or one which ev^
ry one must needs so much approve ?
Many, sweet lady ; I will be his best
man when he doth ride to church with'
you, and cry <Amen' mpre loudly than
the derk. So now dart no more
Tengelal lightnings from thine eyes,
sweet one ; and wipe away the pearly
drops my unmannerly jesting hath
caused to flow. I would not Basil
bad wedded a lady in love with his
pdf, not with himself.''

""I detest dicks," I cried, <<and
such feigning as you do confess to. I
would I had not answered one word
of your false discourse."

Now I wept for vexation to have
been so circumyented and befooled as to
own some sort of love for a man who
bad not yet openly addressed me. And
albeit reassured in some wise, touch-
ing what my conscience had charged
me with when I heard Hubert^s vdie-
meni reproaches, I misdoubted his
psresent sinceri^. He searched my
face with a keen investigation, for to
detect, I ween, if I was most contented
or displeased with his lato words. I
ivflolved, if he was fidse, I would be
tme, and leave not so much as a sus-
pieioii in his mind that I did or ever
had cared for him. But Kate, who
abould not have left us alone, now re-
tained, when her absence would have
been most proifitable. She had her
babe in her aims, and must needs call
oo Hubert to praise its beauty and list
to lis sweet crowing. In tratibt, a more
winaome, gracious creature could not
be seen ; and albeit I had made an
inpatient gesture when she entered,
mj arms soon eased hers of their fiuir
bndien, and I set to playing with the
hcj, and Hubert talking and laughing
in 80ch good cheer, t^ I be^ to
Gcedit his pasakm had been '

and his indifPerency to be true, which
contented me not a little.

A few days afterward Mr. Gongle-
ton received a letter, in the evening,
when we were sitting in my annf s roomi
and a sudden fluttering in my heart
whispered it should be from Basil's fii-
ther. Mine eyes afSxed themselves
on the cover, which had fallen on the
ground, and then travelled to my un-
cle's face, wherein was a smile which
seemed to say, ^This is no other than
what I did expects" He put it down
on the table, and his hand over it.
My aunt said he should te^ us the
news he had received, to make us
merry ; for that the fog had given her
the vapors, and she hi^ need of some
good entertainment

« News !" quoth he. « What news
do you look for, good wife?"

^ It would not be news, sir," she an-
swered, ^i£l expected it."

^ That is more sharp than true," he
replied. ^ There must needs come
news of the queen of France's lying-
in; but I pray you how will it be?
SbAll she live and do weU? Shall it
be a prince or a princess ?''

*< Prithee, no disputings, Mr. Con*
gleton," she said. •* We be not play-
ing at questions and answers."

^Nay, but thou dost mistake," he
cried out, laughing. ^Methinks we
have here in beuid some game of that
sort if I judge by this letter."

Then my heart leapt, I knew not
how high or how tumultuously ; for I
doubted not now but he had received
the tidings I hoped for.

<< Gcmstanoe," he said, <^hast a
mind to marry?"

^ If it should please you, sir," I an-
swered ; ^for my flikther charged me
to obey you."

«Good," quoth he. «I see thou
art an obedient wench. And thou
wilt many who I please ?"

«Nay, sir ; I said not that" -»

^Oh, ohi" quoth he. <«Thou wilt
marry so as to please me, and yet — ^

^ Not so as to displease myself, sir,"
I answered.

<* Come^" he said, << another question.

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CbntUmee SherwoocL

Here is a gentleman of fortune and
birth, and excellent good character,
Bomewhat advanced in years indeed,
but the more like to make an indu^ent
husband, and to be prudent in the
management of his affiiirs, hath heard
80 good a report from two young gen-
tlemen, his sons, of thy aiiilities and
proper behavior, that he is minded
to make thee a tender of marriage,
with so good a settlement on his es-
tate in Suffolk as must needs content
any reasoriable woman. Wilt have
him, Conny ?"

^Who, sir?" I asked, waxing, I
ween, as red as a field-poppy.

''Mr. Rookwood, wench — ^Basiland
Hubert's father.''

Albeit I knew my uncle's trick of
jesting, my folly was so great just
then, hope and fear working in me,
that I was seized with fright, and from
crimson turned so white, that he cried
out:

<' Content thee, child ! content thee !
'Tis that tdl strapping fellow Basil
must needs make thee an offer of his
hand; and by my troth, wench, I
warrant thee thou wouldst go further
and fare worse ; for the gentleman is
honorably descended, heir^pparent
to an estate worth yearly, to my
knowledge, three thousand pounds
sterling, weU disposed in religion, and
of a personage without exception. Mr.
Rookwood declares he is more con-
tented with his son's choice than if he
married Mistress Spencer, or any
other heiress ; and beshrew me, if I be
not contented also."

Then he bent his head close to
mine ear, and whispered, ^'And so
art thou, methinks, if those tell-tale
eyes of thine should be credited. Yea,
yea, hang down thy head, and stam-
mer ' As you please, sir I ' And never
so much as a Deo gratias for thy good
fortune! What thankless creatures
women be T I laughed and ran out
of the room before mine aunt or Mis-
tress Ward had disclosed their lips ;
for I did long to be in mine own
chamber alone, and, from the depths
of a heart over fuU o^ yea oyerflow-

in^ with, such joy as dodi incline the
knees to bend and the eyes to raise
themselves to the Giver of all good-^
he whom all other goodness doth only
mirror and shadow forth — ^ponr out a
hymn of praise for the noble blessing
I had received. For, I pray you, af-
tei* the gift of faith and grace for to
know find love God, is there aught on
earth to be jewelled by a woman like
to the affection of a good man ; or a
more secure haven for her to anchor
in amid the pr^ent billows of life, ex-
cept that of religion, to which all be
not called, than an honorable contract
of marriage, wherein reason, passion,
and duty do bind the soul in a triple,
cord of love ?

And oh ! with what a painful t^i-
demess I thought in that moving hour
on mine own dear parents-^my mo-
ther, now so many years dead ; my fa-
ther, so parted from his poor child,
that in the most weighty concernment
of her life — the disposal of her in
marriage — ^his consent had to be pre-
sumed; his authority, for so he had
with forecasting care ordained, being
left in other hands. But albeit a
shade of melancholy from such a re-
trospect as the mind is wont Ho take
of the past, when coming events do
cast, as it should seem, a new li^t
on what has preceded them, I could
not choose but see, in this good which
had happened to me, a reward to
him who had forsaken all things—*
lands, home, kindred, yea his only
child, for Christ's dear sake. It
minded me of my motheifs words ccm-
ceming me, when she lay dying,
« Fear not for her.*'

I was somewhat loth to return to
mine aunf s chamber, and to appear
in the presence of Kate and Polly,
who had come to visit *their mother,
and, by their saucy looks when I en-
tered, showed they were privy to the
treaty in hand. Mine aunt said she
had been thinking that she would not
go to church when I was married, but
give me her blessing at home ; for she
had never recovered from the chilling
she had when Kate was married, and

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OtmUance Sherwood.

had laid abed on Poll/s wedding-daj,
which she liked better. Mifltress
Ward had great contentment, she said,
that I shoold hav^so good an husband!.
Elite was glad Basil was not too fond
of books, for that scholars be not as
conversable as agreeable husbands
should be. P0II7 said, for her part,
she thoDght the less wit a man had,
the better for his wife, for she would
then be the more like to have her
own waj. But that being her opinion,
she did not wholly wish me J07 ; for
she had noticed Basil to be a good
thinker, and a man of so much sense,
that he would not be ruled hj a wife
more than should be reasonable. I
was greatly pleased that she thus
commended hun, who was not easily
pleased, and rather given to despise
gentlemen than to praise them. I
kissed her, and said I had always
thought her the most sensible woman
in ^e world. She laughed, and
cried, ^That was small commenda-
tion, for that women were the foolish-
est creatures in the world, and mostly
such as were in love."

Ah me 1 The days which followed
were full of sweet waiting and plea-
sant pining for the effects of the letter
Bune uncle wrote to Mr. Bookwood,
and looking for one Basil should write
himself, when licence for to address
me had been yielded to him. When
it came, how unforeseen, how sad
were the contents I Albeit love was ex- ^
pressed in every line, sorrow did so
cover its utterance, that my heart
overflowed through mine eyes, and I
could only sigh and weep that the be-
ginning of so fair a day of joy should
have set in clouds of so much grief.
Basil's father was dead. The day
after he wrote that letter, the cause
of all our joy, he fell sick and never
betterod any more, but the contrary :
time was allowed him to prepare his
sool for death, by all lioly rites and
ghostly comforts. One of his sons
was on each side of his bed when he
died ; and Basil closed his eyes.

CHAFTEB XIV.

Basil came to London after the fu-
neral, and methought his sadness
then did become him as much as his
joyfulness heretofore. His grief was
answerable to the affection he had
borne unto his father, and to that
gentlemen's most excellent deserts.
He informed Mr. Congleton that in
somewhat less than one year he
should be of age, and until then his
wardship was committed to Sir Henry
Stafford. It was agreed betwixt them,
that in respect of his deep mourning
and the greater commodity his being
of 1^ would afford for the drawing up
of settlements, our marriage should
be deferred until he returned from the
continent in a year's time. Sir Henry
was exceeding urgent he should tra-
vel abroad for the bettering as ho af-
firmed of his knowledge of foreign
languages, and acquirement of such
useful information as should hereafter
greatly benefit him; but methinks,
from what Basil said, it was chiefly
wiUi the end that he should not be
himself troubled during his term of guar*
dianship with proceedings touching
his ward's recusancy, which%ras so
open and manifest, no persuasions
dissuading him from it, that he ap-
prehended therefrom to meetVith dif-
ficulties.

So with heavy hearts and some'
' tears on both sides, a short time after
Mr. Bookwood's death, we did part,
bdt withal with so comfortable a hope
of a happy friture, and so great a se-
curity of mutual affection, that the
pangs of separation were softened,
and a not unpleasing melancholy en-
sued. We forecasted to hold converse
by means of letters, of which he made
me promise I should leastways write
two for his one ; for he argued, as I
always had a pen in my hand, it
should be no trouble to me to write
down my thoughts as they arose, but
as for himself, it would cost him much
time and labor for to compose such a
letter as it would content me to re-
ceive. But herein he was too modest ;

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Qmstanee Sherwood.

for, indeed, in eyerjthing he wrote, al-
beit short and mostlj devoid of such
flowers of the fancy as some are wont
to scatter over their letters, I was al-
ways excellently well pleased with his
favors of this kind.

Hubert remained in London for to
conmience his studies in a house of
the law; but when my engagement
with his brother became known, he
left off haunting Mr. Lacy's house,
and even Mr. Wells's, as heretofore.
His behavior was very mutable ; at
one time exceedingly obliging, and at
another more strange and distant than
it had yet been; so that I did dread to
meet him, not knowing how to shape
mine own conduct in his regard ; for
if on the one hand I mishked to ap-
pear estranged from Basil's brother,
yet if I dealt graciously toward lm% I
feared to confirm his apprehension of
some sort of unusual liking on my
part toward himself.

One month, or thereabouts, after
Basil had gone to France, Lady Sur-
rey did invite me to stay with her at
Kenninghall, which greatly delighted
me, for it was a very long time then
since Uad seen her. The reports I
heard m her lord's being a continual
waiter on her majesty, and always at
court, whereas she did not come to
London so much as once in the year,
worked in me a very uneasy appre-
hension that she should not be as hap-
py in her retirement as I should wish.
I long had desired to visit this dear
lady, but durst not be Hie first to
speak of it Also to one bred in the
country from her infancy, the long
while I had spent in a city, far from
any sights or scents of nature, had
created in me a great desire for pure
air and green fields, of which the
neighborhood of London had afforded
only such scanty glimpses as served to
whet, not satisfy, the taste for such-
like pleasures. So with much con-
tentment I began my journey into
Norfolk, which was Uie first I had
taken since that long one from Sher-
wood Hall to London some years be-
fore. A coach of my Lord Surrey's,

with two new pairs of horses, was go-
ing from the Charter-house to Ken-
ninghall, and a chamber- woman of my
lady's to be convey^ therein j so for
conveniency I travelled with her.
We slept two nights on the road (for
the horses were to rest often), in very
comfortable lodgings ; and about the
middle of the third day we did arrive
at Kenninghall, which is a place of so
great magnitude and magnificence,
that to my surprised eyes it showed
more like unto a palace, yea, a cluster
of palaces, than the residence of a
private though illustrious nobleman.
The gardens which we passed along-
side of, the terraces adorned with ma-
jestic trees, the woods at the back of
the building, which then wore a gaudy
dress of crimson and golden hues,—
made my heart leap for joy to be once
more in the country. But when we
passed through the gateway, and into
one court and then another, me-
thought we left the country behind,
and entered some sort of city, the
buildings did so close around us on
every side. At last we stopped at a
great door, and many footmen stood
about me, and one led me tlirough
long galleries and a store of empty
chambers J I forecasting in my mind
the while how far it should be to the
gardens I had seen, and if the birds
could be heard to sing in this great
house, in which was so much fine ta-
pestry, and pictures in high-gilt frames,
that the eye was dazzled with their
splendor. A little pebbly brook or a
tuft of daisies would then have pleased
me more than these fine han^ngs^
and the grass than the smooth carpets
in some of the rooms, the like of which
I had never yet seen. But these dis-
contented thoughts vanished quickly
when my Lady Surrey appeared ;
and I had nothing more to desire
when I received her affectionate em-
brace, and saw how jojrful was her
welcome. Methought, too, when she
led me into the chamber wherein she
said her time was chiefly spent, that
its rich adornment became her, who
had verily a queenly beanty, and a

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Omstcmee Sherwood*

presence so sweetlj mi^estic that it
akme was sufficient to call for a reve-
rent lespect from others even in her
jooDg years. There was an admira-
ble simplicity in her dress ; so that I
likened her in mj mind, as she sat in
that gilded room, to a pare fair dia-
mond enchased in a rich setting. In
the next chamber her gentlewoman
and chambermaids were at work —
some at frames, and others making of
clothes, or else spinning ; and another
door opened into her bed-chamber,
which was very large, like unto a
hall, and the canopj of the bed so
high and richly adorned that it should
have beseemed a throne. The tapes-
try on the wall, bedight with fruits
and flowers, very daintily wrought, so
that nature itself hath not more fair
hnes than therein were to be seen.

*^ When my lord is not at home, I
nuslike this grand chamber, and do
lie here," she said, and showed me an
inner closet; which I perceived to be
plainly furnished, and in one comer
of it, which pleased me most for to
see, a crucifix hung against the wall,
over above a kneeUng-stooL Seeing
my eyes did rest on it, she colored a
little, and said it had belonged to Lady
Moonteagle, who had gifled her with
it on her death-bed ; upon which ac-
count she did greatly treasure the pos-
session thereof.

I answered, it did very much con-
tent me that she should set store on
what had been her grandmother's, for
verily she was greatly indebted to
that good lady for the care she had
taken of her young years ; ^ but me-
thinks," I added, " the likeness of your
Saviour which died for you should not
need any other excuse for the prizing
of it than what arises from its being
what it is, his own dear image."

She said she thought so too; but
that in the eyes of Protestants she
must needs allege some other reason
for the keeping of a crucifix in her
room than that good one, which never-
theless in her own thinking she allow-
ed of.
Then she showed mo mine own
VOL. n. 4

chamber, which was very commodious
and pleasantly situated, not far from
hers. From the window was to be
seen tlie town of Norwich, and an ex-
tensive plain intersected with trees ;
and underneath the wall of the house
a terrace lined with many fair shrubs
and strips of flower-beds, very pleas-
ing to the eye, but too far off for
a more familiar enjoyment than the
eyesight could afford.

When we had dined, and I was sit-
ting with my lady in her dainty sit-
ting-room, she at her tambour-frame,
and I with a piece of patch-work on
my knees which I had brought from
London, she began forthwith to ques-
tion me touching my intended .mar-
riage, Mr. Rookwood's death, and
Basil's going abroad, concerning which
she had heard many reports. I satis-
fied her thereon ; upon which she ex-
pressed great contentment that my
prospects of happiness were so good ;
for all which knew Basil thought well
on him, she said; and mostly his
neighbors, which have the chiefest
occasions for to judge of a man's dis-
position. And Euston, she thought,
should prove a very commendable resi-
dence, albeit the house was smAl for
so good an estate; but capable, she
doubted not, of improvements, which
my fine taste would bestow on it ; not
indeed by spending large sums on out-
ward show, bat by small adornments
and delicate beautifying of a house
and gardens, such as women only do
excel in ; the which kind of care Mr.
Bookwood's seat had lacked for many
years. She also said it pleased her
much to think that Basil and I should
agree touching religion, for there was
little happiness to be had in marriage
where consent doth not exist in so im-
portant a matter. I answered, that I
was of that way of thinking also. Aut
then this consent must be veritable, not
extorted; for in so weighty a point the
least shadow o£ compulsion on the one
side, and feigning on the other, do end by
destroying happiness, and virtue also,,
which is more urgent. She made no-
answer ; and I then asked her if she

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Ckmsianee l^ertoood.

liked Kenninghall more than London,
and had found in a i-etired life the con-
tentment she had hoped for. She bent
down her head oyer her work-frame,
80 as partly to conceal her face ; but
how beauU^l what was to be seen of
it appeared, as she thus hid the rest,
her snowy neck supporting her small
head, and the shape of her oval cheek
just visible beneath the dark tresses of
jet-black hair I When she raised that
noble head methought it wore a look of
becoming, not unchristian, pride, or
somewhat better than should be titled
pride ; and her voice betokened more
emotion than her visage betrayed
when she said, '< I am more contented,
Constance, to inhabit this my husband's
chiefest house than to dwell in Lon-
don or anywhere else. Where should
a wife abide with so much pleasure
as in a place where she may be some-
times visited by her lord, even though
she should not always be so happy as
to enjoy his company? My Lord
Arundel hath often urged me to re-
side with him in London, and pleaded
the comfort my Lady Lumley and
himself, in his declining years, should
find in my filicd care ; but God helping
me — aAd I think in so doing I fulfil his
will — ^naught shall tempt me to leave
my husband's house till he doth him-
self compel me to it; nor by resent-
ment of his absence lose one day of his
dear company I may yet enjoy."

"O my dear lady," I exclaimed,
^'and is it indeed thus with you?
Doth my lord so forget your love and
his duty as to forsake one he should
cherish as his most dear treasure ?"

"Nay, nay," she hastily replied;
^ Philip doth not forsake me ; a little
neglectftd he is" (this she said with a
forced smile), "as all the queen's cour-
tiers must needs be of their wives ; for
she is so exacting, that such as stand
in her good graces cannot be stayers
at home, but ever waiters on her plea-
sure. If Philip doth only leave Iion-
don or Richmond for three or four
days, she doth suspect the cause of his
absence; her snules are turned to
frowns, and his enemies immediately

do take advantage of it I tried to
stay in Xiondon one while this year,
after Bess was marped ; but he suf-
fered so much in consequence from
the loss of her good graces when she
heard I was at l£ie Charter-house, that
I was compelled to return here."

" And hath my lord been to see you
since P* I eagerly asked.

" Once," she answered ; " for three
short days. O Constance, it was a
brief, and, from its briefness, an al-
most painful joy, to see him in his
own princely home, and at the head of
his table, which he doth grace so no-
bly ; and when he went abroad saluted
by every one with so much reverence,
that he should be taken to be a king
when he is here ; and himself so con-
tented with this show- of love and ho-
mage, that his face beamed with plea-
sant smiles; and when he observed
what my poor skill had effected in the
management of his estates, which do
greatly suffer from the prodigalities of
the court, he commended me with so
great kindness as to say he was not
worthy of so good a wife."

I could not choose but say amen in
mine own soul to this lord's true esti-
mation of himself, and of her, one
hair of whose head did, in my think-
ing, outweigh in merit his whole
frame ; but composed my face lest she
should too plainly read my resentment
that the like of her should be so used
by an ungrateful husband.

"Alas," she continued, "this joy
should be my constant portion if an
enemy robbed me not of my just
rights. 'Tis very hard to be hated by
a queen, and she so great and power-
ful that none in the compass of her
realm can dare to resent her ill treat-
ment. I had a letter from my lord
last week, in which he says if it be
possible he will soon visit me again ;
but he doth add that he has so much
confidence in my affection, that he is
sure I would not will hun to risk that
which may undo him, if the queen
should hear of it. 'For, Nan,' he
writes, ' I resemble a man scrambling
up unto a slippery rock, who, if he

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(hnHcmce Sherwood.

gsuneth not the topmost points, must
needs fall backwanl into a precipice ;
for if I lose but an inch of her ma-
jesty's favor, I am like to fall as my
fathers have done, and yet lower. So
be patient, good Nan, and bide the
time when I shall have so far ascended
as to be in less danger of a rapid de-
scent, in which thine own fortunes
would be involved*' **

She folded this letter, which she had
taken out of her bosom, with a deep
sigh, and I doubt not with the same
thought which was in mine own mind,
that the higher the ascent, the greater
doth prove the peril of an overthrow,
albett to the climber's own view the
further point doth seem the most se-
cured. She then said she would not
often speak with me touching her
troubles ; but we should try to forget
absent husbands and lovers, and enjoy
so much pleasure in our mutual good
company as was possible, and go hawk-
ing also and riding on fine days, and
be as merry as the days were long.
And, verily, at times youthful spirits
assumed the lead, and like two wanton
children we laughed sometimes with
hearty cheer at some pleasantry in
which my little wit but fanciful humor
did evince itself for her amusement
But the &ir sky of these sunshiny
hours was oflen overcast by sudden
douds; and weighty thoughts, ill as-
sorting with soaring joylity, wrought
sad endings to merry beginnings. I
restrained the expression of mine own
sorrow at my father's uncertain fate
and Basil's absence, not to add to her
heaviness ; bnt sometimes, whilst play-
ing in some sort the fool to make her
smile, which smiles so weU became
her, a sharp aching of the heart caused
me to &il in the effort; which when
she perceived, her arm was straight-
way thrown round my neck, and she
would speak in this wise:

'^O sweet jester! poor dissembler I
the heart wiU have its say, albeit not
aided by the utterance of the tongue.
Befiere me, good Constance, I am
not immindful of thy griefs, albeit
somewhat silent concerning them, as

also mine own; for that I eschew
melancholy themes, having a well-
spring of sorrow in my bosom which
doth too readily overflow if the sluices
be once opened."

Thus spake this sweet lady; but
her unconscious tongue, following the
current of her thoughts more frequent-
ly than she did credit, dwelt on the
Uieme of her absent husband ; and on
whichever suliject talk was ministered
between us, she was ingenious to pro-
cure it should end with some refer-
ence to this worshipped object. But
verily, I never perceived her to ex-
press, in speaking of that then un-
worthy husband, but what, if he had
been present, must needs have moved
him to regret his negligent usage of
an incomparable, loving, and virtuous
wife, than to any resentment of her
complaints, which were rather of
others who diverted his affections from
her than of him, the prime cause of
her grief. One day that we walked
in the pleasaunce, she led the way to
a seat which she said during her lord's
last visit he had commended for the fair
prospect it did command, and said it
should be called '*My Lady's Arbor."

^ He sent for the head-gardener,"
quoth she, '^and charged him to
plant about it so many sweet flowers
and gay shrubs as should make it in
time a most dainty bower fit for a
queen. These last words did, I
ween, unwittingly escape his lips, and,
I fear me, I was too shrewish ; for I
exclaimed, ' O no, my lord ; I pray
you let it rather bo unfitted for a
queen, if so be you would have me to
enjoy it!' He made no answer, and
his countenance was overcast and sad
when he returned to the house. I
misdoubted my basty speech had an-
gered him ; but when his horse came
to the door for to carry him away to
London and the court, he said very
kindly, as he embraced me, ^Fare-
well, dear heart! mine own good
Nan !' and in a letter he since wrote
he inquired if his orders had been
obeyed touching his sweet countess's
pleasure-house."

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Qmttance Sherwood.

I always noticed Ladj Sorrej to be
very eager for the coming of the mes-
senger which brought letters from
London mostly twice in the week, and
that in the untying of the strings
which boand them her hand trembled
so much that she often said, ^' Prithee,
Constance, cut this knot. My fingers
be so cold I have not so much patience
as should serve to the undoing there-
of." *

One morning I perceived she was
more sad than usual after the coming
of this messenger. The cloud on her
countenance chased away the joy I
had at a letter from Basi^ which was
written from Paris, and wherein he
said he had sent to Rheims for to in-
quire if my father was yet there, for
in that case he should not so much
fisul in his duty as to omit seeking to
see him ; and so get at once, he trust-
ed, a father and a priest's blessing.'*

'^What ails you, sweet lady?" I
asked, seeing her lips quiver and her
eyes to fill with tears.

*^ Nothing should ail me," she an-
swered more bitterly than was her
wont ^ It should be, methinks, the
part of a wife to rejoice in her hus-
band's good fortune ; and here is one
that doth write to me that my lord's
favor with the queen is so great that
nothing greater can be thought of:
so that some do say, if he was not
married he would be like to mount,
not only to the steps, but on to the
throne itself. Here should be grand
news for to rejoice the heart of the
Countess of Surrey. Prithee, good
wench, why dost thou not wish thy
poor friend joy P'

I felt so much choler that any one
should write to my lady in this fash-
ion, barbing with cruel malice, or
leastways careless lack of thought,
this wanton arrow, that I exclaimed
in a passion it should be a villain had
thus written. She smiled in a sad
manner and answered :

^Alas, an innocent villain I war-
rant the writer to be, for the letter is
from my Bess, who has heard others
speak of that which she doth unwit-

tingly repeat, thinking it should
be an honor to my lord, and to me
also, that he should be spoken of in
this wise. But content thee; 'tis no
great matter to hear that said again
which I have had hints of before, and
am like to hear more of it, maybe."

Then hastily rising, she prepared
to go abroad ; and we went to a lodge
in the park, wherein she harbored a
great store of poor children which lack-
ed their parents ; and then to a bam
she had fitted up for to afford a night's
lodging to travellers ; and to tend sick
peopkK-albeit, saving herself, she had
no one in her household at that time
one half so skilful in this way as my
Lady TEstrange. I ween this was
the sole place wherein her thoughts
were so much occupied that she did
for a while forget her own troubles
in curing those of others. A woman
had stopped there the past night, who,
when we went in, craved assistance
from her for to carry her to her na-
tive village, which was some fifteen
miles north of Norwich. She was
afraid, she said, for to go into the
town; for nowadays to be poor was
to be a wicked person in men's eyes;
and a traveller without money was
like to be whipt and put into the
stocks for a vagabond, which she
should die of if it should happen to
her, who had been in the service of a
countess, and had not thought to see
herself in such straits, which she
should never have been reduced to if
her good lady had not been foully
dealt with. Lady Surrey, wishing, I
ween, by some sort of examination, to
detect the truth of her words, inquired
in whose service she had lived.

^ Madam," she answered, "I was
kitohen maid in the Countess of Lei-
cester's house, and never left her ser-
vice till she was murthered some
years back by a black villain in her
household, moved by a villain yet
more black than himself."

"Murthered I" my lady exclaimed.
"It was bruited at the time that
lady had died of a falL"

"Ay, marry," quoth the b^^ar,

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Cbmianee Sherwood.

Bhakm^ her head, "I warrant yon,
ladies, that fall was compassed bj more
hands than two, and more minds than
one. But it be not safe for to say
so; as Mark Hewitt could witness if
he was not dead, who was my sweet-
heart and a scullion at Cumnor Place,
and was poisoned in prison for that he
offered to give evidence touching his
lad/s death which would have hanged
some which deserved it better than he
did — albeit he had helped to rob a
coach in Wales after he had been dis*-
chaiged, as we all were, from the old
place. Oh, if folks dared to tell all
they do know, some which ride at the
qneen*s side should swing on a gibbet
before this day twelvemonth/'

Lady Surrey sat down by this wo-
man ; and albeit I pulled her by the
gleeve and whispered in her ear to
oome away — ^for methought her talk
was not fitting for her to hear, whose
mind ran too much already on melan-
choly themes — she would not go, and
questioned this person very much
touching the manner of Lady Leices-
tCT^s Hfe, and what was reported con-
cerning her death. This recital was
given in a homely but withal moving
manner, which lent a greater horror
to it .than more studied language
should have done. She said her lady
bad been ill some time and never left
her room ; but that one day, when one
of her lord's gentlemen had come from
London, and had been exaitiining of
the house with the steward for to
order some repairing of the old walls
and staircases, and the mason had
been sent for also late in the evening,
a so horrible shriek was heard from
the part of the house wherein fhe
countess's chamber was, that it
firigfated every person in the place, so
that tbey did almost lose their senses ;
but that she herself had run to the
passage on which the lady's bed-cham-
ber did open, and saw some planking
removed, and many feet below the
body of the countess lying quite still,
and by the appearance of ]^er &ce per-
ceived her (o be gone. And when the
steward came to look afao (this the

woman said, lowering her voice, with
her hollow eyes fixed on Lady Sur-
rey's countenance, which did express
fear and sorrow), *^ I'll warrant you,
my lady, he dia wear a murtherer's
visage, and I noticed that the corpse
bled at his approach. But methink-
eth if that earl which rides by the
queen's side, and treads the world un-
der his feet, had then been nigh, the
mangled form should have raised it-
self and the cold dead lips cried out,
'Thou art the man!' Marry, when
poor folks do steal a horse, or a sheep,
or shoot the fallow-deer in a noble-
man's park, they straightway do suf-
fer and lose their life ; but if a lord
which is a courtier shall one day
choose to put his wife out of his way
for the bettering of his fortunes, even
though it be by a foul murther, no
more ado is made than if he had shot
a pigeon in his woods."

Then changing her theme, she
asked Lady Surrey to dress a wound
in her leg, for that she did h^ from
some in that place that she of%n did
use such kindness toward poor people.
Without such assistance, she saidi, to
walk the next day would be very pain-
ful. My lady straightway began to
loosen the bandages which covered the
sore, and inquired how long a time it
should be since it had been dressed. '

"Four days ago," the beggar an-
swered, "Lady I'Estrange had done
her so much good as to salve the
wound with a rare ointment which had
greatly assuaged the pain, until much
walking had infiamed it anew."

We both did smile; and my lady
said she feared to show herself less
skilful than her old pupil ; but if the
beggar should be credited, she did ac-
quit herself indifferently well of her
charitable task; and the bounty she
bestowed upon her afterward, I doubt
not, did increase her patient's esteem
of her ability. But I did often wish
that evening my lady had not heard
this woman's tale, for I perceived her
to harp upon it with a very notable
persistency; and when I urged no
credit should attach itself to hdr re-

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Constance Shenoood.

port, and if wag most like to be untrae,
she affirmed that some similar sur-
mises had been spoken of at the time
of Lady Leicester's death; and that
Lord Sussex and Lord Arundel had
once mentioned, in her hearing, that
the gypsj was infamed for his wife's
death, albeit never openly accused
thereof. She had not taken much
heed of their discourse at the time, she
said ; but now it came back into her
mind with a singular distinctness, and
it was passing strange she should
have heard from an eje-witness the
details of this tragedy. She should,
she thought, write to her husband
what the woman had related ; and then
she changed her mind, and said she
would not.

AU my pleadings to her that she
should think no more thereon were
vain. She endeaTOi*ed to speak of
other subjects, but still thb one was
uppermost in her thoughts. Once, in
the midst of an argument touching the
uses of pageants, which she maintained
to b«(4Klly and idle waste, but which I
defended, for that they sometimes serv-
ed to Exercise the wit and memory of
such as contrive them, carrying on
the dispute in a lively tiashion, hoping
thus to divert her mind, she broke
forth in these exclamations: ''Oh,
what baneful influences do exist in
courts, when men, themselves honor-
able, abhor not to company with such
as be accused of foul crimes never
disproved, and if they will only
stretcli fortli their blood-stained hands
to help them to rise, disdain not to
clasp them!" v

Then later, when I had persuaded
her to play on the guitar, which she
did excellently well, she stopped be-
fore the air was ended to ask if I did
know if Lady Leicester was a fair
woman, and if her husband was at
any time enamored of her. And
when I was unable to resolve these
questions, she must needs begin to
argue if it should "be worse never to
be loved, or else to lose a husband's
affection ; and then asked me, if Basil
should alter in hb liking of me, which

she did not hold to be possible, except
that men be so wayward and incon-
stant that the best do sometimes
change, if I should still be glad he had
once loved me.

''If he did so much alter," I an
swered, " as no longer to care for me,
methinks I should at once cast him
out of my heart ; for then it would
not have been Basil, but a fancied be-
ing coined by mine own imaginings, I
should have doted on."

" Tut, tut !" she cried ; " thou art too
proud. If thou dost speak truly, I
misdoubt that to be love which could
so easily discard its object."

" For my part," I replied, somewhat
nettled, " I think the highest sort of
passion should be above suspecting
change in him which doth inspire it,
or resenting a diange which should
procure it freedom from an unworthy
thrall."

" I ween," she answered, " we do
somewhat misconceive each one the
other's meaning; and moreover, no
parallel can exist between a wife's af-
fection and a maiden's liking." Then
she said she hoped the poor woman
would stay another day, so that she
might speak with her again; for she
would fain learn from her what was
Lady Leicester's behavior during her .
sorrowful years, and the temper of her
mmd before her so sudden death.

"Indeed, dear lady," I urged, "what
likelihood should there be that a serv-
ing-wench in her kitchen should be
acquainted with a noble lady's
thoughts?"

" I pray God," my lady said, " our
meanest servants do not read in our
countenance, yea in the manner of
our common and indifferent actions,
the motions of our souls when we be
in such trouble as should only be
known to God and one true friend."

Lddy Surrey sent in the morning for
to inquire if the beggar was gone. To
my no small content she had departed
before break of day. Some days af-
terward a messenger from London
brought to my lady, from Arundel
House, a letter from my Lady Lum-

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OonsUmce Sherwood.

]ejj wliereka she urged her to repair
inslaatly to London, for that the earl,
her grandtather, was very grievouslj
sick, and desired for to see her. My
lady resolved to go that very day, and
straightway gave orders touching the
manner of her journey, and desired
her coach to he made ready. She
proposed that the while she was ab-
sent I should pay a visit to Lady FEs-
tnmge, which I had promised tor to do
before I left Norfolkshire ; '' and then,"
qaoth my lady, ^ if my good Lord Ar-
uidel do^ improve in his health, so
that nothing shall detain me at Lon-
don, I will return to my banishment,
wherein my best comfort shall ever
be thy company, good Constance.
But if peradventure my lord should
will me to stay with him" (oh, how her
eyes did brighten ! and the fluttermg
of her heart could be perceived in her
quick speech and the heaving of her
bosom as she said these words), ^ I
will then send one of my gentlewomen
to fetch thee from Lynn Court to Lon-
don ; and if that should happen, why
methinks our meeting may prove more
merry than our parting."

She then dispatched a messenger
on horseback to Sir Hammond TEs-
tnmge's house, which did return in
some hours with a very obliging an-
swer ; for his lady did write that she
almost hoped my Lady Surrey would
be detained in London, if so be it
would not discontent her, and so she
should herself have the pleasure of
my company for a longer time, which
was what she greatly desired.

For some imles, when she started,
I rode with my lady in her coach, and
then mounted on a horse she had pro-
vided for my commodity, and, accom-
panied by two persons of her house-
hold, went to Sir Hammond I'Es-
trange*3 seat. It stood in a bleak
country without scarce so much as
one tree in its neighborhood, but a
store of purple heaQi, then in flower,
soTronndmg it on all sides. As we
approached unto it, I for the first time
beheld the sea. The heath had
minded me of Cannock Chase and my

childhood. I ween not what the sea
caused me to think of; only I know
that the waves which I heard break
on the shore had, to my thinking, a
wonderful music, so exceeding sweet
and pleisant to mine ears £at one
only sound of it were able to bring, so
it did seem to me, all the hearts of
this world asleep. Yet although I
listed thereunto with a quiet joy, and
mine eyes rested on those vasty
depths with so much contentment, as
if perceiving therein some image of
the eternity which doth await us, the
words which rose in my mind, and
which methinks my lips also framed,
were these of Holy Writ : " Great as
the sea is thy destruction." If it be
not that some good angel whispered
them in mine ear for to temper, by a
sort of forecasting of what was soon
to follow, present gladness, I know
not what should have caused so great
a dissimilarity between my then
thinking and the words I did unwit-
tingly utter.

Lady TE^trange met me on the
steps of her house, which was small,
but such as became a gentleman of
good fortune, and lacking none of the
commodities habitual to such countir
habitations. The garden at the back
of it was a true labyrinth of sweets ;
and an orchard on one side of it, and
a wood of fir-trees beyond the waU,
shielded the shrubs which grew there-
in from the wild sea-blasts. Milicent
was delighted for to show me every
part of this her home. The bettering
of her fortunes had not wrought any
change in the gentle humility of this
young lady. The attractive sweet-
ness of her manner was the same, al-
beit mistress of a house of her own.
She set no greater store on herself
than she had done at the Charter-
houi>e, and paid her husband as much
respect and timid obedience as she had
ever done her mistress. Verily, in his
presence I soon perceived she scarce
held her soul to be her own ; but
studied his looks with so much dili-
gence, and framed each word she ut-
tered to his liking with so much inge-

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OimHcmee Sherwood.

nmtj, that I marvelled at the wit she
showed therein, which was not very
apparent in other ways. He was a
tail man, of haughty carriage and
well-proportioned features, ifis eyes
were large and gray ; his nose of a
hawkish shape; his lips very thin.
I never in any face did notice the
signs of so set a purpose or such un-
yielding lineaments as in this gentle-
man. Milicent told me he was pious,
liberal, an active magistrate, and an
exceeding obliging and indulgent hus-
band; but methought her testimony
on this score carried no great weight
with it, for that her meekness would
read the most ordinary kindnesses as
rare instances of goodness. She seem-
ed very contented with her lot; and
I heai>d from Lady Surrey's waiting-
maid (which she had sent with me
from KenninghaU) that all the ser-
vants in her house esteemed her to be
a most virtuous and patient lady ;
and BO charitable, that all who knew
her experience^ her bounty. On the
next day she showed me her garden,
,her dairy, poultry-yard, and store-
room ; and also tiie closet where she
kept the salves and ointments for the
dressing of wounds, which she said she
was every morning employed in for sev-
eral hours. I said, if she would per-
mit me, I would try to learn this art
under her direction, for that nothing
could be thought of more useful for
such as lived in the country, where
such assistance was of^en needed.
Then she asked me if I was like to
live in the country, which, from my
words, she hoped should be the case ;
and I told her, if it pleased God, in
one year I would be married to Mr.
Rookwood, of Euston Hall; which
she was greatly rejoiced to learn.

Then, as we walked under the
trees, talk ensued between us touch-
ing former days at the Charter-iiouse ;
and when the sun was setting amidst
gold and purple clouds, and the wind
blew freshly from the sea, whilst the
barking of Sir Hammond's dogs, and
the report of his gun as he discharged
it behind the houscy minded me more

than ever of old country scenes in
past time, my thoughts drew also fu-
ture pictures of what mine own home
should be, and the joy with which I
should meet fiasil, when he returned
from the field-sports in which he did so
much delight And a year seemed a
long time to wait for so much happi-
ness as I foresaw should be ours when
we were once married. "If Lady FEs-
trange is so contented," I thought,
" whose husband is somewhat churlish
and stem, if his countenance and the
reports of his neighbors are to be
credited, how much enjoyment in her
home shall be the portion of my dear
Basil's wife I than which a more sweet-
tempered gentleman cannot be seen,
nor one endued with more admirable
qualities of all sorts, not to speak of
youth and beauty, which are perish-
able advantages, but not without at-
tractiveness."

Mrs. FEstrange, an unmarried sis-
ter of Sir Hammond, 'lived in the
house, and some neighbors which
had been shooting with him came to
supper. The table was set with an
abundance of good cheer; and Mili-
cent sat at the head of it, and used a
sweet cordiality toward all her
guests, so that every one should
seem welcome to her hospitality ; but
I detected looks of apprehension in
her face, coupled with hasty glances
toward her husband, if any one did
bring forward subjects of discourse
which Sir Hammond ' had not first
broached, or did appear in any way
to differ with him in what he him-
self advanced. Once when Lord
, Burleigh was mentioned, one of the
gentleman said somewhat in dis-
paragement of this nobleman, as if
he should have been to blame in
some of his dealings with the parlia-
ment, which brought a dark cloud
on Sir Hammond's brow. Upon
which Milicent, the color coming in*
to her cheeks, and Her voice trembling
a little, as she seemed to cast about
her for some subject which should
turn the current of this talk, began to
tell what a -store of patients she ^lad

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ASgraiiaM of k .European Birds.

seen that daj, and to describe them, as
if seeking to stop the mouths of the
disputants. ^< One," quoth she, ^ hath
be^ Uiree times to me this week to
hare his hands dressed, and I be ver-
ilj in doubt what his station should
be. He hath a notable appearance
of good breeding, albeit but poorly ap-
parelled, and his behavior and dis-
course should show him to be a gen-
tleman. The wounds of his huids
were so grievously galled for want of
proper dressing, when he first came,
I feared they should mortify, and the
coring of them to exceed my poor
skilL The skin was rubbed off the
whole palms, as if scraped off by
handling of ropes. A more courage-
ous patient could not be met with.
Methought the dressing should have
been veiy painful, but he never so
much as once did wince under it. He
is somewhat reserved in giving an ac-

count of the manner in which he came
by those wounds, and answered jest-
ingly when I inquired thereof. But
to-morrow I will hear more on it, for
J charged him to come for one more
dressing of his poor hands."

"Where doth this feUow lodge PJ
Sir Hammond asked across the table
in a quick eager manner.

" At Master Rugeley 's house, I have
heard,'' quoth his wife.

Then his fist fell on the table so
that it shook.

"A lewd recusant, by God P he
cried. *' Fll be sworn this is the pop-
ish priest escaped out of Wisbeach,
for whom I have this day received or-
ders to make diligent search. Ah,
ah ! my lady hath trapped the Jesuit
fox."

I looked at Milicent, and she at
me. O my God, what looks those
were!

From The Popular Science Beview.

MIGRATIONS OF EUROPEAN BIRDS.

The migrations of animals— espe-
cially those of the feathered tribe— con-
stitute one of the most interesting and
improving studies that the admirer of
nature can pursue. When natural-
ists were less conversant with the
moTcments of birds of passage, and
knew little of their habits and haunts,
it used to be a favorite mode of ac-
counting for the regulaf disappearance
of many species by attributing to them
what is the case with certain animals,
namely, a torpid condition during win-
ter. It was affirmed that certain
birds spent the cold months at the bot-
tom of lakes, and gravely asserted by
an authority of the last century that
'^ swallows sometimes assemble in
numbers, clinging to a reed till it
breaks and sinks with them to the
bottom; that their immersion is pre*

ceded by a song or dirge, which lasts
more than a quarter of an hour; that
sometimes they lay hold' of a straw
with their bills, and plunge down in
society ; and that others form a large
mass by clinging together by ihh feet,
and in this manner commit themselves
to the deep.'^ Irrespective of the ri-
diculous absurdity of such assertions,
and their want of corroborative evi-
dence, we have the recorded opinions
of John Hunter and Professor Owen
as to the incompatibility of a bird's
organism for such a mode of exis-
tence. In all probability, the state-
ment may have in part arisen from
the well-known circumstance that
many birds of passage tarry in their
summer retreats until caught by the
cold of winter, when individuals may
be found benumbed and senseless;

[to bb comtdiusd.]

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MtffraHona of Hurcpean Birds.

this is a common occurrence, even
with the swallows and other birds of
northern India, where in the cold
months the temperature during night
falls oflen to freezing, whilst at mid-
day it maj range as high as 80° Fahr.
in the shade. I have also seen the
green bee-eater and small warblers so
mach affected bj a temperature of
40° on the banks of the Nile in Nubia
as to be scarcely able to flj from twig
to twig. The effects of severe win-
ters on many of our indigenous as
well as migratory birds have been fre-
quently exemplified by the numbers
found dead in sheltered situations, and
especially if the cold sets in early,
when comparatively few birds of pas-
sage escape; for instance, the corn-
crake has been found in Britain dur-
ing the winter months; we know of
one individual that was picked up on
Christnias-day, crouching among furze
bushes, almost insensible from cold.
The winter homes of European birds
of passage comprehend southern Eu-
rope, lower Egypt, and the countries
that h'e between the desert and south-
em shores of the Mediterranean, in-
cluduig the elevated lands of Tunis,
Algeria, and Morocco, which, although
differing in physical features and, in
some respects, in climate, are, strictly
speaking, but an extension of Europe,
for their flora and fauna are European.
It is only when the traveller crosses
the Sahara, with its salt lakes and
moving clouds of sand, and gains the
region of verdure beyond, that he en-
ters on a new zoological and botanical
province. It is curious and instruct-
ive to observe how well this statement
accords with late geological discover-
ies. From a series of ascertained
facts the student of physical science is
enabled to speculate on a time when
equatorial Africa was divided from
the northern portion of the continent
by a great sea, of which the Sahara
formed the bed ; it extended from the
Gulf of Cabes to Senegambia in the
west, and was many hundred miles in
brtodth. The Mediterranean sea did
not then exist ; therefore there was no

great obstacle to the southern migra-
tions of animals until they reached the
shores of the great central African
sea ; but as there was no desert in
those days, there would be no hot
winds to temper the climates north-
ward, and consequently we should ex-
pect to find traces of more rigorous
winters in central and southern
Europe ^ and such have been clearly
proven by certain evidences, whidi
were lucidly explained by Sir Charles
Lyell at the last meeting of the Brit-
ish Association. Thus, although we
may wonder at the extraordinary in-
telligence which prompts the bird to
cross the Mediterranean, we see at the
same time that it is going to /lo for-
eign land, where it will not meet
friends to cheer it, or food unsnited to
its wants. The two great causes
which bring about the regular migra-
tions of birds are either change of
climate or failure of food — ^most often
both combined. Any ordinary ob-
server must have oflen remarked that
the first effect of a decrease in tem-
perature in autumn is the sudden dis-
appearance of many winged and wing-
less insects, on which many sofl-billed
birds of passage depend. At that
season swallows, that seemed so full of
life and vigor, skimming over fields,
threading along the lanes, or twitter-
ing fit>m straw-built sheds, are soon
seen collecting in fiocks, and flitting
about with a marked diminution in
their activity — ^now huddling together
on the eaves of houses, or assembling
in long lines on the telegraph wires ;
another boreal blast, not yet sufficient
to turn the leaf, sends the whole flock
southward, for they soon find that
there is no use facing the north from
whence the cold puflfe are coming,
whilst by holding in the direction of
the sun, with the balmy southern winds
occasionally beckoning them to ad-
vance, they soon gain the object of
their desires. Thus flocks may be
seen pursuing their journey, and pick-
ing up a livelihood and more compan-
ions as they speed their way over
mountain, moor, field, city, or sea to

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i£gratiom of European Birds^

the simny climes and eternal sunshine
of soutliem Europe and trans-Medi-
terranean lands. The majority of mJ-
graiory birds cross the latter sea dur-
ing the Temal*and autumnal equi-
noxes ; whilst a few, such as certain
finches and water birds, make their
appearance on the islands and south-
em shores throughout the winter ; the
latter, however, are in a great measure
dependent on the state of the weather,
and their numbers increase or decrease
accordingly.

It is evident that such animals as the
lapp, lemming, musk-ox, or reindeer
must push southward on the approach
of winter. Their migrations are by
no means unexpected ; nor would the
mere land journey of birds create
amagement when we know the real
causes ; but to cross the great inland
sea anywhere, save at its entrance,
must be considered a great feat when
performed by tiny warblers, and birds
not physically adapted for long flights ;
for instance, the willow warbler or the
land-rail, crossing the broadest parts
of the Mediterranean, must traverse
at least six hundred miles. No doubt
the heated winds from the desert ex
ert a great influence in determining
the route to be taken by migratory
birds, especially in the countries that
come directly under their operation;
and at no seasons are their presence
more apparent than during the spring
and autumn ; for not only then do
they blow their greatest violence, but
are also most keenly felt by contrast
with the previous hot or cold months.
Thus the winds that beckon the bird
in autumn to come southward, drive
it back again to Europe in spring.
Much, however, depends on the con-
stitutional powers of the individual
species, which vary greatly in mem-
bers of the same family ; for instance,
the little chiffchaff oflen inakes its ap-
pearance in England as early as the
middle of March, whilst its congener,
the willow warbler, is seldofn seen be-
fore the end of April ; the spotted
fly-catcher and nightjar arrive to-
ward the end of May, and depart

again early in September. Bird mi-
grations may be said to be either com-
plete or partial; some birds totally
abandon Europe during winter, and
take up their residence in north Af-
rica; others repair merely to the more
genial climates of the south of Europe ;
whilst many remain, but in diminished
numbers, throughout the year, the ma-
jority resorting to milder temperatures.
For example, the swallow tribe leave
Europe entirely; the wagtails have
their winter homes among the oases of
the desert and on the banks of the
Nile, whilst a few tarry in southern
Europe, and with ||}eir brethren in
spring push northward. A good
many stone-chats spend the winter
in Britain, whilst the majority move
southward; not so with their close
ally, the whin-chat, which disappears
entirely during the cold season, and,
with the migratory portion of the
last-named species, seeks the more
genial climates of north Africa.
Thus, in all probability, there are in|
dividual stone-chats that have alter-
nately braved the cold of the north
and the more cheerful winter of the
Sahara; for we cannot suppose that
there is a set that invariably stop in
the north, and another that constancy
leave at the approach of winter. At
all events, here is displayed a flexibil-
ity of constitution often considered
cliaracteristic of man alone. Al-
though the regular birds of passage
maintain much exactitude with refer-
ence to their arrivals and departures,
others seem to err greatly when com-
pelled by weather or other causes to
trust to theb own intelligence in
guiding them from place to place;
even many migratory species far ex-
ceed the bounds of their usual re-
sorts, and certain individuals, not
known to be migratory, have found
their way across the whole omtinent
of Europe. A good example of the
latter is seen in the late irruption of
Pallas's sand-grouse from north-west-
em Asia, so well illustrated by
Messrs. Moore and Newton, in the
^ Ibis." The short-toed lark seldom

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MigraJtUnu of Burapmn Birii.

migrates beyond the northern shores
of the Mediterranean, yet finds itself
often in Britain, and caught either
in gales, or wandering unknowingly
nordiward ; occasional individuals of
the Egyptian vulture from Spain, the
Griffon vulture and spotted eagle
from the mountains of central Europe,
and the spotted cuckoo from north
Africa. Moreover, several American
species have been recorded, chiefly
water birds, which, of course, are
better adapted to brave the dangers
of the deep. Certain birds — ^to wit, the
redbreast, song-thrush, and black-
bird—do not Jeave the north of
Europe, whilst many of their brethren
of Italy and the neighboring countries
make r^ular annual migrations to
Africa and the islands. To account
for this remarkable anomaly, it will
be observed that the robin of the
south is far less omnivorous than its
northern compeer, and is not nearly
so familiar in its habits — ^like tlie
^warblers, it depends almost entirely
on insect food; consequently, when
that fails, it has no alternative but to
push southward, and participatmg,
like other spedes, in clunatic effects,
it would doubtless follow a like route ;
and much the same with the thrushes,
as they 4epend in a great measure on
fruits for their winter subsistence.
When the grapes of the south are
gathered, having no holly-berries,
mountain ash, or haws to draw on for
their winter wants, they would natur-
ally disperse ; probably many fly
northwani as well ; for all the
thrushes that cross the Mediterranean
during winter are but an infinitesimal
part of what frequent Italy and the
south of Europe in summer. No
doubt much depends on the nature of
the locality, whether favorable or
otherwise ; and wherever a complete
or only partial fiulure of food has
taken pla<^, so accordingly will the spe-
cies depart or remain. Moreover, what
has just been remarked in connection
with the stone-chat, might be appUed
again to the robins ami thrushes of
southern Europe: supposing one of

either hatched in Italy, and after sev-
eral years' migrations to the oasis of
the desert, should deviate on one oc-
casion from its accustomed course
and fly northward, and spend the win-
ter in northern Europe, — with the ex-
ample of the resident individuals be-
fore it, no doubt the robin would socm
pick up crumbs at the kitchen door,
and the thrushes crowd with their in-
digenous brethren on the hoUy-trees,
and, becoming dimatixed) remain in
their adopted countries ever aHer-
ward. Although we have no direct
proof that such occurrences actually
take place, there is nothing in the
bird's constitution to preclude such a
supposition ; and not only that, but
we know in the case of Fallas's sand-
grouse, and many other accidental
visitors, that they have at once adapted
themselves to the food afforded by the
country, although perfectly new to
them. How far such influences, act-
ing on generations and for long pe-
riods, do effect the external appear-
ances or internal structure of a spe-
cies, are points not yet clearly deter-
mined ; but doubtless, aj9 the geo-
graphical distribution and migrations
of animals become better known, so
will many difficulties of that nature be
cleared up. Of the vast hosts of birds
that cross the Mediterranean annu-
ally not a few perish on their way,
and their bodies are thrown up on the
beach; many arrive only to die, as we
can testify from our own observations
along the shores of Malta, where we
have picked up numerous warblers
that had been either drowned on their
passage or died on the rocks, or had
dashed themselves at night against
the fortifications and light-houses.

" The beacon blaze lllnrefl
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
Against it, and beats oat his weary life."

The quail on its way to Europe in
spring, or Africa in autumn, is often
borne back by a strong head-wind to
the country it had just left ; and we
have repeatedly noticed that a stnmg
sirocco in September scarcely ever
fails in throwing abundance of quail

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MgrcOiatu of Uitrapean Birdi.

on the gofatheast coast of Malta, in the
aame irej that a poweriiil gregale
hriogs in manj that had been bent on
an opposite direction. We now come
to obsenre that extiaordinarj intelli-
genoe wherebj swallows, for instance,
are enabled year afler year to return to
thesamenest. Taking into consideration
the loQg absence, the dangers and
difficakies incident to the voyage, it
seems incredible that any animal
not hnman can be capable, , af-
ter nearly eight months' sojourn
in central Africa, to return in spring
to a farm-yard in the midland coun-
ties of England; and still more won-
drous, as recorded in ^Yarrell's
British Birds," that several swiflts, un-
deniably mariced, returned not only
for three years in succession, but one
of the number was caught in the same
locality at the expiration of seven
years. Here, then, are displayed ef-
fects of memory aiul perception — ^in
fine, a wondrous manifestation of in-
tellect, which, under the vague name
of insect, has been applied, we think
too indiscriminately, to such-like men-
tal phenomena among the lower ani-
mab.

None .of the eagles of Europe seem
to croes the great inland sea, or perform
r^nlar migrations. The osprey and
per^rine £Bdccni wander over the
soQth of Europe and north Africa in
increased numbers during the winter
months. Flocks of honey-buzzards,
orange-legged falcons, and lesser kes-
trek, together with numbers of marsh
harriers, kestrels, sparrow-hawks, and
in a less proportion the hobby, merlin,
and Montagu's and Swainson's har-
riersy follow the migratory birds to
and firom Africa — some in hot pursuit
of the warblers and quail, which they
feed on when they cannot procure
more choice food. Thus flocks of
hawks may be seen hovering over the
fields in spring, and along the southern
shores of the Mediterranean, where
the birds of passage are assembling
before they commence their voyage
northward, — all driven hence by the
haH blasts of the desert, which, un-

der such local names as harmattan,
sirocco, kamsin, simoom, and samiel,
soon wither verdure, and compel birds
of passage to turn their faces north-
ward, and fiy with all speed to more
genial climes. A naval officer inform-
ed ns that one spring evening, when a
hundred miles off the coast ot* Africa,
the rigging of his vessel was covered
by small birds, which were seen arriv-
ing in scattered flocks from the south ;
among them were many hawks and a
few small-sized owls, possibly the
Scop's eared owl, which migrates in
great numbers at that season. No
sooner had the little birds settled down
on the yards than the # hawks com*
menced to prey on them, and were
seen actually devouring their captives
within a few yards of the officers, who
attempted to put a stop to the slaugh-
ter by shooting the depredators, but
in vain ; they continued pursuing the
unfortunate small birds from rope to
yard-arm and around the vessel, until
night put an end to the scene, when
friend and foe went to roost, and at
break of day all sped their way north-
ward. ^

The short-eared and Scop's owls
are migratory species ; both pass and
repass the Mediterranean in great
numbers every spring and autumn,
not in flocks, but singly ; the latter is
much in request as an article of food,
and killed in several of the islands
in large numbers ; during its passage
through Malta dozens of this hand-
some little owl may be seen in the
poultry market. As beetles, moths,
and the larger insects constitute the
fa^rite food of the Scop's owl, and
bats enter largely into the fare of its
short^eared congener, it may be sup-
posed neither can have much induce-
ment to prolong its stay in Europe af-
ter September.

The night-jar, although late in ar-
riving in the north of Europe, crosses
the Mediterranean in March ; the noc-
turnal habits of the bird, by restricting
its movements to night and twilight,
wiU account for its slow progress ; it
is also much esteemed by the natives

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Mtgraiumi of Suropean Birdie

of the south as an article of food.
None of the swallow tribe are more
exact in their times of arrival and
departure than the swifts, which seem
to proceed further southward than any
of the others ; whether from sudden
failure of food or change of climate,
or both, it is seldom the black swift
tarries on its way ; for, not content
with the climate of the southern shores
of the great inland sea, it pushes on
with little delay to Abyssinia, Nubia,
and even Timbuctoo. The Alpine
swift passes to and from Europe in
small numbers ; compared with the
last-named species, this is a hardy
bird ; we have seen it and the house
marten sporting around Alpine gla-
ciers at the latter end of August, when
there was a hoar frost every night,
and occasional heavy falls of snow;
many Alpine swifts spend the entire
year on the Hunalayan ranges. The
chunney, house, and sand swallows
make their first appearance in spring,
and leave £urope in the order here
given ; none seem to pass the winter
in any of the islands, and on their ar-
rival in Africa move steadily south*
ward to more genial regions. The
rock swallow and rufous swallow
make regular migrations from Asia
Minor to south-eastern Europe, i^^
venturing westward of Greece. Ow-
ing to the strong N. E. winds that pre-
vail during the cold months, and
sweep along the Mediterranean basin
with great violence, many birds are
blown from one coast to another, and
turn up in districts in every way
uncongenial to their habits and wants :
thus are recorded by C. A. Wright,
Esq., in his admirable catalogue of
"Birds observed in Malta,** the ap-
pearance of the diminutive golden and
fir&-crested wrens among the woodless
tracts of these bare islands ; supposing
them to have come from the nearest
point of Sicily, they must have flown
at least fifty miles I Along the shores
of the Mediterranean the approach of
spring is heralded by flocks of gaudy
bee-eaters, which may be seen ad-
vandng northward in scattered hosts

emitting their characteristic call-4iote.
We have watched them approach-
ing Malta during the calm and delight-
ful weather at that season, when a
few, attracted by the verdure, would
break off from die rest and descend,
whilst the majority continued steering
their course in a northerly direction.
Luckless is the bird wanderer that
makes a temporary resting-place of
Malta at any time, especially on Sun-
day, for no sooner is an individual re-
cognized than a dozen guns are put in
requisition, and soon the fair forms of
the bee-eater, oriole^ etc, are seen
stretched in rows on the benches of
the poulterer. The weird-like form of
the hoopoe may constantly be seen
drifting before a south wind in spring,
or hastening southward in August,
seldom in flocks, but so numerous that
on one occasion, on a projecting rock
in the island of Gozo, we saw in the
course of half an hour no less than ten
hoopoes arrive, one after another.
None of the woodpeckers, neither the
creeper, nuthatch, nor the wren, seem
to migrate. The warblers no doubt
constitute by far the greatest minority
of the birds of passage, and may be
said to be most punctual in their time
of arrival and departure. As with
other groups, many entirely abandon
their summer or winter residences at
the migratory seasons, whilst others
leave a few stragglers behind. The
sedge, willow, garden, the chiffchaff,
whitethroat, Sardinian, Dartford, sub-
alpine, yieillot*s warblers, and the
blackcap annually cross and recross
the Mediterranean with undeviating
regularity, some in enormous numbers,
especially the garden warbler and
whitethroat, which being then plump
and in good condition are in great re-
quest, and constitute the Italian's much
relished beccafico. The ni^tingale
appears in considerable numbers and
shares the same fate with the last-
named species. The two redstarts,
wheatear, whin, and stone-chats, with
the redbreast, come and go to Africa
regularly, leaving a few stragglers on
the islands during winter, which, how-

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MgraUom of European Birds,

eyer, unite widi their brethren from
north Africa in spring, when aU pro-
ceed to Europe. The blue-throated
warbler repsdrs to Egypt in winter,
from the south-eastern countries of
Europe and western Asia. A small
migration takes place of the russet
and eared wheat-ears annuallj to
southern Europe in summer, and
back again to tiie African deserts in
^^autumn. As the song thrush and
blackbird are plentiAil throughout the
year along the Atlas range, it b prob-
able few of them return in spring,
and whatever do cross in autumn and
winter remain with the residents.
The golden oriole passes through
Malta regularly on its way northward,
and in small flocks returns to Africa
immediately af^er the harvest and
finit are collected in autumn. The
ring ousel is also migratory; and al-
though a few missal thrushes and red-
wings appear on the islands and south-
em shores during the cold season, nei-
ther can strictly speaking be called
birds of passage, as their numbers
seem entirely dependent on the state
of the weather in Europe and local
gales. The tree, meadow, red-throated
and tawny pipits cross and recross
regularly, and often in large flocks.
The mt adow pipit is another illustra-
tion of a bird which remains all the
year in northern Europe, but is mi-
gratory in the southern parts. As
soon as the hot weather has fairly set
in in Africa, flocks of the short-toed
lark proceed to southern Europe and
distribute themselves over wastes;
like other desert-living birds, it is very
sensible of cold, and accordingly quits
Europe before the rogular migratory
season. The sky, crested, and Cal-
andral arks go southward late in Octo-
ber and the following month ; the two
last-named are extremely abundant in
north Airica during winter. The
woodiark repairs to southern Europe
during the winter, but a few also regu-
larly push further southward, and
cross i^ain in spring. The pied wag-
tail and its northern variety, called
after the late Mr. Yarrell, repair to

southern Europe on the approach of
winter, and many also cross the great
inland sea and proceed a long way
into Afirica ; we found the former very
common up the Nile to the second cat-
aract. The grey wagtail, although
nowhere so common, follows the same
course and pushes northward at the
same dme with its congener in spring.
The yellow wagtails of Europe have
been so frequently confounded and
misnamed, that, until the student has
carefully examined specimens of each
he will be almost sure to become con-
fused. There is, first, the yellow
wagtail of the British islands, called
also Ray's wagtail, that migrates to.
the contment in winter, but we opine
not to southern Europe ; this bird has
been mistaken for the yellow wagtail
of the continent, first described by
Linnseus. Enormous flocks of the last-
named bird cross regularly to and from
Africa annually : probably not a strag-
gler remains in either country afler the
migratory seasons are over^' We have
repeatedly noticed varieties of this wag-
tail with grey and black-colored heads,
which many naturalists consider as
specific difierences, whilst others ap-
pear to class them under the head of a
race or variety of the MotaciUa jUwa
of Linnseus. We are enabled so far
to strengthen the latter opinion, by the
fact that in a large series of skins col-
lected from flocks of yellow wagtails
during their migrations across the
Mediterranean, we could make out a
gradual transition from the one state
of plumage to the other, and we fre-
quently found the grey, black, and
olive-headed (or yellow wagtail pro-
per) all in one flock and constantly
associating together, and with the
same call-note; the only difierence
was the call-note in autumn in tome
was noticed to be harsher ; these, how-
ever, we ascertained to be birds of the
year. The rook is migratory in
south-eastern Europe, and repairs to
the delta of the Nile in large flocks ;
sometimes it is driven by stress of
weather to the islands of the mid and
western Mediterranean. The north-

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iR^roHons of Mtrapean Birdi.

em portion of Africa ]& a favorite re-
port for the Btarling in winter, when
flocks maj be constantly seen all over
the south of Europe ; they quit, how-
ever, in spring^ and go northward.
The jay has been recorded as migra^
tory^ and said to frequent north Af-
rica, Malta^ and Egypt. We cannot,
however, find any authentic confinna*
tion of this statement. All the Eu-
ropean flycatchers cross the Mediter-
ranean very punctually. The spotted
bird is By far the most numerous, next
the pied, and in a much less propor-
tion, the white-necked flycatcher. The
first has a very extensive geographical
range, embracing the whole continent
of Africa and Europe, and breeds in
great numbers even in North Britain,
where we have seen large flocks in
autumn pursuing their retrograde
coarse southward* The woodchat
shrike seems to be the only represen-
tative of the family that regularly
leaves Europe in winter; its red-
backed congener has been said to mi-
grate to north Africa. The flnches
are always late in migrating in au-
tumn, and leave north Africa long be-
fore the other birds of passage ; at
all times much depends on the sever-
ity of the weather, their numbers in-
creasing or dimmishing accordingly.
No doubt, like the thrushes and o&er
species indigenous to temperate climes,
many individuals extend their range
during the winter months, not so much
from failure of food, as the cold
weather allows them to wander over
regions inimical to their constitutions
and wants in summer; fr^m this
cause and the state of the climate in
north and mid Europe, together with
the transporting power of gales, may
be attributed the pretty regular ap-
pearance of flocks of the following
finches on the islands and southern
shores of the great inland ocean. The
linnet is plentiful in Egypt and north
Africa in winter ; small flocks of the
chaffinch, greenfinch, goldfinch, com-
mon buntings, suinfinch, grosbeak,
and ortolan may be seen among the
tamarisk and oUve groves of north

Africa at the same season, whilst a
few solitary individuals of the cross-
bill, scarlet grosbeak, reed and mead-
ow buntings, cirl and bramble finchoQ,
tree and rock sparrows, find their way
in winter to the islands and southern
shores of the Mediterranean. The
cuckoo an,d wryneck are among the
foremost birds of passage that cross
to and from Africa, and both seem to
have much the same geographical dis-
tribution. We have heard the cuckoo's
welcome note among the carol trees
of ]^lta in March ; in the north of
Europe in May; among the stunted
birch trees on the confines of perpet-
ual snow on the Himalayan mountains
in July ; and often recognized its
handsome form among the orange
groves on the torrid plains of India a£
late as November.

Many wood and stock pigeons mi-
grate to Africa in winter ; their head-
quarters, however, would seem to be
located in the south of Europe ; not so
with the turtle dove, of which flocks
of thousands may be seen steering
.their course southward in autumn and
vice versa in spring ; very few, if any,
remaining in Europe or in Africa at
the termination of their migrations.
At these seasons they are caught in
great numbers, by means of clapnets
and decoy birds. The quail invaria-
bly flies within a few feet of the sea
when crossing.

As soon as the cold weather has
fairly set in along the shores of the
Mediterranean, a partial migration of
the following plovers takes place. The
Norfolk plover disperses in winter
over the islands, and penetrates far
south to central Africa. During
November flights of golden plovers
arrive on the northern exposures of
the Maltese islands ; also a few of the
grey and a good many of the lapwing
plovers, all of which go to Africa.
The dotterel, with its two-winged al-
lies, and the Kentish plover, pursue
much the same course, perhaps if any-
thing more of all these pass in autunm
than recrosB in spring, for the reason
that several of the species are resident

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The Anglican and Greek Churches.

in Africa, and extenslvelj distributed
over the entire continent. The com-
mon heron and crane repair south-
ward to the African lakes and rivers,
and may be seen during the winter
months flying at great heights ; neither
is attracted bj the mere appearance
of land, whibt the purple heron Egret
squacco, night heron, little bittern,
glossy ibis, whimbrel, common and slen-
der-billed curlews, fly at lower levels,
and tarry on the islands on their
way.

The froets of October and the fol-
lowing months drive across the inland
sea myriads of greenshanks, wood,
the conmion and little sandpipers,
sdlts, water-rails, the common, spotted
Baillons, and little crakes, and the
coot In smaller numbers come black-
tailed godwita, common and jack-
snipes, common and spotted redshanks,
marsh and green sandpipers, with

ruffs, the great snipe* knot, curlew
sandpiper, dunUn tumstone. Now
and then the woodcock wanders
across, but as a rule its migration is
mostly confined to the south of Eu-
rope. The Adriatic gull extends its
range over the western Mediterranean
in winter. Many northern gulls and
terns, to wit, the herring, lesser, and
black-backed gulls, Sandwich, com-
mon, the little, the black, the white-
winged, and the whiskered terns,
spread themselves over the sea, and
wander up the Nile and to the lakes
of north Africa. Of the duck tribe
nearly all go north in spring. Among
others, we have noticed the bean
goose, shoveller, shelldrake, mallard,
pintaU, gad wall, widgeon, teal^gar-
gany, and castaneous ducks ; the red-
breasted merganser, and the cormo-
rant ; the crested, horned^ eared, and
little grebes.

Tn&Blated iiroin Stades Beligieiiset, HistoflqQeB et Litt6ralrei, par dei Fdres do U Compftgnie de

Jeeoe.

ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT UNION BETWEEN THE ANGLICAN
AND GREEK CHURCHES.

It is remarkable with what per-
severance Protestants have ever la-
bored to bring about a reconcilia-
tion and union between themselves
and the schismatical churches of the
East.

When one compares the terms be-
tween which it is desired to effect this
onion, it is difficult to conceive of
two which are more opposed, and be-
tween which there is a more complete
contrast. Protestants reject the au-
thority both of tradition and of the
hierarchy; ihe veneration of saints,
images, and relics ; outward ceremo-
nial, and aH that which may be con-

voL, n. 5

sidered as composing the external
side of religion. The Greeks, on the
contrary, so far from rejecting
these, have rather exaggerated their
importance. It seems impossible that
they should ever reach a uniformity
of sentiment; but yet the endeavor
to effect it has been steadily persever-
ed in.

As &r back as 1559 Melancthon
tried to bring about an understanding
with Joseph H., the patriarch of Con-
stantinople; and on sending him the
confession of Augsburg, he wrote, with
rather more cunning than fairness,
^that the Protestants had remained

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The AngHcan and Greek Okurchee.

faithful to the Holy Scriptores, to the
dogmatic decisions of holy councils,
and to the teaching of Athanasius,
Basil, Gregory, Epiphanius, etc., the
fathers of the Greek Church ; that
they rejected the errors of Paul of
Samosata, of the Manichees, and of all
the heresiarchs condemned by the
Holy Church, as well as the supersti-
tious practices introduced by ignorant
monks into the Latin Church, where-
fore he besought the patriarch to give
no heed to the evil reports which
were in circulation against Protest-
ants."

It seems the patriarch was not to
be caught by these plausible pro-
fessions, for he made no reply. The
Proftstants were not discouraged, and
fiflecn years later a fresh attempt was
made by the Lutheran university
of Tubingen. The ambassador of the
German emperor at Constantinople
was a Protestiuit, and had brought
with him a minister of his own de-
nomination, named Gerlach. It was
be who carried on the negotiations be-
tween the university of Tubingen and
the Patriarch Jeremias. The whole
of this correspondence is before the
public. The patriarch refutes the
Protestant doctrines with great ability
and clearness, and concludes- by re-
questing the professors of Tubingen to
trouble him no longer and to send
him no more letters. They were not
to be discouraged by a trifle like this ;
but write what they would, the patri-
arch made them no ftirther reply.
This negotiation began in 1573 and
lasted until 1581, but nothing came
ofit

Fifty years after the Lutherans
had failed, in their turn the Calvinists
mnde another effort, which seemed
to promise better success. The am-
bassadors of Holland, England, and
Sweden took the most active and
energetic part in the matter. The
patriarch, of Constantinople, Cyril
Lucar, himself a Calvinist at heart, so
far from opposing their designs, favor-
ed tlicra with all his power. Success
seemed certain. After various vicis-

situdes Cyril Lucar died in 1638.* A
few weeks after his death the synod of
Constantinople pronounced sentence of
censure upon his propositions, and
anathema upon himself. In 1642 a
second council was held under the
Patriarch Parthenius, who was very
hostile both to Rome and to Catholics,
which confirmed the previous condem-
nation of Cyril. Among others, Peter
Mogila, metropolitan of Kief, signed
this fresh censure. Last of all, these
condemnations of 1638 and 1642 were
confirmed by a council held at Jerusa-
lem in 1672, over which the Patriarch
Dositheus presided.

The creation of a bishopric at Jeru-
salem may be regarded, also, as an at-
tempt at reunion between the Protest-
ants and the schismatic churches of
the East. Fi-ederick William IV.,
king of Prussia, assisted by M. do
Bunsen,was the promoter of this idea,
but it was too ingenious and too com-
plicated to be practical. It pi-oposed
to labor for the conversion of the
Jews; to prepare the way for the
union of the schismatical churches of
the East with, the Anglican; and,
by means of the evangelical church
of Prussia, to induce the various sects
of Protestantism to conform in matters
of doctrine and discipline to the
Church of England. The archbish-
op of Canterbury favored the plan;
but, as was to be expected, there were
many Protestants who were very far
from giving it their approbation. As
to the Oriental Christians,* they were
exceedingly astonished, as Dr. Bow-
ring humorously related before Parlia-
ment, at the arrival, not only of a
bishop (un vescqvo), but of a lady-
bishop (una vescova) and baby-bish-
ops (vescovini). After an existence
of twenty years, no pretence is yet
made that the bishopric of Jerusalem
has succeeded in effecting any recon-
ciliation whatever with the Oriental
churches, or that it has in any measure
prepared the way for the uniting of

* Ho was thrown inte tho BoBphorns by the
saltAD, at tho roqaeot of his brotner bIshuM. —
Bd. 0. W.

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The Anglican and Greek Churches.

. Protestandflm itself. The Anglican
Church is herself more divided than
ever, and demonstrates more conclu-
sively from year to year how impossi-
ble it is for her to keep fast hold upon
any creed whatever. Perhaps this
manifestation of internal division and
doctrinal anarchy may contribute
somewhat to turn the eyes of Angli-
cans toward the ancient and immova^
ble Church of the East.

However this may be, we have be-
fore n3 in our own day a fresh attempt
at reuiion about which we must say a
few words. The facts are as follows :
Three or four years ago Dr. Troll,*
bishop of the Episcopalian Church in
San Francisco, discovered that there
were in his diocese some four hundred
persons belonging to the Greek Church,
who, while they recognized his author-
ity up to a certain point, yet refused
to receive communion from his hands.
Dr. Troll referred the matter to the
convention of the Episcopal Church in
the United States, who appointed a
committee to examine and report on
the relation in which the two churches
stood toward one another. The
Church of England took part in the
investigation, and convocation met
at Canterbury in 1863, appointing a
commission whose duty it should be to
have an understanding with the Epis-
copal Church in America and co-ope-
rate with her. In the month of Feb-
niaty, 1865, this commission presented
their report before convocation at
Canterbury. Thfe American com-
mittee published a series of works
designed to prepare the way for imion
by making known the dogmas and
rites of the Greco-Russian Church.
The English commission formed an
association whose object it was to
make the Oriental churches known to
Engltshmen, and in turn to make the
Anglican CHiurch understood by the
Oiristians of the East. The Angli-
can archbishop of Dublin, many other
bishops of the same church, and the

• There ie some mistake hero. Dr. Kip Is the
Protesuot Bishop of Califomia.— £d. C. W.

archbishop of Belgrade, were among
the patrons of this association.

In 18G^, Dr. Young of New York
made a visit to Russia, where he put
himself in communication with the
more proniinent members of the Rus-
sian episcopate. The Episcopalian
bishop of San Francisco visited Geor-
gia, Servia, and Bulgaria, and more
recently Nice, where he frequented
the Russian chapel.

Messrs. Popof and Wassilief, chap-
lains of the Russian ambassadors at
London and Paris, were present at the
sittings of the English commission
and took part in its deliberations.
By the very last news from America
we are informed that divine service
\i, €., mass. — Ed.] was solemnly cele-
brated, according to the Oriental rite
and in the Sclavonic language, in
one of the principal Episcopalian
churches of New York city. According
to the American newspapers, the cele-
ebrant was F. Agapius, recently come
to America, having been appointed by
the Russian Church to the spiritual
charge of his co-religionists in the
United States. The "Union Chr^
tienne," a Paris paper, informs us that
Father Agapius Honcharenko is a
deacon of the Russian Church who
was ordained priest by a bishop of
the Greek Church, which ordination
was irregular ; and that F. Agapius acted
without any authority from the Rus-
sian Church ; and lastly, that he was
associated with M. Alexander Herzen
at London and took part in the publi-
cation of the « Kolokor (the « Clock").
This last fact is of a character to
make a deep impression upon the
members of the synod of St. Petersburg,
but it is not so clear that it exercised
the same influence upon the mind of
the Americans. The "Union Chr4-
tienne" appears to think that when this
valuable information about Agapius
Honcharenko reaches New York,
the Episcopal Church will h^ve noth- ^
ing more to do with him. This is '
possible, but as yet it is mere con-
jecture. However this may be, this
little incident is not calculated to kin-

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The Anglican and Greek Churchee.

die in the sjnod of Russia any great
zeal for the proposed reunion.

The "Den" (Day), a periodical
in Moscow, has also an account of the
celebration of this mass in New York,
in its fourteenth number, 1865. Evi-
dently the MoscoTite journal has none
of the information as to this individual,
P. Ploncharenko, which was given bj
the ^ Union Chr^tienne ;'' but it makes
up for tliis by the important fact that
although this priest may have receiv-
ed no mission fi'om the Russian
Church, he was endowed witli at least
equal power and autliorization by the
metropolitan of Athens and the synod
of the kingdom of Greece, which
is easy of explanation, since from
Athens he embarked for America.

Tlie April number, 1865, of the
" Otetchestrennyja Sapiski," or " Pa-
triotic Annals," also speaks of the
attempt at reunion, and it repeats
the conditions proposed by the theolo-
gians of the Episcopal churches of
England and America. These condi-
tions no doubt constitute matter of
much interest, but as we have not
been able to procure this number of
the St. Petersburg review, we can say
nothing about them.

On the whole, up to the present
time but one bishop of the Oriental
schismatic church has shown himself
favorable to this project, viz., Monsig-
uor Michel, archbishop of Belgrade, or,
rather, metropolitan of Servia, under
which title he presides over the church
in Sei*via. This prelate made his tlie-
ological studies at Kief, has held the
see of Belgrade since 1859, and is
not yet forty years of age. Those
persons whose privilege it has been to
have access to him, represent him
as a man of a high order of intelli-
gence, very pleasing and attractive in
his personal appearance, dignified in
his manners, and very exemplary in
his life. If one may rely upon the testi-
mony of Protestant travellers who
have been in communication with him,
it would appear that he has shown
himself very favorable to a reconcilia-
tion between the Chjorch of Englaad

and the schismatical churches of the
East, and that for his own part he
would not hesitate to express in warm
terms his gratitude to the Protestants
for their profitable investigations re-
garding the Greek Church. In fine,
it is possible that Monsignor Michel
might allow himself to be induced to
take up again, in an underhand
way, the scheme of Cyril Lucar.
This is no small undertaking. Before
it is possible to blend these two
churches into one, a perfect under-
standing must be had on a great num-
ber of points which are of the highest
importance. It will suffice to men-
tion such, 6. y., as the mass, the sacra-
ments, the procession of the Holy
Ghost, devotion to the Blessed Virgin
and the saints, and the honor to be
paid to relics and images. In addition
to these must be settled the ques-
tion as to the validity of the Anglican
orders. As to Monsignor Michel per-
sonally, he would have an additional
difficulty to contend with. Everybody
knows that the people of Servia have
very little sympathy with the people of
Engknd, and they would undoubtedly
manifest very little inclination to
follow their metropolitan should he
try to induce them to do so.

It must be admitted, however, that
the endeavor to reunite the two
churches has far more hope of suc-
cess in the nineteenth than it had
either in the sixteenth or seventeenth
centuries. On the one hand, the
teaching of the Puseyites has spread
widely among the Anglican clergy.
Men of distinction who have made
their studies at Oxford and Cambridge
are beginning more and more to sus-
pect that apostolicity is an essential
note of the church of Jesus Christ,
and that it is very difficult to discover
this in a church which dates only from
the time of Henry VIII.; they
are gradually giving up the principle
of private judgment, and are learning
to appreciate more and more the
value of tradition, of the fathers, an<l.
of the general councils of the Church.
On the other hand, adherence to of*

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The Jnffltcan and Greek Churches.

thodozj has, in the East, lost some-
what of its deep, sincere, and in-
flexible character* Some jears since
we bad occasion to show, in the
pages of this review, that in her theo-
logical teaching the Russian Church
had been materiallj affected bj Prot-
estant influence. This is no longer
so in oor own daj, if we may judge
by the public writings of the Russian
bishops, and there has been a very
genen&l return to doctrines much
more in harmony with the traditions
of the churches of the East But at
the same time one must admit that ra-
tionalism and infidelity hare made
fearful ravages in the East as well as
in the West, Talk with youag men
from Russia, Greece, Romania, and
Servia who have made their studies
in either Russian or Grerman univer-
sities, who have attended the course
of lectures given by professors from
either Athens or Paris, and you will
see how feeble, cold, and wavering
their faith has become. The result
has h^n a prevailing atmosphere,
both intellectual and moral, which
enervates the firmness of convictions,
and generates a certain laxity in one's
hold on the teachings of the faith.
People have become more ready to
conform to public opinion, and I
should be greatly surprised if an at-
tempt similar to that made by Cyril
Lucar should find in the East of
to-daj an equally universal and
prompt condemnation.

Moreover, the working of Protestant
missions in the East has not been so
completely onsuccessful as many per-
sons are pleased to report As a gen-
eral thing Protestant missionaries are
men of intelligence, education, and
good breeding ; they make a thorough
study of the country in which they re-
side ; they erect schools and printing
presses, and put in circulation a large
number of books. It is impossible to
admit tiiat all this can be absolutely
withoat effect These schools and
those books must be the germ of an
ioflaeooe which time cannot fail to de-
velop. I am very well assured that
PrDteatantism has very few attractions

for the people of the East in any
point of view, least of all on the side
of externals, and that the difliculty of
making Protestants of the people of
the East would be very great ; still,
one must not conclude from this that
it would be impossible to bring about
a certain kind of union ; that an ar-
rangement might not be made which
would introduce a different spirit into
the schismatical churches of the East
while they yet preserved their exter-
nal form. I grant you the liturgy of
the East, eminently dogmatical as it
is, would contrast most singularly with
Protestant notions ; but remember, we
are not now speaking of Protestant-
bm in its pure development, but of the
Anglican phase of it, and of Angli-
canism leavened by Puseyism.

In conclusion, I have no faith my-
self in this attempt; but still a person
would have a false idea of the state
of the case who shDuld regard the
move as a purely fanciful one, and
one unworthy the attention of serious-
minded men.

But, now, supposing this effort
should be successful, have we Catho-
lics any cause for alarm? I think
rather the contrary. The Church of
England is as clearly wanting in apos-
tolicity as the Greek Church is ii^
catholicity. The one has need to
link herself on to the chain of past
time ; the other to extend her bound-
aries, that she may no longer feel her-
self to be enclosed within a part of
the world ; that she may not have the
appearance of identifying herself with
only a few of the many races of men.
Even admitting that by means of this
alliance the English could congratu- .
late themselves upon having won back
their title to apostolicity, and the
Greeks in turn Uieirs to catholicity,
the need of unity would be felt all the
more, which neither can ever attain to^
apart from that rock upon which our
Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ has
built his Church, and against which
the gates of hell shall never prevaiL

J. GA.GA.Rm.*

* F. Ga^rin U a Rasslan prince, a conrert
from the X}reek schtem, and a member of ttid
SocietT of Jeau.— Sd.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

70 The Children.

From The Bizpenny Magaadne.
THE CHILDREN.

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And the school for the day is dismisseil,
The little ones gather around me

To bid me '^good night," and be kissed.
Oh, the little white arms that encircle

My neck in their tender embrace ;
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,

Shedding sunshine of love on my face.

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming

Of my childhood — too lovely to last —
Of joy that my heart will remember

While it wakes to the pulse of the past :
Ere the world and its wickedness made me

A partner of sorrow and sin,
When the glory of God was about me,

And the glory of gladness within.

I ask not a life for the dear ones \

All radiant, as others have done ;
But that life may have just enough shadow

To temper the glare of the sun ;
I would pray God to guard them from evil ;

But my prayer would bound back to myself:
Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner.

But a sinner must pray for himself^

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,

To traverse its threshold no more ;
Ah I how I shall sigh for the deiu: ones

That meet me each mom at the door ;
I shall miss the "^ good-nights " and the kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee ;
The group on the green, and the flowers

That are brought every morning for me.

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M-Hattow Eve ; or. The Test of FtOurUy,

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER xni.

The next morning Winny present-
ed herself at the breakfast-table, look-
ing more attractive and more tidily
dressed, her rich glossy hair better
brashed and smoothed down more
carefully than was usual at that hour
of the day. Her daily custom, like
an other country girls who had house-
hold concerns to look after, was not
to "tidy hei-self up" until they had
been completed. She was not igno-
rant, however, of the great advantage
which personal neatness added to
beao^ gave a young girl who had
a cause to plead. And although the
man upon whom she might have to
throw herself for mercy was her father,
she was not slow on this occasion to
claim their advocacy for what they
might be worth. But she had also
prayed to God to guide her in all her
replies to the parent whom she was
bound to honor and obey, as well as to
tove. She had not contented herself
with having set out her own appear-
ance to the best advantage, but she
had also set out the breakfast-table in
the same way. The old blue-end-
white teapot had been left on the
dresser, and a dark-brown one, with a
figured plated lid, taken out of the
cupboard of Sunday china. Two cups
and saucers, and plates ''to match,^
with two real ivory-hafled knives laid
beside them. There was also some
white broken sugar in a glass bowl,
which Winny had won in a lottery at
Carrick-on-Shannon from a ^ bazaar-
man." There was nothing extraordi-
nary in all this for persons of their
means, though, to tell the truth, it was
not the every-day paraphernalia of
their breakfast-table. Winny had not
been idle either in famishing the

plates with a piping hot potato-cake,
a thing of which her father was* par-
ticularly fond, and which she often
gave him; but this one had a few
carraway-seeds through it, and was
supposed to be better than usual.*
Then she had a couple of slices of
nice thin bacon fried with an egg,
which she knew he liked too. ML
this was prepared, and waiting for her
father, whose fatigue of the day be-
fore had caused him to sleep over-long.

While waiting for him, it struck
Winny that he must think such pre-
parations oat of the common, and per-
haps done for a purpose. Upon re-
flection she was almost sony she had
not confined her embellishments to her
own personal appearance, and even
that, she began to feel, might have
been as well let alone also. But she had
little time now for reflection, for she
heard her father's step, as he came
down stairs.

She met him at the door, opening
it for him.

"Good morrow, father," she said;
" how do you find yourself to-day ? I
hope you rested well after your long
widk yesterday."

" After a while I did, Winny ; but
the tea you made was very strong, an'
I didn't sleep for a long time after I
went to bed."

^ Well, <a hair of the hound,' you
know, father dear. I have a good
cup for you now, too ; it will not do
you any harm in the morning when
you have the whole day before you.
And I have a nice potato-cake for you,
for I know you like it"

« Troth I b'lieve you have, Winny ;
an' I smell the carraways that I like.
But, Winny, sure the ould blue tea-
pot's not broken, is it ?"

" No, father ; but I was busy with

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AUrHaUow Eve; or^ The Test of Futurity.

the potato-cake this morning, and had
not time to wash it out last night, so I
took out number one to give it an air-
ing; and I put down the other tilings
to match.**

The portion of this excuse which

' was true was far greater than that

which was not ; and Winnj, who as a

general rule was truthful, was satisfied

with it — and, reader, so must you be.

" Never mind, Winny,.you are mis-
tress here, an* I don't want any ex-
j)lanation; it wasn't that made me
spake ; but Pd be sorry th' ould blue
teapot was bruck, for we have it since
afore you were well in your teens.
You're lookin' very well this momin',
Winny agra."

'^ Hush, father; eat your cake, and
don't talk nonsense. There's an egg
that black Poll laid tliis morning, and
here's some butter I finished not five
minutes before you came in yesterday
evening. Shall I give you some tea?"

" If you please, Winny dear." And
the old man looked at his daughter
with undeniable admiration.

They then enjoyed a neat and
comfortable breakfast, which indeed
neither of them seemed in a hurry to
bring to an end. The old man was con-
strained and silent, and left all the talk
to Winny, who, it must be admitted,
never felt it more difficult to furnish
conversation. Old Ned looked at her
once or twice intently, as if wonder-
ing at her being much finer than usu-
al ; and then he looked at the bi'eak-
fast gear ; and the expression of his
face was as if he suspected something.
These looks, both at herself and the
table, did not escape Winny's notice,
bat she never met them, always in-
terrupting any exclamation which was
likely to follow them with some ques-
tion or remark of her own^ such as,
*<Do you like that cake, father?"
^ That is the muil cow's butter ; I al-
ways keep her milk by itself, and
chum it in the small chum for you,
^ther; you said you liked it" ** Here*
Bnlly-dhn, is a piece of cake for you."

With some such heterogeneous
questions or remarks as these, she

managed to parry his looks, or at all
events the observations which were
likely to follow them, and direct for
the moment — ^ah, Winny, it was only
for the moment ! — ^his thoughts from
whatever was upon them, and which
Winny believed she knew right welL
But this suspense on both sides
must come to an end. Old Ned, from
his conversation with Mick Murdock,
had determined not to speak to his
daughter until he knew Tom had done
so. But Winny did not know this,
and dreaded every moment a thunder-
clap would come which she was her-
self preparing for her father, and she
was anxious, if it was only for the
sake of propriety, to tell her story un-
provoked.

The old m<an now stood up from the
table, saying he would be likely tabe
out all day, as he was preparing to
get down some wheat. But Winny,
when it came to the point, could only
stammer out in a feeble voice, that
she wanted to speak to him before he
went

" Now's your time, Winny dear, for
1 have a great dale to do before din-
neMime; an' I must be off to the
men."

"Father dear, I may as well tell
you at once— I'm in trouble — about
— about — about — Tom — Murdock.**
And she threw her arms round his
neck, and laid her cheek upon his
shoulder.

"An* is that all, mavoumeen ? Ah,
Winny, Winny, I knew it would come
to this ! — ^mavoumeen macree, I knew
it would. But there, Winny jewel,
don't be crying — don't be crying ; sure
you know I'm not the man to cross
your wishes; no— no, my own girl,
I'd neither oppose you nor force you
for 'the world ; aren't you the only
one I have on airth? an* sure isn't
your happiness mine, Wmny dear?
There, Winny, don't cry; sure you
may do as you like, mavoumeen mae-
ree, you may."

Winny knew that all this was ut-
tered under a misconception, an4 it
gave her but Uttle comfort Theresas

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one part of it, however^ she would not
forget.

'^Oh, father," she sobbed out upon
his breasty ^ Tom Murdock has asked
me to marry him.'' And the. tears
ToUed down her cheeks.

"Why then, Winny dear, dhry up
them tears; sure I know Uiey're on
my account, at the thoughts of partin'
me; but won't you be livin' at the
doore with me while I last? Isn't it
what I always hoped an' prayed for ?
— och, Winny, Winny, but you're the
lucky girl this day, an' I'm the lucky
man, for it will add ten years to my
life."

And he kissed her yielding lips over
and over again. But she did not
speak ; while the big tears continued
to course themselves down her pale
but beautiful cheeks.

** Don't — don't, Winny asthore ;
don't be crying on my account ; sure
I may say we'll not have to part at all.
Mick an' I have it all settled, mavour-
neen ; he's to build you a grand new
house where th' ould one Stan's, an'
Pm to furnish it from top to toe; and
Mick an' I will live here, not three
hundred yards from the pair of you.
Oh, Winny, Winny, but it's I is the
happy man this day! There, don*t
be cryin', I tell you; sure I would
not gainsay you for the world;" and
he kissed her again. But still she did
not speak.

"There, Winny, there; don't be
Bobbin' an' ciyin', I tell you. Why,
whaf s the matther with you, Winny
mavrone?"

"Oh, £ftther, father, it never can
be!" she exclsiimed in broken. sobs,
and clinging to his neck closer than
ever.

"Nonsense, Winny! what's the
matther, I say? why can't it be? Of
course you did not refuse Tom's
irfTer?"

"I ^d, father— indeed I did. I
never can care for Tom Murdock;
fi^er, I could never be happy with
that man. Don't ask me to marry
him."

"Is the ^rl mad? To be sure I

will, Winny. There's but the two of
you in it an' with Mick's farm an'
mine joined, — the leases are all as one
as 'free simple,' — ^yon'd be as grand
as many ladies an' gentlemen in the
county;" and he disengaged himself
from her arms, and strode toward the
door.

Winny thought he was going ; but
he had no notion of it at so unsettled
a point She rushed between him and
the door. ^ *

" Father, don't go !" she cried ; "for
God's sake don't leave me that way !".

" Winny, it's what I'm greatly sur-
prised at you, so I am. My whole
life has been spent in puttin' together
a dacent little fbrtun' for you ; I never
had one on airth I loved but yourself
an' your poor mother — God. rest her
sowl ! I never spoke a cross word to
you, Winny jewel, since I followed
her to the grave, four days after you
were bom ; an' now, in my old days,
when I haven't long to last, you're
goin* to break my heart, an' shorten
them same. Oh, Winny, Winny, say
it's only jokin' you are, an' Til forgive
you, cruel as it was."

" No, father, Tm telling you the real
truth; people seldom joke with the
tears running down their cheeks ; look
at them, father. I know all you say
is true ; and indeed it will break my
own heart to oppose you, if you do
not yield. But listen here, father
dear; sure after all your love and
kindness to me for the last eighteen or
twenty years, I may say, you won't
go now and spoil it all by crossing my
happiness without any necessity for it
Tom put all the grandeur and wealth
before me himself, that the joining of
the two farms and marrying him
would bring to me. But it is no use,
father ; I never liked that man, and I
never can. Oh, don't ask me, father
asthore ; Pm contented and happy as
I am."

" Winny, I never found you out in
a lie since you could first spake, an'
Fm sure you won^t tell me one now.
Listen to me, Winny. Tom Murdock
is a fine, handsome young fellow, an'

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well to do in the world, with a grand
education, an' fit to hould his own
anywhere; and I say he's any young
girl's fancy, or ought to be, at any
rate. You an' he have been reared
at the doore with each other. What
you are yourself, Winny asthore, I
' need not say, for every one that sees
you knows it ; and well they may, for
sure you spake for yourself. It sel-
dom happens — indeed, Winny, I
never knew it — that a boy an' girl
like you an' Tom, reared at the doore
that way, fail but what they take a
likin' to each other. It seems Tom
done his part, both as to the likin' an'
spakin', as he ought to do in both;
but you, Winny, have done neither.
Now, Winny, I can't but think that's
very strange, an' I have but the one
way to riddle it. Tell me now, hon-
estly and plainly, is there any one
that cum afore Tom in his request ?
Answer me that, Winny ?"

" I win, fe'ther, honestly and truly.
It is not that any one has come be-
tween me and Tom that made me re-
fuse him. The very thing that you
say, of our being reared at the door
with one another, has made me dis-
like him. I have seen too much of
his ways, and heard too many of his
words, ever to like him, father ;
there is no use in trying to make me,
for I never can.**

^ But, Winny jewel, you have hardly
answered my question yet. Are you
' secretly promised, Winny, to any
other young man that you're afeard
I wouldn't like ? that's the plain
question. The truth now, Winny, —
the truth, Winny P

"No, father, certainly not. Tom
Murdock is the only man that ever
asked me."

" Was there ever anything betune
you an' young Lennon, Emon-a-knock,
as I have heard you call hiih myself?"

" Never, father; Emon never spoke
to me upon such a subject, and fur-
ther thsm that, he has paid me less
compliments and spoken less to me
upon any subject than fifty young
men in the parish."

It so happened, however, that the
name had hightened Winny's color,
and her father, looking at her with an
admiring and affectionate smile, said :

« Fifty, Winny I well, in throth, I
don't wonder at it, or a hundred an'
fifty, if they were in the parish."

Winny took advantage of his smile.

" There, father dear, don't be angry
with your poor colleen j she'll do bet-
ter thieui to marry riches with misery*
Thank God, and you, father, she will
have more than enough without cov-
eting Tom Murdock's share." And
she held up her beautiful lips, and
looked in the old man's face with
eyes swimming in tears.

Old Ned had fought the battle badly,
and lost it. He bent down his head
to meet his daughter's caress, and
pressed her to his heart.

** There, Winny mavoumeen," he
exclaimed ; " I have not loved you as
the apple of my eye, since your poor
mother died, for me to thwart you
now. You shall never marry Tom
Murdock except with your own free
will and consent, asthorc. As you
say, Winny dear, we neither want
nor covet his share. But sure, Win-
ny dear, I thought you were for him
all along."

" Oh, thank you, thank you a thou-
sand times, father dear; that is so
like you. I knew you would not
break your Winny's heart."

But Winny Cavana was too honor-
able, even towavd the man she hated,
to tell her father of the conversation
she had overheard between old Mur-
dock and his son at the gate. She
had gained her cause without that.

CHAPTEB XIV.

Tom Mubdock had no fixed pur-
pose in anywhere he went afler Winny
Cavana left .him discomfited upon the
road. He wandered on past Kate
Mulve/s, on toward Shanvilla, but
not with any hope or wish to come

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across Edward Lennon. His inten-
tions of ** dealing with him" were yet
distant and undefined. What naturaUj^
occupied his thoughts was the humili-
ation he felt at Winnj Cavana- haying
refused him. Although he had com-
plained to his father ^ that he did not
think she was for him,'' jet upqn a
due consideration of his personal
appearance, and his position in the
country, he felt persuaded in his
own mind that his father was right,
and that nothing was required to
secure success but to go boldly and
straightforward to work. Tom had
hinted to his father, although the
old man had not observed it, or if
80^ had taken no notice of it, that there
were more reasons than he was aware
of for his wishing to secure Winny
Cavana's ready money at all events ;
and his exclamation when his father
spoke of only the interest, might have
awakened hun to the dread, at least,
that there -really was some cause, with
which he was unacquainted, why he
dwelt so much more on the subject
ci her fortune than the land. The
fact was so. Tom Murdock was a
worse young man than ^any one —
except his immediate associates — ^was
aware of. In addition to his other
accomplishments, perhaps I should
rather say bis attributes, he possessed
a degree of worldly cunning which
would have sufficed to keep any four
ordinary young men out of trouble.
Bat he required it all, for he had four
times more viUaDy — ^not to answer
for, for it was unknown, but on
his conscience — ^than any young man
of like age in the parish.

One great keeper of a secret — ^for
the time being, at least — ^is plenty
of mon^. With plenty of money you
can keep people in the dark, or blind
them with the brightness of the glare.
Yoa can keep them in the countiy, or
joa can send them out of it, as circum-
stances require. You can bribe peo<*
pie to be silent, or to tell lies, as you
like. But a villain who has not
plenty of money cannot thrive long in
hia TiUany. When his money fiuls.

his character oozes out^ until he be-
comes finally exposed.

Tom Murdock had practically
learned some of the above truths by
his experience in life, short as it was,
better than anything he had learned at
Rathcash national schooL The later
part of it was what he now feared, but
did not wish to learn.

Tom could not have been in the
habit of going to Dublin, to Armagh,
and Sligo (no one knew in what ca-
pacity), three or four times a year,
where he played cards and bet high,
without money of his own ; supposing
even that his expenses of the road
(which was shrewdly suspected) had
been paid. He could not have sent
half-a^ozen young friends to Amer-
ica, and compromised scores of actions
ei*e they came before a court of law,
without money. He could not have
kept a brace of greyhounds, and a
race-mare, at Church's hotel in Car-
lick-on-Shannon, as '' Mr. Marsdcn's,"
without money ; and more money in
all these cases, from the secrecy
which was required, than almost the
actual cost might involve. There
were other smaller matters, too, which
increased the necessity for Tom Mur-
dock to be always in possession of
some ready cash. This, mm his posi-
tion as heir to Rathcashmore, and
heir presumptive, if not apparent, to
Rathcash alongside of it, he had as
yet found no difficulty in procuring up-
on his own personal security ; and to
do him justice, he had hitherto avoid-
ed mixing up his father's name or
responsibility in any of his borrow-
ing transactions. Then there was the
usurious interest which these money-
lenderSy be they private or public,
charge upon loans, to be added to
Tom*8 liabilities. If he was pressed
by Paul, he robbed Peter to pay him ;
and when (after long forbearance) he
was pressed by Peter, he robbed Paul
back again. Upon all these and such-
like occasions, .Winny Cavana's for-
tune, which he ^aid would be paid
down, was the promptest guarantee
he could hold out for payment ; for

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ultimatelj, he said, they oould not
lose, as he must some day or other
^ pop into the old chap's shoes," and
in the meantime he was paying the in-
terest regularly.

Winny Cavana's instinct had not
deceived her; hut had she known
one-half as much tts some of Tom
Murdock's hosom fHends could tell
her, she would have openly spumed
him, and not have treated his ad-
vances with even the forced consider-
ation she had done.

He wandered on now toward Shan-
villa, without, as we have seen, any
fixed purpose. Personally humiliated
as he had been by Winny's refusal of
him, his thoughts dwelt more upon the
fact that he could no longer reckon
upon her fortune to pay off the tor-
menting debts which were every day
pressing more heavily upon him ; for
he could not but believe that her
refusal of him wodld get abroad. The
Peters had been robbed often enough,
and they would now let the Pauls
fight their battle the best way they
could with Tom Murdock himself;
they were safe now, and they would
keep themselves so. They had told
Tom this, — ^"not that they doubted
him, but their money was now other-
wise employed. " Tom began to fear,
therefore, that an exposure must soon
break out

How could he face his father, too ?
He would undoubtedly lay his failure
to the score of his own impetuous and
uncouth manner of seeking her favor ;
for he had often charged him with
both, particularly toward Winny Cav-
ana. One or two of his creditors had
given up even the pretence of ^eing
civil, and had sworn ^ they would go
to his father for payment, if not
promptly settled with."

It was no great wonder if Tom
wandered through the country with no
fixed purpose, and finally arrived,
tired and ill-humored, at his father's
house.

The old man had missed him ^< from
about the place" all the foreuoou, and
had naturally set down his absence to

the right cause. He had been candid
in his advice to his son, '< to spake up
bowldly, and at wanst, to Winny ;**
and he was sincere in his belief that
she would *'take him hoppin." Thia
day, sus.pecting he was on the mission,
he had ^ kep' himself starvln'," and
delayed the dinner for his return. He
had ordered Nancy Feehily to have
^' a young roast goose, an' a square of
bacon, an' greens, for dinner agen mis-
ther Tom cem home." He anticipated
*< grand chuckling" over Tom's suc-
cess, of which he made no more doubt
than he did of his own existence.

"At last, Tom a wochal, you're
cum," he said, as his son entered the
door. " But where the sorra have
you been ? I think Winny's at home
this betther nor two hours, for I seen
her gomg in. Well, Tom, you devil !
didn't I tell you how it id be? —
dhiddtch /" he added, making an ex-
traordinary noise with his tongue
against the roof of his mouth, and giv-
ing his son a poke in the ribs with his
forefinger.

" No, but did not I tell you how it
would be ? There, father ! that bub-
ble's burst, and Fm sorry I ever made
an onskiough of myself."

"Faix, an', Tom, you must be an
onskiough if that bubble burst, unless
if s what you blew it out yourself. Di
ye mane to say you spoke to her
plain, as I tould you to do, Tom
avic ?"

" As plain as tl\^ palm of my hand,
father. I put the whole thing before
her in the kindest and fondest manner
ever a man spoke. I told lier how
my whole heart and soul was waiting
for her this three or four years past^—
God forgive me for the lie."

" Amen, Tom, if it was one ; but
maybe it wasn't, man. You're vexed
now, Tom agra; but it won't be so.
I tell you she only wants to see if
you'll folly her up aflher she givmg
you one refusal. What did she say,
agraP'

Here Nancy Feehily brought in the
roast goose and square of bacon, with
a dish of smoking " Brown's fancies*

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m their jackets, and a check was given
to the conversation. The old man, as
he had said, had " kep' himself starv-
in','* and Tom could not keep himself
from a like infirmity in his ramhle
through the country. He was not one
of thotse who permitted a mental an-
noyance to produce a physical spite in
return; he did not, as they say, cut
his nose to vex his face, nor quarrel
with his bread and butter ; so, between
them, they did ample justice to Nancy
Feehily's abilities as a cook.

^ You don't mane to say she refused
you, Tomr^ said the old man, after
the girl had left, and wliile he was
waiting for his sou to cut him another
slice of bacon.

" She did, father ; but let me alone
about her now : Til tell you no more
until I make myself a rousing tumbler
of punch after dinner. She shall not
take away my appetite, at all events."

Nor did she. Tom never ate a bet-
ter dinner in his life, and his father
followed his example. Old Mick had
takea the hint, and said no more upon
the subject There was nothing but
helping of goose, and slices of bacon,
and cutting large smiling potatoes
through the middle, with a dangerous
sound of the knife upon the cloth, un-
til tlie meal was ended.

Then, when the things had been re-
moved, and Tom had made his rouser
to his satisfaction, and his father had
done the same, Tom told him precisely
what had taken place between him
and Winny Cavana.

Old Murdock listened with an at-
tentive stare until his son had told him
alL He then put out his tongue and
made another extraordinary sound, but
very different from the one already
alluded to; and exclaimed, ^ Bad luck
to her impidence, say I !"

^ And I say amen, father."

** Tell me, Tom, do you think that
feDow Lennon is at die bottom of
all this ? Did you put that to her ?"

^I did, father, and she was not a
bit pnzzled or fiustrificated about him.
She spoke of him free and easy;
hot she denied that there was ever

a word between them but common
civility."

"An' maybe it's the thruth, Tom
avic. You'll find anyhow that she'll
change her tune afther her father gets
spakin' to her on the subject. He'll
be as stout as a bull, Tom ; I know
he wilL He tould me he'd never givo
in, and that he'd threaten to cut
her fortun' off, and make over his in-
terest in the land to the church for
charitable purposes, if she tuck up the
smallest notion of that pauper, — that
scullion, he called him. Don't be
down about it, Tom. They say that
wan swallow makes no summer ; an' I
say, wan wild goose makes no winter.
My advice to you now, Tom, is, to
wait a while ; don't be goin' out at all,
neither here nor there for some time.
I'll let on I don't know what can
be the matther with you; an' you'll
see she'll come an' be hoppin' round
you like a pet robin."

" I hope you are right, father, but I
don't think so ; I never saw a woman
more determined in my life — she took
her oath."

"Pshaw, Tom, that's nothin'.
Don't torment yourself about it now ;
mark my words, her father will soon
bring her to her senses."

"1 do not much care whether he
does or does not as to herself; only
for that six hundred pounds, the most
of which I want badly. I would
not envy any man that was tied to
the like of her."

"Arra, Tom jewel, what would
you want wid the most of six hundred
pounds ; sure if you got it itself, you
oughtn't to touch a penny of it."

Tom had not intended to say what
he had said ; it slipped out in his vex-
ation. But here his worldly cunning
and self-possession came to his aid,
and he replied .

"Perhaps not, indeed, father; but
there is a spot of land not far off
which win soon be in die market, I
hear, and it would be no bad spec-
ulation to buy it. I think it would
pay six or seven per cent interest."
Tom knew his father's weakness for

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a bit of land, and was ready
enough.

" Oh, that's a horse of another color,
Tom. Arra, where is it? I didn't
hear of it*'

" No matter now, father. I cannot
get the money, so let me alone about it.
I wish the d — ^1 had the pair of them."

" Whist, whist,- Tom avic ; don't be
talkmg in that w^ay. Sure af it's a
safe purchase for six per cent., the
money might be to be had. Thanks
be to God, we're not behouldin' to
that hussey's dirty drib for money."

Here a new light dawned upon
Tom. Might he not work a few hun-
dreds out of his father in some way or
other for this pretended purchase,
and then say that it would not be
sold after all; and that he had re-
lodged the money, or lost it, or was
robbed — or — or — something ? The
thought was too vague as yet to take
any satisfactory shape; but the re-
sult upon his mind at the moment
was, that his father was too wide
awake to be dealt with in that way.

"Well, father," he said, " I shall be
guided by your advice in this busi-
ness still, although I have done no
good by taking it to-day ; but listen to
me now, father."

"An' welcome, Tom. I like a
young man to have a mind of his own,
an' to be able to strike out a good
plan ; an' then, if my experience isn't
able to back it up, why I spake
plainly an' tell him what I think."

" My opinion is, father, that I ought
to go away out of this place altogether
for a while. You know I am not one
that moping about the house and
garden would answer at all. I must
be out and going about, father, or I'd
lose my senses."

This was well put, both in matter
and manner, and the closing words
told with crowning effect. Tom had
said nothing but the fact; such were
his disposition and habits that he had
scarcely exaggerated the effects of a
close confinement to the premises,
while of sound bodily health.

"Begorra, Tom, what you say is
the rale thruth; What would you
think of going down to your aunt in
Armagh for a start ?"

" No use, father, — ^no use ; I could
be no better there than where I am.
Dublin, father, or the continent, for
a month or six weeks, might do me
some good."

"Bedads, Tom, that id take a
power of money, wouldn't it ?"

"Whether you might think so or
not, father, would depend upon what
you thought my health and happiness
would be worth; here I cannot and
will not stay, that is one sure thing."

"Well, Tom, af she doesn't cum
round in short, afther her father opens
out upon her, we'll talk it over, and see
what you would want ; but my opinion
is, you won't have to make yourself
scarce at all — mind my words."

Here Tom fell into such a silent
train of thought, that all further con-
versation was brought to an end.
Old Mick believed his son to be really
unhappy "about that impideut hus-
sey ;" and having made one or two in-
effectual efforts " to rouse him," he left
him to his meditations.

At the moment they were fixed upori
a few of his father's closing words, " see
what you'll want." " Want— want 1"
he repeated to himself. "A dam' sight
more than youll fork out, old cock."

Old Mick busied himself about the
house, fidgeting in and out of the room
— ^upstairs and downstairs ; while Tom
was silently arranging more than one
programme of matters which must
come off if he would save himself
from ruin and disgrace.

His father had ceased to come into
the room ; indeed his step had not been
heard through the house or on the
stairs for some time, and it was evi-
dent he had gone to bed. But Tom
sat for a full hour longer, with scarcely
a change of position of even hand or
foot. At length, with a sudden sort of
snorting sigh, he stood up, stretched
himself, with a loud and weary moan,
and went to his room.

[TO BX OONTDTUID.]

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MtdaiM RicamitT and Htr Frimdt.

From The Dublin BoTiew.

MADAME R^CAMIER AND HER FRXENDS.

Souvenirs ei Corre^ondance tires des
Papiers de Madame JRecamier,
Paris : Michel L^vj Freres. 1859.

TTe took occasion in our number of
last January to trace the fortunes of
that distinguished ladj who became
consort of the greatest, though not
the best, of the kings of France.
We saw her rise from obscurity to
eminence, without being giddy through
her elevation ; resisting the fascina-
tions of a licentious court; imbibing
celestial wisdom from hidden sources
in proportion to the difficulties of her
position ; exerting great influence
without abusing the delicate trust;
and at length, bowed with age, retir-
ing into the conventual seclusion of
the establishment her piety had rear-
ed, and there breathing her last amid
the love and admiration, the prayers
and blessings, of a thousand friends.

T7e have now another portrait to
hang beside that of Frances de Main-
tenon — the portrait of^one who in^
some respecta resembled her; who,
rising, like her, from an inferior con-
dition, was courted by an emperor,
and betrothed, or all but betrothed, to
a royal prince ; withstood innumera-
ble temptations at a period of bound-
less corruption ; conciliated the esteem
and friendship of the best and wisest
men, and then glided into the vale of
years through the peaceful shade of
the Abbaye-aux-Bois. The first of
these ladies was resplendent in talents,
the second in beauty ; the one ex-
celled in tact, the other in sweetness
and grace ; the one in the sphere of
politics and public life, the other in
the realm of letters and the private
circle. If Madame de Maintenon
was the most admired, Madame Rd-
camier was the most loved. Each
appeared under a sort of disguise, for

one spoke and acted as if she were
not the wife of her dkrn husband, and
the other as if she were the wife of
him who was her husband only in
name. Both have had violent detrac-
tors ; both are best known by their
letters ; and Aus, where they agreed
and where they differed, they remind
us of each other. Of both France is
proud, and both, as years pass on, are
rising into purer and brighter fame.
At the same time it can by no means
be said of Madame R4camier, as it
may most truly of Madame de Main-
tenon, that religion was the one ani-
mating principle of her life ; yet the
facts which we have to recount will
show — not, indeed, that religion sup-
plied her with the main ends of her
existence, but that it enabled her in a
corrupt age to follow the objects of
her choice in habitual submission to
God's actual commandments.

Julie Bernard, the subject of the
present memoir, was bom at Lyons,
on the 4th of December, 1777. Her
father, a notary of that city, was re-
markable for his handsome face and
fine figure, and Madame Bernard was
a noted beauty. She had a passion
for show, and during the long illness
which ended in her death in 1807,
found her chief amusement in dress
and ornaments. When Julie was
seven years old, her father was ap-
pointed to a lucrative post in Paris,
and left his little daughter at Yille-
franche, under the care of an aunt
Here the first of her numberless ad-
mirers, a boy of her own age, made a
deep impression on her susceptible
mind, and here, too, she received her
earliest education in the convent of
La D^erte. The memory of that
hallowed spot, its clouds of incense,
its processions in the garden, its
hymns and fiowcrs, abode with her,

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she said, through life like a sweet
dream, and to the lessons there taught
she ascribed her retention of the faith
amid the host of sceptical opinions
she encountered in after years. It
was not without regret and tears that
she bade farewell to the abbess and
sisters, and turned her face toward
Paris and the attractions of her pa-
rents' home. Nothing but accomplish-
ments were thought of to complete her
education. The brilliant capital was
to supersede the " D^serte " in her af-
fections, and her mother took great
pains to make Juliette as frivolous as
herself. Her chief attention was given
to music, she was taught to plaj the
harp and piano by the firat artists,
and took lessons in singing f^'om
Boleldieu. This was a real gain,
though in a different way from that
which was intended. We shall see
further on how the skill thus acquired
was afterward employed in the service
of religion, and how the habit of play-
ing pathetic airs and pieces soothed
many a sad moment when she was
old and blind.

Her first contact with royalty was
by accident Her mother had taken
her to see a grand banquet at Ver-
sailles, to which, as in the days of
Louis XIV., the public were admitted
as spectators. Juliette was very
beautiful, and the queen, struck by her
appearance, sent one of her ladies to
ask that she might retire with the
royal family. Madame Royale was
just of the same age as Juliette, aud
the two children were mci^ured to-
gether. Madame Boyale also was a
beauty, and not over-pleased, it seems,
by this close comparison with a girl
taken out of a crowd. How little
could either foresee the strange for-
tunes that awiuted the other !

Madame Bernard, with her love of
display, took a pride also in gathering
clever men around her. Laharpe,
Lemontey, Barrere, and other mem-
bers of the legislative assembly, fre-
quented her drawing-room, and M.
Jacques Rdcamier, an eminent banker
of Paris, and son of a merchant at

Lyons, was a constant guest. His
character was easy and jovial ; he
wrote capital letters, spouted Latin,
made plenty of money, spent it fast,
and was often the dupe of his generos-
ity and good humor. He had always
been kind to Juliette, and had given
her heaps of playthings. When,
therefore, in 17^3, he asked her hand
in marriage, she consented without
any repugnance, though Madame Ber-
nard explained to her the incon-
veniences which might arise from
their disparity of age, habits, and
tastes — ^^I. R^camier being forty-two
and Juliette only fifteen. The wed-
ding took place ; but their union is a
mystery which has never been solved
with certainty. To her nominal hus-
band she was never anything but a
daughter. Her niece, Madame Le-
normant, says she can only attest the
fact,, which was well known to all inti-
mate friends, but that she is not bound
{charges) to explain it. Madame

M , another biographer, believes, .

as did many beside, that she was in
reality M. K^camier's daughter; that,
living, as every one did during the
reign of terror, in fear of the guillo-
tine, he wished to be able to leave her
his fortune in case of his death, and,
in the meantime, to place her in a
splendid position ; that Madame B^
camier, niade aware of her real pa-
rentage, would of course be the last
to reveal and publish her mother's
shame ; and that this story, care-
fully borne in mind, explains all the
anomalies of her life.

To this strange alliance, however,
is due the formation of the most re-
markable literary salon of the present
age. It represented more perfectly
than any other those of the H6tel
Rambouillet and of Madame de Sabl^
in the seventeenth century ; of Ma-
dame Geoffrin, Madame d'Houdetot,
and Madame Suard, in the eight-
eenth ;* and it surpassed in solid at-
tractions those of Madame de Stael at
Coppet, and of Madame d'Albany of

« " C<tuHti«9 du Xufufi," par SAinte-Bewt.
Tomet, pp. 114,116.

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Florence, of which it was the contem-
porarj. She was herself its life, and
diffused over it a charm no biographer
can seize. So jonng and fair, so fas-
cinating jet so innocent, she riveted
every gaze, and attracted all hearts
without yielding to any. Like the
coloring of a landscape which changes
every hour, she defied description, and
found no adequate reflex save in the
fond esteem and faithful memory of
those who knew her. Yet her near-
est and dearest friends felt that she
was above them ; and it might be said
of her, as Saint^Simon said of the
Duchess de Bonrgogne, that she walk-
ed like a goddess on clouds. Her
beauty made her popular, and she was
talked of everywhere ; for the Paris-
ians at this time, like refined pagans,
affected the worship of beauty under
every form. She seemed, therefore,
by general consent, to have a natural
mission to restore society, which a se-
ries of revolutions had completely dis-
organized, and her power of drawing
people together and harmonizing what
party politics had unstrung, became
more apparent every day. By birth
she belonged to the people, bj tastes
and manners to the aristocracy, and
had thus a double hold over those
who, with republican principles, were
fast returning to early associations of
rank and order.

It was a happy day 'when the
churches were re-opened in Paris,
and the sod swelling notes of the
SaluJtarU Hostia filled the crowded
tanes once more. It was as the paean
of the faithful over the scattered army
of unbelief. Madame B6camier was
in request. She held the plate for
some charitable object at Saint-Roch,
and collected the extraordinary sum
of 20,000f. The two gentlemen who
attended her could scarcely cleave. a
way for her through the crowd. Peo-
ple mounted on chairs, on pillars, and
the altars of the side chapels, to see
her. In these days, dancing was her
delight She was the first to enter
the ball-room, and the last to quit it
But this did not last long. She soon

VOL. n. 6

gave up the shawl-dance, for which
she was famous, though nothing could
be more correct and picturesque than
the movements she executed while,
with a long scarf in her hands, she
made it by turns a sash, a veil, and
a drapery — drooping, fluctuating,
gliding, attitudinizing, with matchless
taste. Her reign was absolute. In
the promenades of Longchamps, no
carriage was watched like hers ; and
every voice pronounced her the fairest
Twice only in her life did she meet
Bonaparte, and to most persons in her
position and at that period those mo-
ments would have proved fatal. His
eye was as keen for female charms as
for weak points in the enemy's line.
He saw her first in 1797, during a
triumphal i§te given at the Luxem-
bourg palace in his honor. He had
just returned from his marvellous
campaign in Italy and genius was
reaping the laurels too seldom be-
stowed on solid worth. Madame B4-
camier was not insensible to his mili-
tary prowess. She stood up to ob-
serve his features more plainly, and a
long murmur of admiration filled the
hall The young conqueror turned
his head impatiently. Who dared to
divide public attention with the hero
of Castiglione and Rivoli ? He darted
a harsh glance at his rival, and she
sank into her seat But the beautiful
vision rested in his memory. He saw
her once again, about two years later,
and spoke with her. It was at a ban-
quet given by his brother Lucien,
then minister of the interior. Ma-
dame Becamier as usual was all in
white, with a necklace and bracelets
of pearls. The First Consul paid her
marked attention, and his words,
though insignificant in themselves,
meant more than met the ear. His
manners, however, were simple and
pleasing, and he held a little girl of
four years old, his niece, by the hand.
He chid Madame Becamier for not
sitting next him at dinner, fixed his
gaze on her during the music, sent
Fouch4 to express to her his admiring
regard, and told her himself that he

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should like to yisit her at CL'chj.
But Juliette, though respectful, was
discreet. Time flowed on ; Napoleon
became emperor, and from the giddy
height of the imperial throne bethought
him of the incomparable lady in
white. He had a double conquest to
make. Her chUteau was the resort of
emigrant nobles who had returned to
France, and whose sympathies were
all with the past. To break up her
circle, to gain her over to his interests,
to enhance by her presence the
splendor of his dissolute court, were
objects well worthy of his plotting,
ambitious, and unscrupulous nature.
Fouch^ was again employed as
tempter. He remonstrated with her
on the species of opposition to the em-
peror's policy which was fostered in
her salons, but found her little dis-
posed to make concessions, or avow
any liking for the despot His genius-
and exploits, she admitted, had daz-
zled her at first, but her sentiments
had entiitely changed since her friends
had been persecuted, the Due d'£n-
ghein put to death, and Madame de
Stael driven into exile. In spite of
these frank avowals, which were
equally respectful and fearless, Fouch^
persisted in his design, and in the
park around Madame B^camier's ele-
gant retreat, urged her, in the em-
peror's name, to accept the post of
dame du palats to the empress. His
majesty had never yet found a wo-
man worthy of him, and it was im-
possible to say how deep might be his
affection for one like her ; how whole-
some an influence she might exert
over him; what services she might
render to the oppressed of all classes ;
and how much she migiit ^'enlighten
the emperor's religion!*' Madame
Murat, to her shame, seconded these
proposals, and expressed her earnest
desire that Madame B6camier should
be attached to her household, which
was now put on the same footing as
that of thQ empress. To these reiter-
ated advances, Madame Bdcamier
returned the most decided refusal,
•alleging, by way of courtesy, her love

of independence as the cause. At last,
foiled and irritated, Foucht — the
Mephistopheles of the piece— quitted
CUchy, never to return.

The consular episode in Madame
R^camier's life has made us anticipate
some important events. We must re-
turn to i^e first years of her marriage.
It was in 1798 Ihat some negotiations
between her husband and M. Necker,
the ex-minister of Louis XVL, brought
her in contact with that statesman's
celebrated daughter, Madame de
StaeL At their first interview a
sympathy sprung up between the two
ladies, which ended in a lasting friend-
ship. Madame Ricamier lived in her
friends, and her circle was a host ever
increasing, for she always talked much
and fondly of the friends of former
years. She could say, like the Cid,
" five hundred of my friends." Yet
she had her degrees of attachment.
They were, to use the beautiful simile
of Hafiz, like the pearls of a neck-
lace, and she the silken cord on which
they lay. The chief of this &vored
circle were four — ^Madame de Stael
among womankind, and for the rest
Chateaubriand, Ballanche, and Mont-
morency.

M. Necker's hdtel in the Rue du
Mont-Blanc having been purchased by
M. Ricamier, no cost was spared in
its decoration. It was a model of ele-
gance, and every object of furniture
down to the minutest ornament was
designed and executed expre3sly for
it. Here the opulent husband was in-
stalled, whil» the fair hostess held her
court at the chateau of Clichy. M.
Rucamier dined with her daily, and in
the evening returned to Paris. No
political distinction prevailed in her
assemblies, but the restored emigrants
were peculiarly welcome. Like Ma-
dame de Stael, Chateaubriand, and al-
most all reflective persons in our age,
she thought monarchy had better be
limited by a parliament than, as Tal-
leyrand said, by assassination. Yet
revolutionary generals and military
dukes gathered round her, side by side
with the Dae de Guignes, Adrlen and

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Maihiea de Montmorencj, and other
representatives of the fsdlen aristoc-
racy. In her presence they forgot
their difference at least for awhile,
and lost insensibly the asperity of
party prejudice. /

Due ]VL&thieu de Montmorency was
Madame Recamier^s senior by seven-
teen years. He had served in Amer-
ica in the regiment of Anvergne, of
which his father was colonel, and on.
his return to France abandoned him-
self to all the pleiisures and fashions
of the world. His residence in the
land of Fenn and Washington had
imbaed him with republican notions,
which he shared with a clique of
yoang noblemen like himself. Such
persons, as is well known, were among
the earhest victims of the revolution
they hurried on. Due Mathieu emi-
grated in 1792, and soon afi;erward
learned in Switzerland that his broth-
er, the Abb6 de Laval, whom he ten-
derly loved, had been beheaded. Re-
morse fiUed his breast, and drove him
almost to madness. He charged him-
self with his brother's death. It was
he who had proposed in the states
general the abolition of the privileges
of nobility, approved the sequestra-
tion of church property, and strength-
eaed the hands of Mirabeau and the
power of that assembly which paved
the way for regicide and the reign of
terror. Madame de Stael was his in
timate friend. She had shared his
political enthusiasm, and did all in her
power to sootfie him. But religion
alone oould pour balm into his smart-
ing wounds. His conversion was com-
plete and lasting. The impetuous,
seductive, and frivolous young man
became known to ail as a fervent and
strict Christian. Sainte-Beuve speaks
of him as a ^ saint.** Extreme deli-
cacy of language indicated the inward
discipline he underwent ; while the
warmth of his feelings and the solidity
of his judgment inspired at the same
time confidence and regard. His
friendship for Madame de Stagl con-
tmaed, though their religious convio-
tiooB diffeied, and he was alive to the

imperfections of her character. He
hoped one day to see hsr triumph
over herself, and his solicitude for
Madame R6camier was eoual, though
in another way. Over her ne watched
continually like a loving parent. He
trembled lest she should at last fall a
victim to the gay world which so much
admired her, and which she sought to
please. To shine without sinning is
difficult indeed. Montmorency's let-
ters prove the depth and purity of his
affection. His intimacy with his amior
Ue ande lasted unbroken during seven-
and-twenty years, and ended only with
his death.

Montmorency's death was the fitting
sequel of a holy and useful life. It
happened in 1826. He had recently
been elected one of the forty of the
French Academy, and had also been
appointed governor to the Due de Bor-
deaux, the grandson and heir of
Charles X. He had gone to the
church of St. Thomas d'Aquin on
Good Friday, apparently in perfect
health, and was kneeling before the
altar and the ^ faithful cross on which
the world's salvation hung," when his
head bowed lower, and in a moment
the bitterness of death was past

Laharpe was another distinguished
man to be numbered among the lovers
of Madame R^camier's society. He
had known her from a child, and when
his exquisite taste in literature had
obtained for him the title of the
French Quintilian his regard was not
lessened for one whose reputation was
as flourishing as his own. He passed
weeks at Clichy, and when he re-
opened his course of lectures on
French literature at the Athenasum
she had a place reserved for her near
his chair. The letters she received
from him are equally affectionate and
respectful. He too had been con-
verted through the excesses of that
revolution which he had in the first
instance encouraged. After suffering
imprisonment in 1794, his ideas and
conduct underwent a total change, and
he resolved to devote his pen for the
rest of his days to the service of re-

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ligion. The energy vith which he de-
nounced ^< philosophers" and dema-
gogues drew upon him proscription,
and it was only by concealing himself
that he escaped being transported. Of
,all revolutions, that of France in the
last century has, by the horror it ex-
cited and the reaction it produced,
tended more than any other to consol-
idate monarchy, discredit scepticism,
and promote the salvation of souls.
It is a beacon-fire kindled to warn na-
tions of the rocks and shoals — the
faults of rule and the crimes of mis-
rule — by which society may suddenly
be broken up and civilization retarded.

Montmorency was a statesman,
Laharpe a man of letters ; let us now
turn to another friend of Madame R^
camier's, who from a private soldier
rose to be a king and leave a dynasty
behind him. This was Bernadotte.
In 1802, M. Bernard was postmaster-
general, and suspected of complic'ity
in a royalist correspondence that men-
aced the government. Madame R^-
camier was one day enterta'n'ing a few
guests at dinner, and Eliza Bonaparte,
afterward Grand Duchess of Tuscany,
was present by her own invitation.
On rising from table a note was
placed in the hands of the hostess an-
nouncing the arrest and imprisonment
of M. Bernard. To whom should she
have recourse at such a moment but
to tiie First Consul's sister? She
must see him, she said, that very
evening. Would Madame Bacciocchi
procure her an interview? The prin-
cess was cold. She would advise Ma-
dame K^camier to see Fouch^ first.
" And where shall I find you again,
madam, if I do not succeed?" asked
Madame R^camier. ^ At the Th^tre
Fran^aig," was the reply ; ** in my box
with my sister."

Nothing could be gained from
Fouch^ except the alarming informa-
tion that the afiair was a very serious
one, and that unless Madame R^ca-
mier could see the First Consul that
night it would be too late. In the ut-
most consternation she drove to the
Th^tre to remind Madame Baodoo-

chi of her promise. •'My father is
lost," she said, '' unless I can speak
with the Fii-stConsul to-night." "Well,
wait till the tragedy is over," rephed
the princess, with an air of indif
ference, '' and then I shall be at your
service." Happily there was one in
the box whose dark eyes, fixed 6a the
agonized daughter, expressed clearly
the interest he felt in her position.
He leant forward, and explaining tD
the princess that Madame R^camier
appeared quite ill, offered to conduct
her to the chief of the government
Madame Bacciocchi readily assented,
and gladly resigned the suppliant to
Bemadotle's charge. Again and
again he promised to obtain that
the proceedings against M. Bernard
should be stopped, and repaired im-
mediately to the Tuileries. The same
night he returned to Madame R^ca-
mier, who was counting the moments
till he re-appeared. His suit had
been successful, and he soon aRer
procured the prisoner's release. Ma-
dame Recamler accompanied him to
the Temple on the day M. Bernard
was delivered. He was deprived of
4iis post, for, though pardoned, he
had undoubtedly been guilty of a trea-
sonable correspondence with the Chou^
ans.

This was the foundation of Bcrna-
dotte's friendship with Madame Reca-
mier. "Neither time," he wrote to
her, when adopted by Charles XIII.,
as his son and heir — " neither time nor
northern ice will ever cool my regard
for you." He had many noble quali*
ties, and did much for Sweden. We
could forgive him for joining the coa-
lition against France, if he had not
embraced Lutheranism for the sake of
a crown.

During the short peace of Amiens,
in 1802, Madame Rdcamier visited
England, where she received the kind-
est attentions from the Diichesa o(
Devonshire, Lord Douglas, tlie
Prince of Wales, and the Due d'Or-
leans, afterward king of the French.
Those who can refer to the Eng^Usli
newspapers of that year will find that

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Madame Rjicamier and Her Friends,

all the movements of the Deautiful
stranger were regularly gazetted.

But where is Madame de Stael?
In the autumn of 1803 she was exiled
by Bonaparte, who feared her talents
and disliked her politics. As the
daughter of Necker and the friend
of limited monarchy, she was particu-
larly obnoxious to one who represented
both democracy and absolutism. Ma-
dame R^camier, with her habitual gen-
erosity, offered her an asylum at Clichy,
which she accepted, under the impres-
sion that her further removal from
Paris would not be insisted on. Junot,
afterward the Due d'Abrantes, their
mutual friend, interested himself in
her behalf, but without success. Her
sentence of exile was confirmed ; she
was not to approach within forty
leagues of the capital. So she wan-
dered through Gfermany, and collect-
ed materials for her " AUemaffne" and
** Dix annees d'JSxtL" At Weimar she
studied German literature under
Goethe, Wieland, and Schiller, and in
1805 held her court at Coppe^ in the
Canton de Vaud. Here occurred, as
we shall presently see, one of the
moat singular episodes in Madame
Rdcamier's life. She, with Madame
de Stael in Switzerland, and Madame
d' Albany in Florence, divided the em-
pire of literary salons on the conti-
nent ; and each of these ladies felt in
turn the weight of the despot of Eu-
rope's sceptre.* In 1810 the writer of
" Coritm^ became the guest of Mathieu
de Montmorency, near Blois, and
within the prescribed distance from
Paris. In the chateau of Catherine
de Medici she collected round her a
few friends, who were fearless of an-
noyance and exile. But her work on
Germany abounded with allusions to
the imperial police. The whole edi-
tion of ten thousand copies was seized,
and she received an order from the
Due de Rovigo to return immediately
to Switzerland Madame B^camier,
faithful and courageous, followed her,
though timid advisers prophesied that

*J*OonUeue d' Albany,'' par M. St B^ne TaU-
ludier, p. S».

no good would come of such impru-
dence. She stayed there only a day
and a half, and then pursued her way
in haste to Paris. But the sentence
of exile had already gone forth against
her. The calm and religious Duke
Mathieu had just before expiated in
like manner ^e crime of visiting the
illustrious exile. Her book on Geiv
many did not contain a line directly
against the emperor; but it was
enough that the authoress's heart beat
with the pulsea of rational freedom,
and the Corsican's tyranny became
minute in proportion to the territory
pver which it spread. Thus the
ladies, who so loved each other, were
not only exiled, but separated. Rivers
rolled and Alps rose between them ;
lest, perchance, they should com-
bine their elegant and harmless pur-
suits.

The limits allowed us in 4;his article
do not admit of our tracing the events
of Madame B6camier's Hfe in strict
chronological order, and bringing out
by degrees the character and his-
tory of her several friends. Each of
them in turn will lead us away from
the main thread of our story, and we
hope that our readers will follow us
with indulgence when we are obliged
to take it up again rather awkwardly.
We cannot do otherwise than mass to-
gether many things which had better
be kept apart.

One day, in the autumn of 1806,
Monsieur R6camier brought some dis-
mal news to Clichy. The financial
condition of Spain and her colonies,
combined with other untoward events,
had placed his bank in such jeopardy
that, unless the government could be
induced to advance him £40,000 on
good security, he must stop payment
within two days. A large party had
been invited to dinner ; and the host-
ess, suppressing her emotions with ex-
traordinary self-command, did the hon-
ors of her house in a manner calcu-
lated to obviate alarm. It was n
golden opportunity for imperial ven-
geance, and it was not lost All aid
£x>m tiie Bank of France was re-

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fused, and the much-envied Maison
Recamier was made over, with all its
liabilities, to the hands of its creditors.
So cruel a reverse was enough to (17
the fortitude of the most Christian.
Nor was Madame Recamier found
wanting m that heroic quality. Indeed,
there are few women who, taken all
in all, would serve better to enforce
Eliza Famham's ingenious arguments
for the superiority of her sex.* While
her husband's spirit was almost broken
under the blow, she calmly, if not
cheerfully, sold her last jewel, and
occupied a small apartment on the
ground floor of her splendid mansion.
The rest of the house was let to
Prince Pignatelli, and ultimately sold.
The French have their faults — ^great
faults; what nation has not? — ^but let
us do them the justice to say that in
their friendships they are faithful.
The poor wife of the ruined banker
was as much honored and courted by
them in her adversity as she had been
when surrounded with every luxury
and every facility for hospitable enter-
tainments. Let those who would form
an idea of the sympathy expressed by
her friends read that touching letter
of Madame de Stael which Chateau-
briand has preserved.t The opulent
and gay, the learned, the brilliant, the
serious, came in troops to that garden
of the hotel in (he Rue du Mont
Blanc, where the unsullied and queenly
rose was bending beneath the storm.
The jealous emperor, at the head of
his legions in Germany, heard of the
interest she excited; for Junot, just
returned from Paris, could not refrain
from reporting at length what he had
seen. But Napoleon interrupted him
with impatience, saying, ^ The widow
of a field-marshal of France, killed
on the battle-plain, would not receive
such honors !" And why should she?
Is there no virtue but that of valor ?
Are there no conquests but those of
the sword ?

The trial which Juliette bore so pa-
tiently was fatal to her mother. Ma-

• " Woman and Her TBra." S toU. New York,
t In tlie ^^Mimoirt$ if Outn-Tombi:'

dame Bernard's health had long been
declining; laid on a couch, and ele-
gantly attired, she received visits
daUy ; but her strength gave way al-
together when her daughter feU from
her high estate. She little knew that
Madame R6camier was on the very
point of having a royal prince for her
suitor. Only three months after the
failure of the bank Madame Bernard
passed away, deeply lamented by her
loving daughter, whom filial piety
made blind or indulgent to her imper-
fections.

Prince Augustus of Prussia was a
nephew of Frederick the Great.
Chivalrous, brave, and handsome, he
united very ardent feelings with can-
dor, loyalty, and love, of his country.
He had, in October, 1806, been made
prisoner at the battle of Saalfeld,
where his brother. Prince Louis, had
fallen fighting at his side. The
mourning he still wore added to his
dignity, and the society and scenery
in the midst of which Madame Re-
camier first met him, deepened the
charm of his presence and devoted
attentions.

It was in 1807, on the banks of
the lake of Geneva, hallowed to the
thoughtful mind by so many historic
associations, and encircled by all the
gorgeous loveliness of which nature is
so lavish in the valley/s of the Alps.
There in the chateau of Madame de
Stael, Juliette listened during three
months to his earnest conversation,
and heard him propose that she
should be his bride. Her marriage
with M. Recamier presented no real
difficulty ; it was a civil marriage only ;
t£e peculiar case was one in which
the Catholic Church admits of declara-
tion of nullity ; and for which, in Prol>-
estant Germany, legal divorce could
very easily be obtained. Madame de
Stael's imagination was kindled by
this romantic incident, and &he did
not fail to second the prince's suit.
Juliette herself was fully alive to tho
honors that were proposed her. It
was no impoverished refugee that
sought her hand. Though a prisoner

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Madame Bicamier and Her IHends,

for the moment, he vould, doubtless,
BOOQ be set at liberty, and he was as
proud as anj of his exalted rank.
Yielding, therefore, to the sentiments
he inspired, Madame Becamier
wrote to her husband to ask his con*
sent to a separation. This he could
not refiise; but, while granting it,
lie seems to have appealed to her
feelings with a degree of earnestness
which profoundly touched her heart
He had, he said, been her friend firom
childhood ; and, if she must form an-
other union, he trusted it would not
take place in Paris, nor even in
France. His letter turned the cur-
rent of her desires. She thought of
his long kindness, his age, his mis-
fortune, and resolved not to abandon
him. Religious considerations maj
also have weighed with her, for
Prince Augustus did not hold the true
&ith. He had, moreover, two natural
daughters, the countesses of Walden-
burg, and. this circumstance also may
have indisposed her to the match.*
He had, as she once said, many fancies.
Would a morganatic marriage bind
his - wandering heart, or could she
endure the pain of being expatriated
for ever? They parted without any
definite engagement, but he repaired
to Berlin to obtain his fiunily's con-
sent Madame Recamier returned to
Paris; and, though she declined the
honor of his hand on the ground of
her responding imperfectly to his
affection, she sent him her portrait,
which he treasured till the day of his '
death. A ring which she also gave
him was buried with him, and they
never ceased while on earth to cor-
respond in terms of the warmest
friendship. In 1815 the prince en-
tered Paris with the victorious legions
of allied Europe, having written to his
friend from every city ^t he entered ;
and in 1825 tiiey had their last in-
terview in the Abbaye-aux-Bois.

We must now follow her into exile.
It was in the latter part of 1811 that
she took up her abode in the dreary

* M MAdame Btaualer," by Mftdama M-^^

town of Ch&lons-sur-Mame, which
happened to be just as far from Paris
as she was requu^3d to live, and no
further. The prefect wa^ an amiable
man, and retained his post during
forty years, enjoying the confidence of
each government in succession. But
that which alleviated most the dulness
of ChAlons was its neighborhood to
many beloved friends, partlculariy
Montmorency. In June, 1812, how-
ever, she quitted it for Lyons, being
unwilling to compromise those* who
were most ready to console her in
exile. Many a ch&teau round had
claimed the happiness of entertaining
her; but to be kind to those who are
suspected is always to draw suspicion
on one's self. Renouncmg many de*
lights within her reach, she had
sought one of the purest in playing
the organ in the parish church, both
during the week and on Sundays at
high mass and yespers. She did the
same at Aibano during her stay there
in the ensuing year.

Italy, and above all Rome, attracts
sooner or later whatever is most culti-
vated in mind and taste. Thither, in .
1813, Madame Recamier turned her
steps. She was attended by her niece
and her maid. Montmorency accom-
panied her as far as Chambery, and
her carriage was well supplied with
books, which M. Ballanche had se-
lected to beguile the tedium of the
way. This gentleman was the son .
of a printer at Lyons, and his genius
became his fortune. His prose writ-
ings were considered a model of style,
and ultimately obtained him a place in
the French Academy. Neglecting
subjects of the day, he unifomdy in-
dulged his fondness ifbr abstract specu-
lation, and in several works ingeniously
set forth his ideas on the progress
of mankind through alternate periods
of revival and decay.* He was pro-
foundly Christian at heart, but coupled
his belief in the fall and redemption
with peculiar notions respecting hu-
man perfectibility. His mind was

* *' iTutUutiont Sociaiet,'' laiS. "JPalinghiasie

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Madame Ricamier and Ber Friendt.

dreamy, his sjetem mystical, bat he
realized intensely the .existence of
things unseen, and declared that ^ he
was more sure of the next world than
of this present." He mistrusted, in-
deed, the reality of material phenom-
ena, and rested in the thought of two,
and two only, luminously self-evident
beings, himself and his creator. But
genius is a dangerous gift to the stu-
dent of theology, and perhaps Bal-
lanche would have been more sound if
he had been less clever. From the
moment he saw Madame Bdcamier,
'he became ardently attached to her
society. Her praise was his richest
reward, and the prospect of reading
his essays and poems to her more
than doubled the pleasure of composing
them. The first time he conversed
with her a curious incident occurred.
After getting over the difficulty he ex-
perienced in talking on ordinary top-
ics, he had risen to a higher strain,
and expatiated in glowing language on
philosopliical and literary subjects,
till Madame Recamicr, who had for
some time been much incommoded by
the smell of the detestable blacking
with which his shoes had been cleaned,
was obliged to tell him timidly tliat
she really could not bear it any longer.
M. Ballanche apologized humbly, left
the room, and, returning a minute
later without bis shoes, took up the
conversation where he had dropped it,
and was soon in the clouds again.
But his shoes were not his only draw-
back. He was hideously ugly, and
that by a cruel mijhap. A charlatan,
like the one who practiced upon Scar-
ron, had prescribed such violent reme-
dies for his headaches that his jaw
had become carious, and a part of
it was removed by trepanning. A
terrible inroad was made on one of
his cheeks by this operation ; but his
magnificent eyes and lofty forehead
redeemed his uncomely traits, and
amid all his awkwardness and timidity
his friends always discerned an ex-
pression of tenderness and often a
kind of inspiration breathing from his
face. Madame Recamier's taXents

were of a high order, for she conkL
appreciate those of others. She soon
forgot Ballanche's shoes, forgot his
ungainly movements and ghastly de-
formity, and fixed her gaze on that
inner man which was all nobility and
gentleness, glowing with poetry, and
steeped in the dews of Hermon. Let
us leave him now at Lyons ; we shall
meet him again befgre long. -

There was a vast and dreary city
toward the south of Italy which had
once been called Rome. It was now
the capital of 'the department of the
Tiber. Without the Caesars or the
Pope, it was Rome no more. No for*
eigners thronged its streets and fanes,
its prelates were scattered, and its
scanty inhabitants looked sullenly on
the Frank soldiers who turned its pal-
aces and sanctuaries into barracks.
Hither came Madame Recamier, and
her apartment in the Corso was soon
hailed as an oasis in the wilderness.
All the strangers in the deserted cap-
ital, and many of the Romans, paid
their court to this queen of society ;
and Canova, one of the few stars left
in the twilight, visited her every even-
ing, and wrote to her every morning.
He chiselled her bust as no hand but
his could chisel it, and seized ideal
beauty while copying what was before
him. He called it ^ Beatrice,'* and it
was worthy of the name. Ballanche,
too, came all the way from Lyons to
visit the universal favorite. He trav-
elled night and day, and could remain
at Rome only one week. The very
evening of his arrival Madame Reca-
mier began to do the honors of tlie
Eternal City. Three carriages full
of friends drove from her house to St
Peter's and the Coliseum, where they
all alighted. Ballanche moved sol-
emnly, with his hands beside him,
overpowered by the grandeur of all
around. On a sudden his parfaiie
amie looked back. He was not with-
out his shoes this time, but without
his hat. ^^M. Ballanche," she said,
"where is your hat?" "Ah!" re-
plied the philosopher, " I have lefl it
at Alexandria.*' And so it '

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MadoBtM RicamMT cmd Her IHends^

MLe did liis thoughts dwell on exter-
nal life.

From Borne the travellers proceed-
ed to Naples. A cordial welcome
awaited Madame R^camier from Car-
ohiie Bonaparte, whom she had known
<rf old. A page from the royal pal-
ace brought her a magnificent basket
of fruit and flowers immediatelj on
her arrival, and she soon became the
confidante of both king and queen.
Joachim Murat sat on a usurped
throne, and was reaping the bitter
fraits of a false position. Duty bound
him to Napoleon, interest to the allies.
First he was perfidious to his master,
next to his colleagues. One day he
entered his wife's saloon in great agi-
tation, and finding Madame R^camier,
avowed to her that he had signed the
coalition. He then asked her opinion
of his act, taking it for granted that it
woald be favorable. But, though not
an imperialist, she was a Frenchwo-
man. " Sire !" she replied, " you are
French, and to France you should be
^thfuL'' Murat turned pale. "I
am a traitor then,'* he exclaimed^ and,
opening the window in haste, pointed
to the British fleet sailing into the
hay. Then burying his face in his
hands, he sunk upon a sofa and wept.
The year afler,' faithless alike to
Europe and to the empire, a tempest
cast him on the shore of Pizzo, and
he was taken and shot like a brigand.

A dense crowd was collected in the
Piazza del Popolo to see the entry of
PiusVEL, after the Apollyon of king-
doms had been sent to Elba. The
Boman nobles and gentleman headed
the procession, and their sons drew
the pontiff's cairiage. In it he knelt,
with his hair nnsilvered by age, and
his fine face expressing deep humility.
His band was extended to bless his
people, but his head bowed before the
almighty disposer of human events.
It was the triumph of a confessor
rather than of a sovereign— ^f a prin-
ciple, not of a person. Never did
such a rain of tears fall on the marble
paving at St. Peter^s as when at last
he tnaveiBed the church and prostrat-

ed himself before the altar over the
tomb of the apostles. Then the Te
Deum rose and echoed through those
gorgeous arches, and Madame Reca-
mier was not insensible to the affect-
ing scene. Before leaving Rome the
second time, she paid a farewell visit
to General Mioliis, who had com-
manded the French forces. He was
extremely touched by this civility, and
received her in a villa he had bought,
and which still bears his name. He
was quite alone, with tm old soldier
for liis servant. She was, he said,
the only person who had called upon
him since he had ceased to govern
Rome.

After three years' absence she
returned to Paris, and, still radumt
with beauty and overflowing with
gladness, resumed her undisputed em-
pire over polite society. Her husband
had regained his lost ground, and was
again a prosperous banker, while she
possessed in her own right a fortune
inherited from her mother. The res*
toration of Louis XVIII. had changed
the face of her salon and of society in
general. Her friends were once more
in power, ^d those who had vexed
her and them were banished or forgot-
ten.- The Duke of Wellington often
visited her, and she presented him to
Queen Hortense. He shocked her,
however, after the battle of Waterloo,
by saying of Napoleon, "I have well
beaten him P She had no love for
the ex-emperor ; but France was her
country, and she cou]4 not exult over
its defeat. Her niece declares that
Wellington was not fr^e from intoxi-
cation with his success, and that noth-
ing but the indignant murmurs of the
pit prevented him from entering the
royal box with his aides-de-camp.*
Madame de Stael died in 1817, and
her friend, Mathieu de Montmorency,
gathered up with piety and hope
every indication of a religious spirit
which she had left behind. She never
raised her eyes to heaven without
thinking of hun, and she believed that

• ''Sowoenira de Madame Sioamier,'' toL L,
P.96S.

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Madame Eecamier and Her Friends.

in his prayers his spirit answered
hers.* Prayer, she wrote, was the
bond which united all religious beings
in one, and the life of the soul. Sin
and suffering were inseparable, and
she had never done wrong without fall-
ing into trouble. During the long
sleepless nights of her last illness she
repeated constantly the Lord's prayer
to calm her mind, and she learned
to enjoy the '^Imitation of Jesus
Christ.'*

The void she left in Madame R^ca-
mier's circle was filled by one whose
writings were, the talk and admiration
of Europe. This was Chateaubriand.
Professor Robertson has lately brought
him very agreeably to our remem-
brance in his able and interesting lec-
tures on modem history. The Due de
Moailles, that contemporary, as he has
been called, of Louis XIY., pro-
nounced his eulogy when taking
his place in the French Academy,
and he has left us his biography in
the most charming form in which that
of any one can be read, viz., written
by himself. The portrait a man
draws of himself in writing rarely de-
ceives ; for the very attempt to falsify
would betray the real character.
Chateaubriand's vanity escapes him
in his memoirs as frequently ajs it did
in his conversation, yet there cannot
be a d(itibt that he had great qualities,
and hajs built himself an enduring
name. That extreme refinement of
thought which is inseparable from ge-
nius makes him difficult to appreciate,
and the phases of society through
which he passed were so conflicting
as to be fatal to the consistency of al-
most all public men. Yet he was on
the whole faithful through life to his
first principles. At one time he de-
fended monarchy, at another freedom,
pleading most eloquently for that
which for the moment seemed most in
danger. He knew the value of their
mutual support, and, like all who move
on a double line, he was often misun-
derstood. Bom of an ancient and no-

ble fiunily, he chose at the same time
the profession of arts and arms. The
popular excesses of 1791 drove him
from Paris, and he embarked for
America. There, in the immense fo-
rests and savannas of Canada and the
Floridas, often living among savages,
he stored up materials for his early
romances, and acquired that grandeur
and depth of coloring in descriptions
of natural scenery for which he is so
remarkable. He was near the tropics,
in the land of the fire-fiy and humming-
bird, when he heard of the flight of
Louis XVL and his arrest at Ya-
rennes. Hastening back to rejoin the
standard of his royal master, he again
took arms, and was seriously wound-
ed at the siege of Thionville. From
Jersey he was transported to London,
where he lived in extreme want,
taught French, and translated for
publishers. Here, too, he produced
his first work, which was tainted with
the infidelity of the day. The death
of his pious mother recalled him to a
better mind, and awakened in him a
train of thought which issued at
length in the ** Genie du Christian-
isme/* " Atala** and " jRcnc," likewise
under the form of romance, serving
as episodes to his great work, avenged
the cause of religion, and powerfully
aided in producing a reaction in favor
of Christianity. The First Consul
haUed the rising star, and attached
him as secretary to Cardinal Fesch's
embassy at Rome. Li 1804 he had
just been appomted to represent
France in the republic of Yalius,
when he heard of the odious execution
of the Due d'Fnghien, and immediate-
ly sent in his resignation. He could
serve a mler who had brought order
out of chaos, but not an assassin.
From that day he never ceased to be
hostile to the empire. After wander-
ing, as Ampere did later, along the
classic shores of Greece and the mon-
uments of Egypt, and kissmg the foot-
prints of his Redeemer on the mount
of Calvary, he returned to France,
and in the Yallee^ux-Loups compos-
ed his prose poem, the ^ Martyrs," in

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Madame Sicamier and Her Friends.

wliich, as in « Fabiola" and « Callista,"
the glowing imager/ of pagan art is
blended with the ethical grandeur of
the religion of Christ A place was
awarded him in the French Academy,
which he was not permitted to take
till the Bourbons were restored.
Their return filled him with joy, and
a pimplilet he had .writt3n against
Bonaparte was said bj Louis XVIU.
to have been worth an armj to his
cause. On the escape of Napoleon
from Elba he accompanied the king to
Ghent, and, on re-entering Paris, was
raised to the peerage and made minis-
ter of state. In 1816, having publish-
ed his '' Monarchy according to the
Charter," he lost the royal favor and
his honorary title. His work, how-
ever, continues to this day ''a text-
book of French constitutional law."*

Such was the statesman, apologist,
philosopher, and poet who, in his
forty-ninth year, obtained an ascen-
dancy over Madame, Bucamier's im-
agination so complete that the relig-
ious Montmorency trembled, and the
thoughtful Ballanche dreamed some
ilL They thought, too, that her man-
ners changed toward them, but she
soon restored their confidence. It
would be vain, indeed, to deny that
her regard for Chateaubriand caused
her many anxious thoughts and se-
cret tears, particularly when, after a
few years, he neglected her for the din
of political debate and the society of
beings less exalted and pure. But
this estrangement was^only temporary,
and both before it and after it, till he
died, her daily task was to soothe the
irritability to which poets are said to
be especially subject; to amuse him
herself, as Madame de Maintenon
amused Louis XIY. ; and to surround
him with those who, for her sake^
well as for his, labored for the same
charitable end.

Another reverse befel her in 1819.
M. Becamier fouled again, and £4,000,
which his wife had invested in his
bank, went with the rest Trusting in

* Bobertion*« '* Lectnrefl, p. S91.

the security of his position, she had
shortly before purchased a house in
the Rue d'Anjou and furnished it
handsomely. There was a garden be-
longing to it, and an alley of linden-
trees, where Chateaubriand tells us he
used to walk with Madame Rjcamier.
But the house and garden were sold,
and the occupant removed to a small
apai*tment in the quaint old Abbaye-
aux-Bois. She placed her husband
and M. Bernard with M. Bernard's
aged friend, in the neighborhood, and
dined with them, her niece, Ballanche,
and Paul David every day. In the
evening she received company, and
her cell soon became the fashion, if
not the rage. It was an incommo-
dious room, with a brick floor, on the
third story. The staircase* was irreg-
ular; and Chateaubriand complainB-
of being out of breath when he
reached the top. A piano, a harp,
books, a portrait of Madame de Stael,
and a view of Coppet by moonlight,
adorned it. Flower-pots stood in the
windows ; and in the green garden be-
neath nuns and boarders were seen
walking to and fh). The top of an
acacia rose to a level with the eye,
tall spires stood out against the sky,
and Uie hills of Sdvres bounded &e
distant horizon. The setting sun used
to gild the picture and pierce through
the open casements. Birds nestled in
the Venetian blinds, and the hum of
the great city scarce broke the
silence.

Here Madame Becamier received
every morning a note from Chateau-
briand, and here he came at three
o'clock so regularly that the neighbors,
it is said, used to set their watdies by
his approach. Few persons were al-
lowed to meet him, for he was singu-
lar and exclusive ; but, when evening
closed, the iUte of France and half
the celebrities of Europe found their
way here by turns. The Duchess of
Devonshire and Sir Humphrey Davy,
Maria Edgeworth, Humboldt, Yille-
main, Montalembert, Alexis de Toc-
queville, and Sainte-Beuve were fre-
quent guests, and so also was one who

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Madame Ricamier and Her Fnends,

deserves more special notice, Jean
Jacques Ampere.

It was on the 1st of January, 1820,
that Lis illustrious father presented
him, then in his twentieth year, to the
circle of friends who met at the Ab-
baye-aux-Bois.* The enthusiasm
with which he spoke, the gentleness of
his disposition, the nobility of his sen-
timents, and the brilliancy of his tal-
ents, soon secured him a high place in
Madame RJcimler's esteem. He at-
tached himself to her with an ardor
that never cooled, and that appeared
quite natural to the elder guests who
had long experienced her magical in-
fluence. During the career of fame
which he ran her counsels were his
guide, and her goodness his theme.
However deep his studies, however
distant his wanderings, afaong the
surges of the Categat or the pyramids
of the Pharaohs, his thoughts always
reverted to her, and letters full of re-
spect and devotion proved how amia-
ble was his character, how observant
and gifted his mind«

In November, 1823, he and the
faithful Ballanche accompanied her to
Italy. Her niece, whom she treated
as a daughter, was suffering from a
pulmonary complaint, and change was
thought desirable for her. Chateau-
briand's visits had grown less fre-
quent A political rivalry also had
sprung up between her dearest friends,
Chateaubriand having, in December,
1822, accepted the office of minister of
foreign affairs vacant by the resigna-
tion of Mathieu de Montmorency.
They disdained alike riches and hon-
ors, but each was bent on the triumph
of a conviction, and on linking his
name with a public act Many thorns
beset her path in consequence of their
disunion, and absence for k time from
France seemed to offer several advan-
tages. She ftdly possessed the confi-
dence of Madame de Chateaubriand,
and all who knew the capricieux im-
mcrtd, as that lady called her hus-
band, were of opinion that by going

• L$ Oorretpandant, lUl, 1864, p. 46.

to Italy she might avoid many occa-
sions of bitterness, and recall liim to
a calmer and nobler frame.

Nearly a month was passed in the
journey from Paris to Rome. The
travellers paused in every town, and ex-
plored its monuments, churches, and
libraries. During the halt at midday,
and again in the evening, they talked
over all they bad seen, and read aloud
by turns. Ballanche and his young
friend Ampere discussed questions of
history and philosophy, and Madame
Ricamier gave an air of elegance to
an apartment in the meanest inn.
She had her own table-cloth to spread,
together with books and flowers ; and
her presence alone, so dignified, so
graceful, invested every place with
the charm of poetry. Ballanche and
Ampere projected a guide-book, and
thus the latter was unconsciously lay-
ing up stores for that graphic " fftS"
toire Romaine a Rome,** * on which
his reputation as an author mainly
rests. The year was just closing
when they arrived in Rome. It was
here that he met Prince Louis Bona-
parte, the present emperor, who was
then a boy, and here he had long and
fi%quent conversations with Prince
Napoleon, his elder brother, while
Queen Hortense, then called the
Duchess of SainlrLeu, was walking
with Madame Racamier in the Coli-
seun\, or the campagna around the
church of St John Lateran or the
tomb of Cecilia Metella. Rome was
then the asylum of the Bonapartes, as
it has ever been the home of the out-
cast and the consolation of the wretch-
ed. The aspect was greatly changed
since the former visit Pius VH. had
lately yielded up fiiis saintly spirit to
God, and Leo XH. sat on his throne.
The ffetes and ceremonies that attend-
ed his elevation were all over except
that of the pontifical blessing ^ven
from the balcony of St Peter's. Ma-
dame Recamier took her place beside
the Duchess of Devonshire in joint
sovereignty over society at Rome.

* Pablished in the Bmu4 det Deux Mond§$
1866-67.

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Madame Ricamier and Her Friends.

The Due de Laval, Montmorency's
coaslii, who was then the French am-
bassador, placed his house, horses, and
servants at her disposal, and began or
ended every evening with her. The
dttchess just mentioned was in her
sixtj-fourth year, and preserved the
traces of remarkable beauty. Her
eyes were full of fire, her skin was
smooth and white. She was tall, erect,
queenly, and thin as an apparition.
Her skeleton hands and arms were
like ivory, and she covered them with
bracelets and rings. Her manners
were distinguished, and she seemed at
the same time very affectionate and
rather sad.

The long friendship which subsisted
between this English Protestant lady
and Cardinal Consalvi was not the
least singular feature in her history.
Her intimacy with Adrien and Ma-
thieu de Montmorency was such that
they always called her the dtucheese"
eousine, though they were not related
to her at all. The Due de Laval,
whom she had known in England,
writes thus of her to Madame Beca-
mier, in May, 1823 :

** The dudiess and I are agreed in
admiring you. She possesses some of
your qualides, and they have been the
cause of her success though life. She
is of all women the most attaching.
She rules by gentleness, and is al-
' ways obeyed* What she did in her
youth in London, that she now recom-
mences here. She has all Rome at her
disposal— ministers, cardinals, painters,
sculptors, society, all are at her feet."

Her days, however, were dwindling
to a close, as were those also'of Car^
^al Consalvi. Just seven months
after the decease of Pius YII. that
eminent statesman followed him to
the tomb. All Rome went to see him
laid in state — all except Madame Ee-
camier, who, fuU of the sorrow which
the duchess would feel for his loss,
and imagining that she would only be
pained by such idle curiosity, drove to
the solitude of the villa Borghese.
On alighting from her carriage, she
BOW the tall and elegant figure of the

duchess in deep mourning, and look-
ing the picture of despair. To her
astonishment the latter proposed that
they should go and see the lifeless
cardinal. It was, indeed, a solemn
scene. The chaplains had retired for
a brief space to dine, and the public
were excluded. The ladies only entered
to take their last look of human great-
ness. There he lay — the steady foe
of the French revolution and the im-
perial despot, the minister of two
popes during five-and-thirty years, the
able and successful nuncio at the con-
gress of Vienna. There he lay in the
sleep of death, with his purple round
him, and with his features still beauti-
ful, calm, and severe. ^

Madame Recamier and her niece
fell on their knees, praying f.rvently
for the departed, and still more so for
the lonely friend beside them, who
had survived all the affections of her
youth. She did not long survive. In
March, 1824, she exipired afler a few
days' illness. No one had been al-
lowed to approach her till the last mo-
ment and for this extraordinaiy ex-
clusion different reasons are assigned. '
Madame R^amier and the Due de
Laval believed that it was through
fear lest she should declare herself a
Catholic They were admitted just
before the vital spark was extinguish-
ed, and she died while they knelt be-
side her, and Madame Recamier held
her wan hand, and bathed it with
tears. After again visiting Naples,
after excursions round the gulf, and
reading as she went the glowing de-
scriptions of Chateaubriand and dc
Stael, while the ardent Ampere and
the meditative Ballanche supplied
their living comments, Madame Re-
camier returned to spend her second
winter in Rome, and enjoy the society
of the Due de Noailles and Madame
Swetchine. The duke was in his
twenty-third year, and she used to say
that he was the last and youngest of
those whom she called her real
friends. His subsequent history of
Madame de Maintenon proves how
just a claim he had to be so regarded.

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Madame JSecamer and Her Friends.

Madame Swetelune, when she ar*
rived in Rome, wad imbued with some
prejudices against Madame Rocamier,
but thej vanished at the first inters
view, and the love that sprang up be-
tween them was of the holiest kind :

" I feel the want of you (she wrote
in 1825) as if we had passed a long
time together, as if we had old associ-
ations in common. How strange that
I should feel so impoverished by los-
ing what a short time since I did not
possess! Surely there is something
of eternity in certain emotions. There
are souls — and I think yours and
mine are among the number — which
no sooner come in contact with each
other than they throw off the condi-
tions of their mortal existence, and obey
the laws of a higher and better world."

After an absence of eighteen
months, Madame Recamier returned
to Paris. It was in May, 1825.
Charles X. was being consecrated at
Rheims, and both Chateaubriand and
Montmorency were there for the cere-
mony. When the former received a
line to inform him that the cell in the
Abbaye was again occupied, he lost
no time in paying his usual visit at
the same hour as before. Madame
Recamier's residence in Italy had pro-
duced the desired effect on him. His
fitful mood was over. Not a word of
explanation or reproach was heard,
and from ihat day to his death, twen-
ty-three vears later, the purest and
most perfect harmony existed between
them. He had again fallen from
power, and had been rudely dismissed.
His only crime had been silence. He
would not advocate the reduction of
interest on the public debt, which ap-
peared to him an act of injustice.
How many would be half ruined by
the >;hange from five to three per
cent! He abstained from voting.
De VillMe was incensed, and a heart-
less note informed one of the greatest
men in France that his services were
no longer needed. By a strange mis-
hap he did not receive it at, the right
time, went to the Tuileries, attended a
levee, and was going to take his place

at a cabinet council, when he was
told that he was no longer admissible*
He had ordered his carriage for a
later hour, and was now obliged to
walk back in his full court robes
through the streets of Paris. He
long and bitterly remembered this un-
generous treatment In his opposi-
tion to the Villdle ministry he display-
ed prodigious talent ; and in January,
1828, it gave place to that of Martig-
nac, and he was himself appointed
ambassador at Rome.

Among the letters he wrote during
his embassy, there is one very brief
and touching, addressed to the little
Greek Canaris, then educated in Paris
by the Hellenic committee. The
emancipation of the Christians of the
East, whether Catholic or schismatic,
was an object dear to Chateaubriand's
heart, as well as to the royalists in
general. The question was not em-
barrassed by those false views of free-
dom which make many who love it
afraid to speak its praise lest they
should seem to countenance its abuse.
"My dear Canaris," he says, "I
ought to have written to you long ago.
Pardon me, for I am full of business.
My advice to you is this : Love Ma-
dame R6camier. Never forget that
you were bom in Greece, and that my
country has shed its blood for the free-
dom of yours. Above all, be a good
Christian; that is, an honest man
submitting to the wiU of God. Thus,
my dear little friend, you will keep
your name on the list of those famous
Greeks of yore where your illustrious
father has already inscribed it I
embrace you. — Chateaubriand." How
delighted must the young Athenian
have been to cany this note to the
Abbaye-aux-Bois the next time lie
went to visit Madame Recamier, afi
he did on almost every holiday I

We have already spoken of Mathien
de Montmorency^s singular death.
Madame Recamier was one of the
first to hear of it She hastened to
sit beside the corpse of her revered
friend, and mingled her tears with
those of his mother and widow. The

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Madame RiccakUr and Her Friends,

latter, who had always been attached
to her, now became her intimate com-
panion, and, when she came to Paris,
stayed at the Abbaje expressly to be
near her. Even Chateaabriand, who
had been Montmorency's political ri-
val, joined the train of mourners, and
composed a prayer on the occasion for
Madame Recamier's use. It is some-
what inflated, and breathes the lan-
guage of a poet rather than of a Chris-
tian. It ends thus: ^^O miracle of
goodness ! I shall find again in thy
bosom the virtuous friend I have lost I
Through thee and in thee I shall love
him anew, and my entire spirit will
once more be united to that of my
friend. Then our divine attachment
will be shared through eternity."
These expressions are overstrained;
but they illustrate the character of
Madame Recamier's affection for her
male friends. Of these Chateaubri-
and became henceforward the chief,
and his letters to her from Rome, to-
gether with his subsequent intercourse
with her in Paris, form the most im-
portant part of her remaining history.
Everything was summed up in him, —
diplomacy, politics, literature : he was
to her, and not to her only, their chief
representative. His correspondence,
as preserved by her niece, is spark-
tiiig and pointed, full of incident, and
especially interesting to those who re-
member Rome during the last years
of Leo XIL and the pontificate of
Pius VHI. Three letters a week
reached her while his embassy lasted,
and he has inserted several of them
in his " Afemoires," though not without
dressing them up a little for posterity.
Veneration and regard for her is their
key-note. MiUe tendres kommageSf he
writes. Que je $uis heurenx de vaue
aimer/ But French politeness al-
ways sounds strange and fulsome
when dissected in English. In May,
1829, he obtained leave to return to
Paris for a time, and he was welcomed
at the Abbaye by numerous admirers.
There he read aloud his ** Moise,'* in the
presence of Cousin, Villemain, La-
martine, Merimee, and a host of* litC"

ra^t beside. There he. expressed all
his fears for the ancient dynasty under
the guidance of Prince Polignac. He
had no personal feeling for the minis-
ter, save that of friendship. But he
could discern the signs of the times.
He sought an audience of the king, to
warn him of the reefs on which he was
being steered ; but he was no favorite
with Charles X., and his request was
refused. Yet he might, if his counsels
had been listened to, have saved his
master from exile and France from the
revolution of July. The crown was in
his idea above all things except the law.
He would neither abandon the char-
ter for the king, nor the king for the
charted. The ordinances of July were
subversive of the constitution, but the
moment they were recalled he was on
the monarch's side.

It was too late to stem the tide of
insurrection. A ducal democrat was
called to the throne. His partisans
and those of the dethroned sovereign
did not usually mix in society; but the
salon in the Abbaye was an exception
to every rule. There and at Dieppe,
in the bathing season, the royalists
Grenarde and Chateaubriand constant-
ly met Ballanche, Ampere, Lacordaire,
and Villemain, who welcomed the new
regime. Madame Recamier, with ad-
mirable tact, kept them in social har«
mony, and her efforts in this direction
were the more praisworthy because
she was not indifferent to their respect-
ive bias. She had always loved the
old dynasty, both because of its here-
ditary rights and the glorious associa-
tions attached to it in histoiy. She la-
mented the shortsightedness of the
Polignac ministry ; but she lamented
still more the accession of Louis Phi-
lippe, which drove the greater part of
her friends into the obscurity of pri-
vate life.

In April, 1880, her husband died.
He was then in his eightieth year,. and
during his last illness was removed to
the Abbaye, that he might be sur-
rounded by every sort of attention.
In taste, character, and understanding
he differed from Madame Rjcamier

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Madame Recamier and Her Friends.

as widely as {K^sible. They had but
one quality in common : each was
good and kind. Notwithstanding the
singularity of their tie, they lived to-
gether thirty-five years without any
disagreement. M. Bernard and his
old friend Simonard were also gon€.
Madame Lenormantwas married, and
though the family circle that used to
dine at the Abbaye was no more, some
faithful friends, such as Ballanche and
Paul David, met daily at the widow's
hospitable board. The former of these
was especially disappointed by the fall
of the elder Bourbon branch. He had
hoped to see its alliance with that
moral, political, and social progress
which was the dream of his existence.
Elective monarchy now seemed to
hold out better prospects of his pal-
ingenesie saciale.

The attitude assumed by Chateau-
briand at this period was such as to
command general respect He at-
tempted, but in vain, to procure the re-
cognition of Henry V., and to place
his rights under the protection of the
Duke of Orleans. Then, declining to
take the oath of allegiance to Louis
Philippe, he retired from the peerage,
and gave up his pension. The friends,
however, from whom he differed were
delighted to perceive that his cordial-
ity with them in private was in no de-
gree lessened. But there was a circle
within the circle that frequented the
Abbaye, and it was in 1832 that the
Due de Noailles became enrolled
among the select few. This was ow-
ing in part to the sympathy which ex-
isted between him and Chateaubriand,
and the high estunate which the latter
formed of his judgment. Neither was
he so dazzled by the future of society
as to forget or despise its past. Both
found in the history of the kings of
France the sources of all subsequent
improvement. The Due de Noailles
did not come alone to the Abbaye.
His regard for Madame Recamier
was such that he brought with him
every member of his family whom he
thought most worthy of her acquaint-
ance, and invited her in turn and her

friends to grace with their presence
the fair domain of Maintenon. Here,
surrounded by souvenirs of Louis
XIV., Chateaubriand took notes for a
chapter in his " Memoirs," whicli was
not inserted, but given in manuscript
to Madame Recamier. It fills seven-
teen pages, and forms one of the most
striking parts of the volume under re-
view. The writer recalls the deli-
cious gardens he has visited in Greece,
Ithaca, Grenada, Rome, and the East,
and compares them with the surround-
ings of the chllteau of Maintenon. He
touches on many salient points in the
history of that remarkable lady who
bought it in 1675, and whose corpse
had, in his own day, been dragged
round the sacred enclosure of St. Cyr
with a halter round the neck. He
then passes to the night spent in the
ch&teau by Charles X., when the king,
driven from the seat of government,
dismissed his Swiss Guards, and
placed himself almost in the condition
of a prisoner, It was in Madame R^
camier's drawing-room that the auto-
biography for which this description
was intended was first published, and
that in the way so fashionable among
the ancient Romans and still common
in France — ^by the author's reading it
aloud to an assembly of friends. Thus
Statius read his « Thebais,'** thus Al-
fieri his tragedies, at Rome. The
readings of the ^Memotres d*otttre
Tomb^' spread over two years, and his
fame extended so fast that it was dif-
ficult to find room for those who
craved admittance. Publishers, also,
were eager to purchase the mana-
script, to be printed at the writer's
death; and some royalist friends
availed themselves of this circum-
stance to obtain for him a pension for
life. The excitement attending the
recitals relieved his ennui, and literary
labor helped to pay his debts. The
work itself, though intensely interest-
ing to all who heard it and felt per-
sonally interested in the events it re-
corded, is too lengthy, detailed, peey-

* Jnrvntl, Sat. YH^ 8d^

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Madjoane JRecamier and Her Friends*

ish, and egotiatic to add much to
Cbateanbriand's fame. Anj theme*
he handled was sore to call forth elo-
quence and genius ; but himself was
the Teiy worst subject he could
choose, — ^the worst, not, perhaps, for
the entertainment of his readers, but
for the reputation of the writer.

In October, 1836, Louis Napoleon
made his attempt at Strasburg, and
having been arrested, was brought
to Paris for triaL His mother, the
ei[-qaeen Hortense, ' fearing lest her
presence there might onlj add to his
danger, paused at Virj, and allowed
her devoted follower, Madame Sal-
vage, to proceed. This ladj, relying
on Madame Recamier's fidelitj to her
friends, repaired immediately to the
Abbaje, and, with a portfolio of trea-
Booable correspondence, sought an asy-
lum there. On the morrow, Madame
R^camier visited the queen, or, to
speak more correctly, the Duchess of
St Leu, at Viry, and found her in ex-
ti-eme distress. Her worst fears, in-
deed, were over. The prince's life
was spared, but, before his trial was
concluded, he was shipped off to New
York. The prospect of thus losing
him afflicted the duchess greatly, for
she had a mortal malady, and knew
that her time on earth could not be
long. The next year, in fact, Louis
Napoleon, informed of her dangerous
illness, hastened to Europe to see her
(Hice more. In 1840 he again as-
serted, at Boulogne, his claim to
the throne. He was tried by the
chamber of peers, and Madame
Recamier, though she had been
obliged to appear and answer some
questions before Xhejuge d'instructian,
was not deterred by this annoyance
from asking permission to visit the
prisoner. She saw him at the Con-
dergerie^ not through attachment to
his canse, but for his departed
mother's sake. Two years after,
when imprisoned in the fortress of
Ham, he sent her his ^^FragmeTu His-
Uniques/' Li writing to her, he said :
"I have long wanted to thank you,
madam, for the kind visit you paid me

VOL. IL 7

in the Oonciergeriey and I am happy
to have the opportunity now of ex-
pressing my gratitude. . • • You are
so accustomed to delight those who
approach you, that you will not be
surprised at the pleasure I have felt
in receiving a proof of your sympathy,
and in learning that you feel for my
misfortunes." Enclosed in this letter
was another for Chateaubriand, much
longer, and highly creditable to the
prince's talents and good taste. In it
he declared his intention of beguiling
his prison hours by writing a history
of Charlepaagne as soon as he should
have coOected the necessary mate-
rials. The prominent place which
that prince held in his thoughts is
strikingly brought before us in the
preface to his ^'Julius Caesar." In
1848, when fortune smiled, and he
arrived in Paris already elected dep-
uty, one of his first visits was to the
Abbaye-aux-Bois. It was just after
the death of Chateaubriand, and Ma-
dame Recamler had not the pleasure
of seeing him. In another year, she
had entered into her rest, and he was
far on the turbulent way to an impe-
rial throne.

We must not forget to mention
among her friends one with whom we
may be excused for having more sym-
pathy than with Napoleon III. This
was Frederic Ozanam. Ho was
born in 1813, and was still a student,
and in his twentieth year, when first
presented by Ampere to Madame R6-
camier. Chateaubriand was much
struck by him, and he was present at
several readings of the ^^Memaires/*
But he came to the Abbaye rarely,
and when his friend Ampere asked
him the reason, he replied : *< It is an
assembly of persons too illustrious for
my obscurity. In seven years, when
I become professor, I will avail my-
self of the kindness shown me." With
rare modesty, the young man kept
his word. In seven years, and no
less, he took his place in the renown-
ed circle. His talents were already
appreciated, and though timid and all
but awkward, his conversation often

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broke through the restraints of habit,
and swept along its shining course as
if he were surrounded by his pupils in
the lecture-room. Every year added
to his celebrity. His character, his
philosophy, his scholarship, were all
Christian, and his professional life was
devoted to one end. He vindicated
the moral and literary attainments of
the middle ages against modem de-
tractors — against those who mean by
the dark ages the ages about which
they are in the dark. He traced in
all his works the history of letters in
barbarous times, and showed how,
through successive periods of deca-
dence and renaissance, the Church
has ever been carrying forward the
civilization of mankind.* His publi-
cations have been edited by friends
of whom he was worthy — Lacordaire
and Ampere; and who would come
to lay a votive wreath on Madame
B^camier's tomb, without having one
also for the grave ofOzanam?

The winter of 1840-41 was a disas-
trous one for Lyons and its neighbor-
hood. The swollen waters of the
Bhone and Saone rising, overflowed
their banks, and ravaged the sur-
rounding country with resistless vio-
lence. The government was not
slow to relieve the sufferers, and pub-
lic as well as private charity poured in
from every quarter. Madame Reca-
mier felt deeply for her native city,
and resolved on making an extraordi-
nary effort to aid it in its distress.
She organized a soiree to which per-
sons were to be admitted by tickets*
These were sold at twenty francs each,
but were generally paid tor at a high-
er rate. Lady Byron gave a hundi^ed
for hers. Rachel recited Esther;
Garcia, Rubini, and Lablache sang;
the Marquis de Verac placed his car-
xiages at their disposal ; and the Due
^da NoaiUes supplied refreshments,
footmen, and Ms maitre d^hoUL The
Bussians residing in Paris were espe-
cially active in disposing of .tickets;
Chateaubriand from eight o'clock to

•''La OlvVAsation au V4 SUdU,'* ete.

the end of the soirie did the honors of
. the saloon by which the company en-
tered. Reschid-Pacha sat on the
steps of the musician's platform, half
buried beneath waves of silk and flow-
ers. The rooms were adorned with
exquisite objects of art, and 4,390
francs were received and transmiitled
to the mayor of Lyons. Sixty poor
families were selected by the cures to
receive this bounty; Madame lieca-
mier having requested that it might
not be broken up into petty sums.
In the midst of the glittering throng
that assembhd in the old Abbaye that
evening, it is said that she eclipsed
them aU in beauty and grace. This
may appear fabulous to many, for she
was then in her sixty-third year; yet
her niece would hardly assert it ii' it
had not been the general opinion.

In 1842, Madame Becamier had
the satisfaction of seeing Ballanche
take his place in the French Academy.
His friends, indeed, were more elated
on the occasion than the philosopher
himself. Literary honoi's were little
in his eyes compared with the exer-
tion of a moral and philosophic in-
fluence. His pasaion for machinery
had nearly ruined him ; and his gene-
rosity was always beyond his narrow
means. Like Socrates in the basket,
he lived above the earth, and the triv-
ial concerns of daily life dried up the
sap of his sublime speculations.*
Chateaubriand used to call him the
hierophant ; for he had a small sect of
followers whom he initiated in his
mysticism.

A cloud was gathering over his ex-
istence, and over the gladness of all
who frequented the Abbaye. Since
the year 1839, Madame Rjcamier's
health had been growing feebler, and
a cataract was perceived slowly forming
on her eyes. She bore the affliction witb
her usual calm, and the fear of bccona-
ing less able to amuse Chateaubriand
was her chief distress. Whea lier
blindness became confirmed, her eyes
were still brilliant ; and her ear l>eln^

o
* ArlBtophanoa. '' Tho Clonds.

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Madame Recamier and Her Friends.

fine, she knew all who approached her
by their voice. The valet took care
to set everjthmg ia her apartment in
its fixed place, so that she could move
about without stumbling. In this
way she often dissembled her loss of
sight, and manj who visited her came
awaj with the impression that she
saw prettj well. Long intercourse
with Chateaubriand had made her
habits as methodical as his. He still
came to her daily at half-past two.
They took tea together, and talked for
an hour. Then the door opened to
visitors, and the good Ballanche was
always the first. This would have
been mere dissipation, but for the
more serious occupations of the morn-
ing. She rose early, had the papers
read to her rapidly, then the choicest
of new works, and ailerward some
standard author. Modem literature
had always been her delight ; and it
cheered her even in her darkness.
When she drove out, it was generally
with some charitable purpose ; for the
time was passed for paying other
visits. Never, since Montmorency had
reconmiended it, did she forget to
read* or hear read, daily some work of
piety ; and as age advanced and sor-
row weighed more heavily, she deriv-
ed from the practice increasing solace
and strength.

Now came what Ballanche called
"the dispersion," from which after-
ward he dated his letters. Prince
Augustus of Prussia died in 1845, and
charged Humboldt to execute his last
commands with regard to her whom
h$ had never ceased to respect and
love. Her portrait, by Gerard, which
she had given him, and her letters,
were returned when he could no
longer treasure them. His death af-
fected her deeply ; for other flowers
also were fielding from life's garden,
and the winter of age was freezing
eveiything but her afiections. From
Mahdtenon she passed into Normandy
with her niece and Ampere, who had
just retained from Egypt, weary and
sick with traveL Wherever she went,
the tdind beauty of the first empire

wanted no one claim to rei^pectful and
devoted attention. By the use of bel-
ladonna, she sometimes dilated the
pupil, and acquired for a few hours
the sense of sight. In this way she
saw and admired Ary Schefibr's beau-
tiful picture of St. Augustine, which
he brought from the exhibition to the
Abbaye-aux-Bois, on purpose tliat
Chateaubriand and herself might in-
spect it. But such brief enjoyment
only made returning darkness more
gloomy ; and an operation offered the
best prospect of permanent relief.
Meanwhile, Chateaubriand having bro-
ken his collar-bone in steppmg from his
carriage, a delay occurred. Madame
R6camier would not deprive herself
of the pleasure of diverting him dur-
ing his confinement to the house.
Her friends often assembled under his
roof; and when he visited the Ab-
baye again, he was always carried
into the roam by two domestics. In-
deed, he never walked any more.
Nor in her case did the operation for
cataract succeed, for the patient did
not enjoy that composure which was
indispensable for a cure. Ballanche
had been seized with* pleurisy, and
was dangerously ill. The blind lady
to whom he had so long been devoted,
breaking through all her surgeon's in-
structions, and braving the hght she
should have shunned, crossed the
street which separated her from the
dying man, and sat by his pillow to
the last

One who has often looked on death
declares that she never saw it present
so grand a spectacle as in Ballanche.
All his philosophy was heightened into
faith ; all his poetry was wrapt into
devotion. Serenely trusting in the
divine goodness, he realized intensely
the mysteries of the unseen world;
and, with the holy viaticum on his lips,
quitted his earthly tabernacle with joy,
whilst she who watched at his side
lost all hope of sight in her streaming
tears. Ballanche's mortal remains
lie in the vault of the Recamier fam-
ily ; and his life has been written by
Ampere. He and Madame E6camier

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100

Madame Ricamier and Her Friends.

together selected the choicest passages
from his works ; and beneath the
shade of beech-trees, amid th^ cahn of
nature, her niece's daughters read
aloud to her Ballanche's long-treasur-
ed letters. She would scarcely hare
survived her grief had not Chateau-
briand's infirmities still given a scope
to her existence. Madame de Cha-
teaubriand died in the winter of
1846-7. She abounded in charitable
works, and the poor loved her name.
The desolate widower proposed that
Madame Recamier should take her
place. He pressed his suit, but she
persisted in her refusal. She thought
the little variety caused bj his daily
visits to her essential for his comfort ;
and that if she were always with him,
he would be less consoled. "What
end," she asked, " could marriage an-
swer ? At our age there is no .service
I may not reasonably render you.
The world allows the purity of our at-
tachment ; let it remain unaltered.
If we were younger, I would not hesi-
tate a moment to become your wife,
and so consecrate Yny life to' you."

A second operation was performed,
with no better result than before.
The hope of being enabled to serve
Chateaubriand more effectually alone
induced her to submit to it. His end
was fast approaching, and society it-
self seemed about to be dissolved.
Without were contests ; within were
fears. The revolution of Februaiy,
1848, undid the revolution of July,
1830. The streets of the capital flow-
ed with blood, and the roar of cannon
in the insurrection of June shook the
chamber of the expiring poet, and
brought tears to his eyes. He heard
with keen interest of the death of
Monseigneur Afire, the good shepherd
who gave his life for his sheep. The
intrepid courage of that glorious mar-
tyr lent fresh nerve to his jaded spirit;
and though his brilliant intellect had
for some time past lost its lustre, his
thoughts were perfectly collected to
the last. He was heard to mutter to
himself the words he had written in
1814: *'No; I will never believe that

I write on the tomb of France." The
chill waters of the river of death could
not extinguish the patriotism that
burned in his breast. The Abbe
Guerry, his confessor and friend,
stood near him with the consolations of
religion ; his nephew, Louis de Cha-
teaubriand, and the superioress of the
convent of Marie-Th6rese, which he
and his wife had founded. ' After re-
ceiving the blessed sacrament, he
never spoke again ; but his eyes fol-
lowed Madame Recamier with an ex-
pression of anguish whenever she left
the room. This was her crowning
sorrow, that she could not see the suf-
ferer she sought to relieve. When
the worst was over, the calm of de-
spair spread over her face, and a
deathly paleness, which nothing could
remove. She gratefully assented to
everything which was proposed for her
comfort; but her sad smile proved
how vain was the effort to restore her
to gladness. Those affectionate be-
ings alone who live on friendship can
comprehend the extent of her desola-
tion.

Chateaubriand's obsequies were
performed in the church of the Mis-
sions etrangiresy where a large con-
course assembled, notwithstanding the
city and the state were stiU in the
agony of a social crisis. But his
ashes were transferred to his own
Brittany, where a solitary rock in the
bay had long before been gianted liim
by the municipality of St. Malo, as a
place of burial. More than 50,000
persons were present at this strange
and solemn interment. They seemed
to represent France mourning his
loss. The sea was covered with boats ;
the roofs o^ the houses, and the shores
beneath, were crowded with spectators ;
banners floated from rock and tower ;
while mournful canticles and booming
cannon broke the stillness of the air.
The coffin was laid in a recess of the
steep cliffy, and surmounted by a gran-
ite cross. Ampere was deputed by
the French Academy to pronounce his
eulogy on the occasion ; and he con-
cluded his report to that body in these

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101

words : " It would seem that the gen-
1119 of the incomparable painter had
been stamped on this last magnificent
spectacle; and that to him alone
among men it had been given to add,
even after death, a splendid page to
the immortal poem of his life."

On Easter day in the following
jear Madame R6camier was per-
suaded to remove firom the Abbaye-
aux-Bois to the National Library,
where her niece and nephew resided.
The cholera had broken out in the
neighborhood of the Abbaye ; and
though she did not fear death, she had
a peculiar horror of that dreadful
pestilence. But her flight was vain ;
the scourge pursued her, and fell with
sadden violence on her enfeebled
frame. The day before, Ampere and
Madame Salvage had dined with her,
and on the morning of her seizure her
niece's daughter Juliette had been
reading to her the memoirs of Ma-
dame de Motteville. During twelve
hours she suffered extreme torture,
but spoke with her confessor, and
received the sacrament of extreme unc-
tion. CJonlinual vomiting prevented
the administration of the eucharist.
Ampere, Paul David, the Abb^ de
Cazales, her relations and servants,
knelt around her bed to join in the
prayers for the dying. Sobs and
tears choked their voices, and ^ Adieu,
adieu, we shall meet again ; we shall
see each other again," were the
only words her agony allowed her to
utter.

Madame R^camier breathed her last
on the 11th of May, 1849. The terri-
ble epidemic, which generally leaves
hideous traces behind, spared her
lifeless frame, and left it like a beauti-
fol piece of sculptured marble. Achille
Dev^ria took a drawing of her as siie
lay in her cold sleep, and his faithful
sketch expresses at the same time
suffering and repose.

Such was the end of her who, with-
out the prestige of authorship, was
regarded by her contemporaries as one
of the most remarkable women of her
time. We will not indulge in any

exaggerated statement of her piety.
Great numbers, no doubt, have at-
tained to more interior perfection.
Her ambition to please was undoubt-
edly a weakness. Religion did not
make her what she was ; yet she
would never have been what she was
without it. It was the ballast which
steadied her when carrying crowded
sail. It was the polar star that di-
rected her course amid confilcting cur-
rents and adverse storms. It raised
her standard of morality above that
of many of her associates. It taught
her how to be devout without dissimu-
lation, a patroness of letters without
pedantry, a patriot and a royalist
without national disdain or political'
animosity. It made her charitable to
the poor, kind to the aged and sorrow-
ful, gracious and unassuming with all,
at the very time that the proudest of
emperors invited her presence at his
court, and his brother Lucien made
her the idol of his verse. Its golden
thread giiided her aright through the
intricate mazes of social life — through
a matrimonial position equally strange
and unreal — an engagement to a
royal prince who was the foe of
France — through friendships with
Bemadotte and Murat on their thrones,
with the queens of Holland and of
Naples when fallen, and with the
third Napoleon when plotting to re-
gain the sceptre of the first. It so
lifted her above intrigue and cabals
that she could give her right hand to
the disaffected General Moreau and
her left to the devoted Jtmot — could
be made the confidante of all parties
without betraying the secrets of any.
It inclined her to be chary of giving
advice, but to make it, when asked
for, tell always on the side of virtue.
It enabled her to exhort the sceptical
with effect, and dispose the philosophixj
to accept ih^ faith.*

Her autobiography has unfortu-
nately been destroyed by her own di-
rection, because blindness would not
allow her to revise it and cancel its

* See her letters to Ampdre in the6bfr«nofi<l-

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102

Chinese Characterutics.

defects. But many fragments of it
have been preserv^, and a thousand
personal recollections, collected from

those who knew her, have been
Wrought by her niece and other biog-
raphers into a lasting monument

From The FortnighUj Beyiew.

CHINESE CHARACTERISTICS.

BY Sm JOHN BOWBING.

I WAS gathering together some ex-
amples of the strange opinions held
by the Chinese as to " outer nations/'
when I fell upon a curious official doc-
-ument, presented to the emperor by a
great mandarin, who occupies a very
prominent place in the modem history
of China, Keshen, once viceroy of the
two Kwang. His name brought im-
mediately to my recollection, by a
very natural association, that of my
old acquaintance, Father Hue, whose
contributions to our knowledge of
Oiina, Tartaiy, and Tibet are among
the most original authentic, and in-
structive that we possess.

It is a matter much to be regretted
that only a small part of Father
Hue's personal adventures has ever
been communicated to the public. I
first met with him on one of the
Chusan islands, dressed as a China-
man, and living in every particular as
the natives. live— his food was rice —
his drink was only tea. He was re-
cognized as the director and instructor
of nb less than live Catholic commu-
nities. I had heard of the existence
of professors of the Tien-choo (heav-
enly master) religion, and, going some
way into the interior, found the Laz-
sarist doctor instructing the people.
He had an extraordinary mastery of
the colloquial Chinese; spoke and
wrote Miuichoo, and was not unac-
quainted with the Mongolian tongue.
I eiyoyed his company as a fellow
traveUer, having given him a passage
in a vessel which was at my disposal,

and I fell in with him in five difierent
and distant parts of China. I have
no doubt of the general veracity of his
narrative, of his sincere love of truth
— ^perhaps not wholly separated from
a certain credulity and fondness for
the marvellous, with which, I have ob-
served, oriental travellers are not un-
frequently imbued. It would be in-
teresting to learn how Father Hue
got to Peking, lived for many years
in the city and its neighborhood, no
one knowing or supposing him to be a
foreigner — what were the arrange-
ments by which, departing on his mis-
sion to Manchuria, he managed to es-
cape from the scrutinizing eye of the
police, at a period, too, when tlie de-
termination to repel the intrusion of
"barbarian strangers" was at its
height Of his interviews with Kesh-
en, after the discovery of the objects
of his journey, and the determination
of the mandarin envoy to drive him
out of the country, he gives many in-
teresting- particulars in his " Souven-
irs," but he does not mention that
Keshen, who had been stripped at
Peking of some millions sterling, the
gatherings of profits and peculations
in the high offices he had filled, and
who managed to amass a considerable
sum of money in Tibet, confided his
sayings in that country to the keeping
of the Lazzarist missionary ; and at
the very time when tlie decree was is-
sued for his banishment, Keshen ob-
tained from him a promise that he
would, when he passed into the tern-

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103

tory of China, deliver over "the bU-
ve^' to the parties whom Keshen de-
signated. Hue was a delightful com-
panion; he had no asperitj; on the
oontrarv, he was full of jokes and
merriment. Courageous, too, when in
the presence of danger, his ready wit
furnished him with every appliance
necessary to his safety and protection.
His familiarity with Chinese charac-
ter was remarkahle; he knew when
and where and how to domineer and
command, where it was safe to assume
authority. In China, one of the com-
mon instruments of government is to
send from the court secret spies, whose
persons are unknown, and the object
of whose mission is to report confiden-
tially to the emperor on the shortcom-
ings or misdoings of the great manda-
rins. It was of^en Hue's fortune to
be thought one of these mysterious
but redoubtable visitants, and he
turned the suspicion to excellent ac^
count. The fact of his speaking
Manchoo, and being well acquainted
with Tartar forms and usages, very
naturally strengthened the conclusion
that it was most desirable to obkun
his patronage and favorable opinion
in the confidential communications to
be made to the Tartar dynasty. No
doubt many a functionary has trem-
bled, self-condemned, in the presenoe
of the missionary, and has courted his
indulgent judgment by those .atten-
tions which are supposed to conciliate.
Bribes, large and attractive, repre-
senting the estimated value of the
service to be rendered, are constantly
offered and frequently received by the
traveller who is believed to have the
ear of the supreme authority. I have
heard that from twenty to thirty thou-
sand pounds sterling are sometimes
collected in a district circuit, the col-
lection being made at the risk of either
the bribed or the briber, or of both,
each being necessarily at the mercy
of the other in case of betrayal. But,
at the same time, Father Hue possess-
ed all the arts of prostration and def-
erence when the circumstances of the
case required them. There was, how-

ever, less of assumption in his lowliness
than in his lofliness; his was never
" a pride that aped humility." The
acting was when he played the part of
a ruler. He was altogether a na-
tural man-^unobtrusive, but fluent
in the presence of those interested —
and who could fail to be interested in
his strange adventures ? He never re-
covered the free use of his limbs afler
he returned to Europe ; and died in
France, leaving much undone— the
doing of which would have been most
useful to his race.

One of the great grievances of
which the Chinese complained, in the
time of the East India Company mon-
opoly, and down to the Pottinger war,
was the ^ oozing out" of the silver in
China for the payment of a poisonous
drug to the "outer barbarians." It
was, however, then the fact, as it is the
fact now, that the poppy is widely cul-
tivated, and opium largely manufac-
tured, by the Chinese themselves in
several of the provinces of the em-
pire. It used to be the belief in
China that there alone was the pure
metal produced, and that the coins
brought from afar would in process of
time be converted, by natural process,
into base metal, or something worse.
I recollect a person being charged
with stealing his master's money ; he
did not deny having had the custody
of the dollars, but swore they had
been eaten by white ants. Keshen
was directed to give his opmion to the
emperor as to the quality of the silver
brought to Chma by foreigners, and
these are his words :

" The foreign money brought from
these outer nations is all boiled and
reduced by quicksilver. If you wrap
it up and lay it aside for several years
without touching it, it will be turned
into moths and corroding insects, and
the silver cups made from it by these
strangers will change into feathers."

After stating that the coins show
their impurity when submitted to the
crucible, he adds :

" Yet we find that in Kiangnan and
by the course of ths rivrer Hwac, and

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104

Chinese Cfharacteristzcs.

all along the rivers to the south,
foreign dollars are used in trade and
circulated most abundantly ; we even
find them of more value than Sjcee
silver; this is really what I cannot
understand !" Truly it passeth all un-
derstanding if the premises of the man-
darin be correct. Some one suggests
that Keshen had read in our sacred
book of our treasures " that moth and
rust do corrupt** (Matt. vi. 19), and of
the " riches" which " make to them-
selves wings and fly away " (Prov.
xxiii. 5).

As was said of old time, " An eye
for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth," so
the Chinese still recognize the princi-
ple that the penalty to be paid for
crime need not be visited on the crimi-
nal himself, but that the substitution
of an innocent for a guilty person to
bear the award of the law may satisfy
all the demands of justice. In the
embarrassments of the imperial treas-
ury during the last war, proclamations
of the emperor frequently appeared
in the Peking Gazette^ authorizing the
commutation of the judicial sentences
which inflicted personal punishment by
the payment of sums of money, to be
estimatjed according to the gravity of
the offence, and the rank or opulence
of the offender. Men are to be found
as candidates for the scaffold when a
large remuneration is offered for the
sacrifice of life — ^to such a sacrifice
posthumous honor is frequently at-
tached — a family is rescued from pov-
erty, and enters on the possession of
comparative wealth. The ordinary
price paid for a man's life is a hun-
dred ounces of pure silver, of the value
of about £83 sterling. In the Bud-
dhist code such an act of devotiou and
self-*sacrifice ranks very high in the
scale of merits, and would ensure a
splendid recompense in the awards of
the tribunal which is, after death, to
strike the balance of good and evil,
when every individual's mortal history
is to be the subject of review.

Some illustrations may not be un-
welcome. In the history of the inter-
course of the East India Company

with the Chinese, it will be found that
the. authorities were never satisfied
with the averment that the individaal
charged with offences could not be
found ; they always insisted that some
English subject could be found and
delivered over to the penalties of the
law. They invariably took high
ground; asserted that the laws of
China must be respected in China,
and that those laws provided a certain
and always applicable punishment by
which the demands of justice might
and ought to be satisfied. They turn-
ed a deaf ear to the representation
that, according to European law, the
individual who had committed a crime
was the only proper person to be pun-
ished for that crime, and considered it
a sort of *' barbarian" notion that any
crime should be passed over without
being followed by the appropriate pen-
alty visiting somebody or other. The
theory fills the whole field of penal
legislation. Households, villages, and
even districts are miyde responsible
for offences committed within their
boundaries ; and it is not unusual for
high functionaries to be called upon to
suffer for misdeeds not their own,
which no vigilance could prevent and
no sacrifices repair. There ought, say
the sages, to be no wrong without a
remedy, no sin without consequent suf-
fering ; and it is better that an inno-
cent man should now and then be sac-
rificed than that guilt should not ne^
cessarily and inevitably be followed by
penal consequences.

There is every reason to believe
that on one occasion, to prevent the
stoppage of trade, which was the men-
aced consequence of non-obedience, an
jnnocent man was delivered over to
the authorities (but not by the Brit-
ish), and executed at Canton. Dur-
ing the administration of Sir John
Davis, six Englishmen were brutally
murdered at Kwan Chuh Kei, a small
village on the Pearl river. The Eng-
lish government insisted on the punish-
ment of the murderers, and six men
were publicly beheaded. It is quite
certain they had nothing to do with

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Ch%ne$e Characteristici.

105

the crime ; thej were brought gagged
to the place of execution, and English
gentlemen, under the instructions of
die consul, witnessed the decapitation ;
but eyeiybodj was satisfied that the
criminals were allowed to escape, and
that guiltless men were beheaded in
their stead; and Lord Palmerston
most propcrlj directed that no British
authority should be present at such
executions, lest their presence might
be deemed to imply approbation of the
administration of justice in China.

It once occurred to me to have to
make representations to the governor
of £[iang800 in consequence of some
Chinese troops having fired upon the
British settlement of ShanghaL No
injury was done, but the act was of a
character which might have led to se-
rious consequences. An interview
was asked, and, accompanied by the
British admiral, I went to the tent of
the great mandarin. On being ii^tro-
duc^, we found six soldiers kneeling
by his side. Close at hand was an
executioner, and we saw as we passed
the huge heavy swords which are em-
ployed by him in his wonted work.
^ It was quite right to complain," said
the mandarin ; ^ it was quite fit those
who had committed the outrage should
be visited with the punishment* In-
quiries had been made, and it was
very likely the men preseht were
guilty ; at all events, they had been in
the neighborhood. Utter the word,
and their heads shall fall at your feet.'*
We informed his excellency that such
abrupt and sudden action did not
accord with our notion^ of justice,
and we requested that the men might
be relieved of their terrors and reli-
ed on the spot This was done, and
the governor, who was also the milita-
ry commander-in-chief, merely told
the trembling soldiers that they owed
their lives to our clemency — ^a clem-
ency they little anticipated from ^' out-
side barbarians."

Baron Gros informed me that when
the French embassy was going up the
Peiho — ^which, by the way, is not the
real name of the river, and only

means a river in the north, by which
the Tientsing stream is usually desig-
nated in the south — an outrage was com-
mitted on a French sailor by a China-
man, who was arrested and condemned
to death. A deputation waited on the
ambassador from the offender's native
village, bringing with them an old
man whom they wished to be hanged
instead of him who had committed the
offence. They represented that the
condemned man was young, that his
mother was dependent upon his labor,
and would have no means of support
if deprived of her son ; that it would
be very hard if she wejre made the
victim. And, moreover, it could make
no difference to his excellency (the
minister) whether the old man or the
young were execute^ The death of
either would show that punishment
would assuredly follow injuries done
to the subjects of "the great man's
nation." They were informed that
European usages demanded that the
criminal should suffer for the crime*
They returned next day to offer " a
better bargain" to the ambassador.
They brought down two men to suf-
fer in expiation of the offence of one*
Surely two Chinamen might be ac-
cepted for the wrong committed upon
the stranger. The mission, of course,
failed ; the delegates departed sorely
disappointed) and greatly wondering
at the strange notions which the '^red-
haired outer men" had of what b
right and what is wrong.

There is a Chinese aphorism, Puh
id, puh chfwu (" No blows, no truth"),
whose universal recognition wOl best
illustrate the general character of the
administration of justice. Torture is
not employed on criminals alone in
order to elicit confession, but con-
stantly to witnesses when their evidence
does not suit the foregone conclusions
of the judge, who, in very many cases,
is bribed beforehand, and desirous that
the statements made should be such
as to warrant his predetermined ver-
dict. Truth is a virtue little appre-
ciated among Orientals, and especially
among the Chinese. They are afraid

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106

CTiinese Charaeterittics.

of truth. It gives the authorities ac-
curate information as to their where-
abouts wliich may involve them in
difficulties. They do not know what
may have happened in a particular
locality, and therefore prefer saying
where they were not than where they
were, in oi-der to avoid compromising
themselves by putting the nmners
upon a true scent. Then again, habits
of mendacity and a constant disregard
of truth lead to inaccuracy of observa-
tion. I remember a case in which
three sets of witnesses gave three sepa-
rate versions as to the time of the day on
which an important event had occur-
red — that it was in bright daylight ;
that it was in utter darkness ; that it
was neither light nor dark; and in
that case I had reason to believe there
was no intended perjury. Against
perjury there is really no protection
but in the dread of punishment We
tried in Hong Kong different usages
which were expected to give some se-
curity for obtaining the "truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the
truth." Cocks' heads were cut off by
or in the presence of the witnesses,
and they pronounced denunciations
and consented to have their blood shed
if there was falsehood in their testi-
mony. Sometimes an earthenware
plate was broken, and the parties of-
fered themselves to be shattered and
broken to bits as was the plate if they
did not tell the truth. Others favored
the writing of an aphorism of the sages
on a piece of paper, burning it at
a lamp, and requiring the witness to
swear that as he hoped not to be burned
and tormented he would say all that
was true. But every experiment
failed. Oaths, however enforced,
with whatever forms invested, were
discovered to be utterly worthless;
and it was wisely decided that the
penalties of perjury should attach
equally to the sworn and the unsworn
man. It occurred to me to consult a
person of some eminence as to the
possibility of administering any form
of an oath which would be held bind-
ing. He said that there was one tem-

ple within the city which was held sa-
cred to truth, and that promises made
and contracts entered into within that
particukr sanctuary were deemed bet-
ter guaranteed than any oilier. But
he said the place was inaccessible to
Europeans ; and he thought thai noth-
ing but the dread of punishment for
falsehood gave any security, and even
that security was most insufficient, for
the elucidation of truth.

A case, which it was my duty to in-
vestigate, connected with the smug-
gling of British property, came before
the chief judge at Canton. I had
come to a conclusion as to the guilt of
certain parties, which conclusion was
different from that formed by the Chi-
nese official. One day several Chma-
men were brought to me in a dread-
fully mutilated state — their faces and
arms covered with wounds and bruises
inflicted by heavy blows of the bam-
boo. It appeared their evidence con-
firmed the opinion I had formed, and
was altogether opposed to the theory of
the mandarm, and they were bastina-
doed until they declar^ that all they
had said was false, and their testimony
was made to accord with the views of
the magistrate. Sentence was delay-
ed ; new and irresistible evidence was
brought forward — meanwhile, per-
haps, the mandarin had been bribed ;
but certain it is the witnesses were
again summoned before him. They
were informed they must be punished
for the lies they had told while under
torture; and I heard, but I did not see
the men a second time, that Ihey were
again beaten until they declared that
their first and not their. last story was
the true one ; the mandarin reporting
that his early impressions had been
removed on further investigation.*

♦ The Emperor Paul, of Rnseia, once pobllBb-
ed a decree requiring that every one who passed
in fjront of his palace should wear i*hort breechec
and eilk Atockfngs, nnder penalty of a fla«rs'izi^.
In the cold weather people took care to avota the
neighborhood of the palace, and went to their
bnslness by various circamambalations. Belns
annoyed at the absence of the multitude, whom
he was fond of looking at fh)m the palaco win-
dows, he published a second edict, in which he
ordered that any person wearing the before-
enforced costume should receive the samo sort
of castigation. It was said that an unforiouate

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CUtnete Characteristics.

107

I was once engaged in correspond-
ence with the Taeping chiefs, while
thej were in possession of Nanking.
The fact that they had printed and
circulated a portion of the Old Testa-
ment in Chinese created a wonderful
interest in the religious world, while the
belief that they were banded together
for the patriotic pui-pose of replacing
an intrusive and oppressive dynasty
by a national and liberal government,
led to much sympathy even beyond
die field of missionary action. I sent
a ship of war to Nanking in order
to ascertain, by direct intercourse with
its traders, the exact character of the
insurrection. They put forward the
most monstrous pretensions. One of
the kings called himsalf "The Holy
Ghost, the Comforter'* — the third per-
son of the Trinity ; and demanded our
recognition of his authority, advising
ns that we knew his coming had been
foretold in our own Scripttires. Ano-
ther claimed to be the " Uterine, young-
er brother of Jesus Christ ;" and gave
an account of mutual invitations which
had passed between them ; of the
visits of the king t^ paradise, where
his " heavenly brother'' had introduced
him to his wives and family ; and he
reported specially a personal interven-
tion of Jesus, who came down to
earth in order to settle the number of
stripes which were to be given to a
woman of the harem who had offended
her master. Our people on landing
were called " ko-ko" (brothers) by
the insurgents, who inquired whether
we had brought them tribute, and
were willing to recognize the universal
authority of the celestial king. It
was only on this condition that they
would allow us to obtain the coal we
desired to purchase for the use of
the steamer — ^a condition of course not
complied with ; so that the evidence of
bro^erhood was not of a very com-
plete or satisfactory character.

foreigner, ^^o ^^^ not nnderatand Bosslan— and
bad Ee anderatood it, might not have escajpod
the penalty— was flosged on two (Ulowlng days
for disobeying the imperial mandate— for not
wearing, and for wearing, the obligatory and the
interdicted costumes.

In a very elaborate communication
which I received from the Taeping
sovereigns, they desired a personal
description of" God the Father," that
they might compare our notions of the
Deity with their own — the color of
his hair, the size of his abdomen ; and
inquired particularly whether we had
any poetry — as they had — written
with his own hand. That there was,
and is, in this extraordinary move-
ment an element of well-warranted
discontent and resistance to the ex-
actions, extortions, and corruptions of
the Manchoo authorities cannot be
doubted; but, strange to say, not a
single man of mark, not one literary
graduate, not an individual either
known to or possessing the confidence
of the higher or the middle classes,
ever join^ the rebellion. Lamenta-
ble as is the general ignorance of the
Chinese as to remote nations, the ig-
norance exhibited by the Taepings
was the grossest of all. It will be no
wonder that " the rebels," most of
whom came from the interior of China,
and had never had any communica-
tion with western nations, should dis-
play such a want of knowledge, when
even books of authority give such
confirmation as will be found in a pop-
ular geography, written by a man
who had vbited the Dutch archipelago,
and on his return gave to his country-
men the results of his observation and
experience : *

"European countries are originally
on the outside verge of civilization, and
their bemg now assimilated to the vil-
lages of our inner land is entirely owing
to the virtuous influences of our au-
gust government, which transforms
these distant and unknown regions by
the innate force of its own majesty."

European nations are thus de-
scribed :

" The Dutch share the sovereignty
of Europe with the English, or * red-
haired nation,' and the French*

"The English nation is poor but
powerful ; and being situated at a most

* Dr. Medhnrat published a translation of thia
work of Wang Tac Lai, Shaoghal, 1849.

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108

Chinese Characteritttdt,

Impoitant point, frequently attacks the
others.

^ The Hollanders are like the man
who stopped his ears while stealing
a bell. Measuring them by the
rules of reason, they scarcely pos-
sess one of the five cardinal vir-
tues (which, according to the Chinese,
are benevolence, righteousness, pro-
priety, wisdom, and truth). The
great oppress the small, being over-
^bearing and covetous. Thus they
have no benevolence. Husbands and
wives separate with permission to
marry again ; and before a man is
dead a month his widow is permitted
to go to another. Thus they have no
rectitude. They are extravagant and
self-indulgent in the extreme, and so
bring themselves to the grave with-
out speculating on having something to
tranquillize and aid their posterity.
Thus they have no wisdom. Of the
single quality of sincerity, however,
they possess a little.

"The dispositions of the French are
violent and boisterous. Their country is
poor and contains but few merchants ;.
hence they seldom come to Batavia.
Whenever the Dutch are insulted by the
English, they depend upon the French
for assistance. The kingdom of
France is large and the population
numei-ous, so that the English are
somewhat afraid of them.

"The dependent countries of Eu-
rope are intermixed and connected
without end. Some of the places can
be visited by ships when they become
a little known ; and some are held in
subjection by the Dutch, and governed
by them. The rest live in hollow
trees and caves of the earth, not
knowing the use of fire, and wander
about naked or in strange and un-
couth attire. They cannot aU be folly
known, nor are there any means of in-
quiring about them. We have heard
of such names as Tingli (English),
Po-ge (Pegu?) Wotsie (Bussorah?),
China (which is not supposed to mean
the celestial empire) ; but have no op-
portunity of knowing anything of
their manners and customs."

He says of Mckka (Mohia) that
" its walls are extremely high, and tlie
whole ground splendid with silver and
gold and beautiful gems, guarded by
a hundred genii, so that the treasures,
cannot be taken away. The true cul-
tivators of virtue may ascend to
Mekka and worship the real Buddlui,
when, afler several years of fasting,
they return and receive the title of
Laou Keun — doctor; they can then
bring down spirits, subdue monsters,
drive away noxious influences, and- de-
feat demons."

He mentions a sea-dog on the load-
stone ^ea (tzc'she-yang), where there
are so many magnets, that if a vessel
with iron nails gets into the neighbor-
hood it is inevitably absorbed. Hence,
those who navigate it employ only
bamboo pegs. He reports the exist-
ence of a sea-horse (hai ma) at
Malacca, which comes out of the
ocean in pursuit of a mare. The horse
has a fine black skin, a very long tail,
and can travel hundreds of miles a
day ; but when on shore, if he be al-
lowed only to see a river, ofi^ he
goes to his native element; nothing
can control him. He describes a sea-
mare attached to the rocks at the bot-
tom of the sea by a stalk from her
navel many hundred yards long.
" When discovered," ho, says, and this
is no doubt true, " male and female
appear together, so that they are never
solitary. The Dutch pay the fisher-
men, liberally for catching a sea-mare,
but she never lives after separation
from her rooL When caught, the
Dutch, who are ' envious people,' put
them into spirits, and preserve them."
" I never saw," he says, " the flying
head, but have heard of it, and that it
abounds in Amboyna, and resembles
a native woman. Its eye has no pu-
pil, and it can see in the dark. It flies
about; nothing but the head enters
houses and eats human entrails ; but
if it meet anything sour it cannot open
its eyes. Drops from a piece of linen
sprinkled upon it will be security
against its mischief." He says there
" 13 an ftTiimn.1 somewhat like a man.

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Chinese Characteristics.

109

bat with a mouth from ear to ear. Its
loud laughs indicate a storm ; its
name is the hauki-shang^ or sea
priest; its appearauce prognosticates
evil.'*

He speaks of a race of men called
im tan, *^ dwelling among the hills,
with uglj faces and tattooed bodies,
who have tails fiye or six inches long,
at the end of which are several bris-
tles, about an inch or two in length.
These savages frequently engage
themselves as sailors, and come to
Bataria, but as soon as they are dis-
covered, run away and conceal them-
selves, and if examination be insisted
on, they change countenance and vio-
lently resist." He gives a description
of sundry European instruments;
calls the telescope " a cunning inven-
tion of supernatural agents." He re-
commends his countrymen not to be-
lieve that the " large eggs" (no doubt
ostriches') sometimes brought to
China are " mares' egj^," which he is
sure they are not. He thinks there
may be fishes large enough to swallow
ships, as he himself saw a mortar ca^
pabie of holding five pecks, which he
was told was the vertebral bone of a
fish.

Of Manilla he gives a tolerably
sensible account, having, as he says
himself, traded there. He adds :
^ Since the withdrawal of the English
there has been general tranquillity,
peace, and joy in the regions beyond
sea. He humbly conceives this is due
to the instruction diffused by the
sacred government of China, which
overawes insulated foreigners, soaking
into their flesh, and moistening their
marrow, so that even the most distant
submit themselves."

It is not an unusual practice for opu-
lent Chinamen from the interior to
visit their friends at the ports opened
to trade, and to seek introductions to
** the merchant outer people" who buy
their silks, teas, and rhubarb, and pay
them doUars or opium in exchange.
As Chinese habits, Chinese costumes,
and Chinese opinions are all moulded
to tlie same type — as all read the

same language, study the same books,
and have done so for a hundred gen-
erations — the contrast between Euro-
pean and Chinese life is startling.
That a guest or visitor should be
placed on the right hand, shows that
one of the first requirements of cour-
tesy is unknown or disregarded ; that
a lady with large feet should by pos-
sibility be of "gentle birth," no Chin-
ese woman of quality dares to be-
lieve ; that the magnetic needle should
point to the north, instead of the south,
shows a strange unacquaintance with
elementary science; but, above all,
that civilized and adjacent nations
should have written languages so im-
perfect that fhey cannot read the let-
ters on the books of their neighbors,
is wholly unintelligible to a Chinese
literate. I remember showing a pic-
ture of the Crystal Palace to a manda-
rin from the interior. He at first denied
that such a building could ever have
been erected ; he was sure it was only
a picture — ^a fancy; he had never
seen anything like it at Peking. Was
it possible there should be an emperor
out of China with so beautiful a pal-
ace as this ? He was told this was the
palace built by and for the people.
This was quite sufficient to convince
him that we were practising upon his
credulity; and though Chinese cour-
tesy would not allow him to callus liars,
it was veiy clear he had come to the
conclusion that we were nothing bet-
ter.

They have manufacturers of false
noses in China, but none of false teeth.
There are practitioners who profess
to cure the tooth-ache instantaneously,
and people worthy of credit have as-
sured me they succeed in doing so.
The works of European dentists are
among the most admired examples
of the skill of foreigners. A mandarin
who was anxious to learn something
about the makmg of teeth, once pro-
duced to me a box fall of artificial
noses of various sizes and colors, with
which he supplied the defects of his
own ; he said he used one sort of nose
before and another after his meals,

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110

Pierre Pr6vosf8 &ory ; or. True to the Last.

and indisted that Giinese ingenuitj
was greater tlian our own. What, in
process of time, will be the action of
western civiL'zatiou on the furthest
eastern regions — ^whether, and in
what bhape, wc shall make returns for
the instruction our forefathers receiv-
ed from thence — ^is a curious and in-
teresting inquiry — ^more interesting
from the vast extent of the regions
before us. The fire-engine is almost
the only foreign mechanical power -
which has been popularized in China.
There is scarcely a watch or clock
maker in the whole empire, though
opulent men generally carry two
watches. The rude Chinese agricul-
tural and manufacturing instruments
have been nowhere supplanted by Eu-
ropean improvements. No 3teamship
has been built by the Chinese; the
only one I ever saw would not move
after it was launched ; it was said a
Chinaman, who had only served on
an English steamer as stoker, was re-
quired by the authorities to construct
the vessel. There is neither gold nor
silver coinage ; the only currency be-
ing a base metal, chien, whose value is

the fifUi of a farthing. The looms
with which their beautiful silk stufia
are woven are of the most primitive
character. Yet they have arts to us
wholly unknown. They give to cop-
per the hardness and the sharpness of
steel ; we cannot imitate some of their
brightest colors. Tliey have lately
sent us the only natural green which
is permanent, which has been known
to them, as printing, wood engraving,
the use of the compass, artillery prac-
tice, and other great inventions, from
immemorial time. Paper was made
from rags long anterior to the Chris-
tian era, and promissory notes were
used at a still earlier period. The
Chinese may be proud of a language
and a literature which has existed for
thirty centuries, while in Europe
there is no literary language now
written or spoken which would liave
been intelligible seven hundred years
ago. If, then, this singular people —
more than a third of the whole human
race — -look down wilh some contempt
on the " outbide races," let them not
be too harshly judged, or too precipi-
tately condemned.

From The Month.

PIERRE PROVOST'S STORY; OR, TRUE TO THE LAST.

CHAPTER I.

throu,

one of my summer rambles
;h the north of France, I came
across a little seaside village which
possessed so many charms that it was
the greatest difficulty in the world to
tear myself away from it.

It was indeed a lovely spot. The
village, situated on a noble cliff, was
enclosed almost in a semicircle of rich-
ly wooded hills, which stretched, as
far as the eye could see, into the very
heart of noble Normandy.

At your feet the glorious sea came
dashing in to a shore over which
great masses of bold rock were liber-
ally scattered, and round which the
waves used to play in the summer-
time, however little obstacle was
afforded to their fury when fierce
winds blew up a storm in the cruel
winter-time.

But perhaps the most attractive
feature of the place to me was a splen-
did river, within a mile's walk of the
village, which was plentifully supplied
with fish, and afforded me many and

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Pierre Prevasts Story; or^ True to the Last.

Ill

manja da/s amusement, and not a
little excellent sport.

My time was pretty well my own,
and I had made up my mind for a tol-
erably long spell of idle enjoyment ;
80, under these circumstances, it may
not appear strange that I resolved to
take up my quarters at .

The inhabitants of the place were
mostly poor fishermen, who used to
ply their trade nearly the whole of
&e week, and by great good luck fre-
quently got back to their wives and
families toward its close.

A very pretty cottage, with a bay-
window commanding a splendid view
of the sea, took my fancy immensely,
and though it was rather a humble
sort of place, I determined if possible
to make an impression on its posses-
sors, in order to secure two rooms for
my use during my stay. Alphonsine
was certainly not the most sweet-»tem-
pered woman I have ever met, in fact
rather the contrary ; at the same time
I fully persuaded myself that a great
many disagreeables would be counter-
acted by the possession of my much-
coveteil bay-window.

Alphonsine evidently ruled the es-
tablishment with a rod of iron. She
was a tall, thin, ill-favored looking
woman, who was always prepared for
a^ wrangle, and who looked uncom-
monly sharp after her own interests.
However, by paying pretty liberally
and in advance, I soon won her heart,
and flatter myself that it was by ex-
cellent generalship on my part that I
contrived very soon to bi^ entirely in
her good books. Her hard face used
sometimes actually to relax into a
grim kind of smile in my presence,
and I fancied her harsh voice used al-
most imperceptibly to soften in ad-
dressing me. Beside, she was ac-
customed to bustle about in a rough
kind of way in order to get things
straight and comfortable, and I really
think tried to do her best to make me
feel at home. What more could I
want than this? And then she had
two delightful children, a boy and a
girl, with' whom I was veiy soon espe-

cially friendly, and who tended to en-
liven me up a bit whenever I chanced
to be at all dull. The boy was about
thirteen years old, and his sister, who
looked a year or so younger, was
indeed a lovely child. She was as fair
as a lily, and had that sweet expression
of countenance which is so often found
among the peasants in Normandy;
her eyes were large and exquisitely
blue, and with all this she had a de-
cided will of her own. But then she
was the daughter of Alphonsine.

It was some little time before I
made the acquaintance of the master
of the establishment; for he was al-
ways busy fishing, and, as I have said
before, the fishermen who lived in the
village seldom got home before Sat^
urday evening, and had to be off again
either on Sunday evening or by day-
break on Monday.

However, Saturday soon came
round, and with it Pierre Provost.

He was about five-and-thirty years
old, very dark and singularly hand-
some. His hair, which was thick, fell
about his head in ringlets; he was
short, and had most expressive eyes.
I was not long in perceiving that he
was in every way a great contrast to
Alphonsine. His expression was sad,
and he seldom or never smiled ; and I
noticed he seemed to shrink rather
nervously from the piercing look with
which he was very frequently favored
by " la belle Alphonsine." His sweet
and handsome face soon disposed me
favorably toward him, notwithstand-
ing that there were circumstances
which occurred on our first acquaint*
ance which would otherwise have
tended to prejudice me entirely against
him.

I was smoking a pipe and chatting
quietly to Alphonsine in the great chun-
ney-corner on the evening I allude to,
when all at once the two children came
tearing in £rom school with their books
under their arms.

** He is come T' cried they, in their
shrill treble voices. "We saw his
boat just coming near the shore. He
will be on the sand almost in a mo-

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112

Pierre Prevosfs Story; or, True to the Last,

ment We may go and meet him,
may we not, mother T*

" What's the use ?" said she, in rather
a more disagreeable tone than usuaL
** I am sure he would much prefer to
ct>me alone. Beside, I want 70U
both. 60 into the garden to get me
something to make a salad of. Come
now!"

These last two words settled the mat-
ter, and the children were soon off, with-
out another word about the expedition
to the sea-shore.

" That's strange," thought I to my-
self; " I wcHider if this Pierre can be
a bad father, or at any rate a bad hus-
band?"

A few minutes afterward hfe came in.

As if to strengthen this' bad im-
pression of mine, I noticed that Al-
phonsine never moved when he enter-
ed, and did not attempt to offer her
hand or cheek to him. She did not
even welcome him with a smile.

No, she contented herself with tak-
ing a slate down from the wall, the
pencil belonging to which was already
in her hand :

" How much ?" said she, coolly.

Pierre Prdvost pulled out of his
pocket a great leather purse, and de-
tailed, day by day, how much he had
made by the sale of his fish. After
which, he put down the money upon
the comer of the table.

All this time the woman was ea-
gerly dotting down the various sums
on the slate. Tlien she gravely added
them all up, and determinedly counted
out every sou.

By great good luck the figures tal-
lied with the money. Then Alphon-
^iae shut up the money in a diiwer,
and locked it very securely.

Meanwhile Pierre repocketed his
leather purse, which he had just emp-
tied, never attempting to grumble in
the least, and going through the task
as methodically as possible.

" I was quite wrong in forming so
hasty an opinion," thought I to myself,
as I witnessed this peculiar scene;
^Pierre is not such a bad fellow, after
alL"

It was not long before the young ones
made a second burst into the room^
making rather more noise than they
did on the first occasion.

They were not long in scrambling
on to Pierre's knees, and smothering
him with kisses, and it was all done
so heartily, with such warmth, and so
naturally, that I could not help ex-
claiming to myself, *' Why, he's a cap-
ital father, after all ! "

But, judge, of my astonishment
when I heard their pretty voices call
oat,

" Oh ! we're so glad to see you back
again, dear uncle Pierre !"

Then he was their uncle, after all,
and he was not married to Alphonsine.
But was he her brother, or merely a
brother-in-law ? And yet she seemed
so entirely to have the upper-hand
over him. It certainly was a very re-
markable coincidence.

But what surprised me most of all
was the fatherly affection tliat Pierre
Prevost seemed to have for tlie two
children.

He took them on his knees, and
played with them, and appeared to
make so much of them, that I, who was
a silent spectator of this little scene,
became really quite interested.

This lasted for about five minutes,
and then all* at once it seemed as if
the old pain came over him, for he
turned quite sad again, and turned
deathly pale, and I could see the tears
starting to his eyes. And then he got
up, and looking steadily into the young
innocent faces of his nephew and
niece, said, in an extremely soft voice,

" Go and play on the sand. Gro
along, my pretty ones I

The poor children, who seemed
quite astonished at the sudden change
in his demeanor, hesitated for a mo-
ment. However, another beseeching
look from their uncle, and an angry
word or so from Alphonsine, soon
persuaded them what to do ; where-
upon they set out very slowly for the
sea-shore.

"They know perfectly well how
Httle you care for them," said Al-

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PierrB Prevotf* Story; ar^ True to the Last.

118

pbonsine, yery bitterly ; ^ and it would
be just as well if joa would not go out
of your way to show it."

Pierre made no answer. He shnt
bis eyesy and put bis band to bis beart
as if to express tbe pain be was suffer-
ing-

Tben taking a spade from tbe cor-
ner,

^ I am going to work in tbe garden, **
said be, gently.

And tben be went oat, looking very
ioxTowfuL

CHAPTER 11.

Things seemed to be taking quite a
dramatic turn, and I made up my
mind to try bard and unravel tbe plot.

I followed Pierre, and baying se-
cured myself in a oonvenient biding-
place, determined to watcb.

He walked quietly on, but soon
stopped at a litde vegetable garden,
quite at tbe end of tbe village. At
first be pretended to set to work vigors
onsly, but bis eyes kept wandering to a
Hide rose-covered cottage witbin a
stoneVtbrow of tbe garden. He soon
left off working, and leaning listlessly
on bis spade, be kept bis eyes Brmly
fixed on one of ihh windows, wbidi
was almost covered with tbe luxuriant
growtb of roses and boneysuckle.

As the wind played fid^Uy with tbe
curtain of green which darkened tbe
window, I fancied I recognised the
shadow of a woman.

Immovable as a statue, Pierre Pr6-
vost remained where he was, and
though night drew on, he did not
leave bis post till the heavens were
bright with myriads of stars ; and then
swinging bis spade over bis shoulder,
be began to retrace his ^teps to the
village.

But, just before he left tbe garden, I
thought I beard a bitter sigh borne on
tbe wind from the cottage window.

The next day, when I was coming
away from early mass, I saw Pierre
standing in the porch of the church.
Hie two children were clinging to one

voL.n. 8

of bis bands, while tbe other, still wet
with holy water, was gently extended
to a young woman who was in the act
of passing before him. She was a
lovely creature, with golden babr, laige
expressive blue eyes, and a face like
one of Fra Angelico's angeb. Al-
though she could not have been less
than thirty years old, she appeared to
have all tbe lightness and vivacity rf
a girl of eighteen.

When their fingers met, an almost
imperceptible thrill seemed to affect
them both, and as they gazed into one
another's faces they both turned deathly
pale.

Could it have been the shadow that
I X recognized through the roses the
evening before ?

The tide came up very early that
evening, and necessitated the departure
of all the fishermen before night came
on.

Pierre Pr6vost was one of the first
to start, but he went a long way
round to get to tbe searsbore, and
passed before tbe windows of tbe ros^
covered cottage.

A flower fell at his feet. He picked
it up eagerly, and kissing it passion-
ately, thrust it into bis bosom and
hastened away.

As tbe evening wore on, and while
the little boats were just fading away
in the distance, I watched again, and
distinctly saw a white bandkerchiel
waving from the window of tbe pretty
cottage.

I was naturally anxious to find out
about this little romance, and was
continually puzzling my poor brains to
discover the truth oif the story.

There were hundreds of people I
might have asked, and, of course,
Alphonsine would have been only too
hi^py to have enlightened me. But
I determined, if possible, to bear it all
from Pierre*s own lips, and accord-
ingly made up my mind to stifle mj
idle curiosity. /

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PUm PrivMe$ Story; or, True io the LatL

CHAPTSB in.

FtEBBS and I soon became firm
friends, and I persuaded him on one
oecaatan to take me on one of his
fiahing expeditions*
• It was a lovely night, the heayena
were ablaze with stars, and the little
boat tossed idly on the waves which
scarcely rippled against its keeL
Pierre's companions were asleep down
in the cabin, waiting for a breeze
to luring up before thej coold throw
in their nets. As for myself, I was
smdking qoietly on deck, having my
back against a coil of rope, and rev-
elling in the delicious quiet which
reigned around, when Pierre joined
me, and having lighted his pipe, sat
down by my side, and spoke, as far
as I can remember, as fbllowa :

I believe, monsieur, you are anx-
ious to know why I am such a sad
looking fellow? Perhaps you will
hnfjtk at me, but that can't be helped.
I am sure you are sincere, and wish me
well, and therefore I have no hesita-
tion in opening my heart to you.

I love Miarie 1 There is hardly
any need, perhaps, to tell you that
And yet this love is the foundation of
all my sorrow. But I firmly believe
that the good Grod willed that we
should love one another, and so I am
content. Ever since our earliest child-
hood we have gone through life hand
in hand. When w« were little ones
we always played together on the
sand; and there has hardly been a
pang of sorrow or a feeling of joy
whidi has not been felt by both al^e.
I used to think once that we were one
both in body and soul, and there are
old folks in the village who have said
it over and over again- We made
our first communion on the same day,
and at the same hour, side by side ;
and these little matters are bonds of
union indeed, and are not easily for-
gotten. Wlien I first began to seek
my bread on the sea, she always of-
fered up a. little prayer for me at the
eroea in the villa^ and she was ever
the first to rush waiat^eep into the

sea to greet me on my return. And
then I used to carry her on my shfNil-
ders back again, and kiss off the tears
of joy which fiowed down her pretty
cheeks. Ah I wc were happy indeed
in those childish days, which are pass-
ed and goae. Why are we not always
children?

And the years that followed were
hardly less happy for either of us. In
the cold winter-time we were always
side by side in the chimney-corner.
Spring saw us wandering over the
fresh meadows gathering the early vio-
lets. We worked toge^er in the har^
vest-field under the sunmier sun, and
went off nutting when the brown
leaves told us of the approaching au-
tumn. And then came the time when
we were both old enough to marry.
We had neither of us dreamed of such
a thing, and could not be persuaded
that we were not still children. We
were quite happy enough without
troubling our heads about marriage.

However, others thought of it for
us, and good Father Hennann began
to be anxious that we should make up
our minds.

But the matter was not so easily
settled, and several obstacles soon pre-
sented themselves. To b^[in with,
Marie's mother was rich. I was &r
from it, and an orphan into the bar-
gain. I had been brought up by my
brother Yictoire— a splendid fellow.
It was he who went with Father Her-
mann to Marie's mother, in order
boldly to talk over our marriage,
which they were all so anxious al^ut.

^ I had always made up my mind
that Marie should never marry any
one who had not quite as much as her-
self," replied she, ^ and that was her
dear Other's wish. However, I am
aure you speak truly when you say
thai diey both love one another very
dearly. Let it be as you say."

The old lady had a kind warm
heart

[As he said these last words,
Pierre's voice thickened, .ind I no-
ticed a tear tridcling down his honest
brown fitce. Bat my sailor waa a

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Piem Priva^s Story; or, IVue to ike Last.

115

bniTe fellow, and I had hardly time
to shake him warmly by the hand be*
fore he had quite mastered his grief,
and was abk to go on with his
stoxy.j

Marie and I were not the only
happy ones then, I can assure yon.
Yictoire, my brother. Father Hermaon,
ihe whole village in'fact, for we were
both very pc^ular, rejoiced with us.
It was the vreek before the marriage.
Of coordc I had not gone to sea.
Yictoire was also very anxious to re-
main; however, his wife persuaded
him to go. Several "in the village
found faalt with her for doing so, on
the pretext that working at a festal
time was very bad luck; but they
had no right to say so. Yictoire's
diildren were very young, and had to
be provided for; and so Yictoune
went. In the evening great black
donds darkened the sky. We were
evidently threatened with a dreadful
storm. But we were enjoying our-
selves too much to think of storms or
fiiends at sea. All at once there was
a vivid flash of lightning and then a
peal of thunder, which seemed to
shake every cottage to its foundation.
And then came piercing cries :

<* A boat in distress, and threatened
with instant destruction V*

It was Yictoire's boat I

I was on the shore in an instant
What an awful storm I Never in
my whole life had I seen its equal.

All that was in a man's power I did,
you may be quite sure. Three times
I dashed madly into the waves, only
to be thrown back by the fury of the
9ea. The last time I was all but lost
myself. However, I was rescued and
brought back to the shore, bruised
and insensible. Some thought me
dead. Would that I had b^n, and
had out side by side with that other
body stretched lifeless on the rocks 1

It waa Yictoire 1

When I came to myself he was
near me, quite still, and covered with
Uood; but with just enough breath
left to whisper in my ear :

^Fiem, my boy, be a brother to

my wife, a fadier to my children. God
bless you, boy.**

"Yictoire," answered I, "I swea/
it."

And then he died without a murmur.

CHAFTER rV.

Qv course yon will gness, monsieur,
that this awful affiur was the means
of putting off oar marriage. Marie
and I neither of us comfSained, but
consoled ourselves with the reflectioa
that all would soon be welL I took
up my position in my brothei^s house,
and warmly kissed my brotlier^s chil-
dren, now mine. Aiphonsine tried to
show her gratitude as well as she
oould. And so six months slipped
away, and the villagers began taUung
again about our marriage. I dcm't
know how it was, but I began to feel
very nervous and uneasy about the
matter, and I did not so much as dare
broach the subject dther to Aiphon-
sine or Marie's mother. In a little
time the latter began the subject her-
self.

"Pierre," said she, <*you have
adopted your brother's children, have
you not ?"

"Yes, mother."

" And his wife also?" x

"Tes ; I must take care of his wife
quite as much as her children."

"You have quite made up your
mind?"

"Perfectly.';

"Am I to understand that you
never mean to leave them?"

" I swore I would not to my brother
before he died."

Then there was a silence, and my
heart beat very quick.

^Listen, Pierre," said the old
woman ; " don't think that I wish to
deprive the widow or the orphans of
one morsel of the sustenance you in-
tend to set aside for them. Even if I
did, your good heart would hardly lis-
ten to me. But yon must understand
that I know Alphonsme. My da^gk*

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116

Pierre Privaet's Story; or^ lirue to the LaeL

ter can never Utb widi Alphcmaiiie i
and Alphonsine can never live with
me. Never!"

This last word seemed to open an
abysA before mj very ftet I too
knew Alphonsine, £ too began now to
understand that either of these ar«
ra^gements would be perfectlj im*
pracdcable.

^ Mother," I began —

^ I don't wish to hinder jour mar-
riagei" replied the old lady, very slow-
ly; ^I simply impose one condition*
Yon must be quite aware that in thia
matter my will must be law/'

Still I hesitated.

" It will be for you then to decide
your own fate," added she ; ^ and my
daughter's as welL"

I raised my head* Marie was
there, andour eyes met. I must break
my oath or lose her for ever.

It is absolute torture to recall those
fearful moments. My head seemed
to swim round, and wh^i I tried to
speak, there was something in my
throat which nearly choked me. And
still Marie looked at me ; and oh, how
tenderly I

<* Pierre," said the old lady again,
*'you must answer; will you remain
alone with Alphonsine, or will you
come here alone ? Choose for your-
self."

I looked at Maiie again, and was
on the point of exclaiming, ^ 1 must
come here I" but the words again
stuck in my throat, and my tongue re-
fused to speak. And then I b^an to
ease my conscience with the thought
that I could still work for Vlctoire's
wife and children, and tried to think
they would be equally happy, al-
though I was not always with them.
But then I thought of that dreadful
night, and the storm, and the pale face,
and tiie whisper in my ear came back
again, and I fancied I heard my
brother say, *^It was not that you
promised me, my brother ; it was not
that I"

At last the bitter words rose to my
mouth, and in a hollow voice I an-
swered:

^ I must keep my oath!" And then,
like a drunken man, I fell prostrate
on the floor.

When I recovered she was near
me still, and her sweet voice whispered
in my ear,

^ Thank God, Pierre, you are an
honest man!"

Those words were my only comfort
in Iht long dreary year which followed
that fearful day. I was never myaelf
again. I tried to rouse myself up, and
take some interest in my daily work*
and did my best to appear cheerful
and contented at home, but I was not
the same man that I used to be. The
children were a great comfort to me
when I was at home ; but the long
hopeless days and the dark dreary
nights were miserable oiough, God
knows. I seemed to dream awav mv
life.

I thought it best to keqp away from
Marie, as a meeting would be painAil
to both. And so we never met

At last a report got about the vil*
lage that Marie was going to be mar-
ried.

I could no longer keep away from
her now, and she, too, appeared anx-
ious that we should meet In a vecj
few days we were once n^ore nde by
side.

There was no need of me to speak.
She read my question in my eyes : of
her own accord she answered :

" Yes, Pierre, it is quite true.*

'<But, Pierre," added she in tears,
<' I am yours, and must be yours for
ever. Unless I can get you to say.
Marry Jacques, I will remain single idl
my life. But my mother bega me to
get married ; and what caul do ? She
is very old, and very ill just now. I
feel I too have got a duty to fulfil."

I uttered a cry of despair.

^ Pierre," said Marie, still weeping,
<<you must know how dearly I love
you. My fato is that I must love you
stilL But, for all that, Pierre, I can-
not let my mother die."

I could not bear to hear her weep ;
but what comfort could I give? AJt
last the devil entered into my heart,

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Pierre Prhn^efe

or. TVue to the Laei.

117

and I broke forth in bitter curses at
my fate, and ii^iat I chose to call her
I inooDBtanc J.

^ I don't deserve this,** said Marie
▼cry softly; '^and I hardly expected
ihai I shonld ever hear these words
fiom your lips. Sdll, I believe you
love me, after alL I hope yon will
fee^ when you think over all that has
{mssed, that I am not heardess, and
that I deserve some answer to the
question which my lips almost refuse
to ask. You will give me an answer^
I am sure, by-and^y."

And then she left me, half-mad as I
was, lying coiled up in a heap at the
roadside.

During the next few days I did re-
flect. If I could not marry Marie my-
sdf, had I any right to hinder her
marriage with another ? TVas I justi-
fied in preparing for her a life of soli-
tude, and in depriving her of a moth-
er's care? And then, again, I be-
gan to perceive that no one was at all
inclined to take my part in the village.
My popularity was &st declining, since
no one could look into my heart, or
could have the least idea what I had
sofifered, or knew what had actually tak-
en place. I was pitied, but considered
very selfish. I was continually told
tibat Marie's mother was ailing sadly,
and that she had deserved better treat-
ment at my hands.

At last Father Hermann comforted
■le, and benefitting by his good advice
and by the help of our holy religion, I
began to be in a better frame of mind.

I made up my mind to give Marie
her freedom. But I could not bear to
see her again, and so I wrote.

CHAFTEB V.

Tmc marriage between Jaqnes and
Marie was soon arranged, and soon
the second festal day c^une round.

In the morning I put out to sea as
BBoal ; but as the evening wore on, I
fimnd I was under the influence of a
apeU) and that it was quite impossible

for me to remain where I was. Ac-
cordingly I returned ; and, led on by
the spell and attracted like a moth to
the candle, wended my way to the re-
joicings, in order that I might torture
myself for the lost time.

I have heard of the agonies of the
rack, of the thumb-screw, of saints be-
ing boiled in oil and crucified, and
many other dreadful horrors; but I
very much doubt if any martyr ever
suflered the agony that I did that
night

It was in the dusk of the evening,
and M^e was just finishing a song,
while all were resting from the dances
which had followed one another in
quick succession. She X!\ras just sing-
ing the last verse, in which my name
was accidentally introduced, when a
sailor who was just behind me struck
a match in order to light his pipe.
The light exposed me to the view of the
whole company. Directly Marie saw
me, she uttered a piercing cry and
fainted away. I rushed toward her,
not thinking what I was doing. But
Jaques was at her side before me. In-
stead, however, of showing the least
jealousy or putting himself in a pas-
sion, he grasped me warmly by the
hand, and then looked tenderly at
Marie, who now began to revive.

^ Never fear, and keep up a good
heart," said he, in a strange kind of
voice. You would never guess what
he did, and perhaps will hardly believe
when I tell you.

Ordinarily a very temperate, steady
man, h^ astonished the company by
giving out that he intended to throw a
little life into the fStc. On this he or-
dered wine and cider, and lastly a
plentiful supply of brandy.

In a very litUe time he was helpless-
ly drunk, or at least pretended to be
so. As the evening wore on, he got
fix)m bad to worse, insulted and quar-
relled with the men, and fairly dis-
gusted the women. The village was
in an uproar, and there was not a soul
who did not speak in strong terms of
the disgraceful conduct of Jaques. At
the earnest entreaty of the worthy fel-

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PUfre Ptivcsfi Stmry; or, Ihu to the Last,

low we kept our counsel, and aooord-
inglj the new marriage was at once
broken off.

The rest of mj stoiy you know al-
most as well as I do myself. You
see mj life from daj to daj. You
can picture to yourself my sorrow and
my unhappy position. You can see how
little she has changed.

And yet we con never be more to
one anoUicr than we are now. Never.
Never I We are married, and yet we
are not. We are separated, alas, here
on earth, but we mutt be united in
heaven. Think of the years that
have passed, and think how happy
we might have been, and what a
thread there was between our present
existence and the life we long to lead.
God's will be done 1

Poor Pierre here let his head fall
into his hands, and wept in silence.
. How could I comfort the poor fel-
low?

It was not the kind of grief that
needed consolation, and so I let him
weep on.

All at once a breeze spnmg up and
fOled the sails. Pierre inunediately
roused himself, but soon relapsed into
his accustomed calm quiet manner.

Both the other sailors now came on
deck, ^e nets were thrown over, and
the business of the night began.

CHAPTEBVT.

Three years afterward, by the

merest accident in the world, I lu^*
pened to return to my fevorite little
village. There was evidently some
excitement going on, and as £ chanced
to recognize my old friend Father
Hermann, I went up and renewed our
acquaintance.

'<What is the matter?' said he;
^ why you do not mean to say yon
don't know ?**

« Not in the least."

" Why your old friend Alphonsine
has been dead six months."

" I really don't see why the worthy
inhabitants of the village should re-
joice at that," said I.

*' A great obstacle has been remov-
ed," said the father ; ^ don't you re-
member ?"

*' Of course ; and what has fol-
lowed?"

" The marriage of Pierre Pr6vost
and Marie 1"

I was not long in accompanying
Father Hermann to the cottage in
which my old fnends were receiving
the warm congratulations of their
friends and neighbors.

They recognized me at once, and
insisted that I should be present at
the entertainment which was to follow
in the course of the day. Of course
I accepted the invitation. I neve»
remember having enjoyed myself
so much, and am quite certain
that I spoke from my heart when I
proposed, in my very best French, the
healths of la belle Marie and Pierre
Provost.

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JSuith At J^.

119

From Th« Popular Bdenee Betlaw.
INSIDE THE EYE: THE OPHTHALMOSCOPE AND ITS'USE&

BY ERNEST HABT, OPHTHALMIC 8UB0B0N.

There are few spectacles more af-
fecting — and there were few more
hopelessly distressing — than that
which maoj have seen, of the blind
man, with eyes unaltered in their hu-
man aspect of beauty, searching vainly
to penetrate the unchangeable dark-
ness of a noonday, bright to others,
and replete with the splendor of light
and color. There have always been
many of these sufferers from a disease
which claims the most profound sym-
pathy, and which seemed bitterly to
reproach our science that it could not
thnely penetrate the mystery of that
obscure chamber which lies behind the
iris, and had found no means for en-
abling us to see through the clear but
darkened space of the pupiL Timt
reproach, at least, exists in part no
longer. Since some few years now
we have learnt how to explain the ob-
scurity of the interior of the eye, and
by what optical contrivances we can
overcome this darkness and look into
the depths of the ocular globe; thus in-
specting with ease, and quite painlessly
to the individual, the lenses and humors
of the eye, the nerve of sight and its
transparent retinal expansion, and even
the vascular tissue which lies behind
and surrounds this. This is a great tri-
umph of physical science, and it is no
barren triumph. The insight which
we gain into the host of affections of
the refracting media and deep mem-
branes of the eye has given to our di-
agnosis and therapeutical treatment of
the most obscure forms of disease
leading to blindness, a certainty and
precision to which we were formerly
strangers.

The optical instrument by which
we are able to effect this inspection is
known by the fitting title of the

Ophthalmoscope (o^&aXfwcy the eye;
oKoneuj I survey). With this instm-^
ment, the manner of using it, and its
valuable applications, I am necessarSy
professionally much occupied in daily
work ; and as the editor of the ^ Pop-
ular Science Review^ has requested
me to give some plain account of the
matter, I will endeavor to afford an
untechnical statement of what the
ophthalmoscope- is, and what are
some of the most useful results which
have been obtained by its use.

Let me first remind the general
reader that in the human eye, behind
the pupillary aperture of the colored
iris, which presents to the unaided eye
of the observer the mere aspect of
black darkness, lies, first, a clear bi-
convex lens ; and behind this, filling the
eye, and giving to it the character of
a solid bail, a transparent globular
mass, known as the vitreous body, or
humor. It is into a d^ression in the
front of this that the aioresaid lens is
fitted, so that the whole space of the
eye behind the iris is filled by the Uns
and vitreous body. The optic nerve,
or nerve of sight, which pierces the
tunics of the eye at the back and near
the centre, spreads out and forms aa
'expanded tunic of nerve-structura
which enwraps the vitreous body as
far as its most forward edge, where
the colored iris descends in front of it.
Enwrapping again this nerve-tunic or .
retina is a vestment, chiefly made of
blood-vessels, connected by fine tissue
and thickly coated with black pigment,
having its own optical uses. This
second outer pigmented vascular tunic
is the choroid. This again is enclosed
within the external strong fibrous
membrane, which includes and pro-
tects all the sclerotic membrane

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ISO Aride ih$ Efe.

{oKknftoCf hard). These are the two see through the popillarjr space* If

hamors and three tunics of the eje one considers what is the reason of

which can to a greater or less extent the apparent darkness of the pupillary

be examined during life bj the aid of aperture and the chambers of the eje

the ophthalmoscope. behind it, it is not difficult to gain

^ Hey can all be more or less inves- an idea of the means hj which tbis

tigated in the living eje hj the aid of optical condition maj be altered so as

the ophthalmoscope, because hj the to enable us to see where all seem to

aid of this instrument we are able to the unaided vision obscure.

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jhtiifa 00 E^.

121

Ihig darimess of die papiUai^
aperiare is attributable partlj to obvi-
COB causes, sudi as the natural oou-
tracdoii of the pupil or irisj which oc-
con under light — this contraction
hmitiag the number of rays which
can enter the eye. Then that black
pigment which lines the iris absorbs a
great deal of light ; and thus, as in
Uie case of albinos, whose eyes are
deficient in pigment, or where the
pupil is dilated, either through disease
or by artificial agents, these obstacles
for seeing into the living eye are re-
moved. But still the main difficulties
are not cleared away; and if you
take for example an albino animal,

as to prodhce upon the retina a clear
and definite image of whatever exter*
nal object they started from. Simi*
larly, then, on their emeigence they
are refracted chiefly by the lens and
cornea, so as to form an image in the
outer air^ the emergent rays coincid*
ing in their path with that which they
took when entering, and the image
formed in the air being conjugated
with the retinal image ; being formed,
therefore, on the same side, varying
with the position of the lens and ob-
ject, and the accommodation of the
eye. Thus, then, to perceive this
aerial image, derived from the retinal
reflection, the eye of the observer

sacb as one of those beautiful little
white-furred rabbits, whose rosy eyes
look like fiery opals edged with swan's
down, and dilate the pupils with atro-
pine, it is still not possible to see
deariy the details of the structure
within and at the back of the eye.
This is by reason of the structure of the
eye as an optical instrument, and be-
cause the rays of light in entering and
in emerging from it undergo refrac-
tion, according to definite laws. The
light which penetrates the eye tra-
verses the transparent retina, produc-
ing the impression necessary for sight,
and is partly absorbed by the black
IMgment of the choroid ; but a great
number of the rays are reflected ; for
here there is no exception to the gen-
eral role that some of the rays of
light falling upon any substance are
always reflected. These rays, in re-
turning, are refracted through the vit-
reous body and lens, just as they were
in entering the eye, with the object
then of causing thrai so to converge

needs to be placed in the axis of the
converging rays; but since this is also
the axis of the entering rays, he will
of necessity in that position cut off
those rays altogether of the b'ght pro-
ceeding, say, from a lamp, or the
source of light opposite to the eye to
be illuminated.

The problem to be solved consists,
then, in the simple illumination of the
eye to be observed by a source of light
so arranged that the observer can be
/placed in the axis of the rays entering
and emei^ing without intercepting
those rays. This may be most con-
veniently effected by placing the
source of light aside of the eye to be
observed, and observing through a
pierced concave mirror, which reflects
that light into the eye. We can then,
by looking through the central aper-
ture bf this mirror, place ourself in the
path of the entering and emerging
rays. The mirror becomes the source
of light to the observed eye ; the rays
which it flashed into- the eye emerge

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122

JMd0 the B^

m part, and retarn along the same
path, forming the aerial image at a
distance and under circumstances re-
gnlated hj the optical conditions of the
eye observed, and within view of the
observer who is looking through the
mirror. A very simple diagram will
suffice to explain this : r a is the circle
of diffusion of the retina, and the lines
indicate how the reflected rays will
pass through the media of the eye,
and form at / a' a real enlarged but
inverted image of the fundus of the
eye. This will be placed at the dis-
tance of distinct vision of the subject,
and has relation to the accommodation
of the eye.

As these are variable quantities,
the practice of ophthalmoscopy de-
mands a little address, which habit
^ quickly gives. It is for want of un-
derstanding this, and from impatience
of these preliminary difficulties, « that
many have been discouraged at the
outset, and have abandoned unwisely
the attempt to learn the use of the
ophthalmoscope.

The image obtained in the way
' mentioned is not so distinct as to give
that full perception of details which is
necessary for scientific and medical
purposes. A more defined image is
obtained by interposing, for example,
n bi-convex lens on the path of the
luminous rays emerging fi*om the eye
observed. The effect of holding such
a lens of short focus before the ob-
served eye whilst examining it with a
concave ophthalmoscopic mirror is to
cause the rays emerging from the eye
to undergo a further refraction, and t»
modify the actual image which they
form, producing one which is smaller,
more defined, but still inverted. This
is the most simple and one of the most
satisfactory methods of exploring the
eye with the ophthalmoscope. It is
that of the most general and easy ap-
plication, and I will, therefore, add a
few words to explain how it may most
oonveuiently be practised.

We will suppose 4hat it is the hu-
man eye whidi is to be examined.
The room is to be made dark; the

person to be seated ; a light — the
white flame of an oil-lamp or an Ar-
gand gas-burner — to be placed near
his head, on the side, and at the level
of the eye to be observed. The ob*
server takes then the concave mirror
in the hand of the side toward the
lamp, and placing it against the front
of his eye, so that the upper edge
rests against his eyebrow, brings &
head to the level of that of the person
seated, looks through the central per*
foration at the eye to be observed,
and by a little careful change in the
direction of the mirror casts, by its aid,
upon the eye examined the light of
the lamp.

He wiU now perceive that the pa-
pillary aperture is illuminated, and, no
longer black, shines with a silvery or
reddened light He takes now the
bi-convex lens of short focus in the
hand hitherto free, and places it in
front of the examined eye, and at such
a distance as to make the focus of the
lens coincide with the pupil of that eye
--^ distance varying from two to
three inches. He himself will usually
need to be at a distance from twelve
to eighteen inches. This is for nor-
mal eyes. The slight movements
backward and forward necessary to
adjust these distances correctly, are
effected very easily and precisely af-
ter practice ; but at first it is a little
difficult to avoid changing the direc-
tion of the* mirror while thus slightly
advancing or retiring the head ; and
this is a point on which it is weH to
give a warning, for it is a frequent
source of discouragement to begiuners,
who find that at every movement they
interfere with the illumination of the
eye, and so suffer from a series of lit-
tle failures at the outset. The flrsl
thing, in fact, that every one sees
amounts to a little more than a red, lu-
minous disc ; those who begin by see-
ing nothing more, therefore, need nol
to be discouraged; a little patience
and time will enable them to see what
more practised persons describe. The
eye to be exammed may be more
fully observed by dilating the pupil

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iuide the Eye.

123

widi atropine — a drop of a eolation,
one grain to a pint of water, or one of
the atroplzed gelatines prepared for
me bj Savory and Moore, each of
which contains one hundred thou-
sandth of a grain of atropine, and will
maintain dilation during several hours.
This acts also perfectly well with rab-
bits or cats.

The first thing seen is the red re-
flection of the choroidal vessels show-
ing through the transparent retina;

branch, each of which subdivides forth-
with into two secondary branches, and
these again continue to subdivide^
dichotomously, running forward to the
anterior limits of the retina. The
veins, which are somewhat larger and
deeper colored, usually pierce ^% disc
of the optic nerve in two trunks. Pul-
sation may occasionally be detected
in the veins by watching carefully
their color, which seems to change
at each impulse just where they paM

and when the eye observed is directed
upward and inward, we see the usu-
ally circular disc of the optic nerve,
encircled by a double ring, cream-
colored, or very faintly roseate or
grey, and surrounded by the red cho-
roid. Th6 two rings are the apertures
in the choroid and sclerotic, of which
the former is the smaller. From out
this disc we see springing the retinal
artery and retinal veins, sometimes
centric, at others excentric, in their pas-
sage. The artery is easily reco$i;nized
as being somewhat smallei in calibre,
and of a lighter red. The artery usu-
al^ divides into a superior and inferior

over the edge of the optic disc and
bend to pierce the nerve.

Fuller details of the ophthalmo-
scopic appearances of healthy eyes,
both human and animal, will be found
in Zander's treatise, excellently edited
and translated by Mr. R. B. Carter, of
Stroud. In the healthy eye the aque-
ous humor, lens, and vitreous humor
are clear, and do not in any way ob-
struct the passage of the light. It is
otherwise in disease; and this brings
us to the discussion of some of the
practical applications of the ophthal-
moscope. Here, perhaps, I may be
permitted to quote some of the para-

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Arids the jEsf$.

graphs of a paper wliich I read lately
4m die subject before the Hanreian So-
ciety:

** Taking up th^ diagnosis of the
Tarious forms of disease any of which
would have been held to constitute the
condition known as amaurosis, it may
be noted, first of all, that even in the
hands of the novice ophthalmoscopic
examination supersedes those dusters
in ophthalmology which were formerly
devoted to the means of distinguishing
between incipient cataract and amau->
rosis. In the past, and even at present,
with thoee surgeons who are content

probably firom coincident swelling of
the lens. An error arising from this
source has many times condemned the
unfortunate subject of a commencing
cataract to the severe treatment
thought appropriate to the unhappy
class of amaurotics* The kind of al-
teration in the lens, imperceptible
by any other means than the oph
thalmoscope, is the slightly opaque
striation of the substance of the lens
sometimes seen in an early stage.
These opaque strisB may occupy either
the anterior or the posterior segment
of the lens, and spring from the centre

to treat deep-seated diseases of the eye
by guessing at their nature, and have
not adopted the systematic use of the
ophthalmoscope into their practice,
the functional annoyances which com-
monly occur at the outset of the for-
mation of lenticular cataract, have
been, and are, fertile sources of decep-
tion. The patient complains of
frontal pain, of confused vision, stars
of h'ght, and some other vague symp-
toms which characterize the outset
alike of many forms of deep-seated
disease of the eye, and of the fatty
degeneration of the lens which com-
monly gives rise to lenticular cataract,

of the crystalline op converge to-
ward the centre from the circumfer-
ence. In order to see the latter, the
pupil must be fully dilated with at-
ropine; as, indeed^ for the purposes
of complete ophthalmoscopic examina-
tion it always needs to be ; and then,
just as the greatest expert cannot
discover them except by ophthalmo-
scopic illumination, so, neither with
its aid, can they be passed over with
ordinary care. In oi-der to be quite
sure in any delicate case, it is well
to lower the light a little, and use only
a feebly iUuminatiog power, as a very
strong light may overpower a com*

•

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Innde A$ B^

125

mendag opoeitj, and reDder n^ unable
to detect tiie strie. ThiB practical
caution applies equally to all other
ooaditknis of opadtj in the tranapa-
lent media. In two cases, lately, I
have been able to set at rest doubts of
this kind, which happened to be in the
penons of medical men, who were
mneh disquieted bj the symptoms--*
oae a member of this socie^. In a
tliird case I hare recently detected
incipient cataract (peripheric strise) in
a gentleman supposed to be suffering
from commenetng glaucoma.

'* It is of frequen t occurrence to find
the c^>sule c^ the lens stained with
blad: spots; these are stains left by
the avral pigment, and occur usually
aHer an attack of iritis, when the iris
has been in contact with the lens.
When the iris has been adherent, a
oomplete ring of pigment may often be
se»i on the surface of the lens. A
day's experience at any ophthalmic
dmique can mostly show examples
of this condition; but it is only when
these d^xMitB are numerous, and in
the eentral line of vision, that they be-
oome troublesome. Tliey are then
met with as the sequences of severe
cfaoroido-iritis, and usually coincide
with firther mischief in the vitreous
and choroid.

** The vitreous, under the influence
most commonly of choroiditis, and
usually syphilitic choroiditis, presents
alterations of the most striking char*
aeter for ophthalmoscopic observation.
The patients who offer these changes
complain usually of cousiderable dun-
neae <^ si^t, which cm examination is
found to include both diminution in
tbe aeuteness of visual perception, and
restriction in IhafiM of vtiioni or ex-
teat of any object seen at once. The
great source of trouble to them is, that
when they lift the eye or move the
head, black corpuscles, or streaks, or
webe float before their eyes, and ob-
scure the object at wfaidii they are
looking ; and when the eyes are kept
atilly these &11 again and disappear.
Sixaminenow the eyesof «ich anone,
and you wiU see that the phen^miena

deseribed are due to the existence of
actual shreds, corpuscles, or webs of
flbrous and albuminous exudation,
which float in the vitreous, and at each
motion of the eye rise in clouds and
obscure the fundus, so that you can
barely see it, or perhaps not atalL
These conditions, I say, are mostly
specific, but not invariably. They
are sometimes the result of scrofula,
and probably of other forms of ch<H
roiditis.'*

Here, then, are a large number of
cases in which the ophthalmoscope
transports us at once from the regions
of the known to the unknown. There
are other classes of cases equally
striking. Let me take illustrative ex-
amples. Two persons apply for ad-
vice, ccHUf^ining that the sight has
been gradually growmg more and
more dim, perhaps in one eye,^^it
may be in both. The progress of the
disease has been insidious and nearly
painless. The eyes are to all exter-
nal appearance healthy, except proba-
bly that in both patients the pupOs
are partially dilated and sluggish.
The ophthahnoscope helps us to solve
the problem.

The one is a case, it may be, of
slow atrophy of the optic nerve, pro-
ceeding from central disease of the
braiuh— from pressure on the optic
tracts of nerve within the skull, cr
from defective nutrition following
losses of blood. We find the nerve
glistening white and slightly cujqped,
the arteries small, the fundus others
wise healthy. In the other we recog-
niae at once, in the fulness of the
veins, their pulsation, and the marked
excavation of the optic disc, the indi-
cations of excessive tension of the eye-
ball and undue pressure of the nerve.
The first requires careful constitu-
tional treatment and a long course of
studied hygiene and medication; the
secoiid cfldls for direct and immediate
interference, with the view of reliev-
ing the intra-ocular pressure* In tbe
diagnosis of this great dass <rf glauco-
matous disease of the eye— disease

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126

JSuide tks Ey9*

characterised bj loss of vision, some-
times slow and sometimes rapid, but
always characterized by definite oph-
thalmoscopic signs: cupping of the
disc, pulsation, fullness of the yems,
and it may be more or less haziness
oi the transparent media — ophthalmo-
scopy has rendered a most brilliant and
inestimable service. Prior to the in-
troduction of the use of this instm-
ment the disease was of an unknown
pathology; its results .were fatal to
vision, but there were no means of
diagnosing the conditions attending
the earlier stages, and blindness fol-
lowed almost certainly and inevitably.
The investigation of the disease has
brought us a remedy in the excision
of a portion of the iris — a practice in-
troduced by Yon Grafe, of Berlin, and
of which the success is in suitable
cases most gratifying.

Another series of examples may be
chosen to illustrate the application of
ophthalmoscopy. I avoid giving de-
tails here, but it is perhaps right to
say that these are not fanciful sketches,
* but notices of cases in my experi-
ence and taken from my note-books
of practice. Two persons are asking
for advice as to the management of
their eyes for short-sightedness. Are
both to receive the same advice ? The
ophthalmoscope alone can furnish pos-
itive data. With this we may dis-
cover a staphylomatous condition of
the back of the eye, a bright excentric
marg'm around the optic disc and
edg^ with black pigment. Examin-
ing it closely, we may find that this
pigmented edge giv^ evidence of pro-
gressive inflammation at the back of the
eye, and extending to continuous and
increasing atrophy and retrocession of
the coats of the eye. This person is
in danger of becoming rapidly made
short-sighted or of losing sight alto-
gether. We must prohibit the use of
concave glasses for a certain length of
time, and must adopt active and effec-
tual measures for subduing the atro-
phic inflammation. In the other patient
the ophthalmoscope may show us but
Btile stretching or waste, a&d that not

progressive, and will enable us then
to calm his fears, to prescribe appropri-
ate glasses, and to dismiss him to his
occupation with ease of mind and
safety. So with sudden lose of sight
from intra^ocular haemorrhage, the
ophthalmoscope gives us information
which could never have been guessed
at without it, and guides us, not only
to the local knowledge, but to the con-
stitutional information essential for
cure.

There are certain condidons of the
eye which may warn any one that it
is desirable that the condition of the
vision ought to be investigated by the
ophthalmoscope. Rapidly increasing
short-sightedness is one of the most
marked, and when this becomes asso-
ciated with weakness of sight and loss
of acuteness in the perception of small
objects, the warning is very oi^gent
A diminution in the field of vision is
another important indication of inter-
nal changes in the eye, of whidi only
the ophthalmoscope can detect the true
nature. It would be difficult, perhaps,
to say whether more mischief is done
and more sufiering is caused by the
total neglect of such symptoms or by
their ignorant palliation by the aid of
common spectacles, chosen empirically,
because they fetcilitate vision for the
time. The great use of the ophthal-
moscope, then, is this : that it arms ns
with an instrument of predsion, by
which we can determine the precise
local condition of the parts of die eye
in which the function of sight is resi-
dent and through which it is regulated.
If it cannot do all that we might ask,
it is because the sense of sight is in
truth a cerebral function, of which the
eye is only an instrument; and in
dealing with cerebral afiections of the
sight, it can indeed give us informatiaED
which without it we should lack, bat
it leaves still to be desired more inti-
mate acquaintance with first causes,
which at present we can only discuss
inferentially. To the amateur in
science, and to the lover of nature, it
discloses an exquisite spectacle, un-
known till now, that carrieB obserrm-

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The POgrima^ io Ksvlaar^ 127

tkm into the inner chambers of the Iit- which I had made for the purpose, and

ing eye, and displays its wonders and was examined, by the aid of a modifica*

its beauties. The observation is per- tion which I devised of Liebreich's de-

fectlj painless, and may easily be ef- monstmting ophthalmoscope, by many

feeted : rabbits, for example, submit score of observers. Mine has the ad*

to it with great calmness and ctmipos^ vantage of being adapted for use even

ure, and at the College of Physicians' amid a blaze of Hght, and it cannot easi-

fotr^ last year, a litde pet white rah- ly be disarranged ; two qualities valu-

bit of mine sat up calmly in a box id>le in an instrument for demonstration.

From The Lamp.

THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAB.

FBOM THE GSBMAN.

Thb mother stood at the window.
The son he lay in bed ;

** Here's a procession, Wilhelm ;
Wilt not look outr* she said.

^ I am so ill, my mother,
In the world I have no part ;

I think upon dead Gretchen,
And a death-pang rends my heart.''

^ Rise up ; we will to Kevlaar;

Will staff and rosary take ;
God's Mother there will cure thee,—

Thy sick heart whole will make."

The Church's banner fluttered,
The Church's hymns arose ;

And unto fair Coin city
The long procession goes.

The mother joined the pilgrims,

Her sick son leadeth she ;
And both sing in the chorus,

<< GdoU ie^st dUf Marie r*

The holy Mother in Kevlaar

To-day is well arrayed,—
To-day hath much to busy her.

For many sick ask her aid.

• •* FMlBod bo thon, )CU7 1 '•

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128 I%0 Pilgrimage to Kevlaar.

And mnnj sick people bring lier

Such oflPerings as are meet;
Manj waxen lunbs thejr bring her,

Manj waxen hands and feet.

And who a wax band bringeth,
His hand is healed that day ;

And who a wax foot bringeth,
With sound feet goes awaj.

Many went there on cratches <

.Who now on the rope can spring;

MuiT plaj now on the viol

Whose hands could not touch a string.

The mother she took a waxen light.
And shaped therefrom a heart ;

** Take tliat to the Mother of Christ," she said,
^ And she will heal thj smart."

He sighed, and took the waxen heart,
And went to the church in woe ;

The tears from his eyes fell streaming,
The words froQi his heart came low. '

<< Thou that art highly blessed,
Thou Mother of Christ I" said he ;

** Thou that art queen of heaven,
I bring my griefs to thee.

I dwell in C5ln with my mother ;

In C5ln upon the Rhine,
Where so many hundred chapels

And so many churches shine.

And near unto us dwelt Gretchen ;

But dead is Gretchen now.
Marie, I bring a waxen heart, —

My hearths despair heal thou.

Heal thou my sore heart-sickness ;

So I will sing to thee
Early and late with fervent love,

* Gehk segst duy Marie P "

The sick son and the mother ^
In one chamber slept that night ;

And the holy Mother of Jesus
Gild in with footsteps light

She bowed her over the sick man's bed.
And one &ir hand did lay

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2^ Ancient Laws of Ireland,

129

Upon his throbbing bosom,

Then smiled and passed awaj.

It seemed a dream to the mother,
And she had jet seen more

But that her sleep was broken,
For the dogs howled at the door.

Upon his bed extended

Her son lay, and was dead ;

And o*er his thin pale visage streamed
The morning's lovelj red.

Her hands the mother folded.

Yet not a tear wept she ;
But sang in low devotion,

^ Gelobt seytt dtij Maris F

Mabt Howrrr.

From The Header.
THE ANCIENT LAWS OF IRELAND.

Jneient Laws of Ireland. Vol. I.
Printed for Her Majesty's Station-
erj Office. (London: Longman.
Dublin: Thorn.)

Thjs is a curious book, throwing
some glimmerings of light upon a very
remote and obscure period of Irish
history. In 1852 a government com-
mission, called the ^^Brehon Law
Commission," was issued to the Lord
Chancellor of Ireland, Lord Bosse,
Dean Graves, Dr. Fetrie, and others,
appointing them to carry into effect
the selection, transcription, and trans-
lation of certain documents in the
Gaelic tongue containing portions of
the ancient laws of Ireland, and the
preparation of the same for publica-
tion. In pursuance of this, the com-
missioners empWed Dr. O'Donovan
and Professor O'Curry, two Gaelic
scholars of high distmction, to trans-
cribe and translate various Jaw tracts
in the Irish language in the library of
Trinity College, Dublin, of the^yal

VQU n. 9

Irish Academy, of the British Museum,
and in the Bodleian Library at Oxford.
The transcriptions occupy more than
5,000 manuscript pages, including all
the law tracts which it was thought
necessary to publish, and have nearly
all beei} translated; but the two
chosen scholars did not live to com-
plete and revise their translations.
The portion now published was pre-
pared for the press by W. Neilson,
Hancock, LL.D., first in conjunction
with Dr. O'Donovan, and, after his
death, with the Rev. Mr. ClVIahony,
professor of Irish in the university
of Dublin. It is a volume of some
800 pages, the Irish on one page and
the translation opposite, containing
the first part of the Smchus Mot (we
are not told how much is to follow),
treating of the law of distress or dis-
traint, with an Irish introduction, and
various Irish glosses and commentaries
on the text

The title Senchus Mot (pronounced
« Shanchus M6r^) for which seven or

digitized by Google

130

ITte Ancient Laws of Ireland.

eight different derivations are sug-
gested, appears to mean " the great old
laws," or " the great old decisions."
The chief manuscripts of it which are
known to exist are three in Trinity
College, Dublin, and one in the Har-
leian collection in the British Museum,
and the earliest of these is assigned
to circa A.D. 1300. But quotations
from the Senchus Mor are found in
" Cormac's Glossary," the greater part
of which was probably composed in the
ninth or tenth century, and the date
of the original compilation is put by
good judges, on various evidence, at
▲.D. 438 to 441. It is, in short, a
codification and revision, under the
direction of St. Patrick, of the judg-
ments of the pagan Brehons. Three
kings, three poets, and three Chris-
tian missionaries (of whom Patrick
was one) were combined in this work,
and the code then established remained
the national law of Ireland for nearly
twelve centuries. Tiie pagan laws
embodied in this revised code were in
force during a period of unknown
antiquity, prior to the inti-oduction of
Christianity to the island.

" The Senchus Mar has been se-
lected by the commissioners for early
publication' as being one of the oldest
and one of the most important por-
tions of the ancient laws of Ireland
which have been preserved. It ex-
hibits the remarkable mocfification
which these laws of pagan origin . un-
derwent, in the fifth century, on the
conversion of the Irish to Christianity.

" This modification was ascribed so
entirely to the influence of St. Patrick
that the Senchus Mor is described as
having been called in after times
* Cain Patraic,' or Patrick's law.

"The Senchus Mor was so much
revered, that the Irish judges, called
Brehons, were not authorized to abro-
gate anything contained in it..

" The original text, of high antiquity,
has been made the subject of glosses
and commentaries of more recent date ;
and the Senchus Mor would appear
4o have maintained its authority
«mong the native Irish until the be-

ginning of the seventeenth century, or
for a period of 1,200 years.

^'The English law, introduced by
King Henry the Second in the twelfth
century, for many years scarcely pre-
vailed beyond the narrow limits of the
English pale (comprising the present
counties of Louth, Meath, TVosimeath,
Kildare, Dublin, and Wicklow).
Throughout the rest of Ireland the
Brehons still administered their an-
cient laws amongst the native Irish,
who were practically excluded from
the privileges of the English law.
The Anglo-Irish, too, adopted the Irish
laws to such an extent that efforts
were made to prevent their doing so
by enactments first parsed at the
parliament of Kilkenny in the fortieth
year of King Edward HI. (1367), and
subsequently renewed by Stat. Henry
VIL, c. 8, in 1495. So bite as the
twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth years of
the reign of King Ileniy Yiu! (1534)
George Cromer, archbishop of Ar-
magh and primate of Ireland, obtained
a formal pardon for having used the
Brchon laws. In the reign of Queen
Mary, 1554, the Earl of Kildare ob-
tained an eric of 340 cows for the
death of his foster-brother, Robert Nu-
gent, under the Brehon law.

" The authority of the Brehon laws
continued until the power of the Irish
chieftains was finally broken in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth, and all the
Irish were received into the king^s im-
mediate protection by the proclama-
tion of James I. This proclamation,
followed as it was by the complete
division of Ireland into counties, and
the administration of the English laws
throughout the entire country, ter-
minated at once the necessity for, and
the authority of, the ancient Irish laws.

" The wars of Cromwell, the policy
pursued by King Charles 31. at the
restoration, and the results of the rev-
olution of 1688, prevented any revival
of the Irish laws; and before the
end of the seventeenth century the
whole raca of judges (Brehons) and
professors (Ollamhs) of tlie Irish laws
appearf to have become extinct."

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The Ancient Laws of Ireland.

131

Portions of the text of the Senchu9
MoTy as we now have it, are held Jbj
Gaelic scholars to be in the language
of the fifth century, in what was called
the Berla Feini dialect; other por-
tions translated from that ancient form
into Graelic of the thirteenth century.
Various ancient Irish glosses and
commentaries accompany the texty
and also an introduction of high an-
tiquity, giving an account of the origin
of the Senchus Mor.

"Patrick came to Erin to baptize
and to disseminate religion among the
Giaeidhil — u «•, in the ninth year of,
Qie reign of Theodosius, and in the
fourth year of the reign of Laeghair^
[pronounced Layorie or Lajrie], son
of Niali; king of Erin." The com-
bination of the Roman pagan laws
with Christian doctrine in the Theo-
dosian code received imperial sanction
in A.D. 438, and was at once adopted
both in the eastern and western em-
pires. St. Patrick, Dr. Hancock re-
marks, a Roman citizen, a native of
a Roman province, and an eminent
Christian missionary, would be cer-
tain to obtain early intelligence of the
great reform of the laws of the empire
and of the great triumph of the Chris-
tian church. Having now been six
years in Erin, and established his
influence there, he attempted success-
fnlly a similar reform in that remote
island, and the composition of the
Senchm Mor was accordingly com-
menced in that same year, 438, and
completed in about four years.

**• In ancient Irish books the name
of the place where they were com-
posed is usually mentioned. The in-
troduction to the Senchus Mor con-
tains this information, but is very
peculiar in representing the book as
having been composed at different
places in different seasons of the year :
< It was Teamhair ' in the summer
aad in the autumn, on account of its
cleannesd and pleasantness during
these seasons ; and Rath-guthaird was
the place during the winter and the
spring, on accomit of the n^aryess of
Its fire-wood and water, and on ac-

count of its warmth in the time of
winter's cold.'

" Teamhair, now Tara, was, at the
time the Senchus Mor was composed,
the residence of King Laeghair^, the
monarch of Erin, and of his chief poet
Dubhthach Mac ua Lugair, who took
such a leading part in the work.

" Teamhair ceased to be the residence
of the kings of Ireland afler the death
of King Dermot, in a.d. 565, about a
century and a quarter afler the Ssn^
chus Mor was composed. Remains
are, after the lapse of nearly 1,400
years, to be still found, the most re-
markable pf their kind in Ireland,
which attest the ancient importance of
the place."

In the introduction a curious ac-
count is given of SL Patrick's manner
of dealing with the existing " profes-
sors of the sciences," and his admission
of the claim of inspiration on behalf of
his pagan predecessors.

" Patrick requested of the men
of Erin to come to* one place to
hold a conference with him. When
they came to the conference the gos-
pel of 'Christ was preached to them
all ; and when the men of Erin heard
of the killing of the living and the
resuscitation of the dead, and aU the
power of Patrick since his arrival
in Erin, and when they saw Laeg-
hair^ with his Druids overcome by the
great signs and miracles wrought in
file presence of the men in Erin, they
bowed down, in obedience to the will
of God and Patrick.

^^Then Laeghair^ said: ^It is ne-
cessary for you, O men of Erin, that
every other law should be settled and
arranged by us, as well as this.' ^ It is
better to do so,' said -Patrick. It was
then that all the professors of the
sciences la Erin were assembled and
each of them exhibited his art before
Patrick, in the presence of every chief
in Erin.

"It was then that Dubhthach was
ordered to exhibit the judgments and
all the poetry of Erin, and every law
which prevailed among the men of
Erin, through the law of nature, and

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132

The Ancient Laws of Ireland.

the law of the seers, and in the judg-
meots of the island of £rin, and in
the poets.

" They had foretold that the bright
word of blessing would come — u e^
the law of the letter ; for it was the
Holy Spirit that spoke and prophesied
through the mouths of the just men
who were formerly in the island of ^
Erin, as he had prophesied through
the mouths of the chief prophets and
noble fathers in the patriarchal law ;
for the law of nature had prevailed
where the written law did not reach.

" Now the judgments of true nature
which the Iloly Ghost had spoken
through the mouths of the Brehons and
ju3t poets of the men of Erin, from the
first occupation of this island down to
the reception of the faith, were all
exhibited by Dubhthach to Patrick.
WtiAt did not clash with the Word
of God in the written law and in
the New Testament, and with the con-
sciences of the believers, was confirmed
in the laws of Ihe Brehons by Patrick
and by the ecclesiastics and the chief-
tains of Erin; for the law of nature
had been quite right, except the faith
and its obligations, and the harmony of
the church and the people. And this
is the Senchtu Mor,

"NinQ persons were appointed to
arrange this book — ^viz., Patrick, and
Bcnen, and Cairaech, three bishops ;
Laeghair^, and Core, and Dair^, three
kings ; Rosa — i. e., Mac-Trechim, and
Dubhthach — i, e., a doctor of the
Berla Feint, and Fergus — t. «., a poet

" Nofis, therefore, is the name of this
book which they arranged — i, e., the
knowledge of nine persons — ^and we
have the proof of this above."

And in one of the ancient commen-
taries on the introduction we are
told:

" Before the coming of Patrick
there had been remarkable revela-
tions. W-hen the Brehons deviated
from the truth of nature, there ap-
peared blotches upon their cheeks;
as first of all on the right cheek of Sen
Mac Aige, whenever he pronounced a
£edse judgment, but they disappeared

again when he had passed a true judg-
ment, etc

** Connla never passed a false judg-
ment, through the grace of the Holy
Ghost, which was upon him.

^ Sencha Mac Col Cluin was not
wont to pass judgment until he liad
pondered upon it in his breast the
night before. When Fachtna, his son,
had passed a false judgment, if, in the
time of fruit, all the fruit of the terri-
tory in which it happened fell off in
one night, etc ; if in time of milk, the
cows refused their calves; but if he
passed a true judgment the fruit was
perfect on the trees ; hence he received
the name of Fachtna Tulbrethaeh.

"Sencha Mac Aililla never pro-
nounced a false judgment without get-
ting three permanent blotches on his
face for each judgment. Fitliel had
the truth of nature, so that he pro-
nounced no false judgment. Morann
never pronounced a judgment without
having a chain around his neck.
'When he pronoanced a false judgment
the chain tightened around his neck.
If he passed a true one it expanded
down upon him.**

Core andDaire were territorial chief-
tains, or minor kings. Lacghair^, son
of Niall of the Nine Hostages, was
monarch of Erin ; his reign commenc-
ed A.D. 428, four years before the ar-
rival of Patrick, and ended with his
life in 458, one year after the founda-
tion of Armagh by that great Chris-
tian missionary. Laeghaire is usual-
ly called the first Christian king of
Ireland, but it seems more likely from
the evidence we have that he himself
did not become a Christian, although
he acknowledged the merit of St.
Patrick, and gave him pei'mission to
preach and baptize, on condition that
the peace of the kingdom should not
be disturbed. Travellers in our time,
by mail-steamers from Holyhead and
the Island of Druids, may some of them
not know that Kingstown is a name
given, but a few years ago, to '* Dun-
leary" — that is, the fortress of King
Laeghaire, when George IV., by gra-
ciously landing there, supplanted the

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27ie Ancient Laws of Ireland,

133

memory of the ancient king. Dubh-
thach, Fergus, and Rosso, or Rosa,
were eminent poets and learned men ;
they exhibited ^'from memory what
their predecessors had sung'* — ^for
much of the ancient law was pre-
served in the form of verse, and Dubh-
thach, " poyal poet of Erin," at the
compilation of the Senehus Mor, p^t
a thread of poetry round it for Pat-
rick. Many parts of the work as we
have it are in verse.

The subject of that part of the Sen-
chtu Mor which is contained in the
volume before us is the " Law of Dis-
tress" — that is, the legal rules under
which distraint was to be made of
persons, cattle, or goods, in a great
variety of cases. To a general read-
er, the legal verbosity and trivial repe-
titions make the book hard to read ;
but' imbedded in it, so to speak, are
many carious little fragments of a
very remote and obscure social sys-
tem, and some of these we shall pro-
ceed to set before our readers.

Fines in cases of death, bodily
hurt, insult, or injury of whatever
kind were arranged according to the
dignity of the parties concerned. The
" honor-price" is the same for a king,
a bishop, a chief law-professor, and a
chief poet who can compose a quat-
rain extemporaneously.

At a feast, "his own proper kind
of food" is assigned to persons of dif-
ferent rank — as, for example, the
haunch for the king, bishop, and liter-
ary doctor; a leg for the young chief;
a steak for the queen ; the heads for
the charioteers; and a crotchet [un-
known part] for "a king opposed in
his goTemment,"

Should a person have property, it
shall not increase his honor-price, un-
less he do good with it.

A king with a personal blemish was
aDowed with difficulty, if at all.

In case of distress by or on a person
of distinction, yJw^w^ was a necessary
legal form — the creditor had to " fast
upon" his debtor until a pledge was
given for the claim. Something very
similar to this curious process is found

in the ancient Hindoo laws, and ap-
pears to be practised in India to the
present day, under the nam# of
** dhema," According to Sir William
Jones, the creditor sat at the debtor's
door, abstaining from food, till, for
fear of becoming accountable for the
man's death, the debtor paid him. As
to the Irish mode of " fasting upon" a
debtor of the chieftain grade, exact
particulars are not given ; but it
would seem that on presentation of
the claim of distraint at the residence
of the debtor the " fasting** began, and
if the debtor did not pay or give a
pledge, but allowed his creditor to go
on fasting (it is not said for how long),
he became liable to double the debt,
and other penalties.

If one of inferior grade comes to
sue one of the chieftain grade, he
must be accompanied, on his part, by
one of the chieftain grade.

Among articles enumerated as com-
ing under various rather puzzling
rules and exemptions in cases of dis-
traint, we find, weapons for battle ; a
racehorse ; a harp-comb, and other re-
quisites for music ; toys for the chil-
dren — viz., " hurlets, balls, and hoops,"
and also ^ little dogs and cats ;" the
*' eight parts which constitute a mill ;"
the fork and cauldron ; the kneading-
trough and sieve ; the bed-fumiture —
t. «., plaids and bolsters; the reflector
or mirror ; the chess-board ; the seven
valuable articles of the house of the
chieftain — ^viz., " cauldron, vat, goblet,
mug, reins, horse-bridle, and pin ;"
the cattle-bells, the griddle, the
" branch-light of each person's house ;"
the lap-dog of a queen, the watch-dog,
the hunting hound; implements of
Weaving and of spinning.

Fines and penalties were provided,
among other cases, for withholding
the food-tribute from a king or ehief ;
for the deficiency of a feast ; for neg-
lecting the due clearing of roads in
war, or in winter, or at tim^ of a fair;
for neglecting the due preparation of a
fair-green ; for neglecting any persons
or things cast ashore by the sea (in
this case the ** territory*' was liable) ;

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134

27ie AnciefU Laws of ireland.

for neglecting " the common net of the
tribe;" for breaking the laws of rivers
andMfihing; for neglecting the due
maintenance and medical treatment of
the eick ; for not helping in the erec-
tion of the common fort of the tribe ;
for not blessing a completed work.
This last is a curious offence. "It
was customary," we read in a note
to p. 132, "for workmen, on complet-
ing any work, and delivering it to
their employer, to give it their bless-
ing. This was the 'abarta,' and if
this blessing was omitted, the work-
man was subject to a fine, or loss of a
portion of his fee, equal to a seventh
part of his allowance of food while
employed — the food to which a work-
man was entitled being settled by the
law in proportion to the rank of the
art or trade which he professed. And
it would appear that the first person
who saw it finished and neglected the
blessing was also fined." To the
present day, among Irish peasants, it
is thought a marked omission if, in
transferring or praising, or even tak-
ing notice of, any possession, especial-
ly if it be a living creature, one neg-
lects to say "God bless it!" or "I
wish you luck with it !" or some such
good word; and where you see any
work going on, it is right to say, " God
bless the work I"

Distress was levied on defaulters
for share in building "the common
bridge of the tribe ;" for beef to nour-
ish the chief " during the time that he
is making laws;" for the "cow from
every tribe," sent on demand, "when
the king is on the frontier of a terri-
tory wiSi a host." " Now, the custom
is that this cow is taken from some
one man of them for the whole num«
ber. They make good that cow to
him only." Also for the victualling
of a -fort; for guarding and feeding
captives; for the maintenance of a
fool, or of a madwoman, or of an aged
person, or* of a child. " Five cows is
the fine for neglecting to provide for
the maintenance of the fool who has
land, and power ofamtising; and his
having these is the cause of the small-

ness of the fine. Ten cows is the fine
for neglecting to provide for the main-
tenance of every madwoman ; and the
reason that the fine is greater than
that of the fool is, for the madwo-
man is not a minstrel, and has not
land. If the fool has npt land, or has
not power of amusing, the fine for
neglecting to provide for his mainten-
ance is equal to that of the madwoman
who can do no work." " A * cumhal'
of eight cows is the fine for neglecting
to maintain any family senior who has
land af^er his eighty-eighth year. As
to each man of unluiown age after his
ninetieth year, his land shall pass from
the family who have not maintained
him to an extern family who have
maintained him. As to every senior
of a family and man of unknown age
without land, a * cumhal' of five ' seds'
is the fine for not maintaining him."

There are fines for evU words,
false reports, slander, nicknames, and
satire. The poets were supposed to
have the power of turning a man'o
hair gmj by force of satire, or even
of killing him. There are also fines
for " failure o^ hosting f^ " the head of
every family of the lay grades is to go
into the battle ;" " every one who has a
shield to shelter him, and who is fit for
battle, is to go upon the plundering
excursion." " Three sendees of at-
tack" are enumerated — on pirat^
aggressors, and wolves ; and " three
services of defence" — to secure " pro-
montories [hiUs ?], lonely passes, and
boundaries."

" Distress of three days for using
thy horse, thy boat, thy basket, thy
fcart, thy chariot, for wear of thy vessel,
thy vat, thy great cauldron, thy cauldron;
for * dire '-fine in respect of thy house,
for stripping thy herb-garden, for
stealing thy pigs, thy sheep ; for wear-
ing down thy hatchet, thy wood-axe ;
for consuming the things cast upon
thy beach by the sea, for injuring thy
meeting-hill, for digging thy silveV
mine, for robbing thy bee-hive, for the
fury of thy fire, for the crop of thy sea
marsh, for the ' dire '-fine in respect
to thy corn-rick, thy turf, thy xipe

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77ie JnciefU Laws of Ireland.

135

corn, thy ferns, thy furze, thy rashes,
if without permission ; for slighting
thy law, for slighting thy inter-terri-
torial law, for enforcing thy * Urrad-
hos' law ; in the case of good foster-
age, in the case of had fosterage, the
fosterage fee in the case over fos-
terageybr cradle clothes ; for recover-
ing the dues of the common tillage
land, for recovering the dues of joint
fosterage, for recovering the dues
of lawful relationship, for unlawful
tying, over-fettering of horses, hreald
ing a fence to let cows into the grass ;
breaking it before calves to let them to
the cows. The restitution of the milk
is in one day."

There are also fines for quarrelling
in a fort ; for disturbing the meeting-
hill; for stripping the slain ; forrefus-
iiig a woman " the longed-for morsel ;"
for scaring the timid, with a mask or
otherwise ; for causing a person to
blush; for carr3'ing a boy on your
back into a house so as to strike
his head ; for love-charms and " bed-
witchcrafl f for neglect in marriage ;
for " setting the charmed morsel for a
dog — t. «., to prove it f for failure as
to "the safety of a hostage;" for
'^withholding his fees from the Bre-

hOD."

For mutilation and for murder, the
** erirvfine and honor-price" varied ac-
cording to circumstances.

Distress of five days' stay is "for
not erecting the tomb of thy chief;"
^ for faUse boasting of a dead woman ;"
for satirizing her after her death ; for
causing to wither any kind of tree ;
for the eric-fine for an oath of secret
murder.

In certain cases, persons were ex-
onpted from distress for a longer
or shorter period. For example : " A
man upon whom the tett of the caid-
dron is enjoinedr-^'. e., to go to a test-
ing cauldron — and he shall have
exemption until he returns ;" " a man
whose wife is in labor ;" ** a man who
collects the food-tribute of a chief."

The bodies and bones of the dead
are protected by penalties. There is
a fixed fine and '^ honor-price" for car-

rying away the remains of a bishop
out of his tomb (as relics?); also
Weaking hones in a churchyai'd, ''to
take the marrow out of them for sor-
cerere." ^ The bone of a king drown-
ed in the str^un, or of a hermit
condemned to the sea and the wind,"
belongs to the people of the land where
it happens to be cast, until the tribe of
the deceased pay for its redemption.

There are penalties for " lookers-
on" at an ill deed; and these are
divided into three classes : " a looker-
on of full fine" is one who ^ instigates,
and accompanies, and escorts, and ex-
ults ;" of half fine, one who does not
instigate, but does the other acts;
of quarter-fine, one who " accompanies
only, and does not prohibit, and does
not save." Clerics, women, and boys
are exempt.

One is accountable (in different de-
grees) for one's own crime, the crime
of a near kinsman, the crime of a mid-
dle kinsman, and the crime of a kins-
man in general.

** There are four who have an in-
terest in every one who sues or
is sued" — ^the tribe of the father, the
tribe of the mother, the chief, the
church ; also the tribe of the foster-fa-
ther.

^' £very tribe is liable after the ab-
sconding of a member of it, after
warning, after notice, and after lawful
waiting."

The notes to this volume are few
and ununportant, and further elucida-
tions on many points are much to be
desired. The printing of the original
Gaelic alongiwith the translation must
addgreatiy to the cost of the work,
but the value of the text to philologers
may perhaps make this worth while.
Only we hope that this laudable and
interesting undertaking, of the publi*
cation of the ancient laws and insti-
tutes of Ireland, will not, like other
Irish schemes that could be named,
make a costly and elaborate beginning,
and then, exhausting its means in the
outset, break down altogether. This
first volume gives us a strong desire
to see the propoaed ]}lan carried into

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136

MiweUany.

compietioii without umlue delay. It
would appear thufe all the heavy part

of the literary work of it is already
done.

MISCELLANY.

Ths Trantparency of the Sea. — At a
late meeting of the French Academy of
Science, M. Cialdi and Father Secchi
sent the result of some observations
they have made " On the Transparency
of the Sea." The experiments were
made at the end of April, on board a
vessel, near Civita Vecchia, from six to
twelve miles from land, and at depths
varying from 90 to 300 metres, the sea
being perfectly clear and tranquil.
Discs of different diameters and colors
attached to wires being plimged hori-
zontally under water, showed that the
maximum depth at which the largest
(a white disc 8^ metres in diameter)
could be seen was 42| metres, the sun
being elevated 60 J° above the horizon.
With a vertical sun the depth of visi-
bility shall be 45 metres. The color of
the disc appeared at first a light green,
then a clear blue, which became darker
as it was lowered, until it could no
longer be distinguished from the sur-
rounding medium. Discs of a yellow
or sandy color disappeared at less than
half the depth of the white discs — that
is to say, between 17 and 24 metres.
The height of the sun and the clearness
of the sky greatly influence the depth
at which objects may be seen. View-
ing the light reflected from a submerged
white disc through a spectroscope, the
red and yellow colors were found to be
rapidly absorbed. As it w^as sunk deep-
er in the sea a portion of the green be-
came absorbed, the other colors remain-
ing unaltered. The authors remark
that this . luminous absorf»tion of the
more refrangible rays is what would be
expected from the calorific opacity and
the actinic transparency of water. From
the foregoing results, they doubt
whether the bottom of the sea has ever
been seen at a depth of 100 metres, as
it is more probable that the mud and
sand brought up by waves has been
mistaken lor such : the fact that the
bottom of the sea is a worse reflector

than the white disc, strengthens this
supposition.

Iri^h Limettane CaTems. — ^At a late
meeting of the Cork Cuvierian Society,
Professor Harkness, so well known for
his investigations of Scottish rocks, an-
nounced the discovery of the bones of
mammals in a limestone quarry at Mid-
dleton, County Cork. The rock consists
of the ordinary limestone of the district,
in one part much fissured, and under
this fissured portion there is a mass ot
brown clay, the thickness of which can-
not be determined, as its base is not
seen. This reddish-brown clay under
the limestone is the deposit which fur-
nishes the fossil bones, and which,
doubtless, fills the space which was
once a natural grotto. Beside the bones,
which are in a fragnv3ntary condition,
there are also present teeth and antlers.
The latter are much broken, and do not
afford sufficient character to enable the
species to be accurately determined.
They seem, however, to belong to two
forms, one of which had the beam and
branches smooth and sub-compressed,
features which indicate the antlers ot
the reindeer ; and the other with the
horns rounded and rough, a form ot
surfiftce which marks the antlers of the
common stag. Of these antlers two
portions which appear to belong to the
reindeer have been cut while in the
fresh state ; and the faces of the cuts
being almost smooth, this cutting ap-
pears to have been effected by a fine
regular-edged instrument rather than,
by a serrated tool. The leg bones
which appear in this clay have all been
broken, for the most part longitudinal-
ly, except the carpal and tarsal, and
other small bones of the extremities.
This longitudinal fracturing of the long
bones of the leg is not known to occur
m any mammsuian remains which be-
long to a period previous to that where
we have evidence of the existence of

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MiBeeUany,

187

the bmnan race ; and these broken
bones afford evidence of the occurrence
of man, who, for the purpose of obtain-
ing the marrow, divided them in the
direction tnost ayailable for this object.
Beside the evidence afforded by the
cat antlers and longitudinally divided
bones, there are other circumstances in-
dicating the occurrence of man in con-
nection with these remains ; one of
these is the presence of charred wood,
which is equally disseminated through
the clay with the bones and teem.
This charred wood is the remains of the
ancient fires by means of which former
human beings cooked their food.

h there an Open Arctic Sea f — Sir Ro-
derick Murchison, who answers this
question in the affirmative, gives the
following arguments in support of his
opinion : — (1.) The fact has been well '
ascertained by ticoresby and others,
that every portion of the floating pack-
ice north of Spitzbcrgen is made up of
frozCT sea-water only, without a trace
of terrestrial icebergs like those which
float down Baffin's Bay, or those which,
carrying blocks of stone and debris^
float northward from the land around
the South Pole. (2.) The northern
shores of Siberia tell the same tale ; for
in their vast expanse the absence of
icebergs, or erratic blocks, or anything
which could have been derived from
great or lofty masses of land, has been
wen ascertained. (3.) As a geologist,
Sir R Murchison could point out that
this absence of erratic blocks in north-
em Siberia has existed from that re-
mote glacial period when much larger
tracts of northern Europe were oc-
cupied by glaciers than at the present
day. (4.) The traveller Middendorf
found the extreme northern promon-
tory of Siberia, Taimyr, clad with ^
trees, while the immense tract of coun-
try to the iouth of it was destitute
01 trees, showing a milder climate
at that point of Siberia nearest the
pole.

Food as a Means of Presenting Disease,
— ^It seems not at all improbable that,
as has been shown by Liebig in the
case of plants, most of those diseases
which we at present attribute to the
presence of some morbid substance in
the blood, are produced in the first in-
stance by the absence of some of the
proper constituents of the blood. The

blood when abnormally composed will
allow vegetable and other growths to'
take place in it, thus producing painful
symptoms ; but if it contained its suit-
able components, it is most probable
that it would be then enabled to resist
the development of the materials we re-
fer to. In the case of the potato dis-
ease, there can hardly be a doubt that
the «ap becomes deteriorated, owing to
the absence of the proper proportion of
potash, prior to the development of the
oldium which commits such ravages.
The idea which we have given has not
had many advocates in this country,
and we are glad to find that Mr. Eras-
mus Wilson has in some measure lent
his support to the theory. Although
Mr. Wilson does not go as deeply into
the question as we should wish, still he
shows that food may well be employed
not only in preventing but in curing
disease. If, he says, it be admitted
that food is the source of the elements
of which the body is composed j what
kind of body can be expected in the
case of a cleficient supply of food,
whether that deficiency proceed from
actual want, or from some perverse
theory of refinement, founded on a false
conception of the nature and objects of
food, and ignorance of its direct conver-
tibility into the flesh and blood of
man ? We think Mr. Wilson is too de-
termined a supporter of flesh-eating
tastes. If he had his way, he would
convert man into a decidedly carnivor-
ous animal, and we do not think that
either experience or an appeal to the
anatomy of the human masticatory and
digestive organs would bear out his
views. — Vide " On Food as a Means of
Prevention of Disease,'*''

Are the Flint Implements from the
Drift Authentic f — A pamphlet has ap-
peared from the pen of Mr. Nicholas
Whitley, of the Royal Institution of
Cornwall, in which it is attempted to be
proved that the so-called flmt imple-
ments are not the result of workmanship.
The Popular Science Eeciew gives the fol-
lowing abstract of Mr. Whitley's ami-
ment: (1.) The ^^ implements'^ are au of
flint. The tools employed by men of
the recognized archsBological stone age
are made of stones of various kinds, of
which there are examples of serpentine,
granular greenstone, indurated clay-
stone, trap greenstone, daystone, quartz,
syenite, chest, etc. Why, therefore,

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188

MUceOany.

should the only weapon in the drift
deposit be manufactured from flint
solely ? (2.) The ''implements'^ are all of
one doss — ajres. Were they then a race
of carpenters ? Man is a cooking ani-
mal; and if ten thousand axes have
been found, surely one seething-pot or
drinking -cup ought to have turned up.
He needs shelter, but no remnant of his '
clothing or hut has been found. Al-
most everywhere where there are chalk
flints we find axes, and nothing but axes.
(3.) There is a gradation in form from
the very roiagh fracture of the flint to
the perfect almond-shaped implement.
Let the most enthusiastic believer in
their authenticity examine carefully the
one thousand implements in the Abbe-
ville museum, and he would probably
rgect two-thirds as bearing no evidence
of the work of man. But it would be^
impossible for him to say where nature *
ended and art began. (4.) Some of the
implements are admirable illustrations
of the form produced by the natural
fracture of the egg-shaped flint nodule.
(5.) It is supposed that these weapons
were used for cutting down timber and
scooping out canoes. But it should be
remembered that the gravels in which
they are found were formed during a se-
vere Arctic climate, in which no tree but
a stunted birch could have grown, cer-
tainly none large enough to form a canoe.
56.) Their nunwer. The implements are
bund by thousands in small areas, and
in numbers quite out of proportion to
the thinly scattered population that
must have (if at all) then existed.

The Sponge Fishery. — The main in-
dustry of the island of Crete is the
sponge flshery which is pursued on its
coasts. It is chiefly carried on by com-
panionships of from twenty to thirty
boats, for mutual support and protec-
tion. The mode of operation prepar-
atory to a dive is very peculiar and in-
teresting. The diver whose turn it is
takes Im seat on the deck of the vessel,
at either the bow or st^m, and placing
by his side a large flat slab of marble,
weighing about 25 lbs., to which is at-
tached a rope of the proper length and
thickness (li inch), he then stnps, and
is left by his companions to prepare
himself. This seems to consist in de-
voting a certain time to clearing the
passages of his lungs by expectoration,
and highly inflating them afterward ;
thus oxidizing his blood very highly

by a repetition of deep inspirations.
The operation lasts from five to ten
minutes, or more, according to the
depth; and 4uring it the operator is
never interfered witlu liy his compan-
ions, and seldom speaks or is spoken to;
he is simply watched by two of them,
but at a little distance, and they never
venture to urge him or distract him in
any way during the process. When
from some sensation, known only to
himself, after these repeated long-drawn
and heavy inspirations, he deems the '
fitting moment to have arrived, he
seizes the slab of marble, and, after
crossing himself and uttering a prayer,
plunges with it like a returning dol-
phin into the sea, and rapidly descends.
The stone is always held during the de-
scent directly in front of the head, at
arm's-length, and so as to offer as little
resistance as possible ; and, by varying
its inclination, it acts likewise as a rud-
der, causing the descent to be more or
less vertical, as desired by the diver.
As soon as he reaches the bottom he
places the stone under his arm to keep
himself down, and then walks about
upon the rock, or crawls under its ledges,
stuffing the sponges into a netted bag
with a hooped mouth, which is strung
round his neck to receive them ; but he
holds firmly to the stone or rope all the
while, ,as his safeguard for returning
and for making the known signal at
the time he desires it. The hauling up
is thus effected : The assistant who has
hold of the rope awaiting the signal,
first reaches down with both hands as
low as he can, and there grasping the
rope, with a gre^t bodily effort raises it
up to nearly arm^s-length over his head ;
the second assistant is then prepared
to make his grasp as low down as he
can reach, and does the same ; and so
the two alternately, and by a fathom
or more at a time, and with great ra-
pidity, bring the anxious diver to the
surface. A heavy blow from his nos-
trils to expel the water and exhausted
air indicates to his comrades that he ia
conscious and breathes, a word or two
is then spoken by one of his compan-
ions to encourage him if he seems
much distressed, as is often the case;
and the hearing of the voice is said by
them to be a great support at the mo-
ment of their greatest state of exhaus-
tion. A few seconds' rest at the sur-
face, and then the diver returns into
the boat to recover, generally putting

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New PuhUcaHom.

139

on an nnder-garment or jacket, to assist
the restoration of the animal heat he
has lost, and to preyent the loss of
more by the too rapid evaporation of
the water from his body. — TtuceU in
Crete.

The Sun's Spots.^FfiiheT Secchi writes
from Rome, under date of Aug. 8, to
the Header as follows: I thank yon
for t^e interest you take in the observ-
ations of the sun. The last large spot
has been very interesting for science,
and I hope to be able to publish all the
drawings we have made of it by pro-
jection. Meanwhile I send you two of
them, photographed on a large scale.
Ton will see in the printed article
which I send you, that I have been able
to see the pramineneea and depressions
produced by the spot at the edge of the
son ; not only myself but also M. Tac-
chini. I regret that the shortness of
time does not allow me to copy the
drawings made on that occasion, but I
send a copy of them to Mr. De la Rue,
and yon will see them. As to the toil-
low-leaees and rice-grains question, I
think, as you say, we are all right and •
all wrong. I will state clearly what I
see. On first placing the eye to the
tdescope, and in very good moments of
definition, the surface of the sun ap-
pears certainly to me made up of many
oblong bodies, which I think are the
willow -leaves of Mr.- ^Nasmyth ; their
orientation is in every direction, but
they take a converging direction in the
neighborhood of the spots, where they
form the tongues, currents, and such
like. Bat this view is, as I said, rather

difficult to obtain, and many times I
have looked for it quite without suc-
cess. Is this a defect of vision, or caus-
ed by the sun's ehangementsf If by
willow-leaves other things than these
are understood, I have not seen
them. M. Airy seems to understand
other things, and then I am quite at a
loss. This, therefore, is a matter very
problematic, and to be better studied.
Sy projection on a large scale in some
beautiful moments of definition, these
oblong bodies on the general surface of
the sun have been seen by my assistant
also ; but generally they are not visible,
but the sun appears like clouds. As to
the mobility of the solar surface, you
can judge from the two photographs
that I send you ; they have been made
only at an interval of twenty -four
hours. I think we assisted at the out-
breaking of the spot, and at its arrange-
ment from a great confhsion of move-
ments into a regular transformation of
an ordinary group of spots. The ap-
pearance which I have seen is quite
like that which takes place when a
great movement is excited in a stream
of running water, which finally resolves
itself into some vortices which take
their course independently. The move-
ment of these spots even alone is capa-
ble of demonstrating materially what
Mr. Carrington has found with great
labor — that there is in the sun a real
drift of matter, since without this it
would be impossible to explain how the
spot has been increased in two days to
a length twice as great as its breadth,
this remaining almost constant. But
more of this in a particular memoir.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

HI9TORT OF KT ReMGIOUS OPINIONS.

By John Henry Newman, D.D., of
the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. Lon-
don: Longman, Green, Longman,
Roberts & Green. 1865. 8vo., pp. 379.

Under this- title, Dr. Newman has re-
published the cbam^ng autobiography
which originally appeared as an answer
to the calumnies of Charles Kingsley,

and was entitled ^^ Apologia pro Vita
Sua^^'* republished in a neat and attrac-
tive manner by the Appletons. We ear-
nestly recommend all our readers,
whether they be Catholics or not, who
have not procured and read the "^|?a-
logia,''' to do so without delay, if they
wish to give themselves a rich intellec-
tual treat. The American edition is
decidedly to be preferred, on account

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140

New PuHUeaUoM.

of the complete history it farnishes of
the controversy with Mr. Kingsley
which led to the composition oi the
book. In England; this con troy ersy is
already well-known to the entire religi-
ous and literary world, and may be
supposed by this time to have lost its
interest. Dr. Newman's autobiography
will never lose its interest and value
while the English language remains;
and for this reason, it was no doubt a
wise thought in the author to prepare
it for posterity in a form wherein the
local and personal controversy which
occasioned its being written should no
longer be connected with its proper
subject-matter. No doubt, too, the au-
thor felt some reluctance to perpeti^ate,
in close connection with his own per-
sonal history, the memory of the severe
castigation which he administered to
his opponent. This is honorable to his
delicate and charitable sentiments. At
the same time, the castigation was ne-
cessary, it was just, it was not one whit
too severe, and we owe a debt of grati-
tude to Dr. Newman for having applied
the terrible lash which he possesses, but
which he employs so seldom and
usually so lightly, in this case with all
his strength to the shoulders of a delin-
quent. There is a certain small class of
writers in the English Church, some of
whom are Puseyites, others more or
less broad in their views, who violate
all the laws of honorable and courteous
warfare in their attacks on the Catho-
lic Church'. They take the line of
charging fraud, forgery, lying, and ut-
terly unprincipled and wicked motives
and maxims upon the hierarchy, priest-
hood, and other advocates of the Cath-
olic cause. One of the first and fore-
most of these was Mr. Meyrick, of Ox-
ford, the author of a disingenuous work
against Catholic morale, and one of Mr.
Kingsley's defenders. This work of Mr.
Meyrick's was republis&'d in this coun-
try with a more offensive preface, by the
Rev. A. C. Coxe, now the bishop of
Western New York, a person who has
abjured all regard to the rules of com-
mon civility, both in his public writ-
inp;s and speeches concerning the Cath-
olic clergy, and also in his private de-
meanor when he has happened to be
thrown into contact with them person-
ally. This class of writers adopt what
Dr. Newman happily styles a mode of
warfare which consists m ** poisoning
the wells." That is, they seek to forestall

all debate on the merits of the Catholic
question, by accusing the advocates of
the Catholic side of being liars by prin-
ciple and on system y infamous persons,
who have 4io claim to decent treatment
or even to a hearing. There is but one
course to be taken with opponents of
this sort. Argument, explanation, cour-
tesy, are alike thrown away upon them.
They must be treated like guerrillas,
and summary justice must be done up
on them, as the only means of self-de-
fence, and as a salutary example to
others. They must be taught that they
cannot have free license to calumniate
and vituperate the Catholic Church or
its members with impunity. How ef-
fectually this lesson was read to them
by Dr. Newman, is shown by the hearty
applause which his book received from
all England, the evidence of which may
be seen in the review of it which ap-
peared in the principal English peri-
odicals.

. We wish to be understood that the
language we have used 8ft)ove^has no
application to any but a few offending
individuals, whose spirit and manner
are even more severely condemned by
a large class of the non-Catholic public
than by Catholics themselves. It is
very gratifying to observethe respect-
ful, moderate, and courteous tone which
many of the most illustrious of the re-
cent advocates of the Protestant side
maintain toward the Church of Rome
and her distinguished and worthy
members. Copying after- Leibniz,
the greatest genius which the Protest-
ant confession can boast of, we have,
among others, Guizot, Raenke, Dr. Pusey,
Palmer ; and in this country, William
R. Alger, who, albeit he has inadvert-
ently repeated some of the current mis-
statements of Catholic doctrine, has al-
ways shown a fairness and generosity of
spirit and a readiness to correct mis-
takes which make him conspicuous
among our honorable opponents. In
this species of candor and courtesy the
most eminent writers of the continent
a^e still far before the most of those in
England and America. Dr. Newman
himself and his compeers in the early
Oxford movement, even in their strong-
est and most pronounced expressions
of opinion against Rome and against
various form of dissent, furnished the
most perfect specimens of the truly
Christian and gentlemanly style of po-
lemics which English literature had yet

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141

seen. Never was there a man who kept
his intellect and his varied' gifts as a
writer more completely under the dis-
cipline of a strict conscience, one who
was more scrupulously just and fair,
truthful and frank, yet guarded and
cautious, than John Henry Newman.
He has the soul of knightly chivalry in
him; religious, fearless, modest, and
compassionate; loyal to the death to
every sacred obligation, and scorning a
mean or deceitful act more than com-
mon men do treason and peijury. Such
a man ought to have been secure of hon-
orable treatment; and yet he has not
been spared in the strife of tongues; and
if he has at last triumphed over calum-
ny, it has only been by overpowering
his enemies with the superior weight of
his armor and strength of his arm, and
not because his holy retirement and
spotless name have been respected.
However, after long years, during
whose lapse the £nglish pepple have
disdained and slighted the man of ge-
nius and the pure Christian who is one
of the greatest ornaments of their liter-
ature, on account of their intense hostili-
ty to his religion, their love of fair play,
and admiration for intellectual great-
ness and prowess, has gained a signal
victory, and we give them due credit
for it. The demand for the ^^ Apologia'^
on its first publication in successive
numbers was so great that the Long-
mans were unable to keep up with it.
That it has not been unappreciated also
in this country is proved by the fact
that four editions of the American re-
print have been exhausted. Of the book
itself, it is almost superfluous to speak
at this late day. It will bear to be
read and re-read, and the repeated per-
' usal, instead of wearying, only brings
out new charms and occasions
an increasing delight. We have
read and admired Dr. Newman^s
writings for more than twenty years,
but have never so fully appreciated the
wonderful subtlety and vigor of his in-
tellect as we have done smce reading
his last book. It is like the keen,
bright, dexterously wielded, and irre-
sistible scimeter of Saladin. At his
conversion Anglicanism lost a champion
&r more capable than any other of cop-
ing with its stoutest antagonists, and
the Catholic Church gained over the
most formidable of her foes who wields
an English pen. Even as now repro-
daced by himself, as a mere history of

the past, his method of defending the
Church of England against Rome ap-
pears to u» so much more subtle and
plausible, and adroitly managed, not
through any designed artifice on his part,
but from the acuteness with which his
mind detects all the most defensible
points of his own position and the most
assailable ones of the oppo^te, tha^
that of any other writer, that we in-
stinctively say, no man but John Hen-
ry Newman could fully refute himself.
Each successive post at which he pauses
in his gradual approach to the Catholic
Church seems as defensible as the others
which he has abandoned as untenable.
At his very last halting place, he has
the air of a man who is about to defend
himself there to the last, and is not to
be driven further. Indeed, he was not
driven by any mind more powerful than
his own ; for although the arguments
of Cardinal Wiseman had considerable
weight with him, neither he nor any
other Catholic writer really answered
the difficulties which were in his own
mind, or fully refuted, in a manner con-
sonant to his intellectual convictions,
the plausible arguments by which he
justified to himself and recommended .
to others a continuance in the Anglican
communion. He was driven only by
his innate love of truth, his conscien-
tiousness, his logical fidelity to his
own first principles, and the grace of
God. Humanly speaking, his conver-
sion was one of the most unlikely
events which has ever taken place.
Ten years before it occurred he was at
an immense distance from the Catholic
Church, and advancing toward it by a
most circuitous rout^, with the greatest
apparent, reluctance. We rise from the
perusal of his own record of his journey
with a sentiment of astonishment that
he ever reached his destination.
When we remember the light in which
Dr. Newman was regarded by his own
school in the days of his leadership at
Oxford, it appears to us that the esti-
mate formed of him was both singular-
ly just and singularly incorrect. It was
just in one way, inasmuch as, whatever
his modesty may silggest to the contra-
ry, he was more than any other man
the leader of the movement. It was in-
correct, inasmuch as a far greater orig-
inative force in causing this movement
and a far greater comprehension of its

grinciples were attributed to him than
e or any other man possessed. The

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142

New PMicatiwii*

movement itself created its own agents,
and bore them on with a power infin-
itely greater than they possessed of
themselves. Dr. Newman was a master
to inferior and more backward scholars ;
but was himself only a scholar, who be-
gan with the first and simplest rudi-
ments of Catholicity. His merit consist-
ed in this, that while many paused at
various stages of elementary and par-
tial knowledge, he pushed on to the
mastery of final results and completed
his curriculum. Considering what he
had to learn, and that l^e had in great ^
measure to be ^ his own teacher, the
space of ten years was really a short
rather than a long period for the
process.

The history of this process consti-
tutes the direct object and the princi-
pal value and charm of the ^^ Apologia^^'*
and the '* iflstory of My Keligious
Opinions." The mind of the author is,
however, one of those full streams that
overflows its bounds, and whose obiter
dicta are frequently the richest and most
precious of its effusions. There are
several paasages in this work falling
within the scope of this remark. We
can only call attention to two, without
quoting them. One is found on pp. 266-
273 of the American edition of the ^^Apa-
logia^" and relates to the doctrine of
original sin. Another, on pp. 275-291,
concerns the question of the relations be-
tween faith and science and reason and
authority. In the very act of giving a
reason for avoiding the discussion of
these questions, the author has given in
a short compass, one of the most ad-
mirable disquisitions we have ever read.
There is no passage in all his writings
which exhibits better the fine discrimi^
nation of his thought, and the perspi-
cuity and beauty of his style, and in both
these respects it is a specimen of the
most perfect logical and rhetorical
art.

We feel bound, however, to enter one
caveat against a part of Dr. Newman's
philosophy, which we regard not so
much as being a positive error as a de-
fect, and which has been quite distinct-
ly brought out by the Westminster He-
view, as a part of his defence of Catho-
licity which presents a weak side to the
infidel. This defect is one originating
in the philosophy which has prevailed
in England, and in which Dr. Newman
was educated ; one which has always
been conspicuous in the writers of the

Oxford school, and which appears to na
to leave a great hiiUus in their theology.
This defect may be described, though it ia
not defined, as the doctrine oiprotSbUity,
We have no hesitation in agreeing with
Dr. Newman in the maxim, that in most
matters " probability is the guide of
life." We have heretofore thought, how-
ever, that he extended this principle into
the domain of natural and revealed re-
ligion so far as to agree with those wri-
ters who consider their fundamental
verities as being merely more probable
than their logical contradictories. After
carefully weighing his words, we have
come to the conclusion that he does not
use the word in this sense, when he
speaks of the great truths of religion.
That is, he does not admit that there ia
any real probability, though a lesser
one, in the infidel negations, but only a
metaphysical possibility. He allows
of a moral certainty which admits of
no prudent doubt to the contrary, but
does not reach to a metaphysical cer-
tainty. Here again we agree with
him partially, and if we understand
rightly the ecclesiastical decisions
on the point, we think his doctrine is
one that has ofiicial sanction. That is,
we regard, with him, the evidence of
revealed religion and of the authority
of the Catholic Church, as apprehended
by the light of our natural intelligence
in that act which theologians call "the
preamble to faith," as being in the or-
der of probability and incapable of
generating more than a moral certainty.
That certitude of belief which excludes
possibility of error, we regard as an ef-
lect of the gift of faith imparting a su-
pernatural firmness to the intellectual
assent. We dissent from Dr. Newman,
when he extends this doctrine to our ul-
timate belief in God, and we think it
necesKary, in order to give a firm basis
even to a true probability, that we
should affirm the absolute intuition of
that idea of God, from which we are
able to deduce his attributes; and,
moreover, affirm also the perfect meta-
physical dcmonstrability of all these at-
tributes as expressed in the Christian
conception of God. We dislike very
much any form of expression which im-
plies that we believe in God on a proba-
bDity, which is tantamount to saying
that ^' it is probable there is a God."
Even if we say that the being of God is
morally certain, we still leave it possi-
ble that there is no God. If we deduce

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143

the being of God fVom the ultimate
principle of the certainty of our own
existence, we make bur self-conscious-
ness, oar reason, the laws of our own
being, the standard of right and truth
which w^e establish within ourselves,
more certain, and to us more ultimate
than GocL We become our own centre
and stand-point, our own ultimate
jadge, a light and a law to ourselves,
really subsisting in an intellectual inde-
pendence of God. This is ceding, in
oar view, to the pure infidel rationalist
all the ground he wants, which is sim-
ply liberty for every one to speculate
about the cause of all things, and their
procession to the ultimate end, as he
lists. It is true he will do it with-
out our leave, whatever our way of
stating Christian truth ; but if we
admit, or do not clearly repudiate,
Ms first principles, he will point out
a logical defect in our argument, and
show that we are inconsistent ; and then
the philosophical proof of Christian-
ity, which consists in demonstrating the
conception of God from first principles
intuitively certain, and showing that
none of the Christian doctrines which
we received from testimony are incom-
patible with these first principles, will,
m our hands, be defectively managed.

It is proper to state, however, that
Dr. Newman does not propose anything
dogmatically on this important ques-
tion, but rather indicates that he has
not yet obtained a solution which sat-
isfies him.

A GENERAii History of the Catholic
Church ; from the comjiencement
of the Christian Era until the
Present Time. By >L TAbb^ J. E.
Darras; First American from the last
French edition. With an Introduc-
tion and Notes by the most Rev. M.
J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of
Baltimore. Vol. L 8vo., pp. 675.
New York : P. O'Shea.

The appearance of this volume real-
izes very fully all we were led to ex-
pect from its prospectus. The first
impression made upon us by its exte-
rior dress is that this is an attractive
and readable book ; two qualities of a
work on history w^hich, whatever be
the learning, accuracy, and complete-
ness displayed in its more intimate pe-
rusal, arc not to be despised. We are
glad to meet with a life of the Church

which does not |pok like a catalogue of
dried and dead specimens for a scien-
tific museum. The majority of the vol-
. umes which issue from the press now-
a-days like a literary flood, owe their
success a vast deal more to their beautiful
typography, chaste binding, and other
general attractive features, than to the
solid merit of their contents. As there
are certain orators whose appearance
alone captivates their auditory, and ex-
cites in us a curiosity to hear what fine
things such a fine-looking man has to
say, so there are books which feel
well to the touch, look good to the eyes,
and prejudice one's judgment in theij^'
favor. We will listen to a stupid-look-
ing speaker, or read a commonplace
featured book, on the testimony of their
friends, provided they give us strong
recommendations ; but a speaker ^^ of a
commanding presence and a winning
air," or a book that is well gotten up, we
think worthy of notice at the first in-
troduction.

It is diflicult to write an interesting
history. Simple facts of the past stated
in dry statistical style, like the reports
of an insane asylum or a poor-house, are
about as interesting as they, and appear
to the general reader to be of about
equal importance. We may be thought
weak in judgment to say it, but we
should like to read history for the. same
reason we like to read the last novel by
Dickens, in which the author wields
his magic pen to paint life-pictures of
the events of the world before our
mind, and compels us to be living wit-
nesses of the past in the realm of imag-
ination. To insure a deep interest and
a lasting impression all the faculties of
the mind should be engaged. Our im-
agination must not be told to step out
of doors or go to sleep whilst our mem-
ory takes an inventory of facts con-
signed to its storehouse by a historian.
The senses of sight and of taste are
given to man that he may be guided in
supplying his stomach with the proper
quantum and quality of the food it
craves. What these senses are to the
stomach, the imagination is to the mind,
and if it have no hand in the
choice of mental food there cannot
help but be an indigestion ; the brain,
indeed, holding the crude mass, but un-
able to make any use of it.

We may sum up in a few sentences
the application these remarks may have
to the historv before us. The volume

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144

New PuMieaiians*

comes to ns with uncut edges. Let the
reader open it at random. He finds be-
fore him a fair page, printed in large
cool type, with broad generous mar-
ges, looking as a page ought to look,
like a goodly field of wheat or com,
and not like a stiff, prim, pinched, and
gravelled parterre. Let him read down
one page, and he will surely bring his
paper-cutter into requisition and follow
the author to the beginning of the next
paragraph. He will find the style, if
we mistake not, like one of those charm-
ing, shady, winding, country roads,
which always entice you to go just as
far as the next turning ; an agreeable
contrast to the ordinary page of history,
which to us is so like a grieyous paved
mUitary road in France, straight enough,
wide enough, and direct enough, but
lamentably monotonous, diy, dusty, and
tiresome. " There is a little stiffness and
dull regularity about the division of
the subject-matter ; but this is inevita-
ble to any history of a long period,, and
may be regarded as the signboards and
finger-posts on the road, making up in
convenience what they detract nt)m
the romance.

As to the character of the work of M.
Darras as a history— as one in which we
can learn the actual life of our mother,
the Church ; one which we can quote
with confidence in public, and not be
obliged to contradict to its back as it
stands on our shelves ; one which we
can give to our friends, of all classes
and opinions, as a gopd, reliable, and
respectable Church history — ^we are con-
tent to take it as such upon the warm
approbation it has received at the hands
of the Holy Father, the use that is
made of it in colleges and seminaries
in Europe, the approval it has obtain-
ed from the Rt. Rev. bishops there and
in the United States, and the good
opinion universally expressed concern-
ing it by scholars whose critical judg-
ment is worthy of reliance. Certainly
we have no Church history equal to it
in the English language, and we bid
this translated French one welcome,
and hope it may receive an hospitable
reception amongst us.

The dissertation on the perpetuity of

the Church, and the immortality of the
Papacy, from the pen of the Most Rev.
Archbishop Spalding, which embel-
lishes this edition under the form of an
introduction, is both appropriate and
well deserving of perusal. The learned
prelate puts us at once on reading ac-
quaintance with the work of M. Darras,
and enkindles in us the desire to know
more of th9 eventful course of the ex-
istence of Holy Church.

BOOKS BECEIYXD.

Cape Cod. By Henry D. Thoreaa.
Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1865.
12mo., pp. 252.

CouFLBTE Works of thb Most
Rev. John Hughes, D.D., late Arch-
bishop of New York. Comprising his
Sermons, Letters, Lectures, Speeches,
etc. Carefully compiled from the best
cources, and edited by Lawrence Kehoe.
Two vols. 8vo., pp. 670 and 810. New
York : Lawrence Kehoe.

Pastoral Letter of the Most Ret.
J. B. PuRCEiiL, D.D., Ai-chbishop of
Cincinnati, to the Clergy and Laity
of the archdiocese, on the late Encycli-
cal Letter of his Holiness Pius IX.
promulgating the Jubilee of 1865, with
the Bull of Pius IX. authorizing the
Jubilee of 1846. Printed at the " Cin-
cinnati Catholic Telegraph " Office.

Natural History. A Manual of
Zoology for Schools, Colleges, and the
General Reader, by Sanborn Tenney,
A.M. Illustrated. New York : Charles
Scribner & Co. 12mo., pp. 540.

From- D. & J. Sadlier and Co., New
York, we have received the folloi^'ing:
Banim'b Complete Works. Parts 1,
2, 8, and 4; The Old House bt the
BoTNE, by Mrs. Sadlier ; Catholic Air-
ecdotes. Part 1. Translated from the
French by Mrs. Sadlier ; The Lives of
THE Popes, from the French of Chev-
alier d^Artaud, Parts 1 and 2 ; Cacilia,
a Roman Drama, and The Secret, a
Drama, by Mrs. J. Sadlier.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL, EL, NO. 8.— NOVEMBER, 1866,

From BoTue G^ii6rale, Bruxellei.

REV. DEMETRIUS AUGUSTIN GALLITZIN, AND THE CATH-
OLIC SETTLEMENTS IN PENNSYLVANIA.

The events of which the United
States have, during late years, been
the theatre of action, hare revived in
the recollection of the editors of the
Bisimsch^pditische Matter of Munich
the name of Loretto, a small and un-
pretending town of Pennsylvania, the
fbonder df which was Prince Demet-
rina Angustin Gallitzin, thQ son of
the remarkable woman of whom Ger-
many has a right to be proud. The
occasion has suggested to them a bio-
graphical sketch, which, full of interest
and appositeness, will unquestionably
be read in Belgium and France with
as mnch avidity as in Germany.

Twenty years have elapsed since
Prince Grallitasin, who had exchanged
the luxuries of princely courts for the
poverty of those who herald the glad
tidings, slept in the Lord, after forty
years of apostleship in the wild re-
gions of the Alleghany mountains.
The work set up by the pious mission-
ary yet remains, marked by all the
elements of thrifty life, and the little
oasis will long continue to be what it
was at its origin— the cradle of a
Christian civilization, which will go on
spreading its blessings to the remotest
boundaries, still retaining the unobtru-
sive modesty which mo v^ its founder^s

thought. Indeed, had the matter rest-
ed with Gallitzin's own wisHes, his
very name would have passed into
vague tradition in those extended re-
gions. It might even have slept in
oblivion ; for the prince, so careful was
he to avoid anything that could attract
the attentions of the world, lived and
exercised his holy ministry for many
years under the borrowed name of
Schmidt

In Father Lemcke, however, and
fortunately too, a canon of the abbey
of the Benedictines of St. Vincent in
Pennsylvania, was found a man who,
better than any other, had it in his
power to preserve the reminiscences
of the noble missionary, and accurate-
ly to depict for us the traits of his
manly character. Not only did the
biographer of the prince know him
personally, but he was also his friend,
his confidant, his confessor, and his co-
laborer in the missions. After Gallitz-
in's death, Father Lemcke came into
possession of his papers, letters, and
memoranda, which suppUed him with
desirable d$ta on the period of lifb
preceding their ministerial connection.
He, and he alone, therefore, was in a
condition to write a true biography of
the prince, and he deemed it a duty to

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146

JRev. Demetriui AugiuiCn GaUitzinj

jnescue from oblivion the memory of
t^ distinguished man. In connection
with this subject, Father Lemcke in-
dulges in a judicious remark : ^ The
life of Gallitzin/' sajs he, ^ is so in-
timately inwoven with the events
which occurred during his own times,
that it holds out to future generations
an interest like to that which is offered
to us in the life of a Bonifacius or of
an Ansgarius, hj reason of the facts
which have characterized the epochs
in which they lived."

GaUitdn belonged to the phalanx
of missionaries who, in the United
States, scattered the seeds of spiritual
life. When the prince stepped on the
soil of that vast territory, there was
but one prelate, Rt. Rev. John Carroll
of Baltimore, the first bishop of the
United States, who, from the circum-
stances of the Church, had been obliged
to seek Europe for his episcopal con-
secration.* He had been but two
years installed -^ &om 1790 — and
had but uncertiun and broken inter-
course with his flock. His surround-
ings, restricted in numbers, but de-
voted to the holy cause, were mainly
composed of, French priests. In thu
infant church Gallitzin was the second
priest consecrated by the Bishop of
Baltimore, and missioned, as a true
pioneer of civilization, to carry the
cross through the untouched forests of
the New World, There is an unvary-
ing likeness in all great undertakings ;
yet it required but a short time— a
relatively short time— considerably to
increase the number of those men
who had devoted themselv^ to the
task. In contrast with the bishop,
who, in the course of five years, could
ordam and rely on two priests only to
feed the flock of the Lord, <'The
Catholic Almanac" of the day ex-
hibits to us, for the United States,
seven archbishops, thirtynsix bishops,
and four apostolic vicars, with tiie
ministry of two thousand priests,

BUngQii

man In a recently pnbliBhed work : ^^Du KiUfi-
ottteht Kireh4 in dm VsreMfften Staatm wn
NordAmmika^'^ML^tic BegenilNug. 1664.

with tiie addition of convents of vari-
ous orders, of seminaries, of colleges,
of numberless benevolent institutions,
witii over 4,000,000 of Catholics liv-
ing under the protection of ihi^ Uws,
in the practice and enjoyment of tiieir
faith.

The Germans delight in recalling
to mind that one of those who helped
to lay the foundations of the Church
in North America was the offspring
of a princely house of the Fatherhind.
Grallitzin was a Grerman on the ma-
ternal side; and the noble parent
could well claim both the spiritual and
natural motherhood of her son, the
latter of which was, perhaps, glory
enough. How magnificent a mission
was that of Princess Amelia Gallitzin I
While gathering around her circle the
choice spirits which seemed destined
to keep bright the torch of faith in
Germany, and its living convictions in
the midst of a superficial soeiety with-
out belief and without its guiding
lights, the princess was rearing for
the New World a son who was about
to turn aside from a career which his
birth and his wealth justiy reserved
for him, and take up the arduous and
thankless labors of the apoeUeship.
This very son it was who, through the
work of faith, was destined to be the
foi^nder and civilizer of a now flour-
ishing colony.

Strangely enough, nothing in young
Gallitzin gave earnest of such a vo-
cation. His almost feminine nature
had marked him for a timid, shrinking
child ; but what was still worse, and a
source of deep anxiety to his mother,
to this was added a lack of dedsion,
which seemed so deeply rooted in him
that not even the iron will of the
princess could, during the course of
many years, draw oat any perceptible
results* We have a letter of the
princess of the date of 1790, two
years before the departure of Demet-
rius for America, in which she re-
iterates on this ground her former
complainings, her exhortations, and
her admonitions. It is proper, how-
ever, to advert that the incipient melh*

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147

od of tndou^ pnraaed by the princess
herself was not free from defect ; for,
daring the nonage of her son, she her-
self wavered and hesitated between
Tarioos systems of philosophy — a
course which necessarily must have
drawn her into many an error.

There was, therefore, a defecdve-
ness in the main foundation of the
training' of yonng Gallitzin, who was
reared in a sort of religious indiffer^
entism. Bat a complete revulsion took
^ce when, after leaving Miinster, the
princess was led to rest her convic-
tions, not on this or the other system of
philoeophy, but ou the rock of Chris-
tian £uth— when, from her relations
with such men as Furstenberg and
Overbei^, she herself had gained a
greater degree of firmness aod stead-
fiiatness. This reacted on the educa-
tion of the son, in the greater decision
and authority exerted by the mother ;
and it was not without fit intention
that Demetrius, in the sacrament of
oonfinnation, received the surname of
Angustin.

Bom on the 22d of December, 1770,
at the Hague, where his father, a iinr
v<mte of £e Empress Catherine, was
accredited as ambassador of Russia,
yoong Grallitztn saw before him the
opening of a career bound to lead to
the highest dignities of either military
or administrative service. Nothing,
therefore, was spared in giving him a
complete education, according to the
requirements of the world. This ed*
ncataon, developed and closed under
his mother^s eyes, must be perfected
by travel ; but whither to direct it was
a question of moment The aristocratic
banks of the Rhine were ravaged by
the Involutions and war had eonverted
Europe into a vast battle-field. It op-
portunely happened, at that time, that
a young priest, by the name of Bro-
dius, whom the princess had known
throu^ the family of the Droete, and
who had been admitted to her circle,
was about crossing the Atlantic as a
missionary to America. The princess
had had occasions to value the rare en-
dowments of this priest, and knew how

justly her confidence in him could ex-
tend. She therefore proposed to him
the companionship of her son in a jour^
ney which seemed to her to be the only
practicable (me warranted by the times.
The princess, forti^nately, met with
no opposition on the part of the prince,
her husband. An admirer of Wash-
ington, and still more so of the philo-
sophic Jefferscm, he readily agreed
that his son should devote a couple of
years to a visit to the United States,
80 ias to judge for himself of the insti-
tutions oip Ihat country. He earnestly
charged him to be introduced to these
two great men ; whUe the princess on
her part armed him with a letter of re-
commendation to the Right Reverend
Bishop Carroll.

In August, 1792, when twenty-two
years of age, young Gallitzin took
ship at Rotterdam on his way to
America. No one could, certainly,
have then stirred him with the idea
that the land of America was marked *
out as a theatre for the evolutions of
his existence. Was there a presenti-
ment in that parting hour which, he
could not know, was to mark an eter-
nal farewell? Was it a last' return
of the original indecision of character
which made him linger at the road*
stead to which his mother had accom-
panied him ? No one can now tell ;
but what we can say is that when, on
the crests of the foaming billows, he
caught sight of the yawl which was
to carry lum on board, his heart failed
him, and he turned hsxk to retrace his
steps. Then did his mother turn back
to him and, with a look of disappoint-
ment, "• Dimitri," said she, ^ I blush for
thee" — and, grasping his arm, she
urged him' on to ^e boat. In a mo-
ment, and how no one could tell, the
young prince was engulfed in the
waves. As quick as thought the
practised hands of the sailors fished
him up from the waters, and wafted him
to the vessel that was to bear him away.
Such was his farewell to Europe ; but
this sea baptism had regwierated him
into a new man, as, at a later period,
he told the story to his biographer.

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148

Sev. DemetriuM Auguttin Ckittttxinj

Os^ the whole, a noted change had
taken pkoe in young Gallitzin. In
him evety weakness and every irreso-
lution had disappeared, and made room
for a firmness, a determination, and an
inflexibility which, to his family, be-
came a source of greatest astonish-
ment Two months had hardly pass-
ed by in the intimacies of life with the
Bishop of Baltimore, when he al-
ready felt, within himself, what soon
becamb a clearly defined resolve.
With the dose of the year 1792 he
wrote to Mttnster that he had devoted
hunsel^ body and soul, to the service
of God and to the salvation of souls
in America. He wrote that this reso-
lution had been determined by the urg-
ent call for laborers in the vineyard
of the Lord; for in the country in
which he was then sojourning, his
priests had to travel over a hundred
and fifty miles of territory, and more,
to bring to the faithful the word and
the means of salvation.

These were the first news of him
received in Mtknster, and they were
disseminated with the rapidity of light-
ning. From all sides sprang up ob-
jections, doubts, and remonstrances
agamst the scheme of the young
prince and the boldness of his under-
taking. His mother, however, who
had at first been alarmed and steeped
in agony at the idea of such a voca-
tion, soon reasserted her unerring
judgment^ and looked into the matter
with her wonted greatness . of soul.
From the moment that, from letters of
distinguished persons, and especially
from Uiose of the Bishop of Baltimore,
as well as from those of her son, she
became satisfied that his was a real
and substantial calling, she felt per-
fectly secure, and all human considera-
tions vanished from her sight. She
therefore wrote to Dimitri that if, af-
ter having tried himself, he was sure
that he had really obeyed his vocation,
she willingly accepted the reproaches
and troubles which could not fail to
shower upon him ; and that, for her-
self, she could not desire a consum-
mation dearer to her heart-i-a greater

reward— than to see the child of her
afl^ions a minister at the altar of
God. And, indeed, not light was the
burden of reproaches and afflictions
which she had to bear for the love of
that son-*especially on the part of her
husband, it was anything but light
Her letters to Overberg more than
amply inform us on that subject

Gallitzin, however, seemed to have
left his European friends to the indul-
gence of their astonishment Heed-
less of his former social relations, in
firmness and resoluteness he trod the
path which he had marked for him-
self, and prosecuted his theological
studies with such fervency that his
superiors, in view of his failing health,
deemed it their duty to interpose.
After two years of study, however, he
became a sub-deacon, and, on the six-
teenth of March, 1795, he was ordain-
ed to the priesthood.

There was no lack of labor, how-
ever, in the vineyard of the Lord, and
the young Levite, the second one who
came out of the first Catholic seminary
in North America, was immediately
put to work. At Port Tobacco, on
the Potomac, Gallitzin entered his
apostolical career. His fervor, no
doubt, carried him too far into those
proverbially malarial regions ; for,
stricken down by a speU of fever,
he was ordered by his bishop to return
to Baltimore, where Gallitzin was
subsequently directed to ascend the
pulpit and preach to the German pop-
ulation which had settled that portion
of the state of Maryland.

The democratic spirit of American
manners, which, with its innumerable
abuses, had permeated even religions
existence itself, was diametrically op-
posed to the just conceptions of the
priesthood and of the organization of
the Church which Gallitzin had form-
ed in his mind. For the primitive
morals of which he was then in quest
he turned to the unsettied portions of
Pennsylvania. "I went there," he
tells us at a later period, ^ to avoid
the trustees and all the irregularities
which they beget For success, I had

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149

no other warrant than the building of
something new, that oould escape the
roatine of inveterate custom. Had I
settled where the hand had already
been put to the plough, mj work
would have been endiuageredy for it
had been soon assailed bj the spirit of
Protestantism.'*

In the apostolic trips which ire-
qnentlj took him into the then far
West, on the table lands of the Alle*
ghany range, near Huntington, where
the waters of the Ohio fork awaj from
those €£ the Susquehanna, Gallitzin
had alighted on a settlement made up
of a few Catholic families. In the
midst of this Catholic nucleus he re-
solved to establish a permanent col-
ony^ which he destined in his mind as
the centre of his missions. Several
poor Maryland families, whose affec-
tions he had won, resolved to follow
him; and, with the consent of his
Inshop, he took up his line of march
with them in the summer of 1799, and
travelled from Maryland with his face
turned to the ranges of the Alleghany
mountuns. And a rough and trying
journey it was ; — shewing their way
duough primitive forests, burdened at
the same time with all their worldly
goods. So soon as the small caravan
had reached its new home, Gallitsin
took possession of tiiis, as it were,
eooquered land; and, without loss
of time, all the settlers addressed
th^nselves to the work before them,
and worked so zealously that, before
Uie end of the year, they had already
erected a chuix^h. The following is
Fatfier Lemcke's account of the hum*
ble origin of this establishment :

''Out of the clearings of these un-
trodden forests rose up two buildings,
eoDStructed out of the trunks of rough-
ly hewn trees; of these, one was
intended for a church — ^the other,
a presbytery for their pastor. On
Chnstmas eve of the year 1799,
there was not a winking eye in the lit-
tle colony. And well there might not
be I The new church, decked with
pine and laurel and ivy leaves, and
biasing with such lights as the scant

means of the faithful could aflbrd,
was awaiting its consecration to the
worship of God I There Grallitzin
offered up the first mass, to the great
edification of his flock, that, although
made up of Catholics, hsid never wit*
nessed such a solemnity, and to the
great astonishment of a few Indians,
who, wn4>ped up in the pursuit of the
chase, had never, in their life, dream-
ed of such a pageantry. Thus it was
that, on a spot in which, scarcely a year
previous, silence had reigned over
vast solitudes, a prince, thencefor-
ward cut off from every other coun-
try, had opened a new one to pilgrims
from all nations, and that, from the
wastes, which echoed no sounds but
the bowlings of the wild beast, welled
up the divine song which spoke:
^ Glory to God in the highest, and
peace, on earth, to men of good wiD !' "

The cost of this spiritoid and mate-
rial colonization was at first individu-
ally borne by Gallitzin. Captain Mc-
Gruire, an Irishman, one of the early
settlers of the country, had acquired
400 acres of land, which he intended
for the Church. These he conveyed
to Gallitzin, who divided into small
tracts the lands, which he had pur-
chased with his own means, and dis-
tributed them among the poorer mem-
bers of Ins colony, on condition of re-
imbursment, by instalments, at long
periods— a condition, however, which,
in a majority of cases, never was com-
plied with^

The wilderness soon put on a new
aspect. The settlers followed the im-
pulses of the indefatigable missionary,
who kept steadfastly in view the
improvement of his work. His first
care was to set up a grist-null ; then
arose numerous out-buildings; addi-
tional lands were purchased, and in a
short time the colony was notably en-
larged.

In carrying out his work, Gallitzin
received material assistance from
Europe. In its origin, sums of money
were regularly remitted to him by his
mother ; for he kept up a oorrespond-
encOy which his devotion to her made

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150

Sev, Ikm$tr%w Angustin GaKtzinf

dear to his heart In these relations
his father took little, if any, interest,
as the detennination of his son— his
only son — ^had proved to him a sonrce
of bitter disappointment Still he
aniioaslj desired to see him return to
Europe. So engrossed, however, was
the joong missionary bj his work,
that such a trip seemed next to an im-
possibility. Several years had thus
glided by, when the idea of visiting
Europe earnestly engaged his mind.

In the month of June, 1803, he
wrote to his mother, in apology for a
long silence ; telling her that he is se-
riously contemplating seeing her once
more, but that he is trammelled in his
desire by the want of a priest to take
his place ; — indeed, that his work has
so grown under his hands, that he
doubts whether he will ever again be
privileged to clasp his mother in his
arms. '^I may not think of it,**
he adds; ^my heart is fraught witii
affection for you, and it seems to me
that I should absolutely see you once
more, so as to borrow courage to fol-
low the path which is marked out
for me in this perverse world." The
letters from Overberg are witnesses of
the tears shed by the mother, so anx-
ious again to look upon her son, as
well as of the unmuimurmg moumfbl-
ness of her res^ation.

The announcement of his father's
death again brought up the subject of
his visit to Europe. Indeed, his pres-
ence was required in the B|||^ement of
his inheritance; but now, as before,
the joy of once more treading his na-
tive soil, and the happiness of em-
bracing his mother, had to jrield to
what he considered his duty to his in-
fant colony. The just and plausible
reasons which he alleges to his moth-
er for his course, allow us at the same
time fairly to appreciate the extent of
his work, and the hopes built upon its
success. Hence he suggests the con-
sideration due to those families that
his advice had influenced, for the
greater honor of religion, to follow
him in the wilderness; — ^the money
obligations, contiBcted with various

firiends, who had tnuted him with
large sums to speed the development
of his scheme, and whose confidence,
therefore, might be seriously wronged
by his departure ; — the interests of so
many others, who had committed all
their worldly hopes into his hands and
whom his absence might leave an easy
prey to heartless speculators; — and,
flnflJly, the pending questions, started
by tiie sdieme of erecting into a
county the territory to which the lands
of the colony belonged. All these
motives, to which others were added,
were sufficiently weighty to press on
the conscience of Demetrius the duty
ci remaining at his post This finsd
resolution his mother learned with the
firmness of Christian heroism. She
wrote to the prince: " Whatever sor-
row may have panged my motherly
heart at the idea of renoundng a
hope that a while seemed within
reach, I owe it to truth to teU thee
that thy letter has afforded me the
greatest consolation that I can look
for upon earth.'' It is a touching pic-
ture to behold, in the sequel, this zeal-
ous mother contmuing her interest in
the mission founded by tiie prince, and
providing for its success in keeping
with the inspirati(His of her heart
Thus it was that, through the channel
of the Bishop of Baltimore, she
transmitted to her son a bill of ex-
change for a considerable amount, a
box of books — a treasure in those
days — rosaries for the settlers, linen
for himself and friends, garments, and
even baby-clothes, for the poorer
members of the settlement, sacerdotal
vestments, embroidered by the prin«
cess herself, by her daughter, and by
Countess de Stolberg, and, lastly, a
magnificent present, which the mis-
sionary during his life valued beyond
all price, and with which, in accord-
ance with his wishes, he was laid to
slumber in the tomb.

In the meantime Qallitzin's colony,
settled in the midst of those wiM
wastes, had expanded and become a
town, to which he gave the name of
Loretto, the begmninga of which are

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151

Hiiis described bj our miBsionarj'B
successor : " The colony was composed
of individuals who generally pur-
chased considerable tracts, varying
from one to four hundred acres in
extent, which they cleared and con-
verted to cultivation. In proportion
as the population increased, they grad-
ually emerged from the savagery of
the earlier periods, and soon expe-
rienced the wants of a growing civil-
ization. The indication of those
wants suggested to Gallitzin's mind
the necessity of converting the humble
settlement into a town. Mechanics,
of every useful trade, rapidly gath-
ered around the nucleus— blacksmiUis,
millers, carpenters, shoemakers, with
even storekeepers, and Loretto soon
assumed the position which its founder
had designed.

^ Here, then, stands the town; but,
with its new dignity, came a host of
vexations. It marked for Grallitzin a
period of struggle against every imag-
inable difficulty, which brought his
firmness to the sorest trials, and which
indeed might have jeoparded the very
existence of his work. In fact, the
means of reducing, under the control
of a single hand, the heterogeneous
compcments of such a colony was no
easy problem to be solved. Oallitz-
in's efforts to bring it under a normal
organization had to meet many an an-
tagcmizing element, whilst the peculiar
American spirit, which had even then
permeated those solitudes, reared up
obstacles to his scheme. Grallitzin,
however, proved unshakable, and ex-
hibited an unbending energy of char-
acter. At one time there was an ac-
tual crisis in the prospects of the col-
ony. A member of the community,
with a fair allotment of the goods of
this world, with the excitable Ameri-
can brain and a marked tendency to
speculation, suddenly conceived the
idea to set up a competition with the
growing colony and to lay the founda-
tioos of a rival one in ^e neighbop>
hood. He went to work accordingly,
aikl, with the assistance of a few
Irishmen, actually laid the founda-

tions of a village, which he named
Monster, after one of the provinces of
Ireland. This rival of Loretto imme-
diately became the headquarters of
the propagators of light, in other
words, of those who had little relish
for the zeal of GaUitzin and the in-
convenient discipline of the Church*
Satisfied not only with putting the
prosperity of Loretto in evident peril,
the seoeders also assailed the charao-
ter of Gallitzin, and through these
means derived an unexpected help.
It happened fitly for their purposes
that at the time two Grerman vaga-
bonds—one a priest of most question-
able character, and the other a noble-
man, whom the crime of forgery had
driven from the Old World — present-
ed themselves to Grallitzin, and any-
thing but pleased, no doubt, with the
welcome which they received, resolved
to swell the party of malooatents.
With cunning maUce, they soon dis-
seminated reports injurious to their
countryman, gave a pretended sub-
stance to unfounded suspicions, feed-
ing the animosities of the common
herd. The fact, also, of Grallitzin's
having assumed a borrowed name
was a means of shaking the settlers
and sowing distrust in their minds.
Things went on from bad to worse,
and a catastrophe seemed to be immi-
nent, when came the upshot, so much
the more ludicrous because the less
expected. The Grordian knot, after
the expeditious American fashion, was
cut by an Alexander who rejoiced in
the name of John Wakeland. He
was an Irishman, a giant in stature
and strength, famed in the settlement
as a wolf and bear killer ; and in real-
ity one of the kindest men in the
world, and one of the hardest to stir
from his natural proprieties. These
miserable intrigues and base machina-
tions aroused his indignatioo, and he
immediately came to the conclusion to
put an end to them by the interposi-
tion of the logic of the strong hand.
The agitators had concocted a plan,
which was devised to extort from Gal-
litzin k>me sort of an assent, and the

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162

Sev. Demeiriui Avgttttin GtUUtzifif

prinee could hardly have escaped their
iotended violence had he not sought
sanctuary in the chapel of Loretto.
But the mob had merely adjourned
their intended excesses; and they
were preparing for extreme means to
achieve ^eir ends when John Wake*
land, brandishing a sturdy hickory in
the midst of the infatuated mob, de-
clared that, he would ^settle," on the
spoty any pne who durst threaten the
good priest. There was a magical
spell m the kiehofy. The timidly good
men, who there, as everywhere else,
had shrunk into a circle of impassive
inaction, feeling the influence of a
sturdy support^ borrowed courage
from the hour ; and had it not been
for the interference of Gallitzin, his
detractors, to use an American phrase,
would have had ' a rough time of it'
From that moment, a complete revul-
sion of feeling took place in behalf of
the missionary; while the bishop suc-
ceeded in ultimately restoring order
and peace in the little parish. He
carefully inquired into all the facts,
and then addressed to the parishioners
a letter which was posted at the
church door, and recalled the faithful
to the regular order of things.

^Difficulties, however, of another
kind, and of a more serious import,
waited on Grallitsin. From the death
of his father, he had been suddenly
out off from the pecuniary assistance
which he had periodically received from
Europe. He himself, as a Catholic
priest, had been, by the laws of Rus-
sia, excluded from his paternal heri-
tage ; while his mother, who had ex-
hausted her means in Utigations, was
compelled to forego the assistance
whidi, from time to time, she had ex-
tended to her son. In satisfying his
boundless charities, and in the achieve-
ments of his plans, the founder of Lo-
retto had somewhat relied on this in-
heritance, which thus passed away
from his hands. This disappointment,
therefore, brought upon him a new
burden of anxiety and cares. Desti-
tution and poverty might have been
easily borne by him ; but he ooqld not

make up his mind to give np the idea
of founding an imposing Catholic col-
ony — to abandon the undertaking
which he had initiated — ^to be compell-
ed to relinquish lands which had been
reclaimed by so much toil and so much
care^-and, especially, to face impa-
tient creditors, who might accuse him
of thoughtlessly going into debt, and
from such an accusation justify their
expression of contempt."

As a crowning development to all
of these tribulations, the European
mail brought to Gallitzin the news of
his beloved mother's death. On the
17th of April, 1806, in the city of
MUnster, the excellent princess had
closed her eyes for ever, comforting
her disappointment that she had not
been permitted to see her son on earHi
by the hope that she would surely
meet him in heaven. The narrative
of the last moments of the Princess
Gallitzin, received, by the stout-heart-
ed missionary, through the letters of
his sister, of Overberg, and of Count
de Stolberg, supplied a fund of inex-
pressible comfort ; but from that hour
the temporal claims and requirements
of his position bore terribly on his en-
durance. It required unheard-of ef-
forts to save his undertaking from the
burden of indebtedness, and if, at the
hour of his death, he quitHslaimed the
property of the Church and left it free
from all and every chavge, the blessed
consummation came with the sunset of
life only, and that, too, after miracles
of constant energy. And here, espe-
cially, looms up the secondary phase of
GaUitzin's character, which had not
escaped his Other's more searching
eye. In fact, and in answer to a letter
of his wife, in which she bitterly oom-
plained of the inertness of their son,
then sixteen years of age, he wrote to
her that ^ deep waters nm still ; that,
to his mind, she misconceives the dis-
position of Demetrius, and that he is
ever running against ?nnd and tide.**
And indeed, to struggle against the tor-
rent of time and of events was the
whole work of his life. And against
this torrent he heaved up the bolk of

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158

Us writings that have oome down to us.
It is easy to oonoeive that it required
no common reason to induce a man of
his temper of mind to write. We
have the motive of this reason in the
iact that a Presbyterian preacher of
Huntington had thought fit to assail
and calnminate the Catholic Church
as an institution dangerous to the
oountrj and to its liberties. Gallitzin
immediately took up the pen in an«
swer, and the necessities of the con
troversy- turned him into a polemica
writer.

There are in America, no less than
in other countries, fanatical sectarians
who follow their congenial instincts in
sounding the alarm-cry whenever the
Catholic Church marks out new limits
of ]a?ritil conquest In this instance,
the state was declared to be io peril ;
but Gallitzin lost no time in confound-
ing the slanderers of Catholicity by
the publication of his ** Defense of
Catholic Prindples," which appeared
in Pittsbuiig in the year 1816. This
work, written in English-— for the au-
thor wielded the English with as
much facility as he did the Grerman
language, his mother tongue — was, on
both shores of the ocean, greeted with
success. Father Lemcke made a
German translation of the << Defense
of Catholic Principles," of which two
editions were published in Ireland
and four in the United States, ranking
* in popularitywith * Cobbett's Histo-
ry c^ the Beformation,' to which it
bears a resemblance in putting a prob-
ing finger on the plague-spot of Prot-
estantism.''

The start being once made, GalHts-
1B followed up his first work with
other publications of an entirely prac-
tical character, directed against cer^
tain prevalent moral diseases of the
day, which mark an epoch in the
monography of American ideas. Gal-
litzin was perfectly familiar with the
mode of treatment of the feverish ex-
uberance of American notions, and he
handled them with aU the cautious
akiQ of a prudent practitioner. Every-
thing wUch he published on these

matters, both in elucidation of his
views and as a muniment against the ^
evils which he denounced, is written
in the winning and popular style
which was famiBar to his pen. Hence
his works were crowned with success,
even amongst the higher classes o*
society. ^ Gallitzin's publications,
says his biographer, ^ exerted an im-
mense influence in the period when he
lived, but especially so among the
humbler members of the community,
for whom they were destined. They
were found, and they may still be
found, in the form of unpretending
pamphlets, in the hotels and steam-
boats of the West, for he had them
printed at his own expense and dis-
tributed as the Protestant colporteurs
disseminate their Bibles and tracts.
The curiosity of the readers enlarged
their circulation everywhere; and I
myself have found them as perfectly
thumbed as any spelling-book in spots
where I never dreamed of meeting
with them."

In the meantime, Gallitzin, who
had hitherto labored under the pro-
tecting shadow of his humility, had
begun to attract the attention of the
American world around him.* The
manner in which he had marked his
entrance in social life— not so much
by the power of genius as by that in-
tegrity of character which commanded
the respect of public opinion — ^had car-
ried his reputation far beyond the lim-
its of the frontiers, and secured for him
an esteem, the proofs of which came
back to him in numerous testimonials
gathering from all sides. It was at
this time that he published various
pamphlets signed with his real natne :
^ Demetrius Augustin Gallitzin, Cath-
olic curate of Loretto."

It was natural, when the question of
creating a new bishopric cam^up, that
all eyes should turn to such a man as
GalHtzin. There was a desire, there-
fore, more than once expressed to see
him called to the episcopal chair;
but he persistently repelled the in*
tended dignity, and exerted his every
power to counteract the efforts oS

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154

Sev» Demetriui AugtuHn GaUtzinf

diose who were anzioas to have it
eonfened upon him* He asked for
one fiiYor onlj — ^that of remaining at
Loretto ; and, with this view, he con-
sented to accept the ftinctions of vicar-
general to the Bishop of Philadelphia,
which had heen recently raised into a
diocese.

Since the earlier period when Gral-
litzin entered on the discharge of the
holj ministiy, those regions had wit-
nessed a great development of the
Catholic faith. From all sides arose
new parishes, while the field of labor
went on enlai^g under the tireless
zeal of our missionaiy. ^ It may be
safely affirmed," says his biogn^her,
^'that during the protracted years
through whidi he administered to the
district of country which now consti-
tutes the sees of Pittsburg and Erie,
he filled the place and discharged the
duties of a bishop." In order to form
a correct judgment as to the import-
ance of his labors, we must go back,
in imagination, to the exordium of the
Catholic Church in those countries,
where the pastors were cut off from
aJl sustaining advice — ^from all dio-
cesan organization — and where ele-
ments the most discrepant, and pre-
judices the most stubborn, were found
in daily conflict How many difficul-
ties, therefore, to be encountered and
overcome in the discrimination, in
certain cases, between falsehood and
truth I What prudence of action was
required! How many and delicate
problems presented to the decisions of
a tender conscience ! Grallitzin, how-
ever, was the man for the situation*
"The writings," says his friend,
'^ which his charge as vicar-general
had compelled him firom time to time
to publish, bear witness not only to
his vigilance and zeal, but also to the
great ch^ty which characterized the
performance of his duties." His was
a peculiar solicitude for the persecuted
and the oppressed, because he knew
fix)m experience how readily, in
America, they may be made the sport
of falsehood, of malevolence, and of
that thirst of revenge which exists

everywhere. Hence the not inconsid-
erable number of persons, both eccle*
siastics and laymen, who looked up
to him for protection, and who might,
but for its interpositions, have been for
ever lost. His benevolent bearing won
for him the confidence of the other
priests who, like himself, had conse-
crated their lives to the salvation of
souls. The pastor who from among
them became at a later period the
archbishop of Baltimore, having been
in 1830 appointed coadjutor and ad-
ministrator to the diocese oi Philadel-
phia, immediately wrote to Gallitzin
— whom he styled the propagandist of
the faith — to ask the assistance of his
experience and of his prayers, and to
advise him that he not only confirmed
his existing powers, but that he also
authorized him to use, without the
necessity of any previous application,
those with which, as coadjutor, he was
himself invested. These two men
were bound till death by the closest
ties of friendship.

All of Gallitzin's actions were
stamped with the characteristics of
candor and uprightness. Should the
honor of the Church, or the dignity of
her priesthood, be called into question,
he knew no such word as compromise.
He shrank from familiarity with that
species of half education of which
presumption is a leading feature ; and
ever, and everywhere, stood unshaken
in his love and assertion of truth — a
persistency which, on more than one
occasion, called down upon him the
imputation of an aristocratic and
domineering spirit. Those, how-
ever, who, admitted to the closer inti-
macies of his life, were best qualified
to judge, soon became convinced of
the futility of the charge. If there
were any note of distinction about
him, it was to be traced in the lofti-
ness of his conceptions; for he had
long cast off all princely frippery ; and
the privileged society in which he
especially delighted was that of the
poor and the lowly, with whom he
would kindly converse afler possessing
himself of their wishes and needs*

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15$

In the circuit of his missians, it was
his pleasure to pass by the dwellings
of opulence and seek the hospitalities
of the humble cottage. There would
the prince sit down to rest^ sur-
rounded bj joyous children, distribut-
ing ^ctures among them and sharing
in their humble fare.

Such was GrallitEin, shepherd of
souls, polemic and vicar-general, at
Loietto, whence the peacdiil work of
Christian civilization went on quietly
progressing and gradually enlarging
&e circle of its benefits. Years had
thus passed on, and the pioneer could
already mark the slanting shadows of
declining life, when a young mission-
aiy came over from Europe to share
in his toils. This was Father Lemcke,
a Benedictine, who, afler having been
his assistant, became his successor.
GalUtzin was then sixty-four years of
age. Father Lemcke has left us a
picturesque account of his first meet-
ing with the venerable missionary.
He had set out from Philadelphia, and
after several days of rough traveling
reached Munster, where an Irish
£unily gave him hospitality. From
that viUage he procured a guide, and
at tins point of his narrative we find
him with an Irish lad piloting him to
Loretto. ** As we had gone," says he,
^a couple of miles through the woods,
I caught sight of a sled, drawn by a
pair of vigorous horses ; and in the
sled a half recumbent traveler, on
every lineament of whose face could
be read a character of distinction.
He was outwardly dressed in a sort of
threadbare overcoat; and, on his
head, a peasant's hat, so worn and di-
lapidiated that no one would have
rescned it from the garbage of the
streets. It occurred to me that some
accident had happened to the old
gentleman, and that he was compelled
to resort to this singular mode of con-
▼cjrance. Whilst I was taxing my
brains for a satisfactory solution of
the problem, Tom, my guide, who was
trotting ahead, turned round and, point-
ing to the old man, said : *' Here comes
the priest" I immediately coaxed up

my nag to tiie sled. ^ Are you, really,
the pastor of Loretto?" said L "I
am, sir." " Prince GaUitzin ?' " At
your service, sir," he said with a
laugh. ^You are probably aston-
ished" — ^he continued, aHer I had
handed him a letter from the Bishop
of Philadelphia — "■ at the strangeness
of my equipage? But there's no
help fot it. You have no doubt al-
re4idy found out that in these coun*
tries you need not dream of a car-
riage-road. You could not drive ten
yards without danger of an overturn.
I am prevented, since a fall which I
have had, from riding on horseback,
and it would be impossible for me
now to travel on foot Beside, I carry
along everyt^ng required for the cel-
ebration of holy mass. I am now go-
ing to a spot where I have a mission,
and where the holy sacrifice has been
announced for to-day. Go to Loretto
and make yourself at home, until my
return to night; unless, indeed, you
should prefer to accompany me. You
may be interested in the visit."

Father Lemcke accordingly follow-
ed Gallitzin, and after a ride of sever-
al miles they reached a sort of a ham-
let, where there stood a good Pennsyl-
vania farm, in which all the Catholics
of the vicarage had gathered as on a
festive day. The cabin had been
transformed into a chapel, and the
good people were there, crovrding;
some standing, others kneeling under
the projecting shed ; and others again,
in small huts or under the foliage of
the grand old trees, were awaiting the
appointed hour. All had their prayer-
books in their hands. At a sign
from Gallitzin, Father Lemcke pro*
ceeded within to receive the confes-
sions of the faithful ; after which the
prince celebrated mass, preached, and
admuiistered the sacrament of bap-
tism. For his pious and good people
it was a very festive day. The din-
ner which followed, and in which aU
shared, was a repast marked by the
cheerfulness and the charity of the
agapie of the primitive Christians.

By nightfall both priests had reach-

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156

Bev. Demetrius AuguiHn GroBitadnf

ed Loretta On ihe Sunday follow-
ing, Grallitein introduced his assistant
to his German parishioners, and then,
with a qvazzical smile, invited him,
without any further ceremony, to as-
cend the pulpit Father Lemcke had
to undergo the ordeal, and it proved
not to his dis&vor. He had naturally
supposed that the same roof whidi
sheltered Gallitzin would also protect
him. The old priest, however, could
not see things in that light ; and a few
days after, he took him to Ebenshurg,
the principal county town, and there
installed hun as the pastor of the par-
ish.

Each of the two missionaries who
had thus halved the goodly work still
had a respectable circuit to perform.
There were stations fifty and even
seventy miles apart, and over this im-
mense extent of territory, which now
oonstitues the Pittsburg and. Erie
bishoprics, there were, with them,
but three or four priests to attend to
the work of the Lord. To Gallitzin
was reserved the deep gratification
of witnessing the branching oflT, from
Loretto, of various 'Catholic parishes,
which were formed in the very man-
ner in which Loretto had been.
Twelve miles north of the primitive
colony, up to the head-waters of the
Susquehanna, where lay chei^ and rich
lands, some of the more prosperous
members of his parish purchased tracts
for themselves and their families, and
there hud the grounds of a settlement,
to which they gave the name of St
Joseph, borrowed from the invocation
of the church which Gallitzin had
consecrated on that spot It is now
known on the maps as Carrollton.
Among the early settlers' and the
heads of families were sturdy John
Wakeland, whom the reader may not
have forgotten, and his six sons, as tall
and as stalwart as himself, and all,
like him, devoted to the Catholic
faith. On the very road to Loretto,
aud before the death of the prince,
sprang up a rural parish under the
name of St Augustin. Another was
formed with liie appelladon of Gallitz-

in — after the death of the missionarj,
be it understood; for his humility
during his lifetime never could have
consented to this endowment

In 1836, Father Lemcke fixed his
residence at St Joseph — urged some-
what to this course by Gallitzin,
whose favorite idea had, for some
time, been to witness on that spot the
rise and growth of another Loretto.
The old priest, growmg into closer in-
timacy with the younger missionaiy,
periodically came in his sled to St
Joseph, rejoicing to behold ^a second
edition of what he himself had cre-
ated thirty years before." So thor-
oughly had he become linked to this
new friend from far-off Europe, that
he never but reluctantly parted from
him, and even shed bitter teazs on
once hearing that the bishop contem-
plated changing Father Lemcke's resi-
dence.

Thus was it given to GraUitzin, in
the decline of l^e, to behold trackless
forests converted into fruitful fields.
The transient cares and annoyances
of life had disappeared, and a numer-
ous Catholic population grew around
him in the joys of contented toil. The
early settlers who with him had shar-
ed the sweat and borne the burden of
the day, had long bidden farewell to
their humbler log-cabins. Well ap-
pointed farms, substantial bams, com-
modious dwellings, surrounded by
beautiftil gardens and smiling mead-
ows, wooed the eye as the rewarding
product of their privations and their
toils.

In 1839 the old missionary's health
began to fail. The load of years
much less than the thousand hard-
ships inseparably connected with the
devotions of apostolic life, weighed
heavily on a frame attenuated indeed^
but still erect and resisting. Tet the
burden went on pressing still — the
body gradually bent — ^the step un-
steady — the divine fire which aiwajs
kindled still animated him; but the
voice would refuse the assistance of
its sounds, and the close of his ser-
mons turn into a peroration of silent

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167

tears a thouauid times moie eloquent
thai/ bis spdcen words. And jet,
wiUi all these warnings, he rejected
ererf suggestion of precaution and
care of himself. To this he would
answer, in his own energetic language,
that ^as the days had gone by
when, bj martyrdom, it was possible
for us to testify to Grod's glory upon
earth, it was our duty, like the toil-
worn ox, to remain hitched to the
plough in the field of the Lord.'' And
the event harmonized with his wish.
On Easter Sunday, 1840, Gallitzin,
bemg then seventy years of age, had-
earty in the morning taken his seat In
theccMifessionaL AAer the discharge of
its duties, he had braced up the rem*
nants of his strength to ascend the al-
tar for holy sacrifice. He was, however,
compelled to forego the sermon of the
day to betake himself to his bed, from
which he was destined never agam . to
rifle. The attentive care of Dr. Rod-
riguez, his intimate friend, prolonged
his existence for a few weeks; but
it was soon ascertained that the noble
missionary was fast sinking under
exhausted energies. With the ra-
pidity of lightning, the sad news was
caiT^ abroad. From £Eur and near,
old and young gathered around his
dwelling, once more to receive the bless-
ing of the man whom they revered.
So great was the affluence of the peo-
ple, that in order to secure a few quiet
moments for the glorious veteran of
&ith, absorbed in &e last meditations
and prayers of earth, it became neces-
sary to warn away the, increasing
throng of visitors — and this without his
knowledge ; for it was • his wish to re-
ceive every one of them,and to each to
speak the last farewell which welled
up from his loving heart. Yet some
did come for whom no such words
passed his lips, which on the contrary
moved in utterances of reproof and
bhune. Among others came in one
of the parishioners, to whom the dying
pastor had been particularly kind.
He, however, had proved ungrateful,
and had, indeed, been a cause of much
annoyance to the missionary by habits

of drunkenness and other excesses of
an unregulated life. A& he entered
the room, the venerable pastor turned
to him with a reproachful look and
shook his head. This silent sermonis-
ing produced a deeper impression than
had any previous admonition of Gal-
litzin. The self-accusing culprit fell
upon his knees, melted to tears, con-
fessed his errors, and promised thence-
forward to amend. The evidence of
his sincerity is found in the statement
of Gallitzin's successor, who informs
us that he stoutly held to his promise.

The last scene of this eventful life
closed on the sixth of May, when the
missionaxy prince left this world, ao*
companled by the prayers of his par-
ishioners gathered around him; for
every apartment of the house, and
every portion of the chapel attached to
it, was literally thronged by a wailing^
weeping, and praying community.
This supreme hour revealed the depth
and the sincerity of the love which
dwelt in every heart for this man
of God. On the day of his burial,
whole populations swarmed from
every point-^from distances ranging
fifty and sixty mUes-^-to pay to the
good father a last tribute of that af-
fectionate respect which had attended
him through life.

The most respectable men of the
parish contended for the honor of
bearing his body to the cemetery. In
the body of the church, it was a per-
fect contest among the congregation to
look for the last time on tiie feature
of him who was thenceforward for ever
lost to earth. Those who were lucky
enough, through the pressure of the
crowd, to reach the coffin, kissed in
tearful love the icy hands of the mis-
sionary; while the attendants were
compelled to resort U} foree in order to
close the coffin for the final rites of
the Church.

It were no easy task, without refers
ence to the work of his biographer— an
ocular witness of Gallitzin's labors—
to convey a just conception of their
bearing and extent "When," he
says, ^ we come to consider the thea-

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158

Bev. Demetriui AugwHn GaBitsdiu

tre on which Grallitzin maugarated his
immense labors in so obscaie and
modest a manner, we realize the
amount of sujiwtantial good that can be
achieved bj an apostolic missionary in
America when, like Gallitzin, he con-
oeiyes the practical sense of things and
leads them on to tiieir crowning devel*
opment with the zeal and persever-
ance which mailed his course. The
small county of Cambria, in Pennsylva-
nia, created in 1807, which is indebt-
ed to Gallitzin for a majority of its
settlers, is everywhere, and with every
reason, characterized as the Catholic
county. Indeed, when the traveller
on business, or the tourist for pleasure,
strikes this point from other districts
of Pennsylvania more controlled by
Protestant indhences, it seems to him
that he has passed firom a comparative
desert into a smiling oasis. This may
be easily understood. For all their
joumeyings for whole days, over coun-
ties twice and thrice more opulent
than this little Catholic county, there
is no indication to tell them what reli-
gion is there professed. Not till they
have pressed the soil of Cambria coun-
ty do they feel that they are in a
irufy Christian land, as they catch
sight of ten Catholic churches and
three monasteries— all of which crop-
ped out of Loretto under Grallitzin's
creative and fostering hands."

From all these results we can frame
an accurate judgment of the prince's
career, which was but one continuous
struggle— a glorious struggle, teeming
with usefulness. When Grallitzin
opened his mission, the vicar of Christ
was persecuted and proscribed. A

prisoner, torn away from his spiritual
family, Pius YI. heard the voices
of a pkilosophie world applauding his
abduction, as, ten years later, it ap-
plauded the violence inflicted on the
person of Pius VU. It was just
at that dark period which overshad-
owed the Holy See that the Church
inaugurated her peaceful labors in the
United States, and, at the end of ten
years, had marked her beneficent in-
fluences by a progress so rapid that its
result could not escape the eye of
even the least observant While
Europe was organizing a settled perse-
cution of the papal power, the Church
in America was growing up and ex-
panding in influence. Her very ad-
versaries were compelled to bear even
reluctant witness to her triumphs. In
one of the meetings of a Bible society
some years ago. Lord Barclay exhib-
ited a summary, in which he lamented
the spread of Catholicity in a country
in which he said that in the year
1790 there was not even a bishop.
^Strange," he said, '^that while, in
Europe, the power of the see of
Rome is overthrown, the Pope is a
prisoner, and Rome is declared to be
the second city of the French empire
— strange, I say, that, at this very mo-
ment, the power of the Pope should
be rooted in America in this still
stranger manner." Ay! strange in-
deed, my Lord Barclay.; but in no
way strange for those who know that
martyrdom is the life of the Church,
and ^at she woos triumph in persecu-
tion. Grallitzin's life is a living, con-
vincing proof of her triumphs and
her hopes.

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Ihm Spira Spwo. 159

From The Sixpenny Xagaxine.

"DUM SPIRO SPERO.'*

(an apologue.)

Mt seal was restless, and I songlit

Tlie elfs wild haunt, and breathed sweet aiis :
I track'd the river's devious route : —

In vain ! — my heart was vext with cares.

I wandered from the noble park,

The trimly gay parterre to view ;
Thence pluok'd a rose, without one nuuic

To rob it of its faultless hue ;

And, home returning, quaintly placed

My trophy in a tiny tray
Of antique silver curious traced ;

Then, charg'd with odor, turn'd away.

I enter'd yestermom the room

Where, all forgotten, dwelt my flower

Unhappy fate ! that tender bloom
Fell, faintio^ for the genial shower.

Yanish'd all vigor had ; and now —
The perfume fled — ^the tints grown duU-^

It had been sin, I did allow,
For this so choice a bud to pull.

Then, with' sore heart, I brought a stream

Of clearest water to its cup.
What wonder if new life 'gan gleam,

And care restored what hope gave up?

Lo ! leaf by leaf was slowly raised,
Till olden flashes came at length :

Each plaintive petal oped, and gazed.
And thank'd me wi^ its growing strength.

Our hearts are like thee, little Rose ;

They quicken what time love-beaxns shine ;
But under dismal clouds of woes

How can they choose but droop and pine ?

If sympathy with lute attend

To lull with some resistless psalm,
lUsfortune's darts can never rend:

Friends soothe, hope cheets, and heaven anoints with balm t

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IfiO

Cbnskmee Sherwood.

Vrom The Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.

AN ▲UTOBIOGRAPHT OF THE SIXTEEKi;? CEITTUBT
BY LADY QEORGIANA PULLBRTON.

CHAPTEB XT.

Then methought was witnessed (I
speak of the time when Sir Hammond
FEstrange made the savage speech
which caused his lady and me to ex-
change affrighted looks) a rare in-
stance of the true womanlj courage
which doth .sometimes lie at the core of
a timid heart. The meek wife, which
dared not so much as to lift up her
ejes to her lord if he did only frown,
or to oppose his will in anj trifling
matter; whose color I had seen flj
from her cheek if he raised his voice,
albeit not in anger against herself,
now in the presence of those at table,
with a face as pale as ashes, but a
steady voice, and eyes fixed on him,
thus addi*essed her husband :

^ Sir, since we married I have never
opposed your will, or in anything I
wot of offended you, or ever would if
I could help it Do not, therefore,
displeasure me so much, I beseech
you, in this grave instance, as to make
me an instrument in the capture. And
Grod knoweth what should follow of one
which came to me for help, and to
'whom the service I rendered him
would prove the means of his ruin if
you persist therein.''

**€r0 to,^ madam, go to," cries Sir
Hammond; ^your business doth lie
with poor people, mine with criminals.
Go your way, and intrude not your-
self in weightier matters than belong
to your sex."

"Sir," she answers, braving his
frowning looks, albeit her limbs began
to tremble, '* I humbly crave your pa-
tience ; but I will not leave you, neith-
er desuit from my suit, except there-
unto compelled by force. I would to

God my tongue had been plucked out
rather than tibat it should utter words
which should betray to prison, yea, per-
haps to death, the poor man whose
wounds I tended."

The cloud on Sir Hammond's brow
waxed darker as she spoke. He g^nc-
ed at me, and methinks perceived my
countenance to be as mndi disturbed as
his lady's. A sudden thought, I ween,
then passed through his mind; and
with a terrible oath he swore that he
misliked this strenuous urging in fa-
vor of a vile popish priest, and yet
more the manner of this intercession.

<< Heaven shield, madam," he cried,
^ you have not companied with recu-
sants so as to become infected with a
lack of zeal for the Protestant religion !"

The color returned for a moment to
Lady I'Estrange's cheeks as she an-
swered :

" Sir, I have never, from the time
my mother did teach me my prayers,
been of any other way of thinking than
that wherein she then Instructed me,
or so much as allowed myself one
thought contrary to true Protestant
religion ; or ever lent an ear, and with
God's help never will, to what papists
do advance ; but nevertheless, if this
priest do fall into any grievous trouble
through my speeches, I shall be a most
unhappy woman all my life."

And then the poor soul, rising from
her seat, went round to her husband's
side, and, kneeling, sought to take his
hands, beseeching him in such moving
and piteous terms to change his pur-
pose as I could see did visibly affect
some present. But I also noticed in
Sir Hammond's face so resolved an
intent as if nothing in earth or heaven
should alter it. A drowning wretch

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OMiktnee Sherwood.

161

vould as soon have moved a rock to
advance towaid him as she sacceeded
in swerving his will by her entreaties.

A sudden thought inspired me to
approach her where she had Bunk
down on her knees at her husband's
feet, ho seeking angrily to push her
away. I took her by the hand and
said:

•* I pray you, dear hidy, come with
me. These be indeed matters where-
in, as Sir Hammond saith, women's
words do not avail."

Both looked at me surprised; and
she, loosing her hokl of him, suffered
me to lead her away. We went ioto
the parlor, Mrs. I'Estrange following
us. But as I did try to whisper in
her ear that I desired to speak with
her alone, the bell in the dining-room
began to ring violently; upon which
she shuddered and cried out :

** Let me go back to him, Mistress
Sherwood. FU warrant you he is
about to send for the constables ; but
beshrew me if I die not first at his
ieet ; for if this man should be hung,
peace will be a stranger to me all my
life.''

Mistress I'Estrange essayed to com-
fort her ; but failing therein, said she
was very foolish to be so discomposed
at wliat was no &ult of hers, and she
should think no more thereon, for in
her condition to fret should be danger-
ous ; and if people would be priests
and papists none could help if they
should sufi^r for it. And then she
left the parlor somewhat ruffled, like
good people sometimes feel when they
perceive their words to have no effect.
When we were alone, "Lady I'Es-
trange,'* I said, '* where is Master
Bugeley's house f^

'*Oae mile, or thereabouts, across
the heath," she answered.

** And the way to it direct P' I asked.

" Yea, by the footpath," she replied ;
" but much longer by the high road."

I went to the window and opened
the shutter and the kttice also. The
moon was shining very brightly.

''Is it that cottage near to the
vood?" I inquired, pomting to a

VOL. n. 11

thatched roof nigh unto the darksome
line of trees against the sky.

** Yea," she answered, <* how near it
doth seem seen in this light I Con-
stance, what think you to do ?" she ex-
claimed, when I went to her cupboard
and took out the keys she had showed
me that morning opened the doors of
the kitchen garden and the orchard.

"Did you not say," I answered,
" that the gentleman now in so great
peril did lodge with Master Rugeley ?"

" Would you go there ?" she sud,
looking aghast. "Not alone; you
durst not do it P'

" Twenty times over," I answered,
" for to save a man's life, and he— -he
a—" But there I stopped ; for it was
her fellow-creature she desired to
save. Her heart bled not like mine
for the flock which should be left with-
out a shepherd ; and albeit oar fears
were the same, we felt not alike. I
went into the hall, and she pursued
me-^one-half striving to stay me fVom
my purpose, one-hatf urging me to
fulfil it ; yet retracthig her words aa
soon as uttered.

" When I issue from the door of the
orchard unto the heath," I said, the
while wrapping round me a cloak with
a hood to it, " and pursue the path in
front, by what token may I find Mas-
ter Kugeley's house if the moon should
be obscured ?"

" Where two roads do meet," she
said, " at the edge of the heath, a tall
oak doth stand near to a gate ; a few
steps to the right should then lead to
it. But verily, Mistress Constance, I
be frightened to let you go ; and oh, I
do fear my hasband's anger."

" Would you, then, have a man die
by your means ?" I asked, thinking for
to cure one terror by another, as indeed
it did ; for she cried,

"Nay, I will speed you on your
way, good Constance ; and show so
brave a face during your absence as
God shall help me to do; yea, and
open the door for you myself, if my
husband should kill me for it !"

Then she took the keys in her hand,
and glided like unto a pale ghost be-

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162

Omukmce Shanoood.

fore me through the passage into the
halV 60 noiselessly that I should have
doubted if aught of flesh and blood
could have moved so lightly, and un-
did the bars of the back door without
so much as a sound. Then she would
fetch some thick shoes for me to wear,
which I did entreat her not to stay me
for; but nothing else would content
the poor soul, and, as she had the
keys in her hand, I was forced to wait
her return with so much impatience as
may be guessed. I heard the voices
of the gentlemen still carousing after
supper; and^ then a servant's below
in the hall, who said the constables
had been sent for, and a warrant issued
for the apprehension of a black papist
at Master Rugele/s. Then Milicent
returned, and whilst I put on the shoes
she had brought, and she was tying
with trembling fingers the hood of my
cloak, the rustling of Mrs. I'Estrange's
silk gown was heard on the stair
above our heads, from whence we
were like to be seen ; and, fear awak-
ening contrivance, I said aloud,

"' Oh, what a rare pastime it should
be to dress as a ghost, and frighten
the good lady your sister-in-law ! I
pray you get me some white powder
to pale my face. Methinks we need
some kind of sport to drive away too
much thmking on that dismal business
in hand."

The steps over our head sounded
more hurried, and we heard the door
of the parlor dose with a bang, and
the lattice also violently shut

'* Now," I whispered, " give me the
keys, good Lady FEstrauge, and go
to your sister yourself. Say I was
ashamed to have been overheard to
plan so rank a piece of folly (and ver-
ily you will be speaking no other than
the truth), and that you expect I shall
not so much as show my face in the
parlor this eveniog ; and lock also my
chamber-door, that none may for a
surety know me for to be absent."

"Yea," answered the poor lady,
with so deep a sigh as seemed to rend
her heart ; *^ but, Grod forgive me, I
never did think to hide anything from

my husband ! And who shall tell me
if I be doing right or wrong ?"

I could not stay, though I grieved
for her; and the sound of her voice
haunted me as I went through the gar-
den, and then the orchard, unto the
common, locking the doors behind me.
When tlus was done, I did breathe
somewhat more freely, and began to
run along tlie straight path amidst the
heath. I wot not if my speed was
great — ^the time seemed long ; yet me-
thinks I did not slacJcen my pace (Nice,
but rather increased it, till, perceivhig
the oak, and near it the gate Lady
TEstrange had mentioned, I stopped
to consider where to turn ; and after I
had walked a little to the right I saw
a cottage and a light gleaming inside.
Then my heart beat very fast ; and
when I knocked at the door I felt
scarce able to stand* I did so three
times, and no answer came. Then I
cried as loudly as I could, ^Master
Bugeley, I beseech you open the door."
I heard some one stirring within, but
no one came. Then I again cried out,
^^Oh, for our Blessed Lady's sake,
some one come." At last the lattice
opened, and a man's head appeared.

" Who are you?" he said, in a low
voice.

"A friend," I answera4» in a whis-
per; "a Catholic Are yon Master
Bugeley?"

"Yea," he answered.

" Oh, then, if Mr. Tunstall is here,
hide him quickly, or send him away.
I am a friend of Lady I'Estrange's and
staying in her house. Sir Hfunmond
hath received tidings that a priest
is in this neighborhood, and a warrant
is issued for to apprehend him. His
lady unwittingly, and sorely troubled
she is thereat, showed by her speeches
touching your guest, that he is like to
be Mr. Tunstall; and the constables
will soon be here." «

"Thank you," he replied whom
I was addressing ; " but Mr. Tunstall
is not the name of my friend."

Then I feared he did take me for a
spy, and I cried out, greatly moved,
" Afl I do hope to go to heaven one

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Chnsicmee Sherwood*

168

day, and not to hell, Master Ragelej,
I speak the trnth, and mj warning
is an urgent one.*'

Then I heard some one within the
honse, who said, ^ Open the door, Mas-
ter Ragelej. I should know that
voice. Let the speaker in."

Methought I, too, knew the voice of
the person who ^us spoke. The
door was opened, and I entered a
room dimlj lighted hy one candle.

«0h, for God's sake,** I cried, <*if
a priest is here, hide hhn forthwith."

"Are you a Catholic, my child P'

I looked up to the person who put
this question to me, and gave a sudden
cry, I know not whether of terror or
joy ; for great as was the change which
the lapse' of years, and great inward
and outward changes, had wrought in
his aspect, I saw it was my father.

** I am Constance," I cried ; " Con-
stance Sherwood! Oh, my dear fa-
ther r and then feU at his feet weeping.

After an instant^s, astonishment and
fixed gazing on my face, he recognized
me, who was, I doubt not, more changed
than himself, and received me with a
great paternal kindness and the tender-
est greeting imaginable, yet tempered
with reserve and so much of restraint
as should befit one who, for Christ's
sake, had dissevered himself from the
joys, albeit not from the affections, of
the natural heart.

" Oh, my good child, my own dear
Constance," he said; ^hath God in
his bounty given thy poor fiither a
miraculous sight of thee before liis
death, or art thou come verily in flesh
and blood to warn him of his danger ?"

'^My dear and honored father," I
replied, ^ time presses ; peril is indeed
at hand, if you and Mr. Tunstall are
the same person."

** The wounds in my hands," he an-
swered, ^ must prove me such, albeit
now h^ed by the care of that good
Samaritan, Lady FEstrange. But pri-
thee, my good child, whence comest
thou?"

<* Alas!" I said; ^and yet not alas,
if God should be so good to me as by
my means to save you, I am Sir Ham-

mond's guest, being a friend of his
lady's. I came there yesterday."

^ Oh, my good child, I thought not
to have seen thee in these thy grown-
up years. Master Rugeley," he added,
turning to his host, " this is the little
girl I forsook four years ago, for to
obtain the hundredfold our Lord doth
promise."

" My very dear father," I said, "joy
18 swallowed up in fear. God help
me, I came to warn a stranger (if so
be any priest in these times should be
a stranger to a Catholic), and I find
you."

<< Oh, but I am mightfuliy pleased,''
quoth he, " to see thee, my child, even
in this wise, and to hear thee speak
like a true daughter of Holy Church. *
And Lady I'Estrange is then thj
friend?"

*^Yea, my dear father; but for
God and our lady's sake hide your-
self. I warrant yon the constables
may soon be here. Master Rugeley,
where can he be concealed, or wUther
fly, and I with him ?"

" Nay, prithee not so fast," quoth
he. '^ Flight would be useless ; and in
the matter of hiding, one should be
more ^ily concealed than two; be-
side that, the hollow of a tree, which
Master Rugeley will, I ween, appoint
me for a bed-chamber to-night, shoiild
hardly lodge us both with comfort."

"Oh, sir," siud Rugeley, ** do not
tarry."

" For thy sake, no ; not for more
than one minute, Thomas ; but ere I
part from this wench, two questions I
must needs ask her."

Then he drew me asid^ and in-
quired what facilities I continued to
have in London for the exercise of
Catholic religion, and if I w^is punc-
tual in the discharge of my spiritual
duties. When I had satisfied him
thereon, he askfed if the report was
true which he heard from a pris-
oner for recusancy in Wisbeach Cas-
tle, concerning my troth-plight with
Mr. Rookwood.

" Yea," I said, « it is true, if so be
you now do add your consent to it."

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164

Oimtianee Sherwood.

He answered he should do so with
all his heart, for he knew him to be a
good Catholic and a viftuoas gentle-
man ; and as we might lack the (^
portunity to receive his blessing later,
he should now give it unto me for
both his most dear children. Which he
did, laying his hand on mj head with
many fervent benisons, couched in
such words as these, that he prayed
for us to be stayed up with the shore
of God's grace in this world; and
after this transitory life should end,
to ascend to him, and uppear pure
and unspotted before his glorious seat
Then he asked me if it was Lady
FEstrange who had detected him;
^ whereupon I briefly related to him
T^'hat had occurred, and how sore her
grief was therein.

"God bless her," he answered;
" and tell her I do thank her and pray
for her with all mme heart,"

And more be would have added,
but Master Rugeley opened the door
impatiently. So, after kissing once
more my father's hand, I went away,
compelled thereunto by fears for his
safety, if he should not at once con-
ceal himself.

Looking back, I saw him jtnd his
guide disappear in the thicket, and
then, as I walked on toward Lynn
Court, it did almost seem to me as if
tlie whole of that brief but pregnant
Interview should have been a dream ;
nor could I verily persuade myself
that it was not a half habitant of an-
other world I had seen and spoken
with rather than mine own father;
and in first thinking on it I scarcely
did fully apprehend the danger he
was in, so as to feel as much pain as
I did later, when the joy and astonish-
ment of that unexpected meeting had
given way to terrifying thoughts.
Ever and anon I tum^ round to gaze
on the dark wood wherein his hopes of
safety did lie, and once I knelt down
on the roadside to pray that the night
should be also dark and shield his es-
cape. But still the sense of fear was
dulled, and woke not until the sound
of horses' feet on the road struck on

my ear, and I saw a party of men
riding across the common. The light
in the cottage was eztingaished, hot
the cruel moon shone oat then more
brightly than heretofore. Now I felt so
sick and faint that I feared to sink
down on the path, and hurried through
the orchard-door and the garden to
the house. When I had unlocked
the back door and stood in the hall
where a lately kindled fire made a
ruddy light to glow, I tried again to
think I had been dreaming, like one
in a nightmare strives to shake off an
oppressive fancy. I could not remain
alone, and composed my countenance
for to enter the parlor, when the door
thereof opened and Mrs. FE^strtege
came out, who, when she perceived me
standing before her, gave a start, but
recovering herself, said, good-natar^
edly :

" Marry, if this be not the ghost we
have been looking for ; now ashamed,
I ween, to show itself. I hope, Mis-
tress Sherwood, you do not haunt
quiet folks in their beds at night ; for
I do, I warn you, mislike living ghosts,
and should be disposed to throw a jug
of water at the head of such a one."
And laughing, she took my hand in a
kind manner, which when she did,
almost a cry broke from her : ^ How
now, Milicentl she is as cold as a
stone figure. Where has she been
chilling herself?"

Milicent pressed forward and led
me to my chamber, wherein a fire had
been lighted, and would make me
drink a hot posset. But when I
thought of the cold hollow of a tree
wherein my father was enclosed, if it
pleased God no worse mishap had be-
fallen him, little of it could I force
myself to swallow, for now tears had
come to my relief, and concealing my
face in the pillow of the bed whereon
for weariness I had stretched myself,
I wept very bitterly.

^ Is that poor man gone from Huge-
ley's house T* Milicent whispered.

Alas ! she knew not who that poor
man was to me, nor with what an-
guish I answered : ^ He is not in the

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OangkoKM SkerwootL

cottage, I liope ; but God only knoweth
tf hiB punuera shall not diacoyer him/'
The thoDght of what would then fol*
low oTercame me, and I hid my faoe
with mine hands.

^Qh, Constaaoe,'' she exclaimed,
'^waa Uiis poor man known to thee,
that thy^grief is so great, whose con-
•cieaoe doch not reproach thee as
mine doeth ?"

I held out my hand to her without
unahading my faoe with the other, and
aaid : ^ I>ear Milicent I thou shouldst
not sorrow so mach for thine own part
in tiiis sore triaL It was not thy fault.
He said so. He hlest thee, and prays
for thee."

Unoomforted by my words, she
eried again, what she had so often
exclaimed that night, ^If this
man should die, my happiness is
over."

Then onoe more she asked me if I
know this priest, and I was froward
with her (God forgive me, for the sus-
pense and fear overthrew better feel-
ings for a moment), and I cried, an-
g:^y, <^Who saith he is a priest?
Who can prove it?"

^ Think you so?" she said joyfully;
«then all should be right."

And onoe more, with some mis-
doubting, I ween, that I concealed
somewlm^ fiwrn her, she inquired
touching my knowledge of this stran-
ger. Then I spoke harshly, and bade
her leave me, for I had sorrow enough
without her intermeddling with it;
but dien grieving fbr her, and also
afraid to be left alone, I denied my
words, and prayed her to stay, whidi
she did, but did not speak much again.
The silence of the night seemed so
deep as if the rustling of a leaf could
be Dotioed; only now and then the
voioea of the gentlemen below, and
some loud tal^ig and laughter from
some of them was discernible through
the dosed doors. Onoe Lady TEs-
traoge said: ^They be sitting up very
late ; I suppose till the oonstEtbles re*
torn. Oh, when win that be?"

The great clock in the hall then
struck twelve; and soon after, starting

up, I cried, ^ What should be that
noise?"

^Ido hear nothing," she answered,
trembling as a leaf.

^^ Hush," I replied, and going to the
window, opened the lattice. The
sound in the road on the other side of
the house was now plain. On that
we looked on naught was to be seen
save trees and grass, with the ghastly
moonlight shining on them. A loud
opening and shutting of doors and
much stir now took place within the
house^ and, moved by the same im-t
pulse, we both went out into the pas*
sage and half way down the stairs.
Milicent was first. Suddenly she
turned round, and falling down on her
knees, with a stifled exclamation, she
hid her face against me, whisperings
"He is taken I"

We seemed both turned to stone.
O ye which have gone through a like
trial, judge ye; and you who have
never been in such straits, imagine
what a daughter should feel who, after
long years' absence, beholdeth a be-
loved father for one instant, and in
the next, under the same roof where
she is a guest, sees him brought in a
prisoner and in jeopardy of his life.
Every word which was uttered we
could hear where we sat crouching,
fearful to advance— pshe not daring to
look on the man she had ruined, and I
on the countenance of a dear parent,
leat the si^t of me should distract
him from his defence, if that could be
called such which he was called on to
make. They asked him touching his
name, if it was Tunstall. He an-
swered he was kaown by that name.
Then followed the murtherous ques-
tion, if he was a Bomish priest ? To
which he at once assented. Then
said Sir Hammond :

" How did you presume, sir, to re-
turn into England contrary to the
kwB?"

** Sir," he answered^ « as I was law-
fully ordained a priest by a Catholic
bishop, by authority derived from the
see of Bome" (one person here ex-
ehumed, "Oh, audacious papist! his

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166

Omuiance Sherwood.

tongoe should be cat out;" but Sir
Hammond imposed silence), ^ so like-
wise,'' he continued, ^am I lawfully
sent to preach the word of God, and
to administer the sacraments to mj
Catholic countrymen. As the mission
of priests law^Uy ordained is from
Christ, who did send his apostles even
as his Father sent him, I do humbly
conceiye no human laws can justly
hinder my return to England, or make
it criminal ; for this should be to pre-
fer the ordinances of man to the com-
mands of the supreme legislator, which
u Christ himseU*."

Loud murmurs were here raised by
some present, which Sir Hammond
again silencing, he then inquired if he
would take the oath of allegiance to
the queen ? He answered (my strain-
ing ears taking note of every word he
nttered) that he would gladly pay
most willing obedience to her majesty
in all dvil matters ; but the oath of
allegiance, as it was worded, he could
not take, or hold her majesty to pos-
sess any supremacy in spiritual mat-
ters. He WHS beginning to state the
reasons thereof, but was not suffered to
proceed, for Sir Hammond, interrupt-
ing him, said he was an escaped prison-
er, and by his own confession condemn-
ed, so he should straightway commit
bim to the gaol in Norwich. Then I
kstmy senses almost, and seizmg Lady
TEstrange's arm, I cried, '< Save him!
he is mine own father, Mr. Sherwood !"
She uttered a sort of cry, and said,
*• Oh, I have feared this, since I saw
his face T and running forward, I fol-
lowing her, affrighted at what should
happen, she called out, ^ It shall not
be I He shall not do it!'' and with a
face as white as any smock, runs to
her husband, and perceiving the con-
stables to be putting chains on my
father's hands and feet, which I like-
wise beheld with what feelings you
who read this may think, she falls on
her knees and gasps out these words
in such a mournful tone, that I shud-
dered to hear her, "Oh, sirl if this
man leaves this house a chained pris-
oner, I shall never be the like of my-

self again. There shall be no more
joy for me in life." And then faints
right away, and Sir Hammond car-
ries her in his arms out of the halL
Mine eyes the while met my father's ;
who smiled on me with kind cheer,
but signed for me to keep away. I
stretched my arms toward him, and
with his chained baud he contrived
yet once more for to bless me ; then
was hurried out of my sight. Far
more time than I ever did perceive or
could remember the length of I re-
mained in that now deserted hall, mo-
tionless, alone, near to the dying em-
bers, the darkness still increasing, too
much confused to recall at once the
X comforts which sacred thoughts do
yield in such mishaps, only able to
clasp my hand and utter broken sen-
tences of prayer, such as " God, ha'
mercy on us," and the like; till about
the middle of the night. Sir Ham-
mond comes down the stairs, with a
lamp in his hand, and a strange look
in his face.

"Mistress Sherwood," he says,
" come to my lady. She is very ill, and
hath been in labor for some time. She
doth nothing but caU for you, and rave
about that accursed priest she will
have it she hath muithered. Come
and feign to her he hath escaped."

" O God r I cried, " my words may
fall on her ear, Sir Hammond, but my
face cannot deceive her."

He looked at me amazed and angiy.
"What meaneth this passion of grief?
What is this old man to you, that his
misfortune should thus disorder you?"
And as I could not stay my weeping,
he asked in a scornful manner, " Do
papists so dote on their priests as to
die of sorrow when they get their
deserts P' This insulting speech did
so goad me, that, unable to restrain
myself, I exclaimed, " Sir Hammond,
he whom you have sent to a dungeon,
and perhaps to death also (God par*
don you for it!), is my true father! —
the best parent and the noblest gentle-
man that ever breathed, which for
many years I had not seen ; and here
under your roof, myself your guest, I

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167

Itare beheld him loaded with ehainSi
and dared not to speak for fear to in-
jure him yet further, which I pray
Cvod I have not now done, moved
thereunto by your croel soofis."

^Your fibther!" he said amazed;
^ Mr. Sherwood ! These cursed feign-
ings do work strange mishaps. But
he did own himself a priest.'*

Before I had time to answer, a serv-
ing woman ran into the hall, crying
out, ^ Oh, sir, I pray you come to my
lady. Siie is much worse; and the
muse says, if her mind is not eased she
is like to die before the child is bom.''

^'Oh, Milicent! sweet Milicentl" I
cried, wringing my hands ; and when
I looked at Uiat nnhappy husband's
laoe, anger vanished and pity took its
plaoe. He turned to me with an im-
ploring countenance as if he shodid
wish to say, *^ None but you can save
her." I prayed to Our Lady, who
stood and fisiinted not beneath the
Rood, to get me strength for to do my
part in that sick chamber whither I
signed to lum to lead the way. <^ God
win help me," I whispered in his ear,
^tooooifort her."

^ God bless you V* he answered in a
hoarse voice, and opened the door of
the room in which lus sweet lady was
sitting in her bed, with a wild look in
her palo blue eyes, which seemed to
start oat of her head.

^ Sir," I heard her say, as he ap-
proached, ^what hath be£Etllen the
poor man you would not dismiss P'

I took a light in my hand, so that
she ahoold see my face, and smiled on
her with such good cheer, as God in
his mercy gave me strength to do
even amidst the two-fold anguish of
that moment Then she threw her
arms convulsively round my neck, and
her pale lips gasped the same question
as before* I bent over her, and said,
^Trouble yourself no longer, dear
lady, touching this prisoner. He is
safe (in God's keeping, I added, inter-
naDy). He is where he is carefully
tended (by God's angels, I mentally
sabfoined) ; he hath no occasion to be
afinaid (for God is his strength), and I

warrant you is as peaceful as his near-
est friends sliould wish him to be."

^ Is this the truth?" she murmured
in my ear.

« Yea," I said, « the truth, the very
truth," and kissed her flushed cheek.
Then feelmg like to faint, I went away,
Sir Hammond leading me to my cham*
her, for I could scarce stand.

*'God bless you!" he again said,
when he left me, and I think he was
weeping.

I.feU into a heavy, albeit troubled,
sleep, and when I awoke it was broad
daylight When the waiting-maid came
in, she told me Lady FEs^tnge had
been delivered of a dead chi^ and Sir
Hammond was almost beside himself
with grief. My lady's mind had wan-
dered ever since; but she was more
tranquil than in the night Soon after
he sent to ask if he could see me, and
I went down to him into the parlor*
A more changed man, in a few hours,
I ween, could not be seen, than this
poor gentleman. He spoke not of his
lady ; but briefly told me he had sent
in the night a messenger on horseback
to Norwich, with a letter to the gov-
ernor of the gaol, prating him to show
as much consideration, and allow so
much liberty as should consist with
prudence, to the prisoner in his cus-
tody, sent by him a few hours before,
for that he luid discovered him not to
be one of the common sort, nor a lewd
person, albeit by his own confession
amenable to the laws, and escaped
from another prison. Then he added,
that if I wished to go to Norwich, and
visit this prisoner, he would give me a
letter to the governor, and one to a
lady, who would conveniently harbor
me for a while in that city, and his
coach should take me there, or he
would lend me a horse and a servant
to attend me. I answered, I should
be glad to go, and then said somewhat
of his lady, hoping she should now do
well. He made no reply for a mo-
ment, and then only said,

^ God knoweth 1 she is not like her-
self at the present."

The words she had so mournfully

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168

spoksB the day before came into mj
mind, ^ I shall nerer be like myself
again, aiid diere shall be no more joy
in this house." And, methinks, l£ey
did haimt him also.

I sat for some time by her bedside
that day. She seemed not ill at ease,
bttt there was something changed in
her aspect, and her words when she
spoke had no sense or connection.
And here I wiU set down, before I re-
late the events which followed my
brief sojoam under their roof, what I
have heard toaehing the sequel of Sir
Hammond and his wife's liTes.

In that nenlous and sorely troubled
dnldbirtl^er understanding was alien-
ated, and the art of the best physicians
in England could never restore it
She was not frantic ; but had such a
pretty deiiration, that in her ravings
there was oftentimes more attractive-
ness than in many sane persons' con-
versation. They mostly ran on pious
themes, and she was wont to sing
psalms^ and talk of heaven, and .that
«he hoped to see Grod there; and
in many things she showed hor old
ability, such as fine embroidery and
the making of preserves. One day
her waiting-woman asked her to dress
a person's wounds, which did greatly
need it, and she set herself to do it in
her accustomed manner; but at the
sight of the wounds, she was seized
with convulsions, and became violent*
ly delirious, so that Sir Hammond
sharply reprehended the imprudent
attendant, and forbade the like to be
ever proposed to her again. He gave
himself up to live retired with her,
and ceased to be a magistrate, nor ever,
that I could hear of^ to<^ any part
again in the persecution of Catholics.
The distemper which had estranged
her mind in all things else, had left
her love and obedience entire to her
husband ; and he entertained a more
visible fondness, and evinced a greater
respect for her after she was d'lstem-
pei^ than he had ever done in the
early days of their marriage. Me-
thinks, the gentleness of her heart, and
delicacy of her conscience, which till

that misfivtune had never, I ween^
been burdened by any, even the leasts
self-reproaeh, aiMl the lack of strength
in her mind to endure aa unusual stress,
made the stroke of that accidental
harm done to another through her
means too heavy for her suflferanccy
and, as the poet saith, unsettled rea*
son on her throne. For mine own
part, but let others consider of it as
they list, I think that had ahe been a
Catholic by early training and dis-
tinct belief, as vertly I hope she was
in rightftil intention, albeit uncoasci*
ously to herself (as I make no doubt
many are in these days, wherein per-
sons are growing up with no know-
ledge of religion except what Protest^'
ant parents do inatiU into them), that
she would have had a greater courage
for to bear this singuliur trial ; which
to a feeling natural heart did prove
unbearable, but which to one accus-
tomed to look on suffering as not the
greatest of evils, and to hold such as
are borne for conscience sake as great
and glorious, would not have been
so overwhekning. But herein I write}
methinks, mine own condemnation,
for that in the anguish of filial grief I
failed to point out to her during those
cruel moments of suspense that which
in retrospection I do so clearly see.
And so, may Gkxl accept the blighting
of her young life, and the many suffer?
ings of mine which I have still to re-
cord, as pawns of his intended mercies
to both her and to me in his everlast^
ing kingdom I

When I was about to set out for
Norwich, late in the afternoon of that
same day. Sir Hammond's messenger
returned from thence with a letter
from the governor of the gaol ; where-
in he wrote that the prisoner he had
sent the night before was to proceed
to London in a few hours with some
other priests and recusants which the
government had ordered to be ooo-
veyed thither and c(Nnmitted to divers
prisons He added, that he had coBk-
plied with Sir Hammond's request,
and shown so much fovor to Mr. Tun-
stall as to transfer him, as soon as he

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161

reocived hk letter, fimn Oie eommoft
teigecm^to a piiY«te cell, and to al*
low him to speak with mother Oatho-
lie prisoner who had desired to see
him* Upon this I pmjed Sir Ham-
mond to forward me oq mj joumej to
I^mdoOy as now I deaired nothing so
■meh aa to go there forthwith ; which
he did with no snudl alacrity and good
diapoeitioa. Then, with so much speed
as was possible, and so much suffering
6tmi the lapse of each hour thai it
aeemed to me the jonmej should never
end, I pffooeeded to what was now the
olgeet of mj most impatient pinings^ —
the place where I should bear tidings
of mj &ther, and, if it should be posB»-
ble» minbter assistance to him ui his
great straits* At last I reached Hol-
bom ; and, to the no small amazement
of my oncle^ Mrs. Ward, and Muriel,
irevealed to them who Mr. Tunstall
was, whose arrival at the prison of
Bridewell Mrs. Ward had had notice
of that morning, when she had been
to visit Mr, Watson, which she had
oontnved to do for some tone past in
the manner I will soon relate*

CHAPTER XVI.

Okb of the first persons I saw in
London was Hubert Rookwood, who,
when he heard (for being Baml's
facother I would not ecmcecd it from
him) that mj father was in prison at
BridewelL expressed so much concern
therein and resentment of my grief,
that I was Uiereby moved to more
kindly fee^in^ toward him than I had
of late entertained. He said that in
the houses of the law which he fre-
qaented he had made friends which he
hoped would intercede in his behalf,
aad therein obtain, if not his release,
yet so much aSeviatioii of the hard-
fifaipe of a common prison as should
/eoder his oonditioa more tolerable,
and that he would lose no time in
aeeking to move them thereunto ; but
that our chief hope would lie in Sir
Fcands Walsingham, whoy aflbeit

much opposed to papbts, had always
showed himself wilHng to assist his
friends ci that way of thinking, and
often procured for them some relief,
which indeed none had more ex*
perienced than Mr. Gongleton himself*
Hubert commended the secrecy which |
had been observed toudiing my £ir
ther's real name ; for if he should be
publidy known to be possessed of
lands and related to noble £Eunilies, it
should be harder for any one to get
•him released than an di>8cure person ;
but nevertheless he craved license to
intimate so much of the truth to Sir
Francis as should appear convenient,
for he had always observe that gen-
tlemen are more compassionate to
those of their own rank than to others
of meaner birth. Mr. Congleton
prayed him to use his own discretion
therein, and said he should acquaint
no one himself of it except his very
^od friend the Portuguese ambassa-
dor, who, if all other resources failed,
might yet obtain of the queen herself
some mitigation of lus sentence..
Thereupon followed some days of
weary watching and waiting, in which
my only comfbrt was Mistress Wai€,
who, by means of the gaoler^s wife,
who had obliged her in the like man-
ner he£we, did get access firom time to
time to Mr. Watson, and brought him
necessaries. From him she discover-
ed that the prisoner in the nearest ceU
to his own was the so-called Mr. Tnn-
stidl, and that by knocks against the
wall, ingeniously numbered so as to
express the letters of the alphabet^ aa
one for a, two f<Hr 6, and so to the end
thereof, Uiey did oommunicate. So
she straightway begaa to practice this
management ; but time allowed not of
many speeches to pass between tiiem.
Yet in this way he sent me his bless-
ing, and that he was of very good
cheer ; but that none should try for to
visit him, for he had only one fear,
which was to bring others into trouble;
and, for himself^ he was much behold^
en to her mi^esty, which had provided
him with a quiet lodging and time to
look to his soul's wel&re; which evi-

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170

(hnttance SkerwootL

dence of his cheerful and pioiu spirii
comforted me not a little. Then that
dear friend which had broaght mc this
good comfort spoke of Mr. Watson,
and said she desired to pn>ciire his es*
cape from prison more than that of
, anj other person in the same plight,
not excepting mj father. ** For, good
Constance," quoth she, *^ when a man
is blest with a stout heart and cheerftil
mind, except it be for the sake of
others, I pray jou what kind of ser-
vice do JOU think"^ we render him by
delaying the victory he is about to
gain, and peradventure depriving him
of the long-desired crown of martyr-
dom? But this good Mr. Watson,
who as you well know was a zealous
priest and pious missioner, neverth&*
less, some time after his apprehension
and confinement in Bridewell, by force
of torments and other miseries of that
place, was prevailed upon to deny his
faith so far as to go once to the Prot-
estant service — ^not dragged there by
force as some have been, but compel-
led thereunto by fear of intolerable suf-
ferings, and was then set at liberty.
But the poor man did not thus better
Mis condition ; for the torments of his
mind, looking on himself as an apos-
tate and traitor to the Church, he found
to be more insupportable than any
sufferings his gaolers put upon him.
So, afler some miserable weeks, he
went to one of the pri^.ons where some
other priests were confined for to seek ,
comfort and counsel from them ; and,
having confessed his fftult with great
and sincere sorrow, he received abso-
lution, and straightway repaired to
that church in Bridewell wherein he
had in a manner denied his faith, and
before all the people at that time
therein assembled, declared himself a
Catholic, and willing to go to prison
and to death sooner than to join again
in Protestant worship. Whereupon
he was laid hold of, dragged to prison,
and thrown into a dungeon so low and
so straight that he could neither stand
up in it nor lay himself down at his
full length to sleep. They loaded
him with irons, and kept him one

whole month on bread and water;
nor woukl suffer any one to come near
him to comfort or speak with him.*'

<< Alas I" I cried, <^and is this, then,
the place where my &ther is con-
fined?'

" No,", she answered ; ** after the
space of a month Mr. Watson was
translated to a lodging at the top of
the house, wherein the prisoners are
leastways able to stretch their limbs
and to see the light; but he having
been before prevailed on to yield
against his conscience touching that
point of going to Protestant worship,
no peace is left to him by his persecu-
tors, which neve^cease to urge on him
some sort of conformity to their reli-
gion. And, Constance, when a man
haUi once been weak, what securi^
can there be, albeit I deny not hope,
that he shall always after stand firm ?"

"But by what means," I eagerly
asked, '* do you forecast to procure his
escape?"

" I have permission," she answered,
" to bring him necessaries, which I do
in a basket, on condition that I be
searched at going in and coming out,
for to make sure I convey not any let-
ter unto him or from him; and this
was so strictly observed the first
month that they must needs break
open the loaves or pies I take to him
lest any paper should be conveyed in-
side. But they begin now to weary of
this strict search, and do not care at
ways to hearken when I speak with
him ; so he could tell me the last time
I did vitiit him that he had found a
way by which if he had but a cord
long enough for his pul)K)se, he could
let himself down from the top of the
house, and so make his escape in the
night"

«0h," I cried, "dear Mistress
Ward, but this is a perilous venture,
to aid a prisoner's escape. One
which a daughter might run for her
father, oh, how willingly, but for a
stranger—"

" A stranger I" she answered. <' Is *
he a stranger for whom Christ died,
and whose precious soul is in danger.

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171

eren if not a priest; a]]d\)eiiig 8o, is
he not entitled to more than common
reverence, chiefly in these dajs when
God's seryanta minister to us in the
midst of sach great straits to both soul
and body?'

** I cry God mercy,** I said ; " I did
teim him a stranger who gave ghostly
ocMnfort to my dear mother on her
death-bed; bat oh, dear Mistress
Ward, I Uiought on your peril, who,
he knoweth, hath been as a mother
to me f<H' these many years. AxA
then — ^if you are resolyed to run this
danger, should it not be possible to
save my father also by the same
.means ? Two cords should not be
more difficult to convey, methinks,
than one, and the peril not greater.**

^If I could speak with him,** she
replied, <^ it would not be impossible.
I will tell Muriel to make two instead
of one of these cords, which she doth
twine in some way she learnt from a
Frenchman, so strong as, albeit slight,
to have the strength of a cable. But
without we cto procure two men with
a boat for to fetdi the prisoners when
they descend, *tis little use to make
the attempt. And it be easier, I war-
rant thee, Constance, to run one*s self
into a manifest danger than to entice
others to the like.*'

"< Should it be safe,** I asked, '< to
speak thereon to Hubert Bookwood?
He did exhibit this morning much
seal in my father's behalf, and promis-
ed to move Sir Francis Walsingham
to procure his release.**

^ How is he disposed touching reli-
gi<Ki ?** she asked, in a doubtful man*
ner.

^Alas!" I answered, ^ there is a
secrecy in his nature which in more
ways than one doth prove anvestiga-
ble, leastways to me; but when he
comes this evening I will sound him
thereon. Would his brother were in
Ijondon! Then we should not lack
ooansel and aid in this matter.**

** We do sorely need both,** she an-
swered; ^'for your good uncle, than
wliich a better man never lived, wanes
&el>le in body, and hence easily over-

come by the fears such enterprises in-
volve. Mr. Wells is not in London
at this tune, or he should have been a
very palladium of strength in this ne-
cessity. Hubert Rookwood hath, I
think, a good head.**

^ What we do want is a brave
heart,'* I replied, thinking on BasiL

<* But wits abo,*' she said.

"* Basil hath them too,*' I answered,
forgetting that only in mine own
thinking had he been named.

" Yea,** she cried, « who doth doubt
it? but, alas ! he is not here.'*

Then I prayed her not to be too
rash in the prosecution of her design.
" Touching my fiither,** I said, " I have
yet some hope of his release ; and as
long as any remaineth, flight should
be methinks a too desperate attempt
to be thought of."

"Yea,** she answered, "m most
eases it would be so." But Mr. Wat-
son's disposition she perceived to be
such as would meet a present danger
and death itself, she thought, with
courage, but not of that stamp which
could endure prolonged fears or inflic-
tion of torments.

Since my coming to London I haS
been too much engaged in these
weighty cares to go abroad; but on
that day I resolved, if it were possible,
to see my Lady Surrey. A report
had reached me that the breach be-
tween her and her husband had so
much deepened that a separation had
ensued, which if true, I, which knew
her as well almost as mine own self,
could judge what her grief must be. I
was also moved to this endeavor by
the hope that if my Lord Arundel was
not too sick to be spoken with, she
should perhaps obtain some help
through his means for that dear pris*
oner whose captivity did weigh so
heavily on my heart.

So, with a servant to attend on me,
I went through the city to the Chap-
ter-house, and with a misgiving mind
heard from the porter that Lady Sur-
rey lodged not there, but at Arun*
del House, whither she had removed
soon after her coming to London. Me-

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372

Chmkmce Sktrwood.

thought thai in the telling of it this
naa exhibited a eomDwiiil connte*
nance; but not choosing to question
one of his sort on bo weighty a ma^
ter, I went on to Arundel Honee,
where, after some delay, I succeeded
in gaining admittance to Lady Sur-
rey's chamberi whose manner, when
she first saw me, lacked the warmth
which I was used to in her greetings.
There seemed some fear in her lest I
should speak unadvisedly that wfaidi
fke wonld be loth to hear ; and her
strangeness and reserve' methinks
arose from reluctance to have the
wound in her heart probed,-— too sore
a one, I ween, even for the tender
handling of a friend. I inquired of
her if my Lord Arundel's heahh
had improved. She said he was
better, and like soon to be as well as
eould b^ hoped for now-«-days, when
his infirmities had much increased.

^Then you will return to Kenning*
hall ?" I said, letting my speech out-
run discretion.

"No," she replied; **I purpose
never more to leave my Lord Arundel
or my Lady Lumley as long as they
do live, which I pray God may be
many years."

And then she sat without speaking,
]i>iting her lips and wringing the ker-
chief she held in her hands, as if to
keep her grief from outbunting. I
dared not to comment on her resolve,
for I foresaw that the least wcwd which
should express some partaking of her
sorrow, or any question relating to it,
would let loose a torrent weakly stayed
by a mightful effort, not like to be of
long avail« So I spoke of mine own
troubles, and the events which had oc-
casioned my sudden departure from
Lynn Court. Ske had heard of Lady
TEstrange's mishap, and thai the follow-
ingday I hadjoumeyed to London; bat
naught of the causes thereof, or of the
apprehension of any priest by Sir
Hammond's orders. Which, . when
she learnt the manner of this misfer*
tune, and the poor lady's share therein,
and that it was my father she had
thus unwittingly diseovered, her conn*

tenanee softened, and throwing her
anns round my neck,<she bitteriy wept,
which at that moment methinks did
her more good than anything else.

"Oh, mine own good Constance,"
she said, "I doubt not nature nuseth
many passiotiate workings in your
soul at this time ; but, my dear wench,
when good men are in trouble oar
grief for them should be as noble as
their virtues. Bethink thee what a
worst sorrow it should be to have a
vile father, one that thou must needs
love^-*-for who can tear out of his
heart affection strong as lifeP^^aad he
shoukl then prove unworthy. Be*
lieve me, Constance, God gives to*
each, even in this world, a portion of
their deserts. Such griefs as thy pres*
ent one I take to be rare instances of
his fii,vor« Other sorts of trials are
meet for cowardly souls which refuse
to set their lips to a chalice of suffer-
ing, and presently find themselves sub-
merged in a sea of woes. But can I
help thee, sweet one ? Is there aught
I can do to listen tliy affliction?
Hast thou license for to see thr
fi^erP'

" No, dear lady," I answered ; ^'and
his name being concealed, I may not
petitiba as his daughter for this per-
mission; but if my Lord Arundel
should be so good a lord to me as to
obtain leave for me to visit this pris-
oner, without revealing his name and
condition, he should do me the great*
est benefit in the world.'' '

"I will move hun thereoato," my
lady said. *^ But he who had formerly
no equal ia the queen's favor, and to
whom she doth partly owe her crown,
is now in his sickness and old age of
so little account in her eyes, that tri-
fling fiivors are often denied him to
whom she would once have said:
* Ask of me what thou wilt, and I will
give it unto thee.' But what my poor
endeavors can effeot through him or
others shall not be lacking in this thy
need. But I am not in that condition
I was once like to have enjoyed."
Then with her eyes cast on the ground
riie seemed for to doubt jf she should

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173

speak plainlj, or stiU slmt up her
grief in silence. As I sat pamfbll^r
expecting her next words, the door
opaiedy and two ladies were announe-
ed, which she whispered in mine ear
she would fun not have admitted at
tiiat time, but that Lord Arundel's de-
sire did oblige her to entertain them.
One was Mistress Bejlamj, and the
other her daughter, Mistress Frances,
a young gentlewoman of great beautj
aiul very lively parts, which I had
once before seen at Lady Ingoldsby's
house. She was her parents' sole
daughter, and so idolised by them that
they seemed to live only to minister to
her fancies. Lord Arundel was much
bounden to this family by ancient ties of
friendship, which made hhn urgent
with his granddaughter that she should
admit them to her privacy. I admir-
ed in thb instance how suddenly those
which have been used to exercise such
self-conmiand as high breeding doth
teach can sdiool their exterior to seem
at ease, and even of good cheer, when
most ill at ease interiorly, and with
hearts very heavy. Lady Surrey
greeted these visitors with as much
courtesy, and listened to their dis-
course with as much civility and
smiles when called for, as if no bur^
thensome thoughts did then oppress
her.

Many and various themes were
tOQched upon in the random talk
which ensued. Fiist, that wonted one
of the queen's marriage, which some
Opined should verily now take place
with Monsieur d'Alen^on ; for that
since his stealthy visits to England,
she did wear in her bosotn a brooch
of jewels in a frog's shape.

"Ay," quoth Mistress Frances,
^ that stolen visit which awoke the ire
of the poor soul Stubbs, who styled
it ' an unmanlike, unprincelike, French
kind of wooing,' and endeth his book
of • The Gaping Gulph ' in a-loyal rage :
'Here is, therefore, an imp of the
erown of France, to marry the crown-
ed nymph of England,*->-a nymph in-
deed well stricken in years. My
brother was standing, by when Stubbs'

hand was cut off; fbr nothing else
would content that sweet royal nymph,
albek the lawyers stoutly contended
the statute uwter which he suffered to
be null and void. As soon as his
right hand is off, the man takes his
hat off with tiie left, and cries ' God
bless the queen !' "

<* Here is a wonder,*' I exclaimed ;
^ I pray you, what is the art this queen
doth possess by which she holdeth the
hearts of her subjects in so great
thrall, albeit so cruel totiiem which do
offend her ?"

^' Lady Harrington halh told me her
majesty's own opinion thereon," said
Mrs. Bellamy ; ''for one day she did
ask her in a merry sort, ' How she kept
her husbaod's good-will and love ?* To
which she made reply that she per-
suaded her husband of her affection,
and in so doing did command his.
Upon which the queen cries out, 'Go
to, go to. Mistress Moll! you are
wisely bent, I find. After such sort
do I keep the good wills of all my
husbands, my good people ; for if they
did not rest assured of some special
love toward them, they would not
readily yield me such good obedi-
ence.'"

" Tut, tut!" cried Mistress Frances ;
^ all be not such fools as John Stubbs ;
and she knoweth how to take rebukes
from such as she doth not dare to
offend. By the same token that Sir
Philip Sydney hath written to dissuade
her from this French match, and like-
wise Sir Francis Walsingham, whidi
last did hint at her advancing years ;
and her highness never so much as
thought of striking off their hands.
But I warrant you a rebellion shall
arise if this queen doth issue such
prohibitions as she hath lately done."

''Of what sort?" asked Lady Sur-
rey.

"First, to forbid," Mrs. Bellamy
said, "any new building to be raised
within th^ee thousa&d paces of the
gates of London on pain oi* imprison-
ment, and sundry other penalties ; or
for more than one family to inhabit in
one house. For her ms^esty holds it

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174

OomUmee SkerwoodL

should be an impoMible thing to gor-
em or maintain order in a city laiger
than this London at the present time.''

Mistress Frances declared this law
to be more tolerable than the one
against the size of ladies' mffs, which
were forsooth not to exceed a certain
measure ; and officers appointed for to
stand at the comers of streets and to
clip such as overpassed the pennitted
dimensions, which sooner than submit
to she should die.

Lady Surrey smiled, and said she
should have judged so from the size
of her fine ruff*

^But her majes^ is impartiaV'
quoth Mrs. Bellamy ; ^ for the gentle-
men's rapiers are served in the same
manner. And verily this law hath
nearly procured a war with France;
for in Smithfield Lane some clownish
constables stayed M. de Castelnan,
and laid hands on his sword for to
shorten it to the required length. I
leave jou to judge. Lady Surrey, of
this ambassador's fury. Su: Henry
Seymour, who was tidying the air in
Smithfield at the time, perceived him
standing with the drawn weapon in his
hand, Sireatening to kill whosoever
should approach him, and destruction
on this reahn of England if the offi-
cers should dare to touch his sword
again; and this with such frenzy of
speech in French mixed with English
none could understand, that God
knowelh what should have ensued if
Sir Henry had not interfered. Her
majesty was forced to make an apolo-
gy to this mounseer for that her offi-
cers had ignorantly attempted to dip
the sword of her good brotlier^s en-
voy."

*^ Why doth she not dip," Mistress
Frances said, ^if such be her present
humor, the orange manes of her gray
Dutch horses, which are the fright-
fullest things in the world ?"
. «Tis said," quoth Mrs. Bellamy,
^that a new French embassy is soon
expected, with the dauphin of Au-
vergne at its head "

**Yca," cried her daughter, "and
four handsome English noblemen to

meet them at the Tower stairs, and
conduct them to the new banqueting^
house at Westminster, — ^my Lord SuN
rey. Lord Windsor, Sir Philip Syd-
ney, and Sir Fulke Greville. Me-
thinks this should be a veiy fine sight,
if rain doth not fall to spoil it."

I saw my Lady Surrey's counte-
nance change when her husband was
mentioned ; and Mrs. Bellamy looked
at her daughter forasmuch as to check
her thoughtless speeches, which caus-
ed this young lady to glance round
the room, seeking, as it seemed, for
some other topic of conversation.

Methinks I should not have pre-
served so lively a recollection of the
circumstances of this visit if some dis-
mal tidings which reached me after-
ward touching this gentlewoman, then
BO thoughtless and innocent, had not
revived in me the memoiy of her gay
prattle, bright onabashed eyes, and
audadous dealing with subjects so
weighty and dangerous, that any one
less bold should have feared to handle
them. After the pause which ensued
on the mention of Lord Surrey's name,
she took for her text what had been
said touching the prohibitions lately
issued concerning ruffs and rapiers,
and began to mock at her majesty's
favorites ; yea, and to mimic her ma^
jesty herself with so much humor
that her well-acted satire must have
needs constrained any one to laugh.
Then, not contented with these dui-
gerous jests, she talked such direct
treason against her highness as to say
she hoped to see her dethroned, and a
fair Catholic sovereign to reign in her
stead, who would be less shrewish to
young and handsome ladies. Then her
mother cried her, for mercy's sake, to
restrain her mad speech, which Would
serve one day to bring them all into
trouble, for all she meant it in jest.

^ Marry, good mother," she answer-
ed, " not in jest at all ; for I do verily
hold myself bound to no allegiance to
this queen, and would gladly see her
get her deserts."

Then Lady Surrey prayed her not
to speak so rashly ; but methought in

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Gmstanee Sherwood.

176

her heart, and somewhat I could peiv
oei^e of this in her eyes, she misliked
HOC wholly this young lady's words,
who then spoke of religion ; and 5)h,
how zealous therein she did appear,
how boldly affirmed (craying Lady
Surrey's pardon, albeit she would war-
rant, she said, there was no need to do
so, her ladyship she had heard being
half a papist herselO that she had as
lief be racked twenty times over and
die also, or her face to be so disfigur-
ed that none should call her ever after
anything but a fright — which martyr-
dom she held would exceed any yet
thought of — than so much as hold her
tongue concerning her faith, or stay
from telling her majesty t(^ her face, if
she should have the* chance to get
speech with her, that she was a foul
heretic, and some other truths beside,
which but once to u^er in her presence,
come of it what would, should be a
delicious pleasure. Then she railed
aft the Catholics which blessed the
queen before they suffered for their re-
ligion, proving them wrong with in-
genious reasons and fallacious argu-
moita, mixed with pleasantries not
whoHy becoming such grave themes.
But it should have seemed as reason-
able to be angry with a child babbling
at random of life and death in the
nddst of its play, as with this creature,
the lightest of heart, the fairest in
face, the most winsome in manner,
and most careless of danger, that ever
did set sail on life's stream.

Oh, how all this rose before me
again, when I heard, two years after-
ward, that for her bold recusancy^-
alas I more bold, as the sequel proved,
than deep, more passionaie than fer-
vent—this only cherished daughter,
this innocent maiden, the mirror of
whose &me no breath had sullied, and
on whose name no shadow had rested,
was torn by the pursuivants from her
parents' home, and cast into a prison
with companions at the very aspect of
which virtue did shudler. And the
onvaliant courage, the weak bravery,
of this indulged and wayward young
lady had no strength wherewith to re-

sist the surging tides of adversity.
No voice of parent, friend, or ghostly
father reached her in that abode of
despair. No visible angel visited her,
but a fiend in human form haunted her
dungeon. Liberty and pleasure he
offered in exchange for virtue, honor,
and ffuth. She fell; sudden and
great was that fall.

There is a man the name of which
hath blenched the cheeks and riven
the hearts of Catholics, one who hath
caused many amongst them to lose
their lands and to part from their
homes, to die on gibbets and their
limbs to be torn asunder-^one I^ichard
Topcliffe. I But, methuiks, of all the
voices which shall be raised for to ac-
cuse him at Christ's judgment-seat, the
loudest will be Frances Bellamy's.
Her ruin was his work ; one of those
works which, when a man is dead^
do follow hims whither, Gad know-
eth!

Oh, you who saw her, as I did, in
her young and innocent years, can
you read this without shudiering?
Can you think on it without wesplng ?
As her fall was sudden, so was the
change it wrought With it vanished
affections, hopes^ womanly feelingS|
memory of the past; nay, methinks
therein I err. Memory did yet abide,
but linked with hatred ; Satan's mem-
ory of heaven. From depths to
depths she hath sunk, and is now wed-
ded to a mean wretch, the gaoler of
her old prison. So rank a hatred
hath grown in her against recusants
and mostly priests, that it ragaa like a
madoess in her soul, which thirsts for
their blood. Some maaths back,
about the time I did begin to write
this history, news reachei me that she
had sold the life of that meek saint,
that sweet poet, Father Soithwell, of
which even an enemy, L3rd Mount-
joy, did say, when he had seea him
suffer, " I pray God, where that man's
soul now is, mine may one day be."
Her father had CDUcaalel him in that
house where she had dwelt in her in-
nocent days. None bat the family
knew the secret of its hiding-place.

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176

Cbriiianee Skeneood.

She (Hd reveal it, and took g(Ad for
her wages ! What shall be that wo^
man's death-bed? What trace doth
remain on her sonl of what was once
a share in the dirine nature ? May
one of Grod's ministers be nigh unto
her in that hour for to bid her not de-
spair I If Judas had repented, Jesus
Vould have pardoned him. Perad-
venture, misery without hope of relief
overthrew her brain. I do pray for
her always. Tis a vain thought per-
haps, but I sometimes wish I might,
though I see not how to compass it,
yet once speak with her before she or
I die. Methinks I could say such
words as should touch some old chord
in her dead heart. Grod knoweth I
That day I write of, little did I ween
whait her end would be. But yet it
feared me to hear one so young and of
80 frail an aspect speak so boastfully ;
and it seemed even then to my inex-
perienced mind, that my Lady Surrey,
who had so humbly erewhile accnsed
herself of cowardice and lamented her
weakness, should be in a safer plight,
albeit as yet unreconciled.

The visit I have described had
histed some time, when a servant came
with a message to her ladyship from
Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who craved
to be admitted on an urgent matter.
She glanced at me somewhat surprised,
upon which I made her a sign that she
should condescend to his request ; for
I supposed he had seen Sir Francis
Walsingham, and was in haste to con-
fer with me touching that interview ;
and she ordered him to be admitted.
Mrs. Bellamy and her daughter rose
to go soon after his entrance; and
whilst Lady Surrey conducted them to
the door he asked me if her ladyship
was privy to the matter in hand.
When I had satisfied him thereof, he
related what had passed in an inter-
view he had with Sir Francis, whom
he found ill-disposed at first to stir in
the matter, for he said his frequent re-
monstrances in favor of recusants had
been like to bring him into odium
with some of the more zealous Protest*
antSj and that he must needs, in every

ease of that sort, prove it' to be Ihs
sole object to bring such persons mote
surely, albeit slowly, by means of tol-
eration, to a rightfiil conformity ; and
that with regard to priests he was
very loth to interfere.

^I was compelled,* quoth Habert,
^ to use such arguments as fell in with
the scope of his discourse, and to flatter
him with the hope of good results in
that which ho most desired, if he would
procure Mr. Sherwood's release, which
I doubt not he hath power to effect
And in the end he consented to lend
his aid therein, on condition he should
prove on his side so far conformable
as to suffer a minister to visit and con-
fer with htfh touching religion, which
would then be a pretext for his release,
as if it were supposed he was well dis-
posed toward Protestant religion, and
a man more like to embrace the
truth when^ at liberty than if driven
to it by stress of confinement Then
he would procure," he added, «* an or-
der for his passage to France, if he
promised not to return, exc^ he
should be willing to obey the laws.**

" I fear me much,** I answered, " my
father will not accept these terms
which Sir Francis doth offer. Me-
thinks he will consider they do involve
Bome lack of the open profession of his
faith."

^It would be madness for one in
his plight to refbse them," Hubert
exclaimed, and appealed thereon to
Lady Surrey, who said she did in-
deed think as he did, for it was not
like any better could be obtained.

It pained me he should refer to her,
who from conformity to tlie times
could not well conoeive how tender a
Catholic conscience should feel at the
least approach to dissembling on this
point

"Wherem," he continued, "is the
harm for to confer with a minister, or
how can it be construed into a denial
of a man's faith to listen to his argo-
ments, unless, indeed, he feels himself
to be in danger of being shaken by
them?"

'^ You very well know/' I ezdiaimed

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OontUmee Sherwood.

177

with some wannth, ^' that not to be mj
meaning, or wliat I suppose his should
be. Oar priests do constantly crave
for pablic disputations touching reli*
gion, albeit they eschew secret ones,
which their adversaries make a pre-
text of to spread reports of their ina-
bility to defend their &ith, or willing-
ness to abandon it But heayen for-
bid I should anyways prejudge this
question ; and if with a safe conscience
— and with no other I am assured will
he do it — my ^ther doth subscribe to
this conditioD, then God be praised for
itr

^ But you will moTO him to it, Mis-
tress Constance 7* he said.

*< K I am so happy,^ I answered,
** as to get speech with him, yerily I
will entreat him not to throw away
bis life, so precious to others, if so be
he can save it without detriment to his
conscience."

** Conscience r Hubert exclaimed,
"methinks that word is often misap-
pli^ in these days.**

* How so ?" I asked, investigating
his countenance, for I misdoubted his
meaning. Lady Surrey likewise
seemed desirous to hear what he
should say on that matter.

" Conscience," he answered, ** should
make persons, and mostly women,
careful how they injuro others, and
cause heedless suffering, by a too great
stiffness in refusing conformity to the
outward practices which the laws of
the country enforce, when it affects
not the weightier points of faith, which
Ood forbid any Gatholic should deny.
There is often as much of pride as of
virtue in such rash obstinacy touching
small yieldings as doth involve the
ruin of a fiunily, separation of parents
and ohildren, and more evils than cA
be thought of."

«* Hubert," I said, fixing mine eyes
on him with a searching look he cared
not, I ween, to meet, for he cast his on
a paper he had in his hand, and raised
them not while I spoke, '< it is by such
reasonings first, and then by such
small yieldings as you commend, that
have been led two or three
voun. 12

times in their lives, yea, ofiener per-
haps, to profess different religions,
and to take such contradictory oaths
as have been by turns prescribed to
them under different sovereigns, and
Grod each time called on to witness
their peijuries, whereby truth and
fttlsehood in matters of fidth shall come
in time to be words without any mean-
ing."

Then he: ^You do misapprehend
me, Mistress Constance, if you think
I would counsel a man to utter a false-
hood, or fdign to believe that which in
his heart he thinketh to be false. But,
in heaven's name, I pray you, what
harm will your father do ff he listens
to a minister's discourse, and suffers it
to be set forth he doth ponder thereon,
and in the meantime escapes to
France? whereas, if he refuses the
loophole now offered to him, he causeth
not to himself alone, but to you and
his other friends, more pain and sor-
sow than can be thought of, and de-
prives the Chureh of one of her ser-
vants, when her need of them is
greatest"

I made no reply to this last speech ;
for albeit I thought my father would
not accede to these terms, I did not so
far trust mine own judgment thereon
as to predict with certainty what his
answer should be*. And then Hubert
said he had an order from Sir Francis
that would admit me on the morrow
to see my father ; and he offered to go
with me, and Mistress Ward too, if I
listed, to present it, albeit I alone
should enter his celL I thanked hixo^
and fixed the time of gur going.

When he had left «8, ^LsAy Surrey
commended his zeal, and also his mod-
erate spbit, whidi did charitably
allow, she said, for such as conformed
to the times for the sake of others
which their reconcilement would very
much injure.

Before I could reply she changed'
this discourse, and, putting her hands
on my shoulders and kissing my fore-
head, said,

^ My Lady Lumley hath heard so
much from her poor niece of one Mis-

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178

Gfleaninffs from the Natural JBUtory of the Tropict.

troas Constance Sherwood, that ahe
doth greatly wish to see this joung
gentlewoman and retj resolved pa-
pist." And then taking me bj the
arm she led me to that lad/s cham-
ber, where I had as kind a welcome

as ever I reeeiTed from any one from
her ladyship, who said ^her dear
Nan's friends should be always aa
dear to her as her own,** and added
many fine commendations greatly ex*
ceeding my deserts.

[TO BS OOMTOimD.]

Trom The London <^rterl7 Beriew.

GLEANINGS FROM THE NATURAL HISTORY OF THE

TROPICS.

Abt.VL — 1. A NarraHveof Travels on
the Amazon and Bio NegrOy etc. By
Alfred R. Wallace. London : 1853.

2. Himalayan Journals ; or^ Notes of
a Naturalist in Bengal^ the Sikkim,
and Nepal Himalayas. By Joseph
D. Hooker, M.D., R.N., F.R.S.
London: 1854.

3. Three Visits to Madagascar during
the Tears 1853, 1854, 1856, with
Notices of the Natural History of
the Country, etc. By the Rev. W.
Ellis, F.H.S. London : 1859.

4. 2%a Tropical World: A Popular
Scientific Account of the Natural
History of the Animal and Vegetable
Kingdoms. By Dr. G. Hartwig.
London : 1863.

5. The Naturalist on the River Ama-
zons: A Record of Adventures, Halh
its of Animals, etc., during eleven
Tears of Travel By Henry Wal-
ter Bates. London : 1863.

Thb naturalist will never have to
complain, with Alexander, that he has
no more. worlds to conquer, so inex-
haustible is the wide field of nature,
and so numerous are the vast areas
which as yet have never at all, or
only partially, been explored by trav-
ellers. What may not be in store for
some future adventurer in little known
regions; what new and wonderful
forms <^ animala and plants may not

reward the zealous traveller, when ao
less than eight thousand species of an-
imals new to science have been dis-
covered by Mr. Bates during bis
eleven years' residence on the Ama-
zons ? Nor is it alone new forms of ani-
mated nature that await the enterprise
of the naturalist; a whole mine oi val-
uable material, the working of which
is attended with the greatest pleasure^
lies before him in the discovery of new
facts with regard to the habitl^ stme-
ture, and local distribution of animals
and plants. It is almost impossible to
exaggerate the importance to the philo-
sophic naturalist of such studies in
tliese days of thought and progress.
The collector of natural curiosities
may be content with the possession
of a miscellaneous lot <^ objects, but
the man of science pursues his inves-
tigations with a view of discovering,
if possible, some of those wonderful
laws which govern the organic world,
some of the footprints of the Creator
in the production of the couotless
forms of animal and vegetable life
with which this beautiful world
abounds.

We purpose in this article to bring
before tJie reader's notice a few glean-
ings from the natural history of the
tropics, merely surmising that we shall
linger with more than ordinary pleas-
are over the productions of tropical

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Gleanings from the Ifaturai History of the Tropics.

179

Soatli America, of which Mr. Bates
has charniinglj and most instnictiyelj
written in his recentlj published woij^
whose title is given at the head of this
article; we shall pause to admire, with
Dr. Hooker, some of the productions
of the mighty Himalayan mountains ;
and we may also visit Madagascar in
company with so trustworthy a trav-
eller as Mr. Ellis.

The ancients, before the time of
Alexander's Indian expedition, were
unacquainted with any tropical forma
of plants, and great was their astonish-
ment when the^ fiiist beheld them :

*^ Gigantic forms of plants and ani-
mals," ^ Humboldt says, ^ filled the
imagination with e^Lciting imagery.
Writers from whose severe and scien-
tific -style any degree of inspiration is
elsewhere entirely absent, become poet-
ical when describing the habits of the
elephant, — ^the height of the trees, <to
tiie summit of which an arrow cannot
reach, and whose leaves are broader
tfian the shields of infantry,' — the
bamboo, a light, feathery, arborescent
grass, of which single joints {intemo-
did) served as four-oared boats, — and
the Indian fig-tree, whose pendant
branches take root around the parent
stem, which attains a diameter of
twenty-eight feet, * forming,' as Onesi-
critns expresses himself with great
truth to nature, ^ a leafy canopy simi-
lar to a many-pillared tent.'" *

It is not possible for language to de-
scribe the glory of the forests of the
Amazon, and yet the silence and gloom
of the Brazilian forests, so often men-
tioned by travellers, are striking real-
ities. Let us read Mr. Bates's impres-
dons of the interior of a primeval for-
est:

" The silence and gloom," he says,
"are realities, and the impression deep-
ens on a longer acquaintance. The
few sounds of birds are of that pensive
and mysterious character which in-
tensifies the feeling of solitude rather
than imparts a sense of life and cheer-
fitiiie&s. Sometimes in the midst of

Ootmo«,«*To].U.,p.ttBw 8abind*fTinmsIii«

the stIUness a sudden yell or scream
will startle one ; this comes from some
defenceless fruit-eating animal which
is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or
stealthy boarconstrictor. Morning and
evening the howling monkeys make a
most fearful and harrowing noise,
under which it is difficult to keep up
one's buoyancy of spirit. The feeling
of inhospitable wildness which the
forest is calculated to inspire is in-
creased tenfold under this fearful up-
roar. Often even in the still hours
of mid-day a sudden crash will be
heard resounding afar through the
wilderness, as some great bough or
entire tree fails to the ground. There
are beside many sounds which it is
impossible to account for. I fi>und
the natives generally as much at a
loA in this respect as myself. Some-
times a sound is heard like Ihe clang
of an iron bar against a hard hollow
tree, or a piercing cry rends the air;
these are not repeated, and the suc-
ceeding silence tends to heighten the
unpleasant impression which they
make on the mind. With the natives
it is always the curnpira, the wild
man, or spirit of the forest, which pro-
duces all noises they are unable to
explain."

Mr. Bates has some exceedingly
interesting observations on the tend-
ency of animals and plants of the
Brazilian forests to become climbers.
Speaking of a swampy forest of Par&
he says :

'^The leafy crowns of the trees,
scarcely two of which could be seen
together of the same kind, were now
fiir away above us, in another world
as it were. We could only see at
times, where there was a break
above, the tracery of the foliage
against the clear blue sky. Some-
times the leaves were palmate, at
others finely cut or feathery like the
leaves of mimosas. Below, the tree
trunks were everywhere linked to-
gether by sipos; the woody, flexible
stems of climbing and creeping trees,
whose foUage is far away abovoi
mingled with that of the latter inde-

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180

Cfkaningi fnm the Natural HUtory of the Tropice.

lent trees. Some were twisted
in strands like cables, others had thick
stems contorted in eveir varietj of
shape, entwining snake-like round the
tree-trunkS| or forming gigantic loops
and coils among the lai^r branches ;
others again were of zigzag shape or
indented like the steps of a staircase,
sweeping firom the ground to a giddy
height."

Of these climbing plants he adds :

^It interested me much afterward
to find these climbing trees do not
form any particular ^nilj or genus.
There is no order of plants whose
especial habit is to climb, but species
of many of the most diverse fimiilies,
the bu& of whose members are not
climbers, se^n to have been driven
by circumstances to adopt this habit.
The orders Leguminosse, Guttifene,
Bignoniacese, Moraceie, and others,
fiiniish the greater number. There
is even a climbing genus of palms
(I)esm<mcus)f the species of which
are called in the Tupf language Jaci-
t^a. These have slender, thiddy-
spined, and flexuous stems, which
twine about the latter trees from one
to the other, and grow to an incredible
length. The leaves, which have the
ordinary pinnate shape characteristic
of the family, are emitted from the
stems at long intervals, instead of be-
ing collected into a dense crown, and
have at their tips a number of long
recurved spines. These structures
are excellent contrivances to enable
the trees to secure themselves by in
climbing, but they are a great nuis-
ance to the traveller, for they some-
times hang over the pathway and
catch the hat or clothes, dragging ojQT
the one or tearing the other as he
passes. The number and variety of
climbing trees in the Anmzon forests
are interesting, taken in connection
with the fact of the very general tend-
ency of the animals also to become
climbers.*'

Of this tendency amongst animals
Mr. Bates thus writes :

'^All the Amazonian, and in fact all
South American monkeys, are climb-

ers. There is no group answering to
the baboons of the old world, wMch
Ijje on the ground. The gallina-
ceous birds of die country, the represen-
tatives of the fowls and pheasants of
Asia and AMca, are all adapted by
the position of the toes to perch on
trees, and it is only on trees, at a great
height, that they are to be seen. A
genus of Plantigrade Camivora, allied
to the bears (Gercoleptes), found only
in the Ajnazonian forests, is entirely
arboreal, and has a long flexible tail
like that of certain monkeys. Many
other similar instances could be enu-
merated, but I will mention only the
Geodephaga, or carnivorous ground
beetles, a great proportion of whose
genera and species in these forest re-
gions are, by the structure of their
feet, fitted to live exclusively on the
branches and leaves of trees."

Strange to the European must be
the appearance of the numerous
woody lianas, or air-roots of the para-
sitic plants of the family AraceOj of
which the well-known cuckoo-pint, or
Arum maculatumj of this country is a
non-epiphytous member, which sit on
the branches of the trees above, and
"hang down straight as plumb-lines,"
some singly, others in leashes ; some
reaching half-way to the ground,
others touching it, and taking root in
the ground. Here, too, in these for-
ests of Fard, beside palms of various
species, "some twenty to thirty feet
high, others small and delicate, with
stems no thicker than a finger," of the
genus Bactrisy producing bunches of
fruit with grape-like juice, masses of
a species of banana ( Urania Anuzon"
%ccC)y a beautiful plant with leaves
" like broad sword-blades," eight feet
long, and one foot broad, add fresh in-
terest to the scene. These leaves rise
straight upward alternately from the
top of a stem ^yb or six feet high.
Various kinds of Marants, a family of
plants kch in amylaceous qualities (of
which the MararUa arundinaceay
though not an American plant, yields
the best arrowroot of commerce},
dothe the ground, conspicuous for their

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181

broad gloesj leaves* Ferns of beau-
tiful and varied forms decorate the
tree^ranksi together with the large
ileshj heart-shaped leaves of the Fo-
thos plant Gigantic grasses, such as
bamboos, form arches over the path-
ways. " The appearance of this part
of the forest was strange in the ex-
treme, description can convey no ade-
quate idea of it The reader who
has visited Kew, may form some no-
tion bj conceiving a vegetation like
that in the great palm-house spread
over a large tract of swampy ground,
but he must fancy it mingled with
large exogenous trees, similar to our
oaks and elms, covered with creepers
and parasites, and figure to himself
the ground encumbered with fallen
and rotdng trunks, branches, and
leaves, the whole illuminated by a
glowing vertical sun, and reeking with
moisture r Amid these "swampy
shades'* numerous butterflies delight
to flit An entomologist in England
id proud, indeed, when he succeeds in
captaring the beautiful and scarce
Camberwell beauty ( Vanessa cmtiopa)
or the splendid purple emperor {Apa-
tura iris)j but these fine species do
not exceed three inches in expanse of
wing, while the glossy blue-and-black
Morpho AehUles measure six inches
or more. The velvety black PapUio
SesosiriSf with a large silky green
patdi on its wings, and other species
of this genus, are ahnost exclusively
inhabitants of the moist shades of the
forest The beautiful JEptcalea ancea,
" one of the most richly colored of the
whole tribe of butterflies, being black,
decorated with broad stripes of pale
blue and orange, delights to settle on
the broad leaves of the Uraniae and
other similar plants.** But like many
other natural beauties, it is difficult to
gain possession of, darting off with
lightning speed when approached.
Mr. Bates tells us that it is the males
only of the different species which are
brilliantly colored, the females being
plainer and often so utterly unlike
their partners that they are generally
held to be different species until prov-

ed to be the same. The observations
of this admirable naturalist on other
points in the history of the butterflies
of the Amazons, are highly important
and deeply interesting. We must re-
cur to this subject by-and-by.

We cannot yet tear ourselves away
from these forests of Pard. We can
well understand the intense interest
with which Mr. Bates visited these
deliffhtfiil scenes month after month,
in different seasons, so as to obtain
something like a fair notion of their
animal and vegetable productions. It
is enough to make a naturalises mouth
water for a week together to think of
the many successful strolls which Mr.
Bates took amid the shades of these
forests. For several months, he tells
us, he used to visit this district two or
three days every week, and never
failed to obtain some species new to
him of bird, reptile, or insect:

**This district," he says, "seemed
to be an epitome of all that the humid
portions of the ParA forest could pro-
duce. This endless diversity, the
coolness of the air, the varied and
strange forms of vegetation, the en-
tire freedom from mosquitoes and
other pests, and even the solemn
gloom and silence, combined to make
my rambles through it always pleas-
ant as well as profitable. Such places
are paradises to a naturalist, and if he
be of a contemplative turn there is no
situation more favorable for his in-
dulging the tendency. There is some-
thing in a tropical forest akin to the
ocean in its effects on the mind — man
feels so completely hi9 insignificance
there and the vastness of nature. A
naturalist cannot help reflecting on
the vegetable forces manifested on
so grand a scale around him.**

Mr. Wallace and Mr. Bates are
well-known advocates of Mr. Darwin's
theory of natural selection. The for-
mer gentleman was Mr. Bates's com-
panion in travel for four years, and
he has published a veiy interesting
account of his voyage on his return
to England. Whatever differences dt
opinion there may be with respect to

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183

GUaninffS from the MUural History of the TVopia^

the celebrated work which Mr. Dar-
win gave to the world four or five
years ago, unbiassed and thoughtful
naturalists must recognize the force
with which the author supports many
of his arguments, and the fairness
with which he encounters every dif-
ficulty. The competition displayed by
oi^anlsed beings is strikingly mani-
'fested in the Brazilian forests. So
unmistakable is this fact, that Bur-
meister, a Grerman traveller, was
painfiilly impressed with the contem-
plation of the emulation and ^ spirit
of restless selfishness" which the veg-
etation of a tropical forest displayed.
** He thought the soilness, earnestness,
and repose of European woodland
scenery were far more pleasing, and
that these formed one of the causes of
the superior moral character of Euro-
pean nations ;** a curious question,
which we leave to the consideration of
moral philosophers. The emulation
displayed by the plants and trees of
the forests of Fard is thus spoken of
by Mr. Bates:

^ In these tropical forests each plant
and tree seems to be striving to outvie
its fellow, struggling upward toward
Ught and air — ^branch, and leaf, and
Btem — regardless of its neighbors.
Parasitic plants are seen fastening
with firm grip on others, making use
of them with reckless indifference as
instruments for their own advance-
ment. Live aod let live is clearly
not the maxim taught in these wilder-
nesses. There is one kind of parasitic
tree very common near Par^ which
exhibits this feature in a very promi-
nent manner. It is called the Sipd
Matador, or the Murderer Liana. It
belongs to the fig order, and has been
described by Von Martins in the
^Ajtlas to SpixandMartius's Travels.'
X observed many specimens. The
base of its stem would be unable to
bear the weight of the upper growth ;
it is obliged, therefore, to support itself
on a tree of another species. In this
it is not essentially different from
other climbing trees and plants, but the
way the matador sets about it is pecu-

liar, and produces certainly a disagree-
able impression. It springs up close
to the tree on which it intends to fix
itself, and the wood of its stem grows
by spreading itself like a plastic
mould over one side of the trunk of its
supporter. It then puts forth from
each side an arm-like branch, which
grows rapidly, and lf>oks as though a
stream of sap were fiowing and hard-
ening as it went This adheres closely
to the trunk of the victim, and the
two arms meet on the opposite side
and blend together. These arms are
put forth at somewhat regular inter-
vals in mounting upward, and the
victim when its strangler is full grown
becomes tightly clasped by a number
of infiexible rings. These rings grad-
ually grow larger as the murderer
fiourishes, rearing its crown of foliage
to the sky mingled with that of its
neighbor, and in course of time they
kill it by stopping the fiow of its sap.
The strange spectacle then remains of
the selfish parasite clasping in its
arms the lifeless and decaying body of
its victim, which had been a help to
its own growth. Its ends have been
served — ^it has flowered and fruited,
reproduced and disseminated its kind ;
and now when the dead trunk moul-
ders away, its own end approaches ;
its support is gone, and itself also
falls.''

The strangling properties of some
of the fig-ti'ee family are indeed very
remarkable, and may be witnessed
not only in South America, but in In-
dia, Ceylon, and Australia. Frazer
observed several kinds of Ficus, more
than 150 feet high, embracing huge
ironbark trees in the forests at More-
ton Bay. The Finis repens, according
to Sir Emerson Tennent, is of^en to be
seen clambering over rocks, like ivy,
turning tlirough heaps of stones, or
ascending some tall tree to the height
of thirty or forty feet, while the tliick-
ness of its own stem does not exceed
a quarter of an inch. The small
plants of this family, of which the
Murdering Liana is one species, grow
and reproduce their kind from seeds

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188

deposited in the ground ; but the huge
representatiyes of the family^ sach as
Che banjan-tree, whose

\ twigs take root, and danghten grow

▲boat the mother tree ;**

and the Peepul^ or sacred Bo-tree of
the Buddhists {Ficus reltgiosa)^ origi-
nate from seeds carried bj birds to
upper portions of some palm or other
tree. Fig-trees, as Sir £. Tennent
has remarked, are *^ the Thugs of the
vegetable world ; for, though not ne-
eeflsarfly epiphytic, it may be said
that, in point of fftct, no single plant
cornea to perfection or acq&ires even
partial development without the de-
Btmction of some other on which to fix
itself as its supporter." The mode of
growth of these trees is well described
by the excellent writer just mentioned,
and we shall make use of his own lan-
guage:

** The fiuntly generally make their
first appearance as slender roots hang-
ing firom the crown or trunk of some
other tree, generally a palm, among
the moist bases of whose leaves the
seed carried thither by some bird
which had fed upon the fig begins to
germinate. This root, branching as it
descends, envelops the trunk of the
supporting tree with a net-work of
wood, and at length, penetrating the
groond, attains the dimensions of a
stem. But, unlike a stem, it throws
out no buds or flowers ; the true stem,
with its branches, its foliage, and fruit,
springs upward from the crown of the
tree whence the root is seen descend-
ing ; and fit>m it issue the pendulous
rootlets, which on reaching the earth
fix themselves firmly, and form the
marvellous growth for which the ban-
yan is so celebrated. In the depth of
this grove the original tree is incar-
cerated tUl, literally strangled by the
folds and weight of its resistless com-
panion, it dies and leaves the fig in
nndtftinbed possession of its place.***
Bat not trees alone do these vegetable
garrotters embrace in their fatal grasp,
anient monuments are also destroyed

by these formidable assailants. Sir
E.Teunent has given an engraving of
a fig-tree on the ruins at Poilanarrua,
in Ceylon, which had fixed hself on
the walls---a curious sight, indeed*—
*^ its roots streaming downward over
the rains as if they had once been
fluid, following every sinuosity of
the building and terraces till they
reach the earth.** An extremely iu-
teresting series of drawings is now to
be seen in the Linnean Society's room
at Burlington House, illustrating the
mode of growth of another strangling
or murdering tree, of New Zealand,
belonging to an entirely different order
from that to which the figs belong
{UrHcace(B)j namely, to one of the
m^prtace{B. The association of garrot-
ting habits with those of the stinging
nettle family is apt enough, we may
be inclined to think ; but it is rather
disappointing to meet with these disa-
greeable peculiarities in the case of
the myrtle group; but such is the fact:
the Rata, or Metrosideros robusta — ^as
we believe is the species-— climbs to
the summits of mighty trees of the
forest of Wangaroa, and kills them in
its iron grasp. But, notwithstanding
these unpleasant impressions which
^ the reckless energy of the vegetation
might produce** in the traveller's nund, |
there is plenty in tropical nature to
counteract them :

" There is the incomparable beauty
and variety of the foliage, the vivid
color, the richness and exuberance
everywhere displayed, which make the
richest woodland scenery in northern
Europe a sterile desert in comparison.
But it is especially the enjoyment of
life manifested by individual exist-
ences which compensates for the de-
struction and pain caused by the in-
evitable competition. Although this
competition is nowhere more active,
and the dangers to which each individ-
ual is exposed nowhere more numer-
ous, yet nowhere is this enjoyment
more vividly displayed.**

Mr. Bates mentions a peculiar feat-
ure in some of the colossal trees which
here and there monopolize a large

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184

Ghanings from the Natural History of the Tropics.

space in ttie forests. The height of
some of these giants he estimates at
from 180 to 200 feet, whose ''vast
dome of foliage rises above the other
forest trees as a domed cathedral does
above the other baildings in a city.''
In most of the large drees of different
species is to be seen " a growth of
buttress-shaped projections around the
lower part of their stems. The spaces
between these buttresses — ^which are
generally thin walls of wood — ^form
spacious chambers, and may be com-
pared to stalls in a stable; some of
them are large enough to hold half-a-
dozen persons." What are these but-
tresses, how do they originate, ' and
what is their use ? We have already
seen how great is the competition
amongst the trees of a primeval forest,
and how every square inch is eagerly
battled for by the number of competi-
tors. In consequence of this it is ob-
vious that lateral growth of roots in
the earth is a difficult matter. ^ Ne-
cessity being the mother of inven-
tion,'' the roots, unable to expand lat-
erally, ''raise themselves ridge-like
out of the earth, growing gradually
upward as the increasing height of
the tree required augmented support.**
A beautiful compensation, truly, and
full of deep interest ! As Londoners
add upper stories to their houses
where competition has rendered later-
al additions impossible, so these gigan-
tic trees, in order to sustain the mas-
sive crown and trunk, strengthen their
roots by upper additions.

One of tiie most striking features in
tropical sceneiy is the suddenness
witii which the leaves and blossoms
spring into fiiU beauty. "Some
mornings a single tree would appear
in flower amidst what was the preced-
ing evening a uniform green mass of
foresty— 41 dome of blossom suddenly
created as if by magic** In the early
mornings, soon after dawn, the sky is
always without a cloud, the thermom-
eter marking 72** or 73° Fahr. Now
all nature is fresh, and the birds in
the full enjoyment of their existence,
the "shrill yelping** of the toucans be-

ing frequently heard from their abode
amongst the wild fruit-trees of the for-
est; flocks of parrots appear in dis-
tinct relief against the blue sky, al-
ways two by two, chattering to each
other, the pairs being separated by
regular intervals, too high, hpwever,
to reveal the bright colors of their
plumage. The greatest heat of the
day is about two o'clock, by which
time, the thermometer being 92° or
93° Fahr.,- " every voice of bird or
mammal is hushed ; only in the trees
is heard at intervals the harsh whirr
of a cicada. The leaves, which were
so fresh and moist in early morning,
now become lax and drooping, and
the flowers shed their petals, llie In-
dian and mulatto inhabitants sleep in
their hammocks, or sit on mats in the
shade, too languid even to talk."

Mr. Bates has ^ven a graphic pic-
ture of tropical nature at the approach
of rain:

" First, the cool sea-breeze which
commenced to blow about ten o'clock,
and which had increased in force with
the increasing power of the sun,
would flag and finally die away. The
heat and electric tension of the atmos-
phere would then become almost in-
supportable. Languor and uneasiness
would seize on every one ; even the
denizens of the forest betraying it by
their motions. White clouds would
appear in the east and gather into
cumuli, with an increasing blackness
along their lower portions. The whole
eastern horizon would become almost
suddenly black, and this would spread
upward, the sun at length becoming
obscured. Then the rush of a mighty
wind is heard through the forest,
swaying the tree-tops ; a vivid flash of
lightning bursts forth, then a ci'aah of
thunder, and down streams the delug-
ing rain. Such storms soon cease,
leaving bluish-black motionless clouds
in the sky until night. Meanwhile aH
nature is refreshed; but heaps of
flower petals and fkllen leaves are
seen under the trees. Toward even-
ing life revives again, and the ringing
uproar is resumed frtm bush and tree*

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185

The following morning tbe son again
rises in a cloudless sky, and so the cy-
cle is completed ; spring, summer, and
autumn, as it were, in one tropical
day.**

With regard to animal life in the
Amazonian forests, it appears that
there is a great yariety of mammals,
birds, and reptiles, but Uiey are veiy
shy, and widely scattered. Brazil is
poor in terrestrial aninuds, and the
species are of small size. ^ The hunts-
man would be disappointed who ex-
pected to find here flocks of animals
similar to the bufialo herds of North
America, or tbe swarms of antelopes
and herds of ponderous pachyderms
of southern Africa.''

It has already been observed that
the mammals of Brazil are, for the
most part, arboreal in their habits;
this is especially the case with the
monkeys, or Oehida, a family of quad-
mmanous animals peculiar to the new
world. The reader may observe the
habits of some species of this group in
the monkey-house of the Zoological
Society's Gardens in Regent* s Park.
The strong muscular tail, with its
naked pafan under the tip, which many
of the CebidiB possess, renders them
peculiarly well adapted to a forest
life. Mr. Bates states that thirty-
eight species of this family of monkey
inhabit the Amazon region, and con-
siders the Goaitds, or spider-monkeys,
" as the extreme development of the
American type of apes." The flesh
of one species of Coaitd is much es-
teemed as an article of food by the
natives in some parts of the country.
The Indians, we are told, are very
fbnd of Coaitds as pets.

Some of our readers are doubtless
acquainted with the name of Madame
Maria Sibylla Merian, a Grcrman lady
who was bom about the middle of the
seventeenth century. She was much
devoted to the study of natural his-
tory, and travelled to Surinatn for the
purpose q( making drawings of its ani-
mal productions ; many of these draw-
ings are now in the British Museum.
This estimable lady, amongst other

curiosities of natural history, affirmed
the two following ones :— 1. The lan-
tern-fly {Fulgora lantemaria) emits
so strong a light from its body as to
enable a person in the night-time to
read a newspaper by it. 2. The large
spider {MygciU) enters the nests of £e
little humming-birds, and destroys the
inmates. It would occupy too much
time to tell of the mass of evidence
which was adduced ia denial of
these recorded facts, but, suffice it to
say that Madame Merian was set
down as an arch-heretic and inventor,
and that no credit was attached to her
statements. With regard to the firsts
named heresy, the opinion of modem
zoologists is, that there is nothing
at aU improbable in the circumstance
of the Fulgora emitting a strong Hght,
as luminous properties are known to
exist in other insects, but that the fact
has been rather over-colored by the
imagination of the worthy lady. As
to the second question, about the bird-
destroying propensities of the Mygale,
let us hear the testimony of so thor-
oughly tmstworthy a witness as Mr
Bates :

" In the course of our walk" (be-
tween the Tocantins and Cameta) ^ I
chanced to verify a fact relating to
the habits of a large hairy spider of
the genus Mygale, in a manner worth
recording. The species was M* avic'
tUaria, or one very closely allied to it;
the individual was nearly two inches
in length of body, but the legs expand-
ed seven inches, and the entire body
and legs wesft covered with coarse
grey and reddish hairs. I was at-
tracted by a movement of the monster
on a tree-tmnk ; it was close beneath
a deep crevice in the tree, across
which was stretched a dense white
web. The lower part of the web jyaa
broken, and two small birds, finches,
were entangled in the pieces ; they
were ab6ut the size of the English sis-
kin, and I judged the two to be male
and female. One of them was quite
dead, the other lay under the body of
the spider not quite dead, and was
. smeared with the filthy liquor or sali-

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186

Gkamngi from the NuOural Mitary of the Tropics.

va exuded hy the monster. I drove
away the spider and took the birdfl,
but the second one soon died. The
fact of^ species of Mjgale sallying
forth at night, mounting trees^ and
sucking the eggs and young of hum-
ming-birds, has been recorded long
ago by Madame Merian and Palisot
de Beauvois; but, in the absence of
any confirmation, it has come to be dis-
ci edited. From the way the fact has
been rekited it would appear that it
had been merely derived from the re-
port of natives, and had not been wit*
nessed by the narrators. Count
Langsdorn, in his 'Expedition into
the Interior of Brazil,' states that he
totally disbelieved the story. I found
^e cii'cumstance to be quite a novelty
to the residents here about The My-
gales are quite common insects ; some
species make their cells under stones,
others form artistical tunnels in the
earth, and some build their dens in
the thatch of houses. The natives
call them Aranhcts carangueijetras, or
crab spiders. The hairs with which
they are clothed come off when touch-
ed, and cause a peculiar and almost
maddening irritation. The first speci-
men that I killed and prepared was
handled incautiously, and I suffered
terribly for three days afterward. I
think this is not owing to any poison-
ous quality residing in the hairs, but
to their bemg short and hard, and thus
getting into the fine creases of the
skin. Some Mygales are of immense
size. One day I saw the children be-
longing to an Indian who collected for
me with one of these monsters secured
by a cord round its waist, by which
they were leading it about the house as
they would a dog."

The name of " ant" has only to be
mentioned, and the strange habits of
the various species immediately sug-
gest themselves to the mind of the
naturalist, who is always interested in,
and amply repaid by, watching these
insects with the closest scrutiny.
Brazil abounds in ants, one species of
which, the Dinoponera grandis, is an
inch and a quarter in length ; but by

far the most interesting to the natural-
ist, as well as one of the most destruc-
tive to the cultivated trees of the coun-
try, is the leaf-carrying ant {^codoma
cephalotei). In some districts, we are
told, it is so abundant that agriculture
is almost impossible, and everywhere
complaints are heard of the terrible
pest. This insect derives its specific
name o£cephalotes from the extraordi-
nary size of the heads belonging to twd
of the orders, which, with a third
kind, constitute the colony. The for-
micarian establishment consists of: 1.
Worker minors; 2. Worker majors;
3. Subterranean workers. The first-
named kind alone does the real active
work. The two last contain the indi-
viduab with the enormous heads ;
their functions are not clearly ascer-
tained. In color they are a pale red-
dish-brown, and the thorax of the true
worker, which is the smallest of the
orders, is armed with three pairs of
sharp spines ; the head is provided
with a pair of similar spines proceed-
ing from the cheeks behind. This ant,
known by the native name of Saliba,
has long been celebrated for its habit
of clipping of[^ and carrying away,
large quantities of leaves :

" When employed in this work,"
Mr. Bates says, << their processions
look like a multitude of animated
leaves on the march. In some places
I found an accumulation of such
leaves, all circular pieces, about the
size of a sixpence, lying on the path-
way, unattended by the ants, and at
some distance from any colony. Such
heaps are always found to be removed
when the pUvce is revisited next day.
In course of time I had plenty of op-
portunities of seeing them at work.
They mount the tree in multitudes,
the individuals being all worker min-
ors. Each one places itself on the
surface of a leaf, and cuts with its
sharp scissor-like jaws, and by a sharp
jerk detaches the piece. Sometimes
they let the leaf drop to the ground,
where a little heap accumulates until
carried off by another relay of work-
ers ; but generally each marches off

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187

with the piece it has operated upoot
and as all take the same road to Uieir
oolonj, the path thej follow becomes
in a ehort time smooth and bare,
looking like the impression of a cart-
wheel throagh the herbage/'

The Saiiba ant is peculiar to tropi-
cal America, and, thoi^gh it is injuria
out to the wild native trees of the
coontry, it seems to have a preference
to the coffee and orange trees and
other imported plants. The leaves
mhifh the Sattba cuts and carries
awaj are used to ^ thatch the domes
which cover the entrances to their
Sttbterianean dwellings, thereby pro-
tecting from the deluging rains the
young broods in the nests beneath/'
The insects proceed according to a
most orderly method, 'Uhe heavily-
laden workers, each carrying its seg-
ment of leaf vertically, the lower edge
Mcured in its mandibles, troop up, and
cast their burdens on the hillock ; an-
other body of laborers place the leaves
in po»don, covering them with a
layer of earthy granules, which are
brought one by one from the soil be-
neath." The labors of this curious
insect are immense, and no obstacles
stop their excavations. An allied
species of Rio de Janeiro worked a
lonnei under the bed of the river Para-
hyba, at a place where it ia as broad
as ^e Thames at Iiondon Bridge.
These ants are sad rogues, being
household plunderers and robbers of
the farmha, or mandioca meal, of the
poor inhabitants of Brazil ; and Mr.
Bates was obliged' to lay trains of gun-
powder along their line of march to
blow them up, which in the end re-
sulted in scaring the burglars away.
Wie have already alluded to the mas-
sire heads possessed by the migor tmd
subterranean kinds of neuters, and
stated that the work is done by the
worker minor or small-headed kind.
With regard to the function of the
large-headed worker m%jor, Mr. Bates
was unable to satisfy himself:

" They are not the soldiers or de-
fenders of the working portion of the
community, like the armed dass in the

termites^ or white ants, for they never
fighL The species has no sting, and
does not display active resistance
when interfered with. I once imagined
they exercised a sort of superintend-
ence over the others; but this fuucr
tion is entirely unnecessary in a com-
munity where all work with a preci-
sion and regularity resembling the
subordinate parts of a piece of ma-
chinery. I came to the conclusion, at
last, that they have no very precisely
defined i^nction. They cannot, how-
ever, be entirely useless to the commu-
nity, for the sustenance of an idle
class of such bulky individuals would
be too heavy a charge for the species
to sustain. I think they serve in
some sort as passive instruments of
protection to the real workers. Their
enormously large, hard, and indestruc-
tible heads may be of use in protect-
ing them against the attacks of insec-
tivorous animals. They would be, on
this view, a kind of pieces dc resist
cmcBj serving as a foil against on-
slaughts made on the main body of
workers.**

But the third order, the subtext
ranean kind, we are told, is the most
curious of all :

" If the top of a small, fresh hillook,
one in which the thatching process is
going on, be taken off, a broad cylin-
drical shadt is disclosed, at a depUi
about two feet from the surface. If
this be probed with a stick, which
may be done to the extent of three or
four feet without touching bottom, a
small number of colossal fellows wiU
slowly begin to make their way up the
smooth sides of the mine. Their
heads are of the same size as those of
the other class (worker m^or) ; but
the front is clothed with hairs instead
of being polished, and they have in
the middle of the forehead a twin
ocellus, or simple eye, of quite differ-
ent structure from the ordinary com-
pound eyes on the side of the head.
This frontal eye is totally wanting in
the other workers, and is not known
in any other kind of ant. The appari-
tion of these strange creatures from

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188

GhaningB from the JSfaharal Mstory of the TVopies.

the caTemous depths of the mine re-
minded one, when I first observed
them, of the Cyclopes of Homerie
fable. They were not very pugna-
cious, as I feared they would be, and
I had no difficulty in securing a few
with my fingers. I never saw them
under any circumstances than those
here related, and what their special
fimctions may be I cannot divine."

The naturalist traveller, in the
midst of much that interests and de-
lights him, has to put up with a great
deal that is annoying, and Mr. Bates
proved no exception to the rule. The
first few nights when at Caripf, he
was much troubled with bats; the
room where he sleptthad not been oc-
cupied for several months, and the
roof was open to the tiles and rafters :

" On one night,'' he says, " I was
aroused about midnight by the rushing
noise made by vast hosts of bats
sweeping about the room. The air
was alive with them; they had put
out the lamp, and when I relighted it,
the place appeared blackened with
the impish multitudes that were whirl-
ing round and round. After I had
lain about well with a stick for a few
minutes they disappeared amongst the
tiles, but when all was still again they
returned, and once more extinguished
the light I took no further notice of
them and went to sleep. The next
night several got into my hammock ;
I seized them as they were crawling
over me, and dashed them against the
wall. The next morning I found a
wound, evidently caused by a bat, on
my hip."

Bats remind us of the vampire, a
native of South America, concerning
whose blood-sucking properties so
much discussion has been ^m time to
time raised. The vampire bat was
very common at £ga ; it is the largest
of the South American species. Of
this bat Mr. Bates writes :

<< Nothing in animal physiognomy
can be more hideous than the counte-
nauce of thb creature when viewed
from the front ; the large leathery ears
standing out from the sides and

top of the head, the erect, spear-ehiqied
appendage on the tip of the nose, the
grin, and glistening black eyes, aU
combining to make up a figure that
reminds one of some mocking imp of
fable. No wonder that imaginative
people have inferred diabolical in-
stincts on the part of so ugly an ani-
mal The vampire, however, is the
most harmless of all bats, and its ino^
fensive character is well known to re->
sidents on the banks of the AmazonB.**

That much fable has attached itself
to the history of this curious creature
we are perfectly convinced, and that
its blood-sucking peculiarities have
been grossly exaggerated we must al-
low. When this bat has been said to
peHbnn the operation of drawing
blood '<by inserting its acaleat«4
tongue* into the vein of a sleeping
person with so much dexterity as not
to be felt, at the same time fanning
the air with its large wings, and thus
producing a sensation so delighlfiiUy
cool that the sleep is renderod stiU
more profound," it is clear that ^the
mythical element exists to a great ex-
tent in the narrative ; but our author's
assertion that ^ihe vampire is the
most hannless of all bats" does not
tally with the statements of other nat-
uralists of considerable note. Mr.
Wallace says he saw the efiects of the
vampire's operations on a young horse,
and that the first morning after its ar-
rival the poor animal presented a most
pitiable appearance, large streams of
clotted blood running down from sev-
eral wounds on its back and sides :

'<The appearance," Mr. Wallace
adds, " was, however, I dare say, worse
than reality, as che bats have the skill
to bleed without giving pain, and it is
quite possible the horse, like a patient
under the infinence of chloroform,
may have known nothing of the mat-
ter. The danger is in the attajcks be-
ing repeated every night till the loea
of blocKl becomes serious. To prevent
this, red peppers are usually rubbed

• An exprenion used bj Mr. Wood in his
** ZoOgnpliT.** It is enough to remark that no
known bat naa an acnleatea iangu».

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189

cm the parts wounded and on all
likelj places; and this will partly
chedc the sanguiniyoroas appetite of
the bats, but not entirely, as in spite of
this application the poor animal was
again bitten the next night in fresh
places.***

Both Mr. Darwin and Mr. Water-
tim, if we remember rightly, have
borne sunilar testimony in favor of
the c^inion that the vampire does suck
blood. A servant of the former gen-
tleman, when near Coquimbo, in Chili,
observed something attached to the
withers of one of his horses, which
was restless, and on putting his hand
upon the place he secured a vampire
bat. Mr. Waterton, however, could
not induce the vampires to bite him,
notwithstanding the now veteran nat-
oialist t slept many months in an open
loft which the vampires frequented;
but an Indian boy who slept near him
had his toes often << tapped," while
fowls were destroyed, and even an un-
fortunate donkey was much persecuted,
looking, as Mr. Waterton says, ^^like
misery steeped in vinegar."

While at Villa Nova, on the lower
Amazons, our naturalist was sub-
jected to another annoyance^ in the
shi^ cS licks. The tracts there-
abouts ^ swarmed with carapitos, ugly
tides, belonging to the genus Iwdes,
whidi mount to the tops of the blades
of grass, and attach themselves to the
clothes of passers-by. They are a
great annoyance. It occupied me a
rail hour to pick them off my flesh
after my diurnal ramble."

Mr. Bates's stay at Ega, on the up-
per Amazons, and his expeditions in
search of scarlet-faced monkeys, owl-
&ced night-apes, marmosets, curl-
crested toucans, bUnd ants, and hund-
reds o( other interesting animals,
must have been particularly enjoyable,
if we except the presence of an abom-
inable gad-fly, which fixes on the flesh
of man as breeding-places for its grub,
and causes painful tumors. ^£ga

• ^ TraTelB on the Amftnm/^ p. 44.

t Binoe this article waa in type tiiis excellent
nalnraUflt and kind-hearted gentteman has passed
sway ttom amongst ns.

was a fine field for a natural history
collector," and Mr. Bates ticketed with
the name of this town more than 3ft60
new species of animals.

It is an old and a true saying that
you ^^can have too much of a good
thing." A London alderman would
soon grumble had he to dine every
day on turtle only. « The great fresh-
water turtle of the Amazons grows in
the upper river to an immense size,
a full-grown one measuring nearly
three feet in length by two in breadth,
and is a load for the strongest Indian.
.... The flesh is very tender, palat-
able, and wholesome; but it is very
cloying. Every one ends sooner or
later by becoming thoroughly sur-
feited.'' Our traveller adds that he be-
came so sick of turtle in the course of
two years that he could not bear the
smell of it, although at the same time
nothing else was to be had, and he
was suffering actual hunger. The
pools about Ega abound in turtles and
alligators, and the Indians capture a
great number of the former animals by
means of sharp steel-pointed arrows,
fitted into a peg which enters the tip
of the shaft. This peg «is ^tened to
the arrow-shaft by means of a piece of
twine ; and when the missile — which
the people hurl with astonishing skill
— pierces the carapace, the peg drops
out and the struck turtle dives to the
bottom, the detached shaft floating on
the surface serving to guide the sports-
man to his game. So clever are the
natives in the use of the bow and
arrow, that they do not wiut till the
turtle comes to the surface to breathe,
bat shoot at the back of the animal as
it moves under the water, and hardly
ever fail to pierce the submerged shell.

One of the most curious and inters
esting &cts in natural history is the
assimilation in many animals of form
and color to other objects, animate
or inanimate. Thus the caterpillars
tenned, from their mode of progression,
^geometric" bear so close a resem-
blance to the twigs of the trees or
bushes upon which they rest that it is
no easy thing to distinguish them at a

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190

Gleanings from the Ifaturci History of the Tropics.

glance ; the buff-tip moth, when at rest,
looks jast like a broken bit of lichen-
covered branch, the colored tips of the
wings resembling a section of the wood.
Tlie beautiful Australian parakeets,
known as the Batcherrygar parrots,
look so much like the leaves of EtLca-
Iptfti, or gum-trees, on which tliey re-
pose, that, though numbers may be
perched upon a branch, they are hardly
to be seen so long as they keep quiet.
Some South American beetles (of the
fitmily Cassidm) closely resemble glit-
tering drops of dew ; some kinds of
spiders mimic flower-buds, *' and sta-
tion ihcmselves motionless in the axils
of leaves and other parts of plants to
waft for tlieir victims." Insects be-
longing to the genera of Mantis^ Lo-
eusta, and Fhasmay often show a won-
derful resemblance to leaves or sticks.
Examples of " mimetic analogy*' may
also be found amongst birds ; but per-
haps the most remarkable cases of
imitation are to be found among the
butterflies of the valley of the Amazon
recently made known to us by Mr.
Bates. There is a family of butter-
flies named Heliconidce, of a slow
flight and feeble structure, very num- •
erous in this South American region,
notwithstanding that the districts
alK)und with insectivorous birds.
Now, Mr. Bates has observed that
where large numbers of this family
arc found they are always accom-
panied by species of a totally distinct
family which closely resemble them vd
size, form, color, and markings. So
close is the resemblance that Mr.
Bates often found it impossible to dis-
tinguish members of one family from
those of the other when the insects
were on the wing ; and he observed,
moreover, that when a local variety
of a species of the HeUconidce oc-
curred, there was found also a butter-
fly of another family imitating that lo-
cal variety. There is no difficulty at
ail in distinguishing the imitators from
the imitated, for the latter have all a
family likeness, while the former de-
part from the normal form and like-
ness of the families to which they re-

spectively belong. What is the mean-
ing of this curious fact ? It is this :
the Ifeliconida, or imitated butterfliea,
are not persecuted by birds, dra-
gon-flies, lizards, or other insectivor-
ous enemies, while the members of the
imitating families are subject to much
persecution. The butterflies imitated
are said to owe their immunity from
persecution to their oflensive odor,
while no such fortunate character be-
longs to the imitating insects. Bufc
how, we naturally ask, has this change
of color and form been effected ? Mr.
Darwin and Mr. Bates explain it
on the principle of natural selection.
Let us suppose that a member of the
persecuted family gave birth to a va-
riety — and there is a tendency in all
animals to produce varieties— exhibit-
ing a very slight resemblance to some
species of HeltconideB. This individ*
ual, in consequence of this slight re-
semblance, would have a better chance
of living and producing young than
those of its relatives which bear no re-
semblance whatever to the unmolested
family. Some of the offspring of this
slightly favored variety would very
probably show more marked resem-
blance to the unpersecuted butterflies ;
and thus the likeness between insects
of totally distinct groups would in
course of time be, according to the
law of inheritance, quite complete.
Tliis is the explanation which Mr.
Bates gives of this natural phenome-
non. The phenomenon itself is an
undoubted one ; whether it is or is not
satisfactorily accounted for, cannot at
present be determined ; we must W2ut
for further investigation.

We had intended to speak of some
of the South American palms, those
wondrous and valuable productions
of tropical countries, the India-rubber
trees, and other vegetable productions
of the Amazons, but we must linger
no longer with the excellent naturalist
from whose volumes we have derived
so much pleasure. Mr. Bates has
written a book full of interest, with
the spirit of a real lover of nature and
with the pen of a philosopher.

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191

Leaving, then, the new world, let
ns cast a glaoce, in compaDy with one
of the greatest botanists of the day,
at what we maj call the tropical
features of the Sikkim Himalaya^
Thoagh this region is not strictl/*
speaking within the tropics, yet the
vegetation at the base is of a tropical
chaiacter. In this wonderful district
the naturalist is able to wander through
eveij zone of vegetation, from l£e
^ dense deep-green dripping forests'*
at the base o£ the Himalaya, formed of
giant trees, as the Duabanga and Ter^
minoHoj with Ckdrda and Gordonia
WalUchiiy mingled with innumerable
shmbs and herbs, to the lichens and
mosses of the regions of perpetual
snow. The tropical vegetation of the
Sikkim extends from Siligoree, a sta-
tion on the verge of the Terai, ^ that
low malarious belt which skirts the base
of the Himalaya from the Sutlej to
Brahma-Koond^ in Upper Assam."

"Every feature," writes Dr. Hooker,
" botanical, geological, and zoologiealf
18 new on entering this district. The
change is sadden and immediate : sea
and shore are hardly more conspicu-
ously different ; nor from the edge of
the Terai to the limit of perpetual
snow is any botanical region more
clearly marked than this which is the
commencement of Himalayan vegeta-
tion." The banks of the numerous
tortnous streams are richly clothed
with vines and climbing convolvuluses,
with various kinds of Oucurbitacea
and Bignoniace^ The district of the
Terai is very pestilential, and, though
fatal to Europeans, is inhabited by a
race called the Mechis with impunity.
As oar traveller proceeded to the
little bungalow of Funkabaree, about
1,800 feet in elevation, the bushy tim-
ber of the Terai was found to be re-
placed by giant forests, with large
bamboos cresting the hilts, numerous
epiphytical orchids and ferns, with
Moifo, SeUamCnea^ and similar types
of the hottest and dampest climates*
AU around Funkabaree the hills rise
steeply 5,U0O or 6,000 feet ; from the
road at and a little above the bun-

galow the view is descifbed by Dr,
Hooker as superb and very instruc-
tive :

<< Behind (or north) the Himalaya
rise in steep confused masses. Below,
the hill on which I stood, and the
ranges as far as the eye can reach
east and west, throw spurs on the
plains of India. These are very
thickly wooded, and enclose broad,
dead-flat, hot, or damp valleys, appar-
ently covered with a dense forest
Secondary spurs of clay and gravel,
like that immediately below Funka-
baree, rest on the bases of the moun-
tains and seem to form an intermediate
neutral ground between flat and
mountainous India. The Terai district
forms a very irregular belt, scantily
clothed, and intersected by innumera-
ble rivulets from the hills, which unite
and divide again on the flat, till, emei^-
ing from the region of many trees,
they enter the plains, following devi-
ous courses, which glisten like silver
threads. The whole horizon b bound-
ed by the sea-like expanse of the
pjams, which stretch away into the re-
gion of sunshine and flnc weather, as
one boundless fiat. In the distance
the courses of the Teesta and Cosi,
the great drainers of the snowy Him-
alayas, and the recipients of innumer-
able smaller rills, are with difficulty
traced at this the dry season. The
ocean-like appearance of this southern
view is even more conspicuous in the
heavens than on .the land, the clouds
arranging themselves after a singu-
larly sea-scape fashion. EnBlcss
strata run in parallel ribbons over the
extreme horizon; sJx)ve these scat-
tered cumuli, also in horizontal lines,
are dotted against a clear grey sky,
which gradually, as the eye is lifted,
passes into a deep cloudlesa blue vault,
continuously clear to the zenith; there
the cumuli, in white fleecy masses,
again appear ; till, in the northern ce-
lestial hemisphere, they thicken and as-
sume the leaden hue of nimbi, dis-
charging their moisture on the dark
forest-clad hills around. The breezes
are south-easterly, bringing that va-

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192

Gleanings from the Nixtural History of the Tropics.

por from the Indian ocean which is
rarefied and suspended aloft over the
heated plains, but condensed into a
drizzle when it strikes the cooler
flanks of the hills, and into heavy rain
when it meets their still colder sum-
mits. Upon what a gigantic scale
does nature here operate! Vapors
raised from an ocean whose nearest
shore is more than 400 miles distant
are safely transported without the loss
of one drop of water, to support the
rank luxuriance of this far distant re-
gion. This and other offices fulfilled,
the waste waters are returned bj the
Cosi and Teesta to the ocean, and
again exhaled, exported, expend^ re-
collected, and returned."

Many travellers complain of the
annoyance caused to them by leeches.
Legions of these pests abound in the
water-courses and dense jungles of the
Sikkim, and though their bite is pain-
less, it is followed by considerable
effusion of blood. " They puncture
through thick worsted stockings, and
even trousersj and when fuU roll in
the form of a little sofl ball into the
bottom of the shoe, where their pres-
ence is hardly felt in walking."

A thousand feet higher, above the
bungalow of Punkabaree, the vegeta-
tion is very rich, the prevalent timber
being of enormous size, ^ and scaled
by dimbing Leguminosce, as Bauhin-
ias and Sohinitzs, .which sometimes
sheathe the trunks or span the forest
with huge cables, joining tree to tree."
Their trunks are also clothed with or-
chids^^and still more beautifully with
pothos, peppers, vines, and convolvuli.
."The beauty of the drapery of
the pothos leaves (Scindapsus) is pre-
emment, whether for the graceful
folds the foliage assumes or for the
liveliness of its color. Of the more
conspicuous smaller trees the wild ba-
nana is the most abundant ; its crown
of very beautiful foliage contrasting
with the smaller-leaved plants amongst
which it nestles ; next comes a screw-
pine (JPandcmus) with a straight stem
and a tuft of leaves, each eight or ten
feet long,'waving on all sides. Aror

Uaeea, with smooth or armed slender
trunks, and ^aj9^-like EuphorbiacetB
spread their long petioles horizontally
forth, each terminated with an ample
leaf some feet in diameter. Bamboo
•bounds everywhere; its dense tu^
of culms, 100 feet and upward high,
are as thick as a man's thigh at the
base. Twenty or thirty species of
ferns (including a tree fern) were
luxuriant and handsome. Foliaceous
lichens and a few mosses appeared at
2,000 feet. Such is the vegetation of
the roads through the tropical forests
of Outer Himalaya."

As we ascend about 2,000 feet
higher, we find many plants of the
temperate zone mingling with the
tropical vegetation, amongst which ^ a
very EngUsh-looking bramble," bear-
ing a good vellow fruit, is the first to
mark the change ; next, mighty oaks
with large lamellated cups and mag-
nificent foliage succeed, till along the
ridge of the mountain to Kursiong,
at an elevation of about 4,800 fee^
the change in the flora is complete.
Here the vegetation recalls to mind
home impressions : " the oak flower-
ing, the birch bursting into leaf, the
violet, Chrysosplenium, SteUaria and
Arum, Vaccinium, wild strawberry,
maple, geranium, bramble. A colder
wind blew here ; mosses and lichens
carpeted the banks and roadsides ;
the birds and insects were very differ-
ent from those below, and everything
proclaimed the marked change in the
vegetation." And yet evenTat this
elevation we meet with forms of trop-
ical plants, " pothos, bananas, pahns,
figs, pepper, numbers of epiphytal or-
chids, and similar genuine tropical
genera."

The hill-station of Darjiling, the
well-known sanitarium, where the
health of Europeans is recruited by
a temperate cHmate, is about 370
miles to the north of Calcutta. The
ridge " varies in height from 6,500 to
7,500 feet above the level of the sea,
8,000 feet being the elevation at which
the mean temperature most nearly
coincides with that of London, viz.,

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Gleanings from the Natural History of the Tropiee.

198

50V The forests aroond DaijOing
are composed prineipallj of magnolias,
oaks, laurels, with birch, alder, maple,
holly. Dr. Hooker draws especial
attention to the absence of Legumin-
os4Bj '^the most prominent botanical
fcatore in the vegetation of the re-
gion," which, he sajs, iq too high for
the tropical tribes of Uie wanner ele-
vation, too low for the Alpines, and
probablj too moist for those of tem-
perate regions ; cool, equable, humid
<»l^mRt^ being generally un&vorable
to the above-named order. << The su-
premacy of this temperate region con-
sists in the infinite number of forest
trees, in the absence (in the usual
propcNTtion, at any rate) of such com-
mon orders as GmmotiUB^ Legundt^
oetSj Chrueiferoj and Ranuncvlacece, and
of grasses amongst Monocotyledons,
and in die predominance of the rarer
and more local fiimilies, as those of
rhododendron, camellia, magnolia,
ivy, oomel, honeysuckle, hydiungea,
b^onia, and epiphytic orchids."

We regret that want of space pre-
vents us dwelling longer on the scenes
of tropical Hinuilaya, so graphically
described by Dr. Hooker. We will
conclude this imperfect sketch with
our traveUer^s description of the
scenery along the banks of the great
Bongeet, 6,000 feet below Darjiling :

^ Leaving the forest, the path led
akmg the river bank and over the
great masses of rock which strewed
its course. The beautiful India-rub-
ber fig was common On

the forest skirts, Hoya^ parasitical Or-
chiduB^ and ferns abounded; the
Chaulmoogra, whose fruit is used to
intoxicate fish, was very common, as
was an immense mulberry-tree, that
yields a milky juice and produces a
long, green, sweet fruit Large fish,
chiefly cvprinoid, were abundant in the
beautifully dear water of the river.
But by far the most striking feature
consisted in the amazmg quantity of
Bopeib butterflies, large tropical swal-
low-tails, black, with scarlet or yellow
eyes on their wings. They were
Men everywhere^ saifing majestically

VOL. XL 13

through the still, hot air, or fluttering
from one scorching rock to another,
and especially loving to settle on the
damp sand of the river ; where they
sat by thousands, with erect wings,
balancing themselves with a rocking
motion, as their heavy sails inclmec'
them to one side or the other, resem
bling a crowded fleet of yachts on a
calm day. Such an entomological dis-
play cannot be surpassed. Oicindelm
and the great Gicadea were every-
where lighting on the ground, when
they uttered a short sharp creaking
sound, and* anon disappeared as if by
magic. Beautiful whip-snakes were
gleaming in the sun ; they hold on by
a few coils of the tall round a twig,
the greater part of their body stretch-
ed out horizontally, occasionally re-
tracting and darting an unerring aim
at some insect The narrowness of
the gorge, and the excessive steepness
of the bounding hills, prevented any
view except of the opposite mountain-
face, which was one dense forest, in
which the wild banana Iras conspio-
uous."

One of the most remarkable bo-
tanical discoveries of modem days
is that of a very curious and anoma-
lous genus of plants, named by Dr.
Hooker Welvntschia in honor of ita
discoverer. Dr. Frederic Welwitsch,
who first noticed this singular plant in
a letter to Sur William Hooker, dated
August, 1860. **I have been assur-
ed," says Dr. Hooker in his valuable
memoir of this plant, ^by those who
remember it, that since die discovery
of the Raffiesia Jmoldii, no vegeta-
ble production has excited so great
an iQterest as the subject of the pres*
ent memoir." We well remember
this singular plant, having seen a spe-
cimen in the Kew Herbarium soon
afier its arrival in this country. The
following is Dr. Hooker's account of
its appearance and prominent charac-
ters:

«< The Wduniechia is a woody plant,
said to attain a century in duration,
with an obconic trunk about two feet
long, of which a few inches rise

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1»4

Ghamnffi from ik^ Naturd Hitti^ry of Ae Hvpia.

above the soil, presenting the appear-
ance of a flat, two-lob^ depressed
mass, sometimes (according to Dr.
Welwitsch) attaining fourteen feet in
circomferenoe (!) and looking like a
round table. When full grown, it is
dark brown, hard, and cracked over
the whole surface Tmuch like the
bnmt crust <^ a loaf of bread) $ the
lower portion forms a stout tapHroot,
buried in the soil and branching down-
ward at the end. From deep grooves
in the droumference of the depressed
mass two enormous leaves are given
off, each six feet long when full
grown, one corresponding to each lobe.
These are quite flat, linear, very
leathery, and split to the base into in-
numerable thongs that lie curling upon
ihe surface of the soiL Its discoverer
describee these same two leaves as be-
ing present from the earliest condition
of the plant, and assures me that they
are in tact developed from the two co-
tyledons of the seed, and are persist-
ent, being replaced by no others.
From the circumference of the tabu-
lar mass, above but close to the inser-
tion of the leaves, spring stoat di-
chotomously branched cymes, nearly a
foot high, bearing smaJl erect scarlet
cones, which eventually become ob-
long and attain the size of those of the
common spruce fir. The scales of the
cones are very closely imbricated, and
contain when young and still veiy small
solitary flowers, which in some cases
are hermaphrodite (structurally but
not functionally), in others female."

After describing these flowers in bo-
tanical terms. Dr. Hooker adds, ^ The
mature c<Mie is tetragonous, and con-
tains a broadly winged scale. Its
discoverer observes that the whole
plant exudes a resin, and that it is
called ^ tumbo' by the natives. It in-
habits the elevat^ sandy plateau near
Cbtpe Negro (lat 14'' 4(/ S. to 23"" S.)
on the south-west coast of Africa.**
Dr. Hooker regards the Wdwitschia
as <<the only perennial flowering-plant
which at no period has other vegeta*
tive cffgans than those proper to the
embryo itaeL^— 4h6 main axis bebig

represented by the radicle, which be-
comes a gigantic caulicle and devel-
ops a root from its base, and inflores-
cences from its plumulary end, and
the leaves being the two co^ledons
in a very hi^y developed and spedal-
iaed condition."*

Few countries present more objects
of interest to the naturalist than the
island of Madagascar, amongst the bo-
tanical treasures of which island the
water yam or lace-leaf {Oumra$idra
fenettralit) claims especial notice.
This beautiful and singular pkint,
which belongs to the natural order
NaiadaceiBj was first made known to
the scientific world by dn Petit
Thouars in 1822. Horticulturists are
indebted to Mr. Ellis, the well4uiown
author of '^PolynesiaA Researches," f<Nr
the introduction of this singular plant
into England, specimens of which may
be seen in the Boyal Gardens at Kew
and elsewhere :

'' This plant," says Mr. Ellis, <" is
not only extremely curious, but also
very vidnable to the natives, who, at
certain seasons of the year, gather it
as an article of food — ^the fleshy root
when cooked yielding a farinaceous
substance resembling tibe yam. Hence
its native name, out^Vaiu^ano, literal-
ly, yam of the water;— -ouW in the
Makgasy and Polynesian languages
signifying yam, and rano in the for-
mer and some of the latter signifying
water. The ouvirandra is not only a
rare and curious, but a singulariy
beautiful plant, both in structure and
color. From the several crowns of
the branching root, growing often a
foot or more deep in tihe water, a num-
ber of grac^ul leaves, nine or ten
inches long and two or three inches
wide, spread out horizontally just be-
neath llie surface of the water. The
flower-etalks rise from the centre of
tiie leaves, and the branching or
forked flower is curious; but the
structure of the leaf is peculiarly so,
and seems like a living fibrous skele-
ton rather than an entire leaf. The

* " TmisBctioiui of Um LUmeaa Society,** toL
xxir., pftrt i.

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195

longitadinal fibres extend in ciunred
lined akmg its entire length, and are
united by thread-like fil^es or veins,
erossing them at right angles fttnn
side to side, at a short distance from
eaeh other. The whole leaf looks as
if composed of fine tendrils, wrought
after a most r^nlar pattern, so as to
resemble a piece of bright-green lace
or open needlework. Each leaf rises
from the erown on the root like a
short delicate-looking pale green or
yellow fibre; gradusdUy unfolding its
leatherj-kwking sides and increasing
its siae as it spreads beneath the wa-
ter. The leaves in their several
stages of growth pass through almost
every gradation of color, from a pale
yeOow to a dark olive-green, becom-
ing brown or even bl«^ before they
fiimlly decay ; air-bubbles of consider-
able size frequently appearing under
the full-formed and hesdthy leaves. It
is scarcely possible to imagine any ob-
ject of the kind more attractive and
beautiful than a full-grown specimen
of this plant, with its dark green
leaves finming the limit of a circle
two or three feet in diameter, and in
the transparent water within that cir-
cle presenting leaves in every stage of
development, both as to color and
size. Kor is it the least curious to
notice that these slender and fragile
structures, apparently not more sub-
staatiai than the gossamer and flexi-
ble as a feather, still possess a tena*
dty and wiriness which allow the del-
icate leaf to be raised by the hand to
the surfiice of the water without in*
jaiy.-

No natural order of plants has cre-
ated or oontinnes to create a greater
degree of interest amongst travellers
and botanists than the OrcMdaeeas^
of which more than three thousand
species have been described ; the ano-
malous structure of their reproductory
parts, tbe singukri^ in form of the
floral envelopes, the grotesque resem-
blance which many kinds bear to
some object or other of the animal
world, the rarity, beauty, and delidona
fragroDoe of some fonn»— all com-

bine to render these plants of great
value and interest. As inhabitants of
hot and damp localises, orchids are
in general epiphytes, as in the Brazil*
ian forests, in liie lower portions of
the Himalayan mountains, and in the
islands of the Indian archipelago;
when they occur in temperate regions
they are terrestrial m their mode of
groiv^h ; in extremely dry or cold cli-
mates, (»x;hidaceous plsjits are un-
known. Two rare and beautiful epi-
jf^ytal orchids, the Angr<eouM iesqwi-'
pedale and A, superhum^ were obtained
by Mr. Ellis in Madagascar and Mau-
ritius, and introduced into this coun-
try. Of the former, the largest flow-
ered of all the orchids, Dr. Lindley
has given the following description :

<<The plant forms a stem about
eighteen inches high, covered with
long leathery leaves in two ranks, like
Vemda tricolor and its allies ; but they
have a much more beautiful appear-
ance, owing to a drooping habit, and a
delicate bloom which clothes their
surface. From the axils of the up-
permost of these leaves appear short
stiff flower-stalks, each bearing three
and sometimes five flowers, extending
seven inches in breadth and the same
in height. They are furnished with a
flrm, curved, tapering, tail-like spur,
about fourteen inches long. When
first open, the flower is slightly tinged
with green except the tip, which is al-
most pure white ; after a short time
the. green disappears, and the whole
surface acquires the softest waxy tex-
ture and perfex;t whiteness. Jsi tibis
condition they remain, preserving all
their delicate beauty, for more than
five weeks. Even before they ex-^
pand, the greenish buds, whieh. are
three inches long, have a very noble
appearance."

To the scientific naturalist few sub-
jects are more full of deep interest
than the question of the geographical
distribution of animals. Dr. Sclater,
the active secretary of the Zoological
Society of London, has oontributcnl an
instructive paper, ^ On the Mammals
of Madagascar," to the second, number

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196

CfUaningt from the Naiural Hutory of the TVopies*

of the " Qaarterly Journal of Sdence,"
from which we gather the following
facts: As a general rule, it is foniKl
that the fiianas and florae of such coun-
tries as are most nearly contiguous do
most nearly resemble one another,
while, on the other hand, those tracts
of land which are furthest asunder are
inhabited by most different fonns of
animal and yegetable life. Now,
Madagascar, with the Mascarene isl-
ands, is a strange exception to the
rule ; for the forms of mammalia which
are found in these islands are Tery
different from ihe forms which occur
in the contiguous coast of Africa, al-
though the channel between Madagas-
car and the continent is in one place
not more than 200 miles: ^ The nu-
merous mammals of the orders Rumi-
nantia, Pachydermata, and Probos-
ddea, so characteristic o£ihe Ethiopian
fauna, are entirely absent from Mada-
gascar. The same is the case with
the larger species of camivora which
are found throughout the Afirican con*
tment, but do not extend into Mada-
gascar. Again, the highly organized
types of Quadrumana which prevail
in the forests of the mainland are ut-
terly wanting in the neighboring isl-
and ; their place being there occupied
by several genera of tue inferior fami-
ly of Lemurs,'' Dr. Sclater shows
tibat this anomaly is not confined to
the orders already enumerated, but
that similar irregularities prevail to a
greater or lesser extent in every part
of the mammalian series, and that, in
short, the anomalies presented to us of
the forms of life prevalent in the island
of Madagascar ^are so striking that
claims have been put forward in its
favor to be considered as a distinct
primary geographical region of the
earth." Dr. Sclater also draws atten-
tion to the very curious fact, ^ quite
unparalleled, as far as is hitherto
known, in any other fitona, that near-
ly two-thirds of the whole number of
known spedes of the mammals of this
island are members of one peculiar
group of Quadrumana." The family
of LemurideB oontains no less than

eight generic types, all diflerent from
those found in Africa and India, al-
though this group is also r^resented
in Africa by the abnormal form Pero-
dieticusy and in India by Nyeiiceiu$
and Lorisy two allied genera. Tbe
celebrated Aye Aye (^Cfhiromys Mad^
agaiearientis)^ a specimen of whic'i
anomalous animal is at present in the
new monkey-house in the Zoological
Society's Gardens, Regent's Pa^, is
considered by Prof. Owen to be more
nearly allied to some of the African
Galagos than to any other form of
animal. Of insectivora, the genera
Genieteiy JSncuius, and EchinogaUy
small animals resembling hedge-hogs
in outward appearance, axe thought to
be most nearly allied to an American
genus. From the anomalies in the
mammafian fauna of this island. Dr.
Sclater arrives at the following deduo
tions, which, however, as they are based
upon the hypothesis of the derivative
origin of species, cannot at present be
deemed altogether conclusive :

^^1. Madagascar has never been
connected with Africa, a* it at present
exists. This would seem probable
from the absence of certain aU-per-
vading Ethiopian types in Madagas-
car, such as Antsbpej HippopotamiUj
Feks, etc But, on the other hand, the
presence of Lemurs in Africa renders
it certain that Africa as it at present
exists, contains land that once formed
part of Madagascar.

^ 2. Madagascar and the Masca-
rene islands (which are universally
acknowledged to belong to the same
category) must have renuuned for a
long epoch separated finnn every other
part of the globe, in order to have ac-
quired the many peculiarities now ex-
hibited in their mammal fauna — e. g^
LemuTy GkiromySy Bupleres^ Gentetes^
etCd — to be elaborated by the gradual
modification of pre-existing forms.

^^3. Some land-connection must
have existed in foimer ages between
Madagascar and India, whereon the
original stock, whence the present
LemuridsB of Africa, Madagascar, and
India, are descended, flourished.

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GUcaUngs from the Natural Hhiory of Ad Tropiu.

197

^4 It must be likewise allowed
that sOToe sort of connectioa must also
have existed between Madagascar and
land which now forms part of the
new world — ^in order to permit the
derivation of the OetUeitruB from a
common stock with the SoUnodoUj
and to account for the &ct that the
Lemuridie, as a bodj, are certfunlj
more nearly allied to the weaker
forms of American monkejs than to
anj of the Simiidse of the old world*

^The anomalies of the mammal
fimna of Madagascar can best be ex*
plained bj supposing that, anterior to
the existence of Africa in its present
shape, a large continent occupied
parts of the Atlantic and Indian
oceans, stretching out toward (what is
now) America on the west, and to In-
dia and its islands on the east ; that
this continent was broken up into isl-
ands, of which some became amalgar
mated with the present continent of
Ainca, and some possibly with what is
now Asia — and that in Madagascar
and the Mascarene islands we have
existing relics of this great continent"

We fam would have lingered on the
natural products of this interesting isl-
and, to drink of the refreshing liquid
furnished by the traveller-tree, and to
admire the sago palms and other veg-
etable forms, but space forbids our
dwdling longer on the natural produc-
dT the tropics.* We could

• In onr own territory of the Sefchelles iBlands,
4* to 5* 8., 800 miles N. E. of the great island
Jnat aUnded to, we aee one of the strangest of
vesetable productions, the doable oocoa-nut, or
L^olcea. which was fhlly described bT Mr. Ward
in the *' Jonmal of the Linoean Society, 1S64:"
^'' The shortest period before the tree pats forth its
bnda is SO years, and 100 years must elapse before
it attains its rail growth. One plant In the
nrden at Goremmcnt Honse, planted 15 years
Mot. la qoite in its infiincy, about 16 feet in
height, bnt with no stem yet visible, the long
leaTee shooting from, the earth like the Travel
ler*s Palm {JJrania apteioea)^ and much resem-
bling it in shape, bat macn larger. Uolike the
eocoa-nnt trees, wnlch bend to every gale and are
sever quite straight, the cooo-de-mer trees are as
upright as iron pillars. At the ago of 80 the
trees first pnt forth blossoms. The female tree
alone produces the nut, and is 6 feet shorter than
the male, which atulns a height of 100 feet
Wtom fructification to fkiU maturity a period of
neariy 10 years elapses.'* But the remarkable
point is the arrangement of the roou, unlike anv
otlier tree. ^'The baae of the trunk is of a bul-
ton* ffDim, and tfaia bulb flto into a natural bowl

have spoken of the aspects of tropical
nature as it appears in Borneo, Java^
Sumatra, and other islands of the Pa*
ciitc ocean, but we must stop. We
ought not, however,' to conclude these
gleanmgs without a brief notice of
Dr. Hartwig's popular book, whose
title we have placed at the head oi
this article. There are those who
look with contempt on popular science
of all kinds, and regard with undis-
guised aversion such compilations as
the one befoi:e us. We do not share
these feelings in the least degree; on
the contrary, we welcome most heart-
ily such introductions to the study of
natural history. True, they may be
sometimes of little scientific value,
but they are very useful stepping-
stones to something more solid. They
are more especially intended for the
young, but those of mature years may
derive much profit by a perusal of
many of these works, and even the
naturalist may read them with pleas-
ure and instruction. The numerous
beautifully illustrated and carefully
compiled works on natural history,
such as the book before us, together
with ** The Sea and its Living Won-
ders," by the same writer, with Rout-
ledge's admirable ^'Natural History,"
and several of the Christian Know-
ledge Society's publications, which
have appeared within the last few
years, are an encouraging sign of the
growing interest which the rising gen-
eration takes in the study of the great
Creator's works, and we heartily wish
them <' God-speed."

or socket about %X fe«t in diameter and 1.V f<M>t
in depth, narrowing to the bottom. This bowl
is pierced with hundreds of small oval holes
about the size of thimbles, with hollow tubes
corresponding on the outside, through which the
roots penetrate the ground on all sides, never, 9
however, becoming attached to the bowl, their
partial elasticity aflbrdiDg an almost impercep-
tible, bnt verv uecessary ptov to the parent stem

„«» ^^ ascertained, -

It has been found quite perfect and entire in
every respect 00 years after the tree has been cut
down. At Curiense many sockeU aw still re-
maining which are known to have belonged to
trees cut down by the first setUers in the Island

£74:2)." One of these sockets is to be seen in tha
naenm of woods at Kew.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

198 WitUer aigru.

Tram Ciliamben^s Journal.

WINTER SIGNS.

Links upon the forehead <

Strokes alike of time and grief,

Branches from the heart beneath
That will never bear a leaf.

Gome the smnmer, come the spring,
Still tfaej keep their wintry hue ;

Deepening, stretching o'er the brow.
Shadows lift them into view.

Stnught and crooked, right and left.
On the strong and on the weak —

Upward to the hoary head.
Downward to the hollow cheek.

Shadows from the life within,
Tarrying ere they pass away.

Plant these st^ns of sorrow there,
Growing in the night and day.

light that fills the eye afresh
From some inward moving grace,

Casting from it, as a sun.
Quiet rajrs upon the ftboe—

Makes these rots of time appear
Winding, widening in theur space,

Drawing loving eyes and thoughts
All their history to trace.

Whilst upheaved by a smile,
Radiant in the breast of light,

These eternal scores <^ grief
Tell of many an inner night

Stories come up from their roots.
Half unfolded in theu* course,

Showing how a hundred pangs
Long ago became their soureei

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M-MJbw Bm; or, The Tut «f FHtwrU^.

199

From The Jjuap,

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTDEITT.

BY BOBXRT CUBTIS.

GHAPTSB XT*

Aht help which old Mordock waik
in the habit of getting from his son
upon the iarm, and it was at no time
of much yalue, either in labor or ad«
Tice, had latterly dwindled down to a
mere careless questioning as to how
matters were going on, and his father
b^an to fear that he was '^ beginning
tQ go to the bad.'* Poor old man, how
little of the truth he knew !

There was now always something
cranky and unpleasant in Tom's man-
ner. He was often from home for
days together, and, when at home,
often out at night until very late; and
if questioned in the kindest manner by
his father upon the subject, his an-
swers were snappish and unsatis&c-
tory. Poor old Mick — deluded Mick
— ^laid down both his wanderings and
his crankiness to the score of luis love
for Winny Cavana, and the uncer-
tainty of faifl suit

From one or two encouraging and
cheery expressions his father had ad-
dressed to him, Tom knew this to be
the view his fitther had taken of his
case, and he was quite willing to in-
dulge the delusion. Now that mat-
ters had come to an open rupture be-
tween him and Winny— -for notwith-
standing his father's hopes, he had
none — ^it was convenient for him that
his father should continue of the
same mind— nay, more, his father
himself had suggested a step, which,
if he could manage with his usual
ability, might turn to his profit, and
relieve to a certain extent some of the
perplexities by which he was beset

Old Mick had spent a long and fiitigu-
ing day, not meroly in his per^rina-
tions throu^ the farm, but from anx-
iety and watching, having observed

Winny go out earlier than usual, and
seeing that Tom soon after had follow-
ed her down the road. He was rather
surprised in about an hour afterward
to see Winny return alone, and at not
having seen Tom for neariy two hours
later in the day, when he return*
ed cross and disappointed, as we
have seen. The ^ untowlird drcnm-
stances," detailed in the conversation
after dinner with his son, had not the
same depressing effects upon the old
man as upon Tom ; for he really be-
lieved that they were not only not
past cure, but according to his notions
of how such matters generally went
on, that tiiey were on a fair road to
success. He therefore enjoyed a
night's sound sleep, while Tom lay
tossing and tumbling, and planning
and scheming, — and occasionally curs-
ing Edward Lennon, whom he could
not persuade himself was not, as his
father said, at the bottom of all this.
It was near morning, therefore, before
he had fretted himself to sleep. .

Early the next day old Mick deter-
mined to ascertain the actual state of
facts. He was up betimes, and hav-
ing seen what was necessary to be
done for the day upon the farm, he
set the operations going, and returned
to breakfast Tom hful not yet stir-
red; and as Nancy had told the old
masther that she ^ heered him strug-
gling with the bed-clothes, an' talkin'
to lumself until nearly morning," he
would not aUow her to call him, but
went to breakfast by himself, telling
her to have a fresh pot of tay, an' a
daoent breakfast for him when he got
up. ^ Poor fellow," he said to himself,
^ I did not think that girl had so firm
ahoultof himu"'

Old Mick's anticipations of how
matters really stood, and his confix

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SCO

ABrHalhw Eoe ; ar^ The Test of A(tff%.

dence in Ned Cayana's finnness, were
doomed to be shaken, if not altogether
disappointed. Old Ned saw him
hanging ^ about the borders" with a
watdiful look directed toward his
house. He took it for granted that
Tom had mentioned something of
what had occurred to him, and he
knew at once what he was lingering
about for.

Ned had undoubtedlj led old
Murdock to suppose that he would be
"as stout as a bull" with Winny
about manying his son; but when
Ned had spoken thus sternly upon the
subject, he had not anticipated any
opposition upon Wiuny's part to the
mafch. He did not see how she
could object, nor did he see why.
Mick had imbibed some slight idea of
the kind from what Tom had told
him; but Ned had combated this idea
with great decision, and some stern-
ness ; more by way of showing his
neighbor how he could exercise his
parental authority, than from any
great dread that he would ever be
called on to assert it.

But Ned Cavana knew not the na-
ture of his own heart. He had mis-
calculated the extent of his love for
Winny, or the influence her affec-
tionate and devoted life could exer-
cise over that love, in a case where
such a dispute might come between
them. Thus we have seen him yield
to that influence almost without argu-
ment, and certainly without a harsh
or angry word. When it came to the
point that he had to confront her tears,
where was the fury with which he met
old Murdock*s insinuations and sug-
gestions ? — ^where the threats of cut-
ting her off, not with but tvithoiU a
shilling, and leaving it all to the
Church? — ^where the steady determi-
nation with which he had resolved to
^ bring her to her senses ?" — all, all
lost in the affectionate smile which
beamed upon her pleading love.

Ned Cavana knew now that old
Murdock was on the watch for him.
He believed that Tom had told hin^
what had taken place between him

and Winny ; and although he did not
dread any alteration in his promise to
his daughter, he felt that he could
deal more stoutly with old Murdock
with the recollection of Winn/s tears
fresh on her cheeks, than if the mat-
ter were to lie over for any time. He
therefore strolled through the farm-
yard, and out on the lane we have al-
ready spoken of, and turned down
toward the fields at the back of hia
garden. This movement was not, of
course, unnoticed by the man who waa
on the watch for some such, and accord-
ingly he sloped down toward the gate,
at which he and his son had held the
conversation — a conversation wliich
had confirmed Winny in her precon-
ceived opinion of Tom Murdock's
character and motives.

The two old men thus met once
again at the same spot at which the
reader first saw them together.

" Fm glad you cum out, Ned," said
Murdock, "for I was watin to sec
you, to tell you about Tom. He done
his part yesterda' illegant, an' you
may spake to the little girl now as
soon as you plaise."

^^ I have spoken to her, Mick. She
tould me all about it herself, last
night"

« Well, she didn't resave Tom at
all the way he thought she would, nor
the way she led him to think she
would, aidher. I hope she lould tJie
thruth to you, Ned, and didn't make
b'lief to be shy an' resarved, as she
did to Tom. Poor boy, he's greatly
down about it"

" She did ; she tould me the whole
thruth, Mick avic, and it's all no use ;
she won't marry Tom — ^that's the long
an' the short of it"

" Why, tlien, she mightn't be cosh-
erin wid him the way she was, Ned,
and ladin the poor young boy asthray
as to her intintions when she brought
him to the point"

" My little girl never done anything
of the kind, Mick ; she'd soom to
doit"

"Well, no matther.; she done it
now, Ned; and as for Tom, he's the

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ABrHatbyw Eve; or, Th$ Test of Futur^.

201

rery boj that Td oather humbug a
little girl, nor allow her to humbug
him. Did jou spake stout to her,
Ned?"

^I said all that was necessary,
IGck awochal : but I seen it was no
use, an' I wouldn't disthress the cra-
thnr."

^Disthress the crathur, aniaw !
Athen may be it^s what you don't
much care how that poor boy 'ithin
there is disthressed through her
muns."

^As for that, Hick, it needn't, nor
it won't, disthress Tom a bit. There's
many a fine girl in the parish that i'd
answer Tom betther nor my little girl ;
and when I find that she's not for him,
Mick awochal, I tell you I won't dis-
thress the colleen by harsh mains, so
say no more about it"

^ Athen, Ned, I think you tuck it
aisy enogh aflher all you tould me
d'other day ; you'd do this, an' you'd
do that, an' you'd cut her off wid a
shillin'. an' you'd bring her to her
senses, an' what wouldn't you do, Ned ?
I tould you to be studdy, or she'd cum
OYer you wid her piUaver; and I tell
you now what I tould you then, that it
is all through the mains of that pauper
Lomon she has done this — ^a purty
icauhawn for her to be wastin' your
mains an' your hard earnin's upon.
Arrah, Ned, I wondher you haven't
more sense than to be deludhered by
that beggarman out of your little girl
an' your money."

<^No, Mick, young Lennon has
nothing to say to it ; if he never was
bom, Winny wouldn't marry Tom. I
would not misbelieve Winny on her
word, let alone her oath; an' she
tould me she tuck her oath to Tom
that she'd never marry him. He tax-
ed her wid young Lennon, an' so did
I ; an' she decl^^ an' I believe her
there too, Mick, that there never was
a word between them on such a sub-
ject ; an' let there be no more now be-
tween UB. It can't be helped. But I
will not disthress my little ^rl by
spakin' to her any more about Tom."

''Oh, Tery well, Ned; that'll do.

But, be the book, Tom's not the boy
that'll let himself be med a fool of by
any one ; an' Pm the very fellow that
is able an' willin' to back him up
in it."

^ Athen l^hat do you mane, Mick ?
— ^for the devil a wan of me can un-
dherstan' that threat, af it beant the
law you mane, an' sure the gandher in
the yard beyant id have more sense
than to think iv that My little girl
never held out the smallest cumhithef
upon Tom; but, instead iv that, she
tells me that she always med scarse iv
herself wheen he was to the fore. So
af it be law you mane, Mick, you may
do your worst."

^ No, it isn't the law I mane, Ned*
Law is dear at best, an' twiste as dear
at worst ; but I mane to say that I'll
back up poor Tom 'ithin there, that's
brakin' his heart about Winny ; an' if
you have any regard for her, you'll do
the same thing; an' you'll see we'll
bring the thing round, as we ought;
that's what I mane. The girl can't
deny but what she med much iv Tom,
until that other spalpeen cum across
her. Tom's no fool, an' knows what a
girl mains verj' weU."

^ She does deny it, Mick, an' so she
can. But there's no use, I tell you, in
sayin' any more about it I can see
plane an' aisy enough that Winny
isn't for him. I tould her I wouldn't
strive to force her likin' or dislikin',
an' I won't ; so just tell Tom that the
girl is in earnest She tould him so
herself, an' you may tell htm the same
thing. He can't think so much about
her, Micky as you let on, for there
never was any courting betune them
from first to last I'll spake to you
no more about it, Mick, an' you
needn't spake to me."

With this final resolve, Ned turned
his back completely round upon his
neighbor, and walked with a hasty but
firm step into the house.

Old Mick stood for some moments
looking after him in a state of perplex-
edsurprise. He had some fears, though
they were not very great, that Winny's
influence over her father was si^-

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Att-ffalbw Boe; or, The Tut of ISOmitf.

ciently strong to determine him ac-
eording to her wishes, if she was real-
Ij averse to a match with his s<» ; bat
tiiis latter was a point upon which he
had scarcely any fears at all ; except
such as were suggested 6y the hints
his son himself had thrown ont about
young Lennon. Upon this part of the
case he had spoken to Ned in such a
way as to make him determined to be
very strict and decided in his opposi-
lion to any leaning on his daughter's
part in that quarter.

Old Mick, as he stood and locked,
was perplexed on both these parts of
the case. If he believed that Winny
Cavana had really and decidedly re-
fused to marry his son, he could only
do so upon the supposition that young
Lennon was the mainspring of the
whole movement And, again, to sup-
pose she had preferred a ^* secret col-
loguing with that pauper," behind her
&ther^8 back, to an open and straight-
forward match with a rich young man,
and what he called a handsomer man
than ever Lennon was, or ever would
be, and with her father's full consent,
was what he could not bring himself
to believe of any sensible girL
But this he did believe, that if *" that
young whelp" was reaJly not at the
bottom of Winny's refusid, a marriage
with his son, be it brought about by
whai means it could, would end in a
reconciliation, not only of Winny to so
great a match, but of old Ned, as a ne-
cessary consequence, to his daughter's
Acquiescence.

With these thoughts, and countex^
thoughts, he too turned toward his
house, where he found Tom just
going to his breakfast, in no very good
humor with the past, the present, or
the future.

His father ** bid him the time of
day," and said ^ he had to look after a
cow tliat was on for cavin'," an' that
he'd be back by the time he had done
his breakfast This was a mere piece
of consideration upon old Mick's part

Loss of appetite and uneasiness of
manner in a handsome young man of
two-and-twenty is unhesitatingly set

down by the old crones of a parish to
his being ^ in love," and they are sel-
dom at a loss to sapi^y the coUeet^
dha$8 to whom these symptoms are at*
tribatable. In Tom's case, however,
there were other matters than love
which were accountable for die miser-
able attempt at breakfast he had made^
notwithstanding the elaborate prepar-
ations Nancy Feehily had made to
tempt him. His father was surprised
to find him so soon following him to
the fields. But Tom, knowing his fa-
ther's energy of action when a matter
was on his mind, suspected he had noi
been to that hour of the day withoirt
managing an interview with old Gav*
ana, and was on the fidgets to know
what passed. But love— as love--had
nothing whatever to say to his want of
relish for so good a breakfast as had
been set before him.

He met his father returning toward
the house, not far from the celebrated
gate already so often mentioned ia
this story. The spot where they now
met was a litUe more favorable for a
conference than the gate in question,
for, unlike it, there was no private
bower for eavesdroppers to secrete
themselves in.

'< Well, father," said Tom, breaking
into the subject at once, ^ have you
seen the old fogie about Winny ?"

^ I have, Tom, an' matthers is worse
nor I thought She has oum round
him most complatdy ; for4ie present
anyhow."

** I told you how it would be, father,
and be d — I"

*" Whist, Tom, don't be talking that
way ; there's wan thing Fm afther b^
ing purty sure of, an' that is, that that
spftlpeen has nothin' to say to it It^s
all perverseness just for a while, an'
she'll cum round afther a bit"

« Well, father. 111 cut my stick fbr
that bit, be it long or short ; so tell me,
what can you do for me about money ?
You know if she was never in the
place, it's nothing to keep me here
stravaging about die road."

"Thrue for you, Tom avic U
isn't easy, however, kyin' a man's

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JJX^Eattow JShe; ar^ I%e Ihti of Futurity,

SOS

ittiid upon what you'd want wid 700
fixrastart; but sure 1117 credit is good
in the bank, an' sure rU pat m7 name
upon a bill-etamp hit 70a for twenty
or thirty pounds. Take 017 advice
an' don't go past 70iir aanfa in Ar-
magh. Tom, she's an illiga&t fine
woman, an' will resare 70U wid a
eeade ndUe afaUhaj an' reyive 70UOUt
an' out afore 70a put a month over 70u.
There's not a man in Armagh has a
betther thrade than her husbuid, Bill
Wilson the caipenter — cabinet-maker,
I blieve the7 call him— an' b'lieve
my words, shell make the most of her
brotfaer^s son. Who knows, Tom avic ?
Airah, ma7be 7on'd do betther down
there nor at home. An7 wa7 Winn7
won't be gone afore 70a come back,
an' if we can't manage wan thing ma7-
be we would another — ikig um^ thee T*

<" Well, I hope so ; but, father, Til
be off before Sunda7, and this is Wed-
>e8da7.''

^ Toall have lashins of time, Tom ;
bat the sorra wan but I'll be ver7
kMl7; for although, Tom, 7on do be
vandhering from home b7 da7, and
stopping out late sometimes b7 night,
sore I know 7oa're not f»i off, an' I
alwa7S hear 70U lettin' 70ur9e]f in be-
tone night an' momin'. Though Cae-
sar doesn't bark at 70U, I hear him
whinin' an' shufflin' when 70u're com-
ing to the back doore?"

^ No matter about that now, father ;
I soppose I can get the mone7 to-
morrow or after, and start for m7
aanfs?"

^An7 minute, Tom. Fm never
without a bill-stamp in the house in
r^^aid of the fiurs. Gome in, and I'll
dhraw it out at wanst, an' I'll engage
the7'Il give 70U Uie mone7 ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^
bank ; ^on't be the laste taste aleared
oftha^Tom."

Whether Tom then intended to be
guided b7 his father's advice, and not
go past his aunt's in Armagh, it is not
eafl7 to 8a7 ; but at all events he ^ let
on^ that he would not do so. When
lie got his heeb loose, with a trifle of
cash in his pocket, he could torn his
■Cepe m a&7 directiim he wished.

The7 ^®B returned to the house,
and old Mick, putting on his specta-
cles, opened a table-drawer in the par-
lor, where he kept his writing mate*
rials, accounts, receipts, etc. After
some discussion, which had well-nigh
ended in an argument, as to whether
the amount should be twent7 or thirly'
pounds, a bill was ultimate^ drawn
b7 the son upon the father for the for-
mer sum, at three months. Tom had,
other reasons than the mere increase
of ten pounds in the amount, for wish-
ing to have the word thirt7 instead
of twent7 written in the bill ; however,
he could not screw more than the lat-
ter sum out of the old man, which he
said was ample to take him to his
aunt's in Armagh, where he'd get
lashins an' lavins of the best of ever7-
thing. Tom knew that for this pur-
pose it would be ample, and therefore
failed to bring forward an7 arguments
to sustain his view as to Uie necessit7
of making it thirt7; but as it was
he himself who wrote it out, he patted
the blotting-paper over it in great
haste--a matter which was not, of
course, observed b7 the old man, nor
if it had been would he have supposed
there was an7thing unusual, much
less for a purpose, in the act. The
&ther having read it carefull7 over,
and seeing that it was all correct,
wrote his name with some dignity of
manner across the bill. This portion
of the writing Tom took care to let
dry without any blotting at all, for he
held it to the fire instead. Neither
did the old man observe this unusual
course, the manifest mode being to
have used the blottmg-paper, as in the
first instance.

The matter being now thus far per-
fected, Tom asked his father if he
could have Blackberry— <me of the
farm horses — ^to go into C. O. S. early
next morning.

«An' welcome, Tom, if he was
worth a hundred pounds," said the old
man, locking the drawer. <

Digitized by VjOOQIC

M-jffaOow Bw; cr, Th$ Te$t of Fuiuriif.

OHAPTEB XYL

ToH spent the remaiDder of that
day veiy quietly, most of it in his own
room. His first employment, what-
ever it may have been , was over an
old portfolio, where he kept his own
writing materials. What were the
chief subjects of his caligraphy is not
known. Perhaps love-letters to such
of his numerous enamaratas as could
read may have formed a portion, nor
is it impossible but the police might
have given a trifle to have laid their
hands upon some others. Neither
were likely to see the light, however,
as Tom Murdoch kept that old port-
folio carefolly locked up in his box.

Tlie next morning at an unusually
early hour for him Tom proceeded
upon Blackberry, fuUy caparisoned
with the best saddle and bridle in the
place, to C. O. S.; where, afler ten
oVlodL, he found no difficulty in pro-
curing cash upon his father's accept-
ance.

Now, although in the first instance
Tom had no notion of stopping at his
aunt's in Armagh, or perhaps of go-
ing there at aU, upon reflection he
changed his mind altogether upon the
subject He had some congenial
spirits there beside his aunt — spirits
with whom he occasionally had had
personal ccnnmunication as well as
more frequent epistolary correspon-
dence. Beyond Armagh, therefore,
upon second thoughts, he resolved
not to go upon this occasion. As to
any depression of spirits on account
of Winny Cavana, he had none, ex-
cept the loss of her fortune, which
would have stood to him so well in his
present circumstances. And here he
remembered that his father liad told
him the interest of 'Uhat same" was
all he could have touched, and even
that at only three per cent.; so that
for the mere present he had done as
well, if not better. What he had
drawn out of the bank upon his fa-
ther's credit, would settle the two ha-
rassing and intricate cases, which
two different attorneys, on the part of

thoM whom he ha4 »oBt grievously-
wronged, had threat^ied to expose in
a court of law. He would have some
over — ^he took care of that — to take
him to Armagh and back, where he
could not manage Ihxs time to go at
the expense of ^ the fund." He did
not purpose, however, to stop very
long at his aunt's. He would
tell Winny when he came back that
her refusal of him had driven him
away— 4ie knew nor cared not whither ;
but that he found it impossible to live
without sometimes seeing her, if it
was only from his own door to hers :
yes, he would follow that business up
the moment he returned. In the
meantime it might not be without
some good effect his being absent for a
short time.

Such were the thoughts and plans
with which Tom, after he had settled
with the attorneys, \eh his poor old
father, we may say completely alone ;
for after the rather sharp words which
had taken pkce between the two old
men, he could hardly continue his cus-
tomary visits, or half-casual, half-pro*
jected meetings with Ned Cavana,
by their respective mearings. Hith-
erto in this respect, more than in ac-
tual visits, the intercourse between
these two old men had been habitual,
indeed it may be said of didly occur-
rence, mutually watched for. If one
saw the other overlooking his men,
either sowing or reaping, or planting
or digging, according to the time <2
the year, the habit almost amounted to
a rule, that, whichever saw the other
first, quit his own men, and sloped
over toward his neighbor to have a
look at what was going on, and liaving
there exhausted the pros and cons of
whatever the work might be, a gen-
eral chat was kept up and the visit re-
turned on the spot.

Now, however, matters were to a
great extent changed. This ^^unto-
wiurd circumstance " between Tom
Murdoch and Winny Cavana, to-
gether with the subsequent converse-
tion upon the subject between the Aei-
thers, rendered this friendly inter*

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JJ^SaOow Eve; or, Th^ Test of Fuiuritif.

305

coarse impossible. From all bis son
had told him, old Mick thought Wimiy
Gavana had treated him badly, and
be considered that old Ned had ^'gone
back of his word" to himself. He was
a pluckj, proud old cock, and his ad-
rice to Tom would be ^^ to see it out
with the pair of them, without any

What he meant by ^seeing it out^
he hardly knew himself, for he had
repodialed the law in a most decided
manner when taxed with it by Ned.
What, tben, could he mean by " see-
ing it out?* Perhaps Tom would not
require his advice upon the subject.

l^'rom this day forth, however, old
Mick was not the man he used to be.
A man at Ids age, however well he
may have worn — ay, even to have
obtained the name of an evei^green—
generally does so having his mind at
ease as well as his body in health—
the one begets the other; and so an
old man thrives, and often looks as
well at seventy as he did at sixty.
But these old evergreens sometimes
begin to fail suddenly if the cold
wind of disappointment blows roughly
upon their hitherto happy hearts ; and
Tom Murdock was not three weeks
away, when the remarks of the people
returning from the chapel, respecting
old Mick, were that ^' Uiey never saw
a man so gone in the time." And the
fact was so.

Old Mick Murdock had been all
his life a cheerful, chatty man, one
with whom it was a comfort to ^< be a
piece of the road home/' Moreover,
he had always been erect in person,
with a pair of cheeks like a scarlet
Croflon apple— not the occasional
smooth flush of delicacy, but the con-
stant hard rough tint of health. There
were many young men in the parish
whom a walk alongside of old Mick
Murdock for a couple of miles would
put out of breath, while you would not
see a heave, however slight, out of
old Mick's chest

Look on him now : ^ he has not a
w<ffd to throw to a dog," as the saying
has it ; he is b^tnntng to stoc^ in his

gait, and more than once already he
has struck his heel against the ground
in walking. As yet it is not a drag,
and those indications of a break-up
in his constitution are comparatively
slight Ere long, however, you will
see him with a stick, and you will be
hardly able to recognize him as the
Mick Murdock of a few months be-
fore.

Tom, as we have seen, having 8et>
tied with the attorneys, started for his
aunt's ; where, as his ftither had pre-
dicted, he was received with open
arms, and a joyful clapping of hands
and a ceade mille afaltha. ^ Oh, then,
Tom, avic macree, but it^s you that's
welcome ; an' shure I needn't ax you
how you are. Oh, but it's you that's
grown the fine young man since I seen
you last An' letme see — ^how long ago
is that now, Tom agra? If 11 be four
years coming Eastfare Sunda' next
since I was down in Rathcashmor^
An' how is Mick a wochal? an'
how's herself, Tom, the 'colleen dhass/
you know?" And she gave him a
poke with her finger between the ribs.
^ Ah, Tom avic, yon needn't look so
shy ; shure I know all about it, an' why
wouldn't I? It'll be an illigant match
for the pair iv ye ; as good for the wan
as for the other-^coming Shrafl, Tom,
eh ? In troth Winny will be a comfort
to you, as well as a creedit; thafft
what she will, won't she, Tom ?"

''Let me alone now, aunt; Fm
tired after the journey ; and it^s not of
her I'm thinking."

" See that now-^- arra na hodduh,
Tom, don't be afther telling me that ;
shure didn't Mick himself write to me
two or three times to let me know
how matthers was going on, and the
grand party he gev on Hallow-Eve,
and the fun ye aU had, and how you
danced wid her a'most the whole
night"

^ Nonsense, aunt ! Did he tell yoa
how anybody else danced?"

^ No, the sorra word he said about
any wan that was there, barrin' your-
self an' herself."

*^ Well, never heed her now. Til

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906

M-HaOaw Eve; &r, The Te$t of Fuiuritg.

tell you more aboat her to-morrow or
next day, and maybe ask your advice
upon the subject at the same time."

Their ccmversation was here inter-
Euptedy as Tom thought very oppor^
tunely, by the entrance of Bill Wil-
son, whose welcome for his wife's
nephew was as hearty, in a manner^
as that which he had received from
herself. The conversation, of course,
now " became general ;" and Bill Wil-
ron, although he had never been out
of Armagh, seemed to have every-
body down about Tom's country pat
by heart, for he asked for them all by
name, not forgetting, although he left
her to the last, to ask for Winny Ca-
vana. It was evident to Tom, fit>m
his manner, that he was up to the
project in that quarter; and as evi-
dent that, like his aunt, he knew noth-
ing of how matters up to this had
turned out, or how they were likely
to end. He answered his uncle's
questions, however, with reasonable
self-possession; and his aunt, having
perceived from his last observation
te herself that there was ^a screw
loose," turned the conversation very
naturally to the subject of Tom's
physical probabilities, saying,

'^ Athen, Tom jewel, maybe it's
what you're hungry, an' would like to
take something to eat aforcc dinner;
Aure an' shure it's the first question I
ought to have asked you."

« No,, aunt, I thank you kindly, TU
take nothmg until your dinner; there's
a friend of mine uves in the skirts of
the town; I want to see him, and 111
be back in less than an hour."

"A friend of yours, Tom? athen
shure if he is, he ought to be a friend
of ours ; who is he, Tom a wochal ?"

" Oh, no, aunt, you never heard of
him. He's a boy I have a message
to from, a friend in the country."

"Why, then, Tom, you'll be want*
ing to know ihe way in this strange
place, an' shure FU send the girl wid
you to show you. Shure how could you
know, an' you neverin Armagh afore ?"

"No, aunt, I say, I have a tongue
in my head, and Pm not an onshiouffh.

ni find him out without taking your
girl from her business."

"Athen, Tom jewel, whoever
bought you for an onehumghy would lay
out his money badly, I'm thinking;
an' although you were never in this
big city afore, the devil a bit afeared
I am but you'll find your way, an*
well have lashins iv everything tiiat'a
good for you, and a ceademUe afaUhoj
when you come back."

Tom then lefl them, bidding them
a temporary good-bye. He £d not
think it at all necessary to enlighten
his aunt to the fact that he had pai<]^
periodical visits to Armagh from time
to time, and had on these occasions
passed her very door. But these vis-
its were of short duration, and have
been only hinted at They were suf^
ficient, however, to fiuniUarise him
with the portions of the city to which
he now directed his steps. But as
we are not aware of the precise spot
to which he went, nor acquainted witk
those whose society he sought, we
shall not follow him.

His aunt, afler he had \^ was in
no degree sparing in her praise of him
to her husband, who had never seen
him before, but who indorsed every
word she said with die greatest
promptitude and good-humor, " as far
as he could see." ,

Bill Wilson was no fooL He gave
his wife's nephew a hearty and a sin-
cere welcome, and he knew it would
be an ungracious thing not to acqui-
esce in all that she said to his advan-
tage ; but it was an indiscreet slip to
add the words "as far as he could
see." It implied a caution on his
part which did not say much for the
confidence he ought to have felt in his
wife's opinion, and went merely to
corroborate her praises of his personal
appearance.

"^As far as you ca^ see,' Bill I
Well, indeed, that far you can find no
fault at all, at all; that's shure an'
sartin. Where would you find the
likes iv him, as far as that same goes,
William Wilson ?-Hiot in Armagh,
let me tdl you* I ax you did joa

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JU-BaBaw Hoe; ifr, I%$ TeH of Fuhtri^.

207

erer aee a finer head iv hair, or a
finer pair iv ejes in a man's head^ or a
liandaomer nose, or a purtier mouth?
An' the whiskers, Bill!—- ah, them's
the dark whiskers from SlieTe-dhn;
none of your moss-odlored whiskers
thai 70a see about here, BilL Look
at the hoith It him ! He's no lepra*
haon, Bin Wilson ; an' I saj if 70a
go oat an' walk the town for three
hoars, 7oa11 not meet the likes iv him
^ 70a come hack again to where he
is Umsel'."

" Faix, an' I won't try that, Mary,
fwr I believe every word you're afther
sayin'. But, shure, I didn't mane
to make Httle of the 7oung man at
alL**

^ Yott siud ' as fiur as. you could see,'
Bill ; an' shore we all know how far
that is. But amn't I tellin' 70a what
is be7ant 70ur sight, — what he is to
the backbone, for larnin', an' eveiy-
thin' that's good, manly, an' honest?
There now, Bill, I hope 70U don't
misdoubt me^^-' as £sir as 70a can
see,' indeed !"

*^ Well, Mary, I meant nothing
against him by that; indeed I be-
lieve, and Tm shure, h^'s as good as
lie's handsome. But I must go out
DOW to the workshop to look after the
men. Let me know when he comes
back."

Tom was not so long away as he
had intended The person whom he
went to look for was not at home, and
he returned to his aunt at once. He
had not many acquaintances in Ar-
magh, and they were such as might be
better pleased with a visit after dark
than so early in the day.

Before ^Qie dinner" was prepared,
Tom bad another chat with his aunt,
and, as a matter of course, she could
not altogether avoid the subject of
Winny Gavana. She had been given
to understand by her brother that a
aucoessful courtship was carrying on
between Tom and her. But the hu-
mor in which Tom had received her
first quizzing upon the subject at once
told that intelligent lady of the ^* loose
screw" on some side of the question.

Upon so important a matter, a married
woman, and own aunt to such a fine
young man, one of the parties con-
cerned, Mrs. Wilson could not permit
herself to remain ignorant Her dip
rect questions in the first instance, and
her dextrous cross-examination after-
ward, showed Tom the folly of hop>
ing to evade a full confession of his
having been refused ; and it may be
belieinsd that he set forth in no small
degree how ill-treated he had been
by the said Winny Cavana atut her
fisither.

His aunt consoled him, so far as
she could, with hopes that matters
might not be so bad as he apprehend-
ed ; reminding him at the same time
of the extent of the sea, and the num-
ber of good fishes which must still be
in it uncaught. That shrewd woman
could also perceive, from Tom's man*
ner, under his ccmfession, as well as
his first ill-humor, that the loss of
Winny Cavana's fortune, and the re-
version of her fat farm, were more
matters of regret to him than the loss
of herself.

^ And why not ?* she thought, un-
der the impression of Winny's ill-
treatment of such a fine han'som'
young fellow as her nephew. ^ Share,
coul^'t he have his pick an' choice
of any ^1 in that, or in any other
parish; ay, or among her aoquaint<^
ances in Armagh, for that matter?
But as for young Lennonl she was
sartin shure Winny couldn't be such a
bom idgiot as to make much of the
Hkes of him where Tom was to the
fore."

She thus encouraged her nephew,
taking much the same view of his
case as old Mick had done, and giving
him pretty much the same advice—
*^ not to dhraw back at all, but to per-
savare an' get a hoult in her by hook
or by crook, an' thrust to a reconcili-
ation aflherwards. He might take
her w(H:d for it, it was more make
b'lief than anything else. Don't give
it up, Tom ; them sort of girls like
persavarince; I know I did, a wochal,
in my time. What's on her mind is,

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808

JU^JBdttow JBoe; or^ The Tut of FfUuritg.

liiftt it's ftfliher her money joa are, an'
BOt herselV

^ The devil a much ahe's out there,
annt; but I wiah I could make her
think otherwbe."

^ Lissen here, Tom ; ^ a council's
no command,' thej say, an' my advice
is this. Let on when you go back that
you could get an illigant fine girl in Ar-
magh wid twiste her fortune ; but that
nothing would tempt you to forsake
your own little girl at home, that was
a piece iy your heart since ye were
both the hoith of a creepeen ; do you
see ? an' Fll back you up in it Tell
her she may bestow her fortune upon
Kate Mulvey or any one she likes ;
that herself is all you want Tou
know she won't do that when it comes
to the point"

^ Not a bad plan, aunt But sure
I should let on to my father, and to
every one in the neighborhood; and
they'll be asking me who she is, and
about her father and her mother, and
all about her ; and I should have an-
swers ready, if I mean the thing to
look like the truth."

'< An' won't I give you all that as
pat as A, B, G ? Don't I know the very
girl that'll answer to a T, Tom P'

" Why then, aunt dear, mightn't you
bring me across her in earnest?"

^ Faix, an' I could not, Tom, for a
very good reason — that Fm not ac-
quainted wid her, except to see her
sometimes ; an' I know her name, an'
who she is, an' her father's name, an'
how he med his money. They're as
proud as paycocks, I can tell you ; an
nayther the wan nor the other would
look the same side iv the street wid
the likes iv us, Tom ; but they don't
know that at Rathcash ; an' shure, if
Winny thries to find out about them,
she'll find that you're tellin' the truth
as far as the names an' money goes,
an m let on to be as thick as two
pickpockets wid them."

Tom was silent. The closing words
of his aunt's speech made him wish
that he could pick some of their pock-
ets of about a hundred pounds.

The plan, however, seemed a good

one, and had the effect of putting Tom
Murdoch into good humor ; and when
Bill Wilson joined them at dinner
Tom was so agreeable and chatty, that
Bill Uiought his wife, although she
was Tom's aunt, had not said a word
too much for him; and he regretted
more than ever that he had used the
words ^< so fiar as he could see." He
anticipated — ^nay, he dreaded — ^thai
they would be brought up to him
again that night witi^ greater force
than ever.

CHAPTEB XVn.

The most part of ready cash, what-
ever the sum may have been, which
Tom had received at the bank, having
been, as he called it, ^ swallowed up
by them cormorants, ^'b attorneys,^
he had, after all, but a trifling bal-
ance in his pocket He was deter-
mined, therefore, to live quietly for
some time at his aunt's upon ^the
lashins and lavins," taking her ad-
vice, and arranging with her his plan
of operations upon his return to
Rathcashmore. And his aunt's ad-
vice, in a prudent and worldly point
of view, was not to be controverted, if
anything could tend toward the attain-
ment of his object ; that was the ques-
tion.

It was impossible, however, that
Tom could rest altogether satisfied
with the company of his aunt and her
husband, and three or four children
between ten and seventeen years of
age ; particularlv as the eldest of his
cousins was a long-necked boy with
big, stuck-out ears, who worked in hia
Other's shop, instead of a gracefol
girl with dark hair and fine eyes,
whose domestic duties must keep her
in the house as her mother's assistant,
or perhaps enable her, when she could
be spared, to guide him through the
principal parts of the town, of which
he would have feigned the most pro-
found ignorance. But the eldest child*
just past seventeen, as we have seen.

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M'HaBow Eve; w^ The TeH of Futurity.

209

happened to be a boj, not a girl, and
T<Hn did not consider this the best ar-
xangement that could be wished. In
consequence, he sometimes spent an
evening from home, with one or other,
or perhaps with aU the congenial
spirits with whom, as a delegate — ^for
the truth may be confessed— from an-
other county, he could claim brother-
hood. On diis occasion, however, he
was not on official business in Ar-
magh ; and whatever intercourse took
place between them was of a purely
social nature.

Tom was not altogether such a
mauvais eujet as perhaps the reader
has set him down in his own mind to
be, from the inuendos which have been
thrown out respecting him, as well as
tiie actual portions of his character
which have made themselves mani-
fest. It must be confessed — ^nay, I
belieTe it has been admitted not many
lines above — that he was a Ribbon-
man ; and although that includes all
that is murderous and wicked, when a
necessity arises, yet in the absence of
such necessity a Ribbonman may not
be altogether void of certain good
points in his character. It is the
frightful MigaJtion which he laJbore un«
der that makes a villain of him, should
circumstances require the aid of his
iniquity. Apart from this, and from
what is termed an agrarian griev-
ance, a Ribbonman may not be a bad
family-man, although the training he
undergoes in ^ The Lodge" is ill calcu-
lated to nourish his domestic sympa-
thies.

Tom had now been upward of a
month enjoying the hospitality of his
aunt; and notwithstanding that she
had done all in her power to entertain
him, and ^ make much" of him, he was
beginning to tire of the eternal smoke
and flags, and stacks of chimneys,
which were always the same to the
eye : no bright ^ blast of sun," no sud-
den dark doud, made any difference
in them ; there they were, always the
same dark color, no matter what light
shone upon them. No wonder, then,
Tom Mordodc b^an once more to
YOU n. 14

long for the fresh breeze that blew
about the wild hills of RaUicashmore,
the green fields of his Other's farm,
and the purple heather of Slieve-dhu,
with the white rocks of Slieve-bawn by
her side.

Absence too had done more really
to touch Tom's heart with respect to
Winny Oavana than to wean him
from the ^ saucy slut," as he had call-
ed her in pique on his departure. He
had ^c(Hne across," — ^this is the Irish
mode of expressing ^ had been intro-
duced," — ^through his aunt's assistance,
several of what she called illigant fine
girls, nieces of her husband's and
others, and his heart confessed that
none of them ^ were a pateh" upon
Wmny Cavana, ailer all. He thus
became fidgety, and began to speak of
returning home. Of course the aunt
opposed her hosiMtality to such a step,
for the present at least : "^ Just as we
were beginning to enjoy you, Tom
avic," said she; and of course her
husband made a show of joining
her, although he knew there had been
more beer drunk in the house in the
last month than in the six preceding
ones ; neither did the cold meat turn
out to half the account He knew
this by his pocket, not by his know-
ledge of the cookery. Tom, however,
made no promise of further sojourn
than ^to put the following Sunday
over him," and it was now Thursday.
But the next morning's post hurried
matters. It brought him a letter from
his father, which prevented his aunt
from pressing his stay beyond the fol-
lowing day, when it was finally settled
by Tom that he would start for home.
^ It ran thus," as is the common mode
of introducing a letter in a novel or
story;

" Dbar Tom, — ^This comes to you
hoppin' to find you in good heidth,
which I am sorry to say it does not
lave me at present ; but thank God
for all his mercies. I was very lone-
sum entirely afrher you lefl me ; and
the more, dear Tom, as I had not my
ould neighbor Ned Cavana to spake
to^ as used to be the case afore that

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210

M-HaXhw Eve ; or. The Test of FiOwriiy.

young chisel of a daoghter of his cam
round him to brake wid us. She's
there still, seemingly as proud as ever;
but she'll be taken down a peg wan of
these days, mark my words. I have
wan piece of good news for you, Tom
avic ; an' that is, that young Lennou
never darkened their doore since you
went ; and more be token, she never
spoke a word to him on Sunda's after
mass, but went straight home with her
fiUher from the chapel. This I seen
myself; for although I have been very
daunny since you lefl me, I med
bowld wid myself not to lose prayers
any Sunda' wet or dhry, for no other
purpose but to watch herself an' that
ehap. So, dear Tom, you needn't be
afeared of him» I thmk,. indeed; I
seen him going down the road the
three Sunda's wid Kate Mulvey ; so I
think Winny tould the truth to her
lather about him. Dear Tom, I have
not been well at all at all for the last
three weeks, an' I am not able to be
out aU day as I used to be, an' I hard-
ly know how matthers are goin' on
upon the farm. I see old Ned a'most
every day firom the doore or the gar«
den, where I sometimes go out when
it's fine ; I see him wandherin' about
his farm as brisk an' as hard as ever.
I think nothin' would give that man a
brash. Dear Tom, I did not like
writin' to you to say I was lonesum or
unwell until you had taken a turn out
of yourself at your aunt's ; but I am
not gettin' betther, an' I think the
Bight iv yon would do me good. Tell
your aunt to let you cum home to me
now. Indeed, dear Tom, I'm too long
alone ; an' bavin' no wan to spake to
makes me fret, though I wouldn't in-
terfere wid you for a while aflher you
went. If ould Ned Cavana was the
man I tuck him to be, he wouldn't let
the few words that cum betune us keep
him away frtxn me all this time, an' I
not well; but he never put to me, nor
from me, since you left, nor I to him.
Dear Tom, cum back to me as soon as
you can, an' maybe we'll get die bet-
ther of him an' Winny, afther all.
Uopin' yoor aunt, an' the childeri an'

Bill himself, is all in good health, I re-
main your father till death,

^Michael Murdock."

Tom, as I have hinted, was not
without his good points, and, as he
read over the above letter from his
poor lonely father, his heart smote him
for having been so long away, and
where, to tell the truth to himself, he
had no great fun or pleasure. His
conscience, moreover, accused him of
one glaring act of ingratitude and vil-
lany, he might call it, toward the
poor old man. There was something
tender and self-sacrificing in the letter,
yet it was not without a complaining
tone all through, that brought aU
Tom's better feelings uppermost in his
heart; and he resolved to start for
home early the next morning. He
now felt that he had business at home,
which at one time he had never con-
templated taking the smallest trouble
about, beside keeping his poor old fa-
ther better company than he had hith-
erto done. Yet, with all this soften-
ing of his disposition, he was never
more determined to carry out his ob-
ject with respect to Winny Cavana,
by fair means-— or hj foul!

What his father had said about
young Lennon gave him hopes that, in
the end, a scheme which he had plan-
ned for the latter might not be ftece«-
sary.

Tom knew there could be no use in
writing to his father to say he would
so soon be home with him. The near-
est post-town was seven miles from
Rathcashmore ; and although any
person " going in had orders" to call
at the post-office, and bring out all
letters for the neighbors of both the
Batiicashes, yet were he to write no^wr,
his letter was sure to lie there for some
days, and he would undoubtedly be
home before its receipt. Thus he ar-
gued, and therefore endeavored to
content himself with the resolution Ke
had formed to make no delay; &nd
whatever " his traps" may have been^
they were got together and locked in.
his box at once.

He had engaged to meet a partiev^

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7K« IiwmU)T of the Steam-Engine.

211

lor friend on the following evening,
Friday, piBirtly on huinees^ prerious to
returning to kU own part ^ the coon-
try. But he would now anticipate
this visit by going there at once, bo as
to enable lum to leave for home early
next morning. He hoped to find his
father better than his letter might lead
him to suppose ; and he had no doubt
his presence and society, which he
was determined should be more con-
stant and sympathizing than hereto^
fore, would serve to cheer liim.

Nothing, then, which his aunt could
say, and certainly nothing which her
husband had added to what she did
eay, had any effect toward altering
Tom's resolution to start for home on
the following morning. By this means
he hoped to reach his father on the
evening of the second day, — rail-
ways had not been then established in
any part of Ireland, not even the Dub-
lin and Kingstown line, — and he
would save the poor old man from the
bnesome necessity of going to church
on Sunday, "be it wet or cfcy."

He carried out his determination
without check or hindrance, and ar-
rived at the end of the lane leading up
to Bathcashmore house soon after

dusk in the evening of Saturday. He
travelled by car from C-*k ; and the
horse being neither too spirited, nor
too fresh, after his journey, stood
quiedy on the road, with his head
down, and his off fore-leg in the ^ first
position," until the driver returned,
having left Tom Murdock's box above
at the house.

The meeting between old Mick and
his son was as tender and affeotionate
on the old man's part as could well be,
and as much so on Tom's as could
well be expected. Old Mick had
some secret anticipations^-^presenti-
ment, perhaps, I should have caUed it
-^that they would never part again in
this world, until they parted for the
last time. Daily he felt an increasing
weakness of limb, wearriness of mind,
which whispered to his heart that that
parting was not far distant His son's
arrival, however, had the effect which
he hud promised to himself. He
seemed to improve both in spirits and
in health. If he had not thrown away
the stick,— which the reader was fore-
warned he would adopt, — he made
more use of it cutting at the kippeens^
and whatever else came in ms way,
than as a help to his progress.

[to bx ooxtinttxd.]

From The St. James* Magazine.

THE INVENTOR OF THE STEAM-ENGINE.

Iir 1828 the learned Arago, a
Frenchman, published a remari{able
woik on die history of the steam-en-
gine. It contains much information
that had hitherto been little known on
the scientific labor and discoveries of
Salomon de Oaus. He cites the work
of the latter, entitled '< Les Bcnsons
dee Forcee MnwanteSy*' which was first
pablished at Frankfort in 1615, and
reprinted at Paris in 1624 ; and M.
Arago draws from it the conclusicm

that Salomon de Cans was the origi-
nal inventor of the steam-en^ne.

Six years after this notice of the
life and labor of Ihe French engineer,
there appeared in ^ Le Mue6e dee
FcamUe^ a letter £rom ^^rion De^
loime, supposed to have been written
on the Sd of February, 1641, to her
lover Gnq-Mars, in which she tells
him that she is doing the honors of
Paris to an English lord, the Marquis
of Worcester, and showing him all

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212

I%e £wentar of th$ SUam-Engine.

the curiosities of that city. She goes
on to saj that among other institu-
tions she had taken mUord to Bio6trey
where a nuidman was confined for in-
sis^g on a wonderful discovery he
had made on the application of steam
from boiling water ; that the superin-
tendent of the asylum had shown a
book to the marquis written on the
subject by this lunatic; and that after
reading a few pages the English no-
bleman begged for an interview with
Salomon de Cans, from which he r^
turned in a grave and pensive mood,
declaring that this man was one of the
greatest geniuses of his age.

Such is the substance of the letter
of Marion Delorme; and the editor
of ^ Ze Musie de$ Familki* adds that
the Marquis of Worcester appropri-
ated the discovery to himself, and re-
corded it in his woric entitled " Cen-
tury of Inventions," thus causing him-
self to be looked upon by his country-
men as the inventor of the steam-en-
gine.

The anecdote became very popular,
and was copied into standard works,
represented in engravings, etc, etc
At length some incredulous authors
examined more closely into the matter,
and found that not only had Salomon
de Caus never been confined in a
lunatic asylum, but that he had held
the appointment of engineer and arch-
itect to Louis Xin. up to his death in
1630, whUe Marion Delorme is as-
serted to have visited Bic§tre in 1641 1

On tracing this mystification to its
source, we find that M. Henri Ber-
thoud, a literary man of some repute,
and a constant contributor \jci^ Le Mu-
$4e de$ Fandlles,^ confesses Uiat the
letter imputed to JVIarion Delorme was
in fact written by himself! .

But the most curious part of the
story is that the world refused to
believe in M. Berthoud's confession,
so great a hold had the anecdote taken
on the public mind ; and a Paris news-
paper went so far even as to declare
that the original autegraph of this
letter was to be seen in a library in
Normandy, in which provinoe Salo-

mon de Caus was bom. M. Ber*
thoud wrote again denying its exis-
tence, and oflei«d a million to any one
who would produce the letter. From
that time the affair was no more
spoken of, and Salomon de Caus waa
allowed to remain in undiBputed pos-
sessicm of his fame, as having I^n
the first to point out the use of steam
in his work, ^ Le$ Bai$ont det Forces
Mouvantes." He had previously been
employed as engineer to Henry, Prince
of Wales, son of James L, and he
published a volume in folio, in Lon-
don, ^ La PermecHve avee les BaCsong
de$ Omhre$ et jmroirs."

In his dedication of another work
to the queen of England, 15th of Sep-
tember, 1614, we find some allusion
made to the construction of hydraulic
machines. On his return to France
he, as before said, was appointed en-
gineer to Louis XTTT., and was doubt-
less patronized by Cardinal Richelieu,
that great promoter of the arts and
letters.

The writings of Salomon de Caus
were held in much estimation among
learned men during the whole di
the seventeenth century. He had,
however, been anticipated in the dis-
covery of steam for the propelling
of large bodies, for on the 17th of
April, 1543, the Spaniard, Don Blasco
de Garay, launched a steam-vessel at
Barcelona, in presence of the Emperor
Charles V. It was an old ship of 200
tons, called the SanHssima Trinidady
which had been fitted up for the ex-
periment, and which moved at the rate
of ten mOes an hour.

The inventor of this first steamer
was merely looked upon as an enthusi-
ast, whose imagination had run mad ;
and his only encouragement was a
donation of 200,000 maravedis from
his sovereign, but the emperor no
more dreamt of using the dbcovery
than did Napoleon L, three centuries
later, when the ingenious Fulton
suggested to him the application of
steam to navigation. It is well known
that Fulton was not even permitted
to make an essay of this new pro-

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I%e Cbuds and the Poor.

213

pening force before the French empe-
ror. So then, we most date the fact
foi the introdaction of steam naviga*
tion as &r back as 1543 ; anterior to
the diflooveij of Salomon de Cans
in 1615 ; to the Marquis of Worcester
in 1663 ; to Captain Sayary in 1693 ;
to Dr. Papin in 1696 ; and to Fulton
and others, who all lay claim to the
original idea.
Bat perhaps we may be wrong in

denying originality to these men, for
we have no proof that either of them
had any knowledge of the discoy-
eries of his predecessor.

It was only on the 18th of March,
1816, that the first steam-yessel ap«
peared in France, making her en-
trance into the seaport of Hayre ; she
was the JEliza^ which had left Newr
hayen, in England, on the preyioos
day.

Vnm ThA Fortnightly Bevlew.
THE CLOUDS AND THE POOR

No (me can write upon the clouds
without some reference to Mr. Bus-
kin's labors. Few wiU forget the
four chapters in the first yolume of
** Modem Painters," dealing first with
men's apathy for those forms of beauty
which daily flit around us, and ending
with the magnificent contrast between
Turner and Claude, showing with
what difiference they had rendered the
cafan of the mist and the shock of the
tempest, the crimson of the dawn and
the fire of sunset We are, indeed,
all df us too apathetic, and the sum-
mer and the winter clouds are alike
unheeded by us. And yet our grey
English clouds haye impressed them-
seiyes upon eyen our language and
our daily speech. Our word "sky^
has nothing in common inth the del
of the French and the ctelo of the
Italians, which through the Latin
codum refer to the clear blue chasm of
the air. Our ^ sky^ is connected with
the Old-English neuoy and literally
means "' the place of shadows." Our
'^ welkin" \af connected with wolcen^
** a doud," and is deriyed from a root
which points to the incessant, rolling,
biDowy modon of the clouds.

But if we haye failed to notice the
doads and Oi&r beauty, others haye
not fiuled. Men, seeing their power,

feeling their blessings, haye worship-
ped them. Upon them our ScancU-
nayian ancestors built their creeds,
and from them created their gods and
goddesses. The beauty and the deli-
cacy of the early Aryan mythology is
interwoyen with the storm-cloud, which
alike inspires the story of the Odyssey
and solyes the mystery of CEdipus.
Mr. Ruskin has already quoted from
Aristophanes. We could wish that
he had supplemented the Athenian
poet, who giyes merely the latter sen-
suous mythological yiew of the clouds,
with passages from the fathers, who so
deeply penetrated into both their
beauty and Uieir moral aspect With
them the clouds appear no longer puis-
sant goddesses, daughters of Father
Ocean, thronging in troops from
Mieotis and Mjmas, their golden
pitchers fiUed with the waters of the
Nile. Their fleecy forms told them
of him who ** giyeth snow like wool,
and scattereth the hoar frost like
ashes," of him who ''maketh the
clouds his chariots, and rideth on the
wings of the wind." They could not
feel the whirlwind's blast without re-
membering that it had borne El\)ah
heayenwaid, nor hear the thunder
without remembering the thunder and
lightning which clothed God on SlDai,

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214

The Chudi and ik$ Poor.

nor watch tJbe eTeakig rack without
reoiembering that the clouda, such
perhaps aa they were gazing at, had
received their Master out of his disci-
ples' sight, and that again from them
he should descend at his second com-
ing. In these days of atmospheric
laws, of measurements of rainfalls,
and weather forecasts, we cannot bj
the utmost effort of the imagination
place ourselves in their position. To
them, as to the first Christians, hea-
ven was directly above their heads,
divided from the earth only by the
screen of clouds. They must have
regarded those white ethereal shad-
ows, those dark rolling masses, in
much the same way as the early sa-
cred painters, — ^peopled each flake
with cherubs and angels, and heard
the air rustle with wings.

Be this as it may. Even if relig-
ion inspired them with such thoughts,
they certainly were not insensible to
the beauty which daily blossoms in
the sky. "There is,** cries St. Chry-
sostom, << a meadow on the earth and
a meadow, too, in the sky. There
are the various flowers of the stars,
the rose below, the rainbow above."*
^ Look up to heaven," he says, "and
see how much more beautiful it is than
the roof of palaces. The pavement of
the palace above is much more grand
than the roof below.^f His writings
are fuU of metaphors drawn from the
sky .and the clouds. He speaks of
^snow-storms of miracles," and
" thick-falling showers of cares," and
cries, "When God doth comfort,
though sorrows come upon thee by
thousands like snow-flakes, thou shalt
be above them all." He reproaches
men for looking down like swine to
the earth, and not up to the sky,|
which he declares is the fairest of
roofs, guiding them by its beauty to
their Maker.§ And filled with that
democratic spirit which so bums in aU
his writings, he cries to the poor man,

* ** Homilies on tta« Stataes.** Th« Oxford
TriBtlatton.
t ** Homiliee on 1 Thetsalonians iv. 19."
i " Homillefl on St. Matthew." Part IL
I " HomUieB on St John." Part U.

" Seest thou this heaven here, how beau-
tiful, how vast it is, how it is placed on
high ? This beauty the rich man en-
joyeth not more than thou, nor is it
in his power to thrust thee aside, and
make it all his own ; for as it was
made for him, so it was, too, for thee.
...... Do not all enjoy it

equally — rich and poor ?

Yea, rather, if I must speak somewhat
marvellously, we poor ei\joy it more

than they The poor

more than any enjoy the luxury of
the elements." *

The passage is full <^ the deepest in-
terest. Mr. Ruskin has shown us
with what mixed feelings the Greeks
loved the clouds, and how the med-
iievalist feared them. It would be
well to know how they have been and
are still viewed in England by the
lower classes. For, as we before wd,
the upper classes care little about the
clouds. The iio^ ijfdpai (change-
ful days) of England pass by unno-
ticed, except to fill up a gap in a
conversation. St. Swithin is our na-
tional saint, but we are not enthupias-
tic devotees. Only when a picnic or
a cricket match is involved do we
trouble ourselves about the clouds.
Then the barometer is studied, and the
weathercock becomes an object of in-
terest. In short, only when our pleas-
ures are at stake do we care whether
the day is wet or fine. On the other
hand, life with the poor, man depends
on the weather. Three continuous
wet days in London throw no less than
twenty thousand people out of em-
ployment. Fine weather is the po<^
man's bread-winner, his comforter,
his physician. He may therefore be
pardoned if, with Ulysses, he in the
first place regards it from an economic&l
point of view. Thus the laborers in
the north midland counties speak of
showery weather as " riph weather,*'
-—that is, not only enriching the crops,
but themselves. On the cotitraiy, aa
producing a different effect on their
^calling, Sie sailors on the north-east

* '' HomlUea on % Corinthiana."

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The Clauds md the Poor.

215

coast speak of sucli weather as '' shab-
by weather/' and call rain — ^useless to
them — ^^dirt." This indeed mast be
the case. In the lowest as in the
earliest stages of society, this utilitap
liaa spirit — not necessarily base, but
co-existent with eren a passionate
lore of beauty — ^most prevail The
laborer whose da/s wage depends on
the clouds, and the fisherman whose
meal rests with the winds^ will natui^
ally first think of them as subservient
to the needs of life. Badly clothed,
and ill-fed, they cannot possibly appre-
ciate Mr. Kingsle/s admiration of the
east wind. The fisherman only knows
it as producing a dearth of fish. To
the midland peasant it is his '^red
wind," — -just as Virgil spoke of niger-
rimui Auster^ and as the Greeks called
the north wind ^ the black wind," still
the 6u0 of the Mediterranean. In
the east of England the nightingale is
not the bird of song, not Ben Jonson's
**dear good angel of the spring," but
the « bw-ley-biid," because it arrives
when the barley is sown. For, on the
whole, barley is more important to the
peasant than song, and therefore the
bird is thus called. Nevertheless the
song may be highly prized, but it is
still secondary. Thus we stumble
upon a curious explanation of the util-
itarian spirit observed in Homer and
the earliest pamters. And the terms
of oar country-people throw a plain
light upon the Homeric epithets ^ fruit-
ftd* <^i<k)yior),and "loamy" (ipii9«^of),
applied to the earth ; and the phrases
of oar fishermen curiously illustrate
the terms "barren" (irpvyevof), and
" teeming with fish" {ixdvotio)^ as ap-
plied to the sea. Society in the same
or parallel stage ever gives the same
utterance.

The reality, too, of the elements, as
Lear and Jacques would say, touches
the poor to the quick. Hence in the
north they simply call rain "waters,"
just in the same way as the Greeks
used if^u^ whilst in the midland coun-
ties they nearly as often say "it is wet-
ting AS " it is raining." Their pro-
yeiiM^ too^ smack of the fierceness of

men who have struggled with the
storm. So the Anglian countryman
sings of the first three days of
March,

" First comefl Dayld, then comes Chad.
Then comes Wlnnol blowing like mad.'*

Their vocabulary, too, teems with
words expressive of every shade and
variety of weather. Our skies and
clouds have entered far more into the
composition of popular phrases than
we are commonly aware. Such triv-
ial expressions as "being under a
cloud," "laying up for a rainy day,"
unconsciously reflect the character of
our weather. Its power overshadows
even the altar and the grave in the
common rhyme :

"Ilappj the bride whom the son shines on.
Happy the dead whom the rain rains on."

And the rhyme at one time really ex-
ercised a spelL You find it used by
lovers amongst our Elizabethan dra-
matists, who 80 faithfully reflected the
spirit of the day. Thus, in Webster's
jbackesa of Mcdfy^ Ferdinand cries to
the duchess about her lover :

^* Let not the snn
Shine on him UU he's dead/'

But the poor possess an abundance of
such expressions. And as life is real
to them* so their sayings are quick-
ened with reality* Thus> " to be bom
in a frost^' is in Yorkshire an euf
phemism for being foolish. In the
same county, " to obtain anything un-
der the wind" means to obtain it se-
cretly. In Norfolk the ploughman
says " there is a good steward when
the wind-frost blows." Just consider,
too, the richness of their vocabulary
of weather-terms, and the observa-
tion which it implies. Take York-
shire alone, and there we shall find
"dag,** "douk," "pell," "pelse,**
" rouk," " rag," " sops," all standing
for different kinds and degrees of rain
and showers. There the white win-
ter-mist is the "hag" the hoar-frost
the "rind," the snow-flakes "clarts
of snow," and the summer heat-mist
the "gossamer," as Wedgwood no^

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216

The Clauds and the Poor.

tices, the Marien fdden of Grermanj.
Go into the eastern conntiefi, and the
dialect is as rich. Th^ sea-mist is the
" sea-fret" and the ** sea-roke." The
heavy rain, which soaks into the earth,
is the ^ ground-rain." The light rain
is the " smur" in Suffolk, the " brange"
in Essex, and the *^ da^' in Norfolk,
from which last word the various cor-
ruptions *^ water-dogs" and ^ sun-dogs"
are formed.

Passing, however, from words, let
us note a few of the weather-rhymes
and weather-proverbs which show
what accurate observers necessity has
made our peasants. There is not a
village where the local phenomena of
mists and clouds are not preserved in
some rhyme. From Cumberland to
JDevonshire the land echoes with these
weather-saws. In the former county
we have— '

"If Bkiddawhathacapf
Criffel woU mil well of that**

In the latter, the rhyme— this time
really a rhyme — ^runs :

" When Hftldon wean a hat,
Let Kenton beware of a skat."

The Warwickshire and Worcester-
shire peasants in the Yale of Evesham
repeat a similar couplet about their
own fircdon, and the Leicestershire
and Lincolnshire churls about their
Belvoir. Weather-rhymes lie treas-
ured up throughout the midland coun-
ties about

** The green-bine mackerel sky,
Never holds three dajra dry;"

in the northern counties about ^ mony
haws, mony snaws," and in the east-
em of the "near bur, rain fur.*' In
England we, too, can rhyme about la
joumee dupU&rin. For centuries the
village poet has sung of" mare's tails"
,and " hen-scrattins," and the great
•" Noah's Ark cloud," and the " weath-
er-head," of the changes of the moon,
liow

** Satnrday change, and Snnday Ml,
Keyer did good, nor never wnU:**

For the peasant in his rude fashion is
a meteorok)gi8t9 and has studied the

ways of the clouds, " water wagons,"
as in some counties he calls them.
From him Aratus might have filled
another Diosemeia, and Virgil improv-
ed his first Greorgic. Our Elizabethan
dramatists have borrowed some of
their most life-like touches from the
peasant's weather-lore. Thus Cun-
ningham, in Beaumont and Fletcher^s
Wit at Several Weapons, says of
wrangling :

** It never comes bnt, like a atorm of hail,
*Ti8 Bare to bring fine weather in the tail on^t.*^
Act. M., Sc 1.

And Webster, borrowing from the
sailor, makes Silvio say of the cardi-
nal that he

" Liftt np hit noee like a fool porpoiao beftve
storm."

DuOiess itfMaUfy, Act, Hi., Sc. 8.

Shakespeare borrows from both peasant
and sailor. His finest descriptions of
doud scenery, as we shall show, are
based upon popular phrases. Two
of his most beautiful similes illustrate
the villager's weather lore. Thus Lu-
crece is described :

** And roand abont her tear-distrained eye.
Bine circles streamed like rainbows in tne aky.
Those water-galls in her dim element,
Foretell new storms to those already spent."

And again, in AWs Well that Midi
Well, the countess says to Helena :

" WhaCs the matter
That this distempered messenger of wet,
The many-colored Iris, rounds thine eye r*

Act. L,Se.9.

And the peasant's rhymes and sayings
undoubtedly contain some germs »of
truth, or ihej could never have so
long held their ground. Admiral
Fitzroy, in his " Weather Book," has
rightly given a collection of sudi saws,
though it might with advantage be
greatly enlar^. Science has before
now been forestalled by some bold
guess of the vulgar, j^d oden has
some happy intuition outstripped tlie
slow labor of the inductive process.

But with the English peaaant a
sense of the beautiful accompanies
that of the nsefuL Living ever out
of doors, he names his douds alter
natural objects* He thus gives a real*

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The Cbudi and the Poor.

217

ifj to them which is unknown to
scientific nomenclatare. The ^ lamb
storms'* of Derbyshire, and the "pewit
storms'' in Yorkskire, significantly
miurk the time of year when the
Jambs are yeaned in the dooghs, and
the pewits return to the moors to
breed. His symbolism is always
trae. The peasant in the eastern
eoonties talks of "bulfinch skies" to
express the lovely warm vermib'cm
tuits of sunset clouds. Tennyson's
**da£hdi[ sky" is not truer, nor
Homer^s gpoKdimrXc^ *Huc more poeti-
caL In Devonshire the peasan has
his "lamb's-wool sky" the tennia
lana vellera of ViigiL In parts of the
midland counties he has his " sheep
clouds " the $ehdffchen am kimmel of
the German, the same clouds which
the Norfolk peasant boy has described
with so perfect a touch :

** Detached io ranges through the air,
Spotleea as snow, and conntlera aa they're fair.
Scattered InnneneelT wide flrom eaat to west,
The beanteona aemblance of a flock at rest."

The Derbyshire countryman knows
the hard stratified masses of cloud
(ewntUo-Miralf) by the happy name of
''rock clouds" and the great white
rolling avalanches (cumuH) as '^ snow
packs" and ^ wool packs " the former
being rounder than the latter, which
lie in folds pressed and packed upon
one another. Further living amongst
hills and mountains, watching them, as
Wordsworth says, "grow" at night,
enlarging with ike darkness, he finely
calls the great hilL at the entrance to
Dovodale, Thorpe Cloud. He had
seen it apparently shift and move with
the changes of light and atmosphere,
and he could only liken it to a doud.
Perhaps, even at times, some fiunt
glimmering might flit across his mind
of the instability of the hills, and the
rack to him thus became a symbol of
the world's unsubstantial pageant.

The midland counties peasant, too,
employs such old-world phrases as
the sun is "wading" when it is strag-
gling through a heavy scud, and the
sun is " sitting" when her dark side is
toned toward the earth. Ibe poets

themselves may be in vain searched
for a finer expression than the first.
The beginning of Sidney's sonnet,
which Wordsworth has adopted,

** With how aad atepa, O moon, thou climb'at
the sky,"

and Milton's description,

** Aa if her head she bow*d
Stooping through a fleecy cloud,"

are somewhat parallel. But the peas-
ant's expression is equally fine. Most
readers of ^Modern Painters" will
remember Mr. Ruskin's vivid descrip-
tion of what he so well calls the ** hel-
met cloud," which rests on the peaks
of mountains. But long before Mr.
Ruskin wrote, the Westmoreland and
Cumberland dalesman named the
cloud that at times floats round the
tor of Cross Fell by the still better
names *^helm doud" and ''helm
bar."

We could indeed wish that Mr.
Ruskin had more deeply studied
peasant life and peasant habits. The
meaning of the clouds in Tumer^s
« Salisbury" and «* Stonehenge" would
have then been more thoroughly ap-
preciated. Fine and poetical as is
Mr. Ruskin's interpretation, yet we
venture to think that he misses the
truth when, in this case, he refers
Turner's inspiration to Greek sources.
To those who have lived near the
Plain, and have mixed with the shep-
herds, the meaning and the symbolism
come far nearer home, and more close-
ly touch the heart Tamer was here
no Greek, except as all men who love
beauty are Greeks. Here he was, at
all events, intensely English. Sprung
like so many great poets and painters
from the lower class, he could sympa-
thize with the shepherds of the Plain.
To them, as to the shepherd in the
*^ Iliad," standing on the hill-top facing
the sea, shepherding their flooks, far
away from any village, on the vast
treeless down, the clouds become a
constant source of fear or joy. Their
hearts gladden as the light white
clouds roll up from the English
Channel, and then, as they say, ''purl

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218

Tk$ CbniA and Ae Poor.

round" and retreat In spring and
summer they joyfullj bail the *^ water
dogs/' the " gossamer'' of the York-
shire peasant, which herald the fine
weather. They, above all other Eng-
lish peasants, solitary on that wide
plain, watch with fear the <^ san*galls,"
Shakespeare's ^water-galls," as the
broken bits and patches of rainbows
are called, hanging glorious, but
wrathftil, in the far horizon. They
mark widi dread ^' the messengers" and
^ water streamers," and at night, too,
anxiously note the amber ^wheel-
cloud" round the moon.

With all this, like a true poet, Tur-
ner sympathized. He entered into the
reality of shepherd Ufe up<m the
Plain ; ks joys and its dangers* In
one picture, therefore, he hiets given
us the rain-clouds showering their
blessings upon man, and in the other
revealed the dread fatalistic power
that ever darkens the background of
life.

But we must leave the peasant, and
turn to the fisherman. More even
than the peasant, he naturally i-egards
the weather in its effects upon his call-
ing. The ram with him — ^we are
speaking more especially now of the
North Country fisherman — ^is " dirt,"
^and a rainy sky a "dirty sky." The
. <* water-galls" of the Salisbury shep-
herd) from which Shakespeare took
those most exquisite similes, have with
him lost their beauty, and are changed
into *i seandevils," evil prophets of
tempest The fiyipg clouds, that her-
ald the storm, are with him " the fly-
ing devil and his imps." He realizes
the danger, and therefore christens
the clouds with rough names.

He too, like the peasant, is learned
in weather-lore, and keeps an alman-
ac of weather-rhymes in his memory.
In such fishing villages as Staithes
and Bunswick, on the north-east York-
shire ooast^ a lai^e collection might
easily be formed. They partake of
the roughness and the truthfulness of
the inhabitants. Such jingles as :

" When wind comes before rain
Then let your topudls renuiln :

Bat if the wind follows rain.
Then yon may cIom reef again,**

are certainly more accurate in sense
than rhythm. Again, the couplet :

" When Uie snn crossoa line, and wind's fn ths

east.
It will hand (hold) that way meaat, first ctuirter

at least,"

contains a warning not always to be
despised. The riddle of the ** brough,"
that amber halo of clouds seen some-
times round the moon, which the shep-
herds of Salisbury Plain call ^the
wheel," and the midland peasants ^ the
burr," is solved by the rhyming ad-

"Afkroffbrongh
Means a near hand rough/*

But we must not be too critical, and
demand both sense and rhythm. It
is something if in poetry we obtain
truth. At' all events, the Yorkshire
fishermen's rhymes are quite as good
as a great many of those in which
Apollo formerly conveyed his prophe-
cies to mankind. And we think that
Admiral FiUiroy might have profita-
bly added some of them to his collec-
tion.

Many a time have we seen at some
little fishing village the fishermen all
detained by some " breeder," or " flyer,"
whose meaning their eyes alone could
read. If the threatened storm has
not visited the coast, yet the heavy
sea tumbling in without a breath of
air has shown that the gale has
broken not far distant. Still mbtakes
arise. Life is constantly sacrificed.
But the glory and the pride of science
is, that, whUst serving the snblimest
ends, it still helps the humblest. We
may be unable to control the dements.
But we shall triumph over the law by
obeying the law. The day will come
when the notion of chance will be al-
together eliminated, and the law bj
which the clouds are governed recog-
nized. And in the blessings of science
f^ men are partakers^ Alike shall
the fisherman steer his crafi with a
firmer faith in the essential goodneaa
of all things, and tbe hand of the air-
tist gain strength md his eye see a

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Tie (Mauds and the Poor.

219

deq>er beoofyy when each knows that
the clouds are as regular in their
moYements as the stars.

Of course men living bj the sea,
daily watching the clouds, life itself
hanging upon a knowledge, however
uncertain, of the meaning of their
color and their shapes, have naturally
named them in a rude fashion. Lands-
men, who only now and then gaze at
the douds, are apt to regard them as
ever changing. But not ^a wisp"
flies in the hi^est air, not <<a creeper"
rises out of the sea, whose sliapes are
not moulded by a definite law. Day
by day the same forms repeat them-
selves with unceasing regularity. The
douds might be mapped out Uke the
land and sea over which they fly.
More than half a century has passed
since Howard first gave them names.
After him Foister wrote, and like him
illustrated his theory with diagrams
of the principal doud-forms. And
now Admiral Fitzroy has so improv-
ed upon their nomenclature, that there
is not a cloud that cannot be sdentific-
ally named and defined. But our sail-
ors and fishermen have long ago known
these facts. Not a stray waif of film
flecks the heavens which they have not
diristened. They know all kinds and
shapes, from the << crow-nests," those
tiny white spots (cirriti) dotting
the sky, up to the glorious *' Queen
Anne's feather," waving far away into
the horizon its soft downy plume, rip-
pled and barred by the wind.

Thus to take a few examples. The
North Torkahire fisherman has his
<^ dyer's neif," a small dark purple
doud, so called from its supposed re-
semblance to the bhick grained fist
(neif) of a dyer. Some three thou-
sand years ago, Elijah's servant, on
Mount Cormd,- cried that he saw a
little doud rising out of the sea like a
man's hand. Ajid still on the York-
shire coast the fisherman utters the
same language, and knows that cloud
still as the forerunner of storm and
rain. Quite as striking, too, is the
way in which his names of clouds
throw a light upon Shakespeare. All

readers will remember the passage
between Hamlet and Polonins, ending
with " Very like a whale /* a phrase
which has passed into a proverb for
anything very improbable. And no
actor can utter it on the stage without
producing a peal of laughter. Yet
the proverb and the laughter are
equally inappropriate. The names
of the clouds in the passage are all
real names. The " dromedary cloud,"
or, OS Shakespeare calls it, *< the camel
cloud," is well known to si^ilors. It is
a species of cumulus, a white, packed,
humped cloud, and when seen in the
southern hemisphere is stud to foretell
heat ; but, in the northern, cold. It is
also called the ^hunchback cloud."
'' See, there's the hunchback ; look at
its pads," North Country fishermen
will say. The " weasel-cloud" also is
known, though not so well, and is
more often called ^ the hog-eloud" and
the *< wind-bog," from its being the
forerunner of wind. But the " whale-
doud" is as wdl known to sailors,
especially those employed in the
Greenland trade, as the "bridge-
cloud," or "feather-cloud," or any
other well recognized form. "We
shall hae a bit o' a puff, lads. See
that sea-devil ; and yondei^s a regular
finner to the norrard," have we heard
North Sea captains say. A " finner," it
should be explained, is a small whale.
If ever there was a realist, Shake-
speare was. He drew direct from na-
ture* But, like a true artist, he knew
how to mould and shape mere barren
naturalism by the vitalizing power of
the imagination. In its white heat he
fused all things. And so, noting the
common names of clouds as daily used
in conversation by sailors and fishermen
and seafaring folk, he could rise from
the satire of Hamlet to the high pathe-
tic pitch of Antony's speech :

** Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonieh;
A vapor, Hometlme, like a bear or lion,
.A towered citadel, a pendent rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory.
With trees upon't, that nod into the world,
And mock onr eyes with air. Thoa hast

these signs ;
They are Mack Tespec^ pageanta.

Brot. Ay, my lord.

Antony, That which is now a he
with a thought

horse, eT«&

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220

The Chudi and the Poor.

The rtck dlnlimns ; and makes it Indittinci
Mm water la In water.
Sr08. It does, my lord.

Antonv, JUj good knave, Broa, now thy ci^)-
ufnla
Xren snch a body."

Anttmjf and Ctsopatra^ Act <9., 3e, IS.

Here the whole scene is colored by
the imagination and ennobled b j hu-
man pathos, such as no other man
ever possessed. But the basis oi the
thought is the simplest naturalism,
Buch as other men hild seen and ob-
serred a thousand times before. The
Flying Dragon is mentioned as far
back as the latter part of the sixteenth
century by Hyll in his '' Contempla-
tion of Mysteries/' where the first
rude ideas of weather forecasts may
be found. The <' pendent rock" and
** forked mountain" are nothing more
than the ^ rock-clouds" of the Derby-
shire peasant, conceming which a local
rhyme rups:

** When clonds appear Hke rocka and towere.
The earth*a refreshed by l^rant showera."

We must not, however, lose sight
of our North Country fisherman. If
to him the sky is at times black with
terror, yet it is also splendid with
beauty. In fine weather it is his gar-
den, the heavenly ^meadow," as St.
Chrysostom would say, blossomed
over with flakes and garlands of cloud-
bloom, white and peach-colored. He
has his names for them, his ^'crow
buds," and his " cherry flowers," and
the great ^ tree cloud" with its purple
branches. It is, too, his fairyland full
of loveliest shapes flying and wander-
ing here and there, ** pigeons," as he
calls those white detached winged
"flyers," "flying fish," "streamers,"
and pencilled " plumes."

Thus far of the peasant and the
sailor. They certainly more than any
one else recognize the terror and the
beauty of cloud scenery. The well-to-
do man knows the clouds only as they
affect his pleasures. Life is not de-
pendent upon them, and he ther^ore
misses that true enjoyment which
springs from reality. On the whole,
he thinks with the Epicurean that rain
ought to fieOl b/ night, whilst his wife

sighs for Italy and blue skies. Bat
let us, on the contraij, love the grey
cloud, and rather hold with that fine
old skipper, who, after enduring six
months of unbroken weather in the
Bay of Naples, cried out on seeing a
doud, ^'THim out, boys, turn out;
here's weather as is weather ; none of
your everlasting blue skv." Let ua
rather love the storm-rack that beats
against our island. This it is that gives
the color to the cheeks of our maidens ;
this that has moulded our features,
and deepened the lines of our faces,
and hardened the national character.

Let us be thankful, with Mr. Ras-
kin, that nowhere can the swiftness of
the rain-cloud be seen as in England,
nowhere in such perfection as among
the Derbyshire hills; nowhere the
keenness of the storm be felt as on a
Yorkshire wold.* But in these days
even the power of the elements is
threatened. We have seen in Derby-
shire, when the west wind blows, the
doughs filled, not with troops of clouds
dashing slantwise up the valleys, but
choked with dull rolling Lancashire
smoke ; seen, under this canopy of fog,
the snow on the Edges turn yellow and
brown. One by one, too, the blast
furnaces are burning up the Yorkshire
moors. And instead of white wreaths
of clouds crowning the wolds, a pillar
of fire lights them up by night, and a
cloud of smoke darkens them by day*

Luckily the sea-coast still remains
unpolluted. And if any one really
wishes to study the clouds, let him go
to the North Yorkshire and Northum*
berland coasts in winter. Then will
he understand something of their ma-
jesty and power ; then will he see the
true purple wind-tints, see the sky a
wilderness full of strjuige weird crea-
tures — "wild hogs," those purple
hump-backed clouds running one after
another in a line, and the "Flying
Devil and his imps" marshalling the
storm, which is banking up out of the
German ocean; see, too, the " Norway
bishop" rise-— a man's figure dothcd

• *' Modem Faintert," ToL t., ]part tU.. chap.

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MaUnet tmd Wurxiuug.

221

in white, with oatatretcbed arms, un-
der whose ban manj a fisherman fix^m
Staithes and Runswick has sunk ; see
the figure melt and disappear in a
mist of sleet and snow and hail ; and
then, last of all, see ^the weather^
gleam," when all objects loom against
Sie one pale rift of skj, as ships loom
in an east wind.

These sights have never been paint-
ed, and never can. Even Turner
cannot give them. For who can give
that which is the greatest pleasure in
watching the clouds, the feeling of
change ? Yon cannot paint the move-
ment of the rack, as the vapor shifts
from form to form, now a mountain,

now a dragon, now a fish, each change
answering to the changes of the spirit.
Onlj the poets can paint the clouds
and their lessons-— only Shdlej and
Shakespeare. But put awaj even
Shakespeare himselfi Love them,
study them from nature. And, as St.
Chrjsostom sajs, the poor man, more
than anj one else, enjoys ^ the Inzurj
of the elements." The lawyer may
hold ctf^us solum efiu ad ccdum ; but
he who most enjoys the clouds, as with
all things else, is their real possessor.
And the artist and the poor man,
though they may not have a rood of
Iground to caU their owp, here rejgn
over an empire.

Tnuulated from the Gtornum.

MALINES AND WttRZBURG.

A SKETCH OT THE CATHOLIC CONGBESSKS HELD AT ICALINES AND WI^RZBURa.
BY AETDBBW NIBDERMASSER.

CHAPTER n.

ABT.

The Catholic reunions, both in Bel-
g^um and in Germany, have taken a
special interest in Christian art; for
religion is at once the source and the
end of true art *< Beligion," says
Lasanlx, ^ is the soul of every useful
measure, the vivifying principle in the
life of nations, the permanent basis of
true philanthropy. In its infancy, as
wen as during its most flourishing
periods, at all times and among all na-
tions, art has ever been the handmaid
of religion. What is the last and
highest aim of architecture? The
erection of churches. How has
acnlpture won its noblest triumphs?
In pagan antiquity, by representations
of the heathen deides ; since the dawn of
Christianity, by presenting to the admi-
ration of the world statues of our Sav-
iour and his saints. In like manner the
noblest subjects of painting have been
furnished by religion, and by history,
both sacred and pro&ne. And do we

not meet with the same phenomenon in
music and religions poetry? Hence
we may safely conclude that art is the
barometer of a nation's civilization,
and above all of its religious status.
A people animated with a lively faith
will not hesitate to manifest it out-
wardly, sparing neither trouble nor
expense, and art affords the most suit-
able means of giving expression to its
feelings. If, on the other hand, art is
neglected by a nation, it is a certain
sign that its mental and spiritual con-
dition is abnormal ; that it must be un-
der the influence of some disturbing
agency.

Art, in its relations to religion and
the Church, is one of the subjects that
have claimed the attention of the
Catholic congresses; they discussed
tbe principles of religious architecture,
painting, sculpture, and of church mu-
sic ; they considered the subject of dec-
orating the sanctuaries of religion in
all its branches, and examined the
highest and most important problems
of art

Art| as cultivated during the fli'St

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MaiUnes and WUraAurff.

agee of ChriBtianity and during tbe
middle ages, is a subject complete in
itself, for we can trace its use, its prog>-
resB, and decay, as well as the devel-
opment of the ideas which gave it
life. Between Ouiatian and pagan
art there is no doubt a connecting
link; in fact, we may safelj assert
that in this respect, no leass than in all
others, there is a great unbroken
chain- that unites the present age with
antiquity. Still, no one can deny that
there is a great and immense differ-
ence between Christian nations and
those of antiquity. For, since the birth
of .Christianit;^^, we may trace in history
a new, active, and all-pervading prin-
' ciple. What the greatest mincb of
the pagan world scarcely suspected,
has become the common property
of all nations and of all men. Chris-
tianity is built on fbundations very
different from those on which rested
the cumbrous fabric of paganism. It
has impressed an original character
on art, in every branch of which it
has produced results of undoubted ex-
cellence, worthy of our admiration.
Christian art suffers not by comparison
with the masterpieces of antiquity.
Narrow-minded and prejudiced per-
sons only will maintain that the
Greeks alone excelled in the arts.
The independence and excellence of
Christian art, compared with that of
classic Greece and Rome, is by no
means generally admitted; for many
are unwilling to allow to the Church
the credit, which it may justly claim,
of promoting and patronizing the arts.
During the last century art has lacked
its proper basis — truth, for art is
founded on truth. But since nations
have been led astray by the erroneous
idea that art was revived at Florence,
and thence spread over all Europe, it
has lost its independence, confined
itself to mere imitations of the Greeks
and Romans, and gradually decayed
more and more. In the history of
art no period appears darker than the
so-called age of renaissance, and
since then Christian art has been
either misunderstood or entirely de-

spised. Not long ago the master-
pieces of Gothic architecture wero
looked upon as barbarous; paintingB
on wood which had for ages graced
the European temples were removed,
broken to pieces, and burnt, and ahara
of the most elaborate workmanship
were treated as mere rubbish. Tb
level to the ground the noble cathe-
drals of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries was considered a service to
art. And this was - done, not by the
ignorant, but by the protectors of
learning; nay, by artists themselves,
who were foremost in the work of
destruction. A French architect pub-
lished an essay to prove that it would
advance the interests of art to turn
the cathedral of Spires into a ware-
house. On the cathedrals of Cologne
and Strasbourg, also, French ardii-
teCts, living at the beginning of
the nineteenth century, had pro-
nounced sentence of condemnation.
No later than 1825, when Charles
X. was crowned in the cathedral of
Rheims, the heads of two hundred stat-
ues were struck oS, through fear that
the statues might be thrown «down on
occasion of the royal salute. No one
seems to have thought of fastening
the images ; in fact, why should they
trouble themselves about the work-
manship of barbarians? During the
revolution of 1789, -the French had
unfortunately acquired too much skifl
in smashing the statues that crowned
their grandest cathedrals.

During the period of which we
speak, how false was the appredation
of what is beautiful in art ! To man's
proud spirit it is humiliating, indeed,
to know his own weakness; to know
that for years he may remain in the
darkness of error, without having the
strength to burst the chains that fet-
ter him.

At the beginning of the present
century more correct ideas on this
subject were entertained and spread
by several eminent Grerman artiatSy
and for the last thirty years justice has
been done to the claims of the middle
ages. Actively (Operating with Uua

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morement, the Catholic oonventio&B
of Grermanj and Belgium have
achieved many desirable results. *

At Malines, in 1864, the sectionr for
CbrtBtian art was very numerously
attended ; more than a hundred arch-
aeologists and artists from every coun-
. try in Europe had there met to take
part in lively and interesting debates
on Christian art, whilst seventy mu-
sicians, professionals, and amateurs
held their sessions in another part of
the building. Several years ago, I
was present at the genend meeting of
the German architects at Frankfort,
but I own that in interest their discus-
sions fell far below those to which I
listened at Malines. In 1857, at the
general reunion of the Christian art
associations in Grermany, which met
at Begensburg, several hundred com-
missioners were present, and on that
occasion were displayed. the same en-
thusiasm, the same freshness and in-
terest, which distinguished the discus-
sions at Malines. But (iiis zeal has
long died out ; the Christian art associ-
ations of Germany never met again;
and at Wurzburg, Frankfort, and Aix-
la-Chapelle, the Catholic conventions
scarcely deigned to notice Christian
art*

The chairman of the section for
Christian art at Malines was Viscount
du Bus de Ghisignies. The viscount's
appearance is noble and striking; he
seems to have been born to conunand.
In the heat of the combat du Bus
never loses his self-possession; his
clear and steady eye watches the battle ;
not a word escapes his notice ; £ur
and unprejudiced, he deals out equal
justice to all. If the opinions of a
speaker clash with his own, he twirls
his martial moustache with more than
ordinary vigor ; but he allows to every
one the rights he may justly claim.
As chairman, his duties are not unat-
tended with difficulty. Romans and
Teutons, Frendmien and Britons,
Dutchmen and Belgians, meet alter-
nately in friendly strife ; many a blow
is exchanged, principle clashes with
principiey and deeply-seated preju-

dices are uprooted. Convinced that
the harmony of mind, as that of
sounds, is the product of contrast, da
Bus acted in accordance with his con-
victions and nobly fulfilled the task
assigned him. The debates of his sec-
tion were more animated and more
instructive than those of any other.

At the right of du Bus sat the vice-
president of the section. Professor
Cartuy vels, of Louvain, a man well-
versed in parliamentary usage, in
which he was excelled by no one ex-
cept, perhaps, by A. Rcichensperger.
A young cleigyman from Brabant^
Cartuyvels displays a master mind;
equally skilled in aesthetics and in the
philosophy and Instory of art, the
value of these acquirements is en-
hanced by his knowledge of the litur-
gy, of canon law, and of holy writ.
He is thoroughly acquainted with the
works of the great masters of Ger-»
many and Italy. His words proclaim
the enthusiasm with which he devotes
all the faculties of his soul to the ser»
vice of Christian art

Always prepared to speak, he bold-
ly upholds the principles which he
deems correct. He defends them with
ardor and confidence of success, and
he seldom fails to carry his point ;
few are able to cope with him. It
was a glorious sight to see A. Beieh-
ensperger and Cartuyvels engaged in
discussion ; for

^ BabUmest beftnty eomes to light
When powerftil extremes unite I "

James Weale was a representative of
England and £ngUsh art at Malines.
For many years Weale has made
Bruges his home, and exerted consid-
erable influence on Belgian art ; never-
theless, he is a thorough Englishman.
He is a convert and a disciple of Canon
Oakley. By becoming a Catholic^
as is often the case in England, Weale
incurred pecuniary losses ; but this
sacrifice has only purified and
strengthened his love for the Church*
The trials he has undergone have un-
veiled the heroic qualities of his heart
The greater number of English con-
verts (and this no one whohas had

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Hie happiness of personal aoquaint-
ance wich them will tfispute) are men
distinguished for their great learning
and affable manners, and Weale is
no exception to this rule. His princi-
ples of art are rigorous, I had ahnoat
said ezdasive, but he is convinced
of their correctness. In his views he
is unique and definite ; he propounds
them with uncommon clearness and
precision. When opposing false prin-
ciples, he is not very choice in his ex-
pres»ons, generally preferring the
strongest. Weale is the uncompro-
mising enemy of all sham and equivo-
cation. In die domain of art fails at-
tainments are immense, lie knows
England, the Netherlands, Germany,
France, and Italy. His quick eye in-
stantly discovers the merits of a
painting. That the deigy may be-
come familiar with every branch of
^ Christian art, is his most ardent de-
sire. At Bruges Weale publishes
**Z« Beffroi** an arduBological jour-
nal; he would have been die most
suitable candidate for the newly
founded duur of archaoology at Lou-
vain.

Having spoken of Weale, we are now
led to notice his friend Bethune, of
Ghent He is a painter, but confines
himself chiefly to painting on glass.
Brought up in the school of the cele-
brated English architect, Welby Pugin,
who, though only forty years of age
when he died, in 1852, had already built
more than two hundred churches and
chapels, his figures are distinguished
by purity of style ; he carries out in
practicethe theories of Weale. How-
ever, he does ^t by any means reject
everything modem, but judiciously
seeks to combine the beauties of the
modem with those of the ancient style
of art. Bethune is remarkable both
for his piety and his learning, and
this accounts for the charm and m-
stractiveness of his conversation. He
admires Germany and German art,
without being blind to its defects ; on
the contrary, his criticisms on the best
productions of modem German paint-
ing are severe, not to say harsh.

His paintings on glass are in marked
contrast to the productions of the
Munich schooL He does not delight
in great historical paintings on gh^s,
which tend to make us forget that we are
looking at a window, but seeks to at-
tain unity of design by subordinating
his picture to the plan of the archi-
tect In the debates at Malines, Be-
thune did not take so prominent a part
as Weale. Another active member
of the section of Christian art waa
Bethune's brother, Canon F. A« L.
Bethune, professor of archaeology in
the seminary at Bmges. Among the
French members, Lavedan deserves
to be mentioned in the first instance.
He is a well-known French jouraaliaty
who seems to have a great taste for
the fine arts. With untiring ardor he
spoke on every question discussed, and,
in spite of being somewhat prolix, his
remarks were always listened to with
pleasure. Although noted rather fcnr
wit and polite literature than for depth
of learning, he was master of the situ-
ation, and to unhorse him was not an
easy task. He pleaded eloquently for
the establishment of a permanent art
exhibition. Whilst Lavedan, like
Weale, applies himself to the theory
of art, Jaumot, like Bethune, b a prac-
tical artist Of the few artists that
France can boast of, Jaumot is <me of
the best ; but he was not permitted te
exhibit his cartoons, and has not met
with the encouragement so indispensa-
ble to the artist Jaumot ccumplained
of this at Malines, and maintained
that the Belgian clergy are much bet-
ter acquainted with the principles of
Christian art than the clergy of
Frtoce. The Abbe Carion attracted
attention by his profound knowledge
of archaeology ; all his remarks prov-
ed that he understands thoroughly the
subject he treated, though he does not
present his ideas in so pleasing a
manner as others. Any seminary
may justly be proud of such profes-
sors as Messrs. Carion, Bethune, and
Cartuyvels. No one contributed
more to the merriment of the assem-
bly than Van Schendel, of Antwetpi

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225

aQ old painter, who delights in sketch*
es of Dutch familj life. He railed at
eveiything, and at times he became
quite sarcastic To find fault seemed
to be his sole purpose ; whether justly
or not, was of little t^nscquence. He
succeeded most admirably in boring
the chairman. Yan Schendel seems
to dislike the French language, for he
always preferred to speak Dutch. I
might speak of many more, but I
shall only mention Delbig, a German
painter, residing at Liege; Alfred
Geelhand, Leon de Monge, Martin,
Isard, Mommaerts, of Brussels : Bor-
deau ; de Fleury, an enthusiastic ad-
mirer of Flandrin, the gi-eat French
painter; Van de Necker, the Abb6
Huguet, and the Abbe Van Drival.

I cannot forbear speaking of A.
Reichensperger, of Cologne. For al-
most a quarter of a century Reichen-
sperger has been the champion of
Christian art, not only in Germany,
where he is looked upon as the fore-
moet defender of German art during
the middle ages, but also in France
and England. Li Cologne he had
been at the head of the society for
completing the cathedral. Li the
Prussian chambers at Berlin he has
always exerted himself in favor of
true art. He was president of the
general meeting of the Christian art
unions, held at Regensburg in 1857,
and distinguished himself as an orator
at the congress of artists that as-
sembled at Antwerp some years ago.
He was also present at Malines, and
his presence was of great advantage
to the Romanic delegates. Reichen-
sperger is delighted to meet with op-
position; nay, he calls it forth, for with-
out it he appears dissatisfied. In fact,
a debate is impossible without opposi-
tion. At Malines, it is true, oppo-
nents were not wanting, but he van-
quished them alL Manfully uphold-
ing his German principles, he con-
vinced many of their correctness.
Reichensperger has often earned ap-
planse, he has been the hero of many
a parliamentary triumph, during the
twelve years that he has been consid-

VOL.

ered one of the five best speakers in
the Prussian parliament, but in the
Petit Seminaire at Malines he gained
his most brilliant successes. His
French may not at all tiines be classi-
cal; but his pointed expressions
charmed his French audience. His
style is not florid, but his speeches
sparkle with wit, humor, and sarcasm.
His ready logic completely astounded
his adversaries. All his remarks
called forth thundering applause,
which finally grew so noisy that the
chairman of 5ie first section, ^^ Lei
(Euvres BeUgieuses" deemed it neces-
sary to interfere and request a little
more moderation.

But what was the subject of all
these learned deliberations? Many
questions were discussed, and variety
constituted one of the principal charms
of the proceedings, -^thetics Mere
treated in the first place ; the learned
speakers philosophized concerning the
ideas of truth, of goodness, and of
beauty. One hundi^ed and two years
have rolled by since Baumgarten, the
father of aesthetics, died. In 1750
and 1758 he published the two vol-
umes of his celebrated work entitled
" ^sthetica,'* For more than a hun-
dred years, therefore, aesthetics have
been cultivated with more or less zeal,
but with very little succe/s; the
science seems to stagnate because the
principles on which it is based are un-
sound. Hence most books on sesthet-
ics are loathed. The best among the
recent works on this subject was writ-
ten by Lasaulx ; but a philosophy of
art, from a Catholic point of view,
we do not yet possess, for Dursch's
"iEsth.etics*^^ has many defects. Jacobs'
" Art and the Church" might, if com-
pleted, have supplied a want long felt.

The discussions on the beautiful led
to no important results. Of more
practical consequence was the resolu-
tion condemning French pictures.
Mommaerts made an attempt to es-
tablish in Brussels a society whose ob-
ject was to be the diffusion of pictures
artistically unobjectionable. At Paris
MenioUe, assisted by German artists,
u. 15

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Medina and WSrzburg.

intends to do the same for France,
where hitherto Schalgen, of Diissel-
dorf, has, so to saj, held a monopoly.
I hope that both projects maj be suc-
cessful, and escape the fate of manj
similar enterprises, which are nipped
in the bud. In all likelihood no simi-
lar society will do so much good, and
extend its influence so far, as the Dlis-
seldorf association for the diffusion of
good pictures.

Much time was spent in discussing
the establishment of museums like
those of Sydenham and Kensington,
near London, and in listening to
speeches on fresco paintings, on the
stations of the cross, on exhibitions of
works of art, and on the encourage-
ment of artists. On motion of Weale,
a resolution was adopted to found a
Belgian national museum at Louvain,
and Reichensperger prevailed on the
assembly to pledge itself to further the
completion of St. Rombaut's cathedral
at Malines.

Let this suffice* The musicians
would complain, perhaps, were we to
j^s them unnoticed. At the request
of the general committee at Brussels,
Canon Devroye and Chevalier H.
Van Elewyk had prepared eight
theses for discussion. These proposi-
tions treat of choral music, of the ed-
ucation xof organists, of the influence
of religious music, of the establish-
ment of societies for the promotion of
church music, and the like. It was
proposed to found a musical academy,
in which a special department for reli-
gious music is to be established.

Canon Devroye presided ; his in-
teresting remarks were always listened
to with pleasure. Dr. Paul Alber-
dingk-Thijm, of Amsterdam, formerly
of Louvain, was vice-president He
is well acquainted with Gregorian mu-
sic and church music in general — of
Grerman music also ; even of our most
common popular songs he has a
thorough practical knowledge; many
of our German songs he renders with
exquisite taste. We shall see more
of him hereafter. Verooitte, of Paris,
was chosen to be honorary vic^presi-

dent. He is well known in France.
He founded the academy for religious
music in Paris, which has been in suc-
cessful operation for some time, and
has contributed materially to raise the
character of religious music in that
country. Chevalier Van Elewyk has
done all in his power to establish in
Louvain a society for the promotion
of church music, and his exertions
were not in vain. A society having
the same object in view was formed
at Amsterdam. At Malines there
were also several organ-builders,
whose practical advice was of great
advantage to the musical section ; the
foremost among them were Cavaille-
CoU, of Paris ; Mercklin, of Brussels ;
and Loret, of Malines.

One of the most remarkable per-
sonages at the congress was F. Her-
mann, prior of the Carmelites in Lon-
don. F. Hermann Cohen, the piimist^
is a native of Hamburg, and greatlj
esteemed by the Catholics of Ger-
many. The manner of his conver-
sion was most wonderful and in many
of its features resembled that of Al-
phonsus Ratisbonne. Whenever I
saw F. Hermann, in his fine Carmelite
habit, I thought of another great mu-
sician, Liszt, whom I had seen and ad-
mired at Rome, and of the Franciscan,
F. Singer, who invented the wonder-
ful instrument to the tones of which I
had the pleasure of listening at the
general convention held at Salzburg
in 1857. True, F. Hermann is not
only an eminent musician — God has
gifled him with many other endow-
ments ; as an brator, especially, he is
overpowering, able to move the most
unfeeling. Another monk, a fine and
imposing figure and a master of relig-
ious music, the Franciscan friar Egid-
ius, of Jerusalem, ofiered very valua-
ble advice. Friar Julian, of Brussels,
who has supplied three nations with
organists, took an active part in the
debates. Beside these I shall mention,
Arthur de la Croix, of Toumay, who
has written several works on religious
music; the Abbe Loth, of Rouen, who
deserves honorable mention as one of

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tlie moat sealous ^romoten of church
music ; Lemmens, editor of ^Z' Orgtm^
isie OaihoUque f* Emile Tiaminne, of
Toogres, who most eloquently insists
on the cultiyation of music in seminar
lies, and on the i^ipointment of a sper
cial committee for music in everj dio*
cese. F. FaadiBruno,ofSt.Feter^8,
in London, sp<^e on oratorios; the
Abb^ Deschuttery of Antwerp, on sa-
cred music at concerts, Edmund
Duval presented a paper on the w>
eompaniment of plain chant L'Abb^
de Majer, Pro£ Deyoght, and Haf*
ktnscheidy of Amsterdam, also made
important suggestions. On motion of
Dr. Paul Albeniingk-Thijm, the most
enunent authorities on sacred music
were i^>pointed corresponding mem-
bers. The following were elected:
Meluasi, musical director at St. Fe«
ter's, Rome Dandini, secretary of the
academ J of Sl Cecilia at Bome ; Don
Klarion Eslava, of Madrid ; the Duke
de San Clemente,'of Florence ; John
Lambert, of London ; Toman, archae-
ologist at Paris ; Charles Verooitte, of
Paris ; the Abb^ Loth, of Rome ; Friar
£gidius, of Jerusalem; F. Hermann, of
LcHidon ; T. J. Alberdingk-Tliijm, pub*
lisher at Amsterdam; and F. Stem,
pastor of St. Ursula's, Cologne.

Hitherto very little has been done
for the refonnation of church music ; m
Germany, as elsewhere, there still
exist many reasons for complaining.
Neywtheless, the Gregorian chant is
no more antiquated than the ceremo-
nies of the Church, her liturgy, her
liturgical language, or the yestments
naed at her offices. Who is there that
does not admire the melody of the sa^
cred hynms, their perfect form, their
solemnity, and their dignity ? More-
over, the plain chant demands no vio-
lent exertion on the part of the singer.
The voice is strained neither by diffi-
cult figures nor by unnatural intervals,
nor does it require the same compass
aa die modem music. Unlike instru-
naental music, choral music does not
8tan the hearer by its noisy effect, so
onbecoming divine service. •

Nor has sufficient attention been

paid to several other points; to the
more thorough study of the liturgy,
and of the sacred hymns of the
Church, and to the cultivation of pop-
ular music

Lastly, we must briefly notice the
exhibition connected with the congress
of Malines. It was very interesting,
and formed a pleasing feature of
the first and particularly of the sec-
ond congress. Those who contributed
most towards its success were, James
Weale, of l^ruges, 3ethune, of Ghent^
Canon de Bleser, and Abb4 Deloigne.
Many weeks of patient research, under
the most favorable circumstances,
would not enable us to meet with so
many specimens of mediaeval art ; in
fact, the collection was of great im-
portance to U)^ student of archs^logy*

The works of living masters, too,
were on exhibition, and many of them
called forth our especial interest and
admiration. They proved conclusive-
ly that the attempts recently made to
restore Christian art to its pristine
purity have not been altogether fruit-
less. Ip many places our artisans
have again begun to study the medise-
val art, and many of them rival in the
excellence of their productions the
masters of the middle ages. How
beautiful were many pieces of bronze
stiktuary, of jewelry, and of embroid-
ery, that we found at Malines ! The
bronze chandeliers, candelabra, and
desks sent by Hart, of London, sur-
passed in purity of style and beauty
the best works of the old Belgian
masters. The Romanic and Gothic
ciboria, chalices, remonstrances, chan-
deliers, reliquaries, censers, crosses,
croziers, and the like, contributed by
such artists as Bourdon de Bruyne, of
Ghent, Martin Yogeno, of Aix-la-
Chapelle, Hellner, of Kempen-on-th^
Rhine, rivalled the most admired pro-
ductions of the middle ages ; the three
artists above-mentioned fully deserved
the prizes awarded them by the con-
gress. Among the sculptors whose
statuary graced the exhibition, well-
merited praise was bestowed on de
Bxoeck and Van Wint, of Antwerp, and

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Pieckerey, of Bruges. The paintings
on glass, also, exhibited bj Westkke,
of London, met with general appro-
bation. The committee which award-
ed the premiums consisted of Voisin,
of Tournay; von Bock, of Aix«la-
Chapclle ; Van Drival, of Arras ; Fe-
lix Bethane and John Bethane, of
Ghent ; Cartnjvels, of Liege ; Weale,
of Bruges ; and Helbeig, of Liege.

Lambotte, of Liege, Beinhold Aas-
ters, of Aix-la^Chapelle, John Goyers,
of Malines, and several others had sent
samples of workmanship in gold.
The silk embroideries of Von Lam-
brechts-MartiDi of Louvaic, attracted
considerable attention, as did also the
sculptures of Champigneulle, of Metz,
and of Phyffers, a Belgian sculptor
living in London. Manj| other names
I have forgotten; but on the whole
the English and Grermans excelled
the French and Belgians. J. F. Cas-
aretto, of Crefeld, h^ brought to Ma-
lines a number of vestments, banners,
chasubles, copes, etc, and displayed
them to advantage at the Hotel Lieder-
kercke. They attracted the notice of
the Belgian bishops no less than of
the foreign clergy, and their excellence
was acknowledged by all, especially
by Bishop Dupanloup, of Orleans. In
Germany, for the last twelve years,
Casaretto has enjoyed the patrona|e
of the bishops and clergy. Though
there were at Malines many excellent
samples of workmanship, there was
idso much that did not soar above me-
diocrity, and much that fell beneath
it. Even many experienced artisans
are guilty of gross mistakes ; some
goldsmiths, for instance, manu£Eu^ture
patens entirely unfit for use. The
paten should be perfectly smooth and
even, without any ornament Li Ma-
lines there were many chalices whose
feet were so made that it would be
next to impossible to hold them firmly
without injuring the hand of the cele-
brant Li many of the remonstrances
and other sacred vessels, also, serious
defects were noticeable, a proof that
there is still room for improvement
To attidn a proper degree of perfec-

tion, there should be a closer union of
the mechanical and the fine arts and
of both with science. Let ouc ardsans
be acquainted with the piinciplas of
art, let them be thoroQghly instructed
in the rules laid down by the Church
for the guidance of the ardst, let them
come into closer contact mih men of
Bdenoe ; in fine, let them, thus instruct-
ed, be penetrated by the spirit of £uth,
purified and ennobled thereby, and
they will certainly produce workman-
ship worthy of our admiration. On
this subject many usefuhsuggestiona
were made by Cardinal Wiseman in
1863, in his well-known lecture on the
*^ Connection between Science and Art"
The results of the debates of the
section on art were, as we stated
above, the establishment of a profes-
sorship of ecclesiastical archaeology
at Louvain and the foundation of a
national museum at the same place.
Considering the many reasons &•
eloquently urged in its favor, we
doubt not that active and immediate
measures will be taken for the com-
pletion of the cathedral of Malines.
On the success of the Crerman artists
at the Malines exhibition we lay die
more stress because, at the same time,
Ittenbach, of Dusseldorf, surpassed all
his competitors at the Antwerp exhi-
bition of paintings, and the historical
painter, Edward Steinle, of Frankfort-
on-the-Main, by his cartoons, exhibit-
ed at Brussels, gained new triumphs
for trae Christian art To the latter
fact, Gttffers and Swerts, the best Bel-
gian painters, cheerfully bore wit-
ness. In the debates at Malines the
superiority of German art was repeat-
edly acknowledged by representatives
of all nations.

To return to our fatherland. At
the head <^ the movement for the re-
generation of art in Grermany, which
disthiguished the first half of the nine-
teenth century was a Catholic prince,
King Louis L of Bavaria. It was he,
also, who, partly by renovating the
cathedrals of Regensburg, Bamberg,
and Spires, and partly by erecting so

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MaUnei and Wunburg.

229

manj beautifol temples at Munidby
rescued Christian art from the di'sre-
pate into which it had fallen. Rare-
ly has so much been done for art in so
short a time as in Bavaria mider
Louis L; few monarchs have been
more liberal patrons of every depart-
ment of art. Many are of opinion
that Ejng Louis' protection should
have been confined to German art,
bat his great soul scorned such nar-
row-minded ideasy and he extended
his care to ancient classical art.
Foremost among those who, since
1842, strore to regenerate Chjistian
art in its purely German form was
King Louis' friend, Cardinal Geissel,
of Cologne* The association for com-
pleting the cathedral of Cologne call-
ed forth great artistic activity ; in that
famous edifice was seen the symbol of
the Catholic Church in Grermany, and
of the final return of all Germany to
the one true faith.

To their exertions we must ascribe
the advancement of Christian art pre-
vious to the meeting of the first Cath-
olic general convention. These con-
ventions have always upheld the
claims of Christian art. AtLinx, in
1850, was founded the '^ Christian Art
Union of Germany." In a few years
this society spread over every part of
our country. The Rhenish art un-
iona were the most active, and exer-
cised ci&Ksiderable infiuence on those
of southwestern Germany ; the latter,
however, have proved more lasting
and liave accomplished more impor-
tant results.

When once fairly established, the
C%ris1aan art union held several gen-
eral meetings, the first of which took
place at Cologne in September, 1856.
The beginning was insignificant, for
scarcely a hundred delegates assem-
bled, and many of these hailed from
the Rhenish provinces, Li spite of
this drawback, the transactions were
far more interesting than those of many
ao-called ^historical associations,''
that busied themselves with Celtic,
Roman, and German antiquities. Nay,
considering the merit of the speeches

delivered, they compare favorably
with those of the German architecturid
society. A still more brilliant future,
however, was in store for the Christian
art union. In 1857, the second gen-
eral meeting was held at Regensburg^
at which the number of archaeologists
and artists amounted to several hun-
dred. For three days liiey assembled
in the splendid church of St. Ulric,
discussed some most important ques-
ticms, and listened to several brilliant
speeches. The treasures of medisval
art, sent from every part of the diocese
of Regensburg, formed a magnificent
collection, for, among all the cities of
Germany, Re^nsburg is one of the
richest in monuments of medieval
times, whilst its cathedral is* one of
the &iest in the world. A. Reichen-
sperger, the chairman, enforced strict
order in debate ; next to him sat Dr.
F. Streber, professor at Munich. As
a successful student of numismatics,
his fame was European; in fact he
was a man of superior learning. His
best work is his << History of Christian
Art," which was not published previous
to his death, but whose excellence no
one will undervalue. If an illustrated
edition were published, it would sup-
plant all other class-books on the same
subject, and be a sure guide and basis
of all fiiture researches. And no
wonder, for no man had a clearer
and more general knowledge of ev-
erything relating to the history of art
than Streber. We h<^ soon to see
this history grace every collection of
the Catholic classics of Germany.

Another eminent member of the as-
sembly was Dr. Zarbl, canon of the
cathedral at Munich. An eloquent
speaker, a writer who recounted his
travels in an interesting manner, and
a zealous pastor of souls, the canon
was a patron of Christian art, and inti-
mately acquainted with its literature.
His residence resembled a museum of
mediaeval curiosities. He was presi-
dent of the Regensburg art union, and
well was he fitted to fulfil his duties.
When he walked up the aisles of his
cathedral, his appearance was miyes^

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S80

Mdinei and Wurzbuirg.

de. Hifl words were impresMTe and
Ub actioDS caudotts and well oonBider^
ed» Overtopping moat men, and in-
Bpiring aU with reapeot, strangeia
looked np to him with a feeling akm
to awe, whilst to those who knew him
he was a kind and esteemed friend*
Canon Zarbl departed this life long
ag0| to leceiTe the reward of his yIt^
toes. A Benedietine of the abbej at
Metten, on the Danube, a man whose
memorj is cherished by thousands of
his pupls, F. Bdephonsus Lehner, was
the soul of die Regensburg art union in
1867« Asdir^torofthe seminary he la*
bored suooessftilly to imbue his students
with an ardent love of Christian art,
the principles of which he had mastered
at aa early age. This he effected not
so mudi by aestbetioal theories as by
pracdcal instrucdon. At Metten he
founded a museum of medieval art,
he formed a school which was fre-
quented by many talented yoimg men,
and assisted by several friends he
founded the Bc^ensburg diocesan art
unioHi and encouraged artistic literar
ture* Foremost among his discijdes
is George Dengler, of Begensborg, who
bids fair to attain considerable emi-
nence in architecture* At the Wtirep
burg general convention, in 1864, F.
Ildephonsus was chosen chairman of
the seedon of Christian art, and in an
eloquent address he urged the Ger*
man clergy to study the Catholic lit-
urgy and the regulations of the
Church r^jarding Christian art.

We must not forget to mention G.
Jacobi He was associated for a long
dme with Dr« Ambarger, one of the
first theologians of the present age,
and Grrillmaier, the most pious priest
that I have ever met with, in the di-
tecdon of the seminary at Regens-
burg, where he was prwessor of the
history of art. At the suggestion <^
the Begent Dirschedl^ of Begensburg,
and of F. Ildephonsns, Jacob wrote
his work on art in the service oi the
Qiurdb, which was published at the
time of the Begensbuig congress* 1^
is a truly adn^nble irork, especially
as a manual for theokgians and priests*

In afew weeks it spread all over Grer-
many, and during the last seven years
nothmg has been written equal to it
in its Und. The publication of Stre-
ber's ^ History of Art" and a new edi-
tion of Jacob's << Handbook" would be
of great sei^ice to the Grerman cleigy,
and would gready promote the study
of Christian art

Sigfaart, of Frdsing, who had just
published his '' Albertus Magnus," also
spoke at Begensburg. He is the
most distinguished of die many writers
on the history of art of whom Bavaria
jusdy boasts; twelve years have
elapsed since he began the long series
of his valuable works by his histoiy
ofthe cathedral of Freising. His ^His-
tory of Plastic Art in Bavaria," pub-
lished in 1868, was the crowning eiSbr
of his genius and labors. No other
German country can boast of so cwn-
plete and perfect a history. He also
called into existence a museum of me>
disval art, and brought to the notice
of the learned alUhe artistic treasures
of the archdiocese. His example has
been imitated in several Bavarian dio-
ceses.

Himioben, of Mayence, was the rep-
resentative of die art union founded
by him in that diocese. In fact Him-
ioben was one of the finnest stays (tf
the Catholic association in Mayence^
and a prominent orator at all the gen-
eral conventions. His appearance
was strikmg, and predisposed all in
his £ekvor. His sparkling eyes, his fine
flowing hair, his noble figure, his so-
norous V(Hce, and his youthful ardor and
enthusiasm, made him the favorite of
all who had die pleasure of listening
to him. ^ I have seen the seed germi-
nate, and the fiowers bud ; you will see
them in full bloom^ and reap the fruit*
Such were his words to a younger
friend in the fall of 1860, and well do
they express his ideas concerning the
regeneration of religious life in the
nineteenth century. Himioben used
all his influence in favor of renovat-
ing the cathedral of Mayence, though
he did not live to see the repairs oom-
pleted. Would that he had witnessed

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MaUnet and WunAurg*

231

tibe twentiedi of November, 1864,
when the Oatholic cause aoqaired new
strength by the confederation of the
Bhenish cities !

Stein, of Cologne, spoke on church
music ; Professor Beischi, of Regens-
borg, on hymnoiogj ; Dr. Punch, of
Bottweil, on SBsthetics; whilst Wiest
niged the renovation of the cathedral
at Ulm. But I cannot mention all who
addressed the assembly at liegens-
buig. But though there were many
and distinguished orators at Regens-
burg, the pafan of superior Buocess be-
longs to a musician, J. Mettenleiter,
who edited the "< Mutica Dimna'* in
connection with Canon Pipske, and
who at Begensburg gave a practical
proof of what true church musie is.
All were transported by the magical
power of harmony. Begensburg pos»
Besses the best sehool of church music
in Grermany, and the choir of its ca^
thedral rivsJs that of the Sistine chapeL
Besides Mettenleiter and Proske, we
must mention Schrems, Wesselack,
azMl Witt.

The seal displayed at Begensburg
was short-lived; the German art
union never met again in general
convention. Since 1858 it has again
become a mere section of the general
conventions of the Catholic societies
in Germany. At the Munich conven-
tioo, in 1861, considerable interest was
taken in Christian art ; but at Aix«-la-
Cbapelle, Frankfort, and WOrzbarg it
had few^any^ends. At Alz-la-Cha-
pelk Professor Hutmacher was chair-
man of the section of art, at Frankfort
Prof. Steinle, whilst at Wttrzburg the
most active members were F. Ilde-
{^umsus and Dean Schwars, of BiSh-
menkirch, in Wirtemberg.

But diough much has been done for
Christum art by the establishment of art
ttnions and their general meetings, it has
likewise been promoted in many other
w%y8. The members of the Catholic
art unions not only devoted them-
selves to the study of art, but idso en-
eoaraged others to make researches on
this subject, and it is but just to add
that during the past twelve years

much has been accomplished that
deserves unqualified praise. To the
Bosen art union wo owe the '^ History
of the Development of Bciigious
Architecture in the Tjrrol,** the second
part of which was published a year
ago by Earl Atsi. The Linz art un-
ion, after commissioning Florian Wie-
ner to write directions for researches
on religious monuments, is now prepar-
ing a history of art in the diocese of
Linz. Many years ago Giefers ren-
dered a similar service to Paderbom^
Schwarz and Laib to Bottenbui;g,
and Beichenspeiger to the Bhenish
dioceses. Besides estaUishing the Di-
ocesan museum, the richest coUeotion
of this kind in Germany, the Cologne
art union founded the ^Journal of
Christian Art." The Begensburg un-
ion published the work of Jacob men-
tioned abore, and distributed it among
its members. Sighart made researches
in the archdiocese of Munich ; whUst
Adalbert Grimm, of Augsburg, wrote
a history of his native dio<iese. Great
services were rendered to Eichstlidt
by Maitzl, to Bamberg by Kotschen-
reuter, to Wiirzburg by Wieland, to
Limburg on the I^hn by Ibach, to
Spires by Banting and Molitor, and
to Miinster by Zeke. By the advice
of Prof. Alzog, the Freiburg union
commenced in 1862 the publication of
an art journal. To the Bottenburg
art union we are indebted for an im-
portant work on altars, by Dean
Sehwars and Pastor Laib. One of
the most active societies is that of
Luxemburg, which has published an
art journal since 1861. These re-
searches were based on those of the
historical associations and on some
valuable essays, some of which had
been written l<Mig before. Almostevery
cathedral in Germany can boast of its
historian. Thus Geissel wrote the
history of the Imperial cathedral
(1826-8) ; Wetter and Werner that
of the cathedral at Mayenoe (1835) ;
Boisser^e that of the Cologne cathedral
(1821--d) ; and Giefers that of the
cathedral at Paderbom. To Perger
we owe a sketch of St. Stephen's at

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332

MaUMi and WUraAurg.

Vienna; to Himmelatem, one of the
cathedrfd at Wttrzbui]g ; whilst Grimm
and Allioli published an incomplete
sketch of the cathedral at Augsburg,
and the histories of the Hildesheim,
Xanten, a^d Freising cathedrals were
written bj KratK, Zehe, and Sighart.
One of the most instructive works
latelj published is Schreegrafs history
of the cathedral at Begensburg, in
three volumes. Every diocese in
Germany has not yet done its duty,
and much can and should still be done
by the German clergy. Let us not
think lightly of these laborious re-
searches ; their usefulness and impor-
tance to science will one day be made
evident to alL Catholics and Protest-
ants must aid alike in gathering the
voluminous materials, which must be
placed at the disposition of him whom
God will call to write a national his-
tory of German art. The labors of
these societies have already enabled
several prominent men to undertake
more extensive works, among which I
will mention Sigharfs ^' History of Art
in Bavaria," Lttbke's ^ History of Art in
Westplialia,'' Heideloff-Lorenz' <'Suab-
ian Art during the Middle Ages," Heid-
er-Eitelbei^r's "Mediaeval Monuments
of the Austrian Empire,** Haas' ^ His-
tory of Styrian Art,** Ernst aus dem
'Werth's ^< Monuments of the Lower
Rhine,** and Hassler's ^ Ancient Monu-
ments of Wirtemberg.** A year ago,
Lote published an excellent work, in two
volumes, entitled, ^ Art-Topography of
Germany,** whilst Otte*3 " History of
German Architecture** is on the point
of appearing. Schnaase, too, in his
^ History of Art** has prodted by the la-
bors of the Catholic art unions, and the
same may be said of MiiUer-Klun-
singerand Nagler, of Munich, in their
cyclopedias of arL

Let us not grow languid in our in-
vestigations conceming Grerman art
during the middle ages, until the List
monument has been discovered and
the last inscription deciphered. Many
years must elapse before we shall ar^
rive at this point When, in his wan-
derings throughout Europe, Bohmer,

the author of the great worik on impe-
rial decrees, found an' undiscovered
document, his joy was indescribable.
Equally great was the delight of the
editors of the ^ Manumenia German-
ia ** when they brought to light some
annals that were supposed to have
pQpshed. The same pleasure awaits
any one who has the good fortune of
discovering a Roman basilica, a re-
markable arch, or any other importaai
monument; who deciphers and ex-
plains an old inscription, and adds to
the stock of our knowledge.

As appears from what has been
said above, the religions art unions
also established journals and museums.
The chief of the periodicals is the
^Journal of Christian Art," edited,
since 1851, by BaudrL Among the
contributors to this publication, which
does not meet with the patron-
age it deserves, are A. Reichensper*
ger, Ernst Weyden, of Cologne, the
learned Dr. van Endert, Canon voa
Bock, of Aix-la^Chapelle, and, occa-
sionally, Munzenberger, of DiLssel-
dorf. Baudri*s journal is to Germany
what J. N. Alberdingk-Thijm*s ^De
dieUche Warande^ is to Holland, what
James Weale*s <' Le BeffroT is to Bel-
glum, and what Didron*s ^Annale^
are to France. The claims of church
music are put forth by the ^ Caedlia,**
published in Luxemburg by Oberhof-
fer. Pastor Ortlieb, whose premature
death we mourn, made a similar at>
tempt, but failed. In fine, the organ
of the altar societies is " Der Kirck^
ensckmuekj" a monthly publication,
published in Stuttgart by Schwarzand
Laib. These altar societies may now
be found in every part of Germany,
and their silent influence is great.
Some societies, those of Vienna and
Pesth, for instance, number thousands
of members. The Brussels and Paria
societies, beside attending to their own
wants, work for foreign missions. Die
most recent of these societies is the
one founded in November, 1864, at
FrankforUon-the-Mam, as the Dioce*
san society of Liraburg. The ladies
of Germany have iur^hed splendid

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Mdinei and Wunbmrg.

288

pieoes of embradbiy in llie form of
sacred Testments.

I cannot speak of altar societies
without mentioning Kreaser, of Co-
logne. Kreuser, with his hoary hair
and his mi^tj snuff-boz^-a man Ml
of sparkling wit and endless humor — is
known to all of us, for up to 1861 we
never missed him at the general con*
▼entions. Since the Munich conven-
tton, however, we have not seen him ;
he was absent at Aix-la-Chapelle, at
Frankfort, and at Wiirzburg, and we
know not the reason of his absence*
To speak ooodselj is very difficult, and
fewq>eakei8 from the Rhenbh pro-
Tinees can boast of this virtue; still,
most Germans, and especially the Ger-
man Ixulies, listened with pleasure to
old Kreoser ; and no wcHider, for Kreu-
ser never failed to do justice to the
ladies of Germany. When Kreuser
spoke in a city, his speech was followed
immediately by the establishment of
an altar society. He carried every-
thing by storm, and the impression
made by his speeches was not merely
transient, but produced lasting fruits.
Kreuser is a poet, also, a hi4>py im-
provisatore, able to o<^ with the
most daring rhjrmster. He is one of
the best read men in Germany, and
deserves our gratitude for his ezer*
tkms in the cause of Christian art.
Twen^ years have roUed by since he
published his ** Letters on the Cologne
Cathedral,'* and during the last twelve
years his work on architecture has
been studied again and again. That
SIreuser's style is deficient in grace
and harmony we will not dispute, still
mndi benefit may be derived from the
perusal of his works.

Francis von Bock, also, deserves
oar notice. He is the author of a
" History of the liturgic Vestments,"
in two vols., illustrated with two hun-
dred colored engravings. Boldly he de-
mands the use of appropriate work-
manship; fearlessly measures swords
with every opponent, and often his im-
petuosity is crowned with success. To
him Casaretto, of Crefeld, is indebted
fbar valuable suggestions. He was also

one of the founders of the scnool of
art under the direction of the Sisters
of the Infant Jesus, at Aiz-la-Cliapelle.
Dr. von Bock has visited every coun-
try in Europe, Turkey excepted,
which he intends shortly to visit for
the purpose of continuing his research-
es. l/Vhere can be found an ancient
vestment whose texture he did not
scrutinise, and a piece of which he has
not begged for still closer examina-
tiou? At Gran, at Malines, in Bohe-
mia, in Sicily, at Borne, at Paris, at
Yiennar-^v^ where Dr. von Bock
has left traces of his unwearying ac-
tivity. The Bhenish goldsmiths owe
him a debt of gratitude. He has writ-
ten papers on the church at Kaisers-
werth, on the Benedictine* church at
Mundien-Gladbach, on Cologne, and
on the relics at Gran and Aix-la-
Chapelle. His ]>rincipal work is on
the ^Insignia of the Holy Boman
Empire.^ It is a magnificently illustrat-
ed specimen of typography, equal in
every respect to any similar work
published in England or France. At
Malines every one spoke loudly in its
praise, and in 1864 the author receiv-
ed from the Emperor Francis Joseph
the Cross of the Iron Crown. Von
Bock's style reminds me of the chimes
I have heard in Holland; it consists
in a Constant repetition of the same
pleasing melody.

Yon Bock stands in odd contrast
to Dean Schwarz, of Bohmenkirch, the
able editor of the '^ KirehetuchmucL'*
He is the personification of repose
and dignity, a deep thinker, and a first-
dass archaeologist. For many years
he has wielded great influence with
the clergy.

Whilst the altar societies are dis-
playing greater activity every day, the
Christian art unions, it is said, are
daily becoming less asealous. In some
places, no doubt, this is true; but in
many dioceses they have been chang-
ing into associations for furthering the
completion of the diocesan cathedral.
To mention but a few instances, this
was the case in Begensburg. Since
Ins accession to the episcopal see

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MaUne$ and WUnAurg.

Bishop Ignatius von Senestrej applied
himself with energy to the completion
of his cathedral. King Louis I. hav-
ing iurnished the means, we have no
doubt that in a few years architect
Denringer will finish the two towers.
At Majence, likewise, everything is
being done for the completion and
decoration of the cathedraL The work
has been intrusted to the skill of
Mettemich, and Director Yeit, assisted
byLasinsky Settegast and Ilermann,
is frescoing the walls and the vaults.
Since the fall of the partition between
the sanctaaiy and the nave in the Co-
logne cathedral, and since the great
festival of October 15th, 1868, the
building has been steadily progressing,
and the cathedral lottery promises to
furnish the means for completing the
towers within seven years. I^hmidt
has added a new pyramid to St.
Stephen's cathedral in Vienna, which
has now the highest spire in the
world. After rivallmg the English
architect Welby Pugin by planning
almost two hundred churches and
chapels, State is now building a cathe-
dral at Linz. Archbishop Gregory
von Scheer has given a new appear-
ance to the metropolitan Church of Our
Lady at Munich, whilst the bishop of
Passau, Henry von Hofstfttter, has
proved his devoti<Hi to the interests
of art by renovating many church-
es in his diocese. Among all the Ger-
man prekttes none have built more
churches than Cardinal Qeissel, of

Cologne, and Bishop MtOler, of Mtln-
ster.

Is it not an encouraging sign that we
are completing the immense edifices of
the middle ages ?. Li it not a proof of
vital energy that the Catholics of all
countries are building the grandest
churches in die most correct style?
As architectural science progresses, a
like advance must take place in me-
chanics, and, notwithstanding many
blunders, every branch of art is daily
more and more perfected. Not many
years hence all our temples will be
completed and adorned with the splen-
dor becoming the divine service. Let
every one do his duty, fulfilling the task
allotted him by divine Providence

Lotus conclude our nipi<^ survey
by calling to mind the men who liave
begun and directed this movement.
Among the Germans, Joseph von
Gdrres, F. von Schlegel, and Sulpitius
Boisserto will head our list France
justly boasts of de Caumont, Didron,
Montalembert, Violletie Due, Cahier,
and the Abb6 Martin. Oudin must
not be forgotten, nor Bossi, the histori-
an of the catacombs. The merits of
Serottx d'Agincourt, Waagen, Guil-
habaud, Schnaase, Kugler, Passavant,
StieglitaB, Geyer, Eallenbach, Forster,
Moller, Heideloff,Otte, Springer, Hef-
ner-Alteneck, Ejieg von Hochfelden,
von Quast, Jacob Schmitt, and many
others known to every votary of art.
To us is assigned the task of rea{nqg
the finiits of their labors.

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Propema JSe$9{. 285

From The SL Junes* Kig»sine^

PBOPEBZIA BOSSL

Propersla BomI,* female artlBt, celebrated for her mlgfortanes, though more for her profldencT
inieaIptiire,paiiitliig,aDdma«ic, died of a broken heart, J cut aa Pope Clement VII. had loTlted
her to Bome, to show his admiration for her masterpiece In the church of Jdan Petrooio at Bologna.

Too late— ob, far too late ! Praise comes in vain
To lull the feyer'd agonies of pain.
I am no more the artist idlj proud,
Bat the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud.
1^0 more the songstress, whose impassioned lay
O'er taste and feeling held unrivalled sway ;
But a weak woman, desolate and worn,
Her pulses throbbing, and ber heart-strings torn,
Looking above-— sad, humbled, and alone—* •
Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne-
Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light
From the meek Man of sorrows and of might,
Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save,
Died on the cross, and triumphed o'er the grave !

What though the light of genius fired mine eye,
That radiant meteor leaves us when we die,
And conscience whispers that the gtfls of heaven
Were oil misused* I thirst to be forgiven.
Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff d.
And crave the Bock's sole vivifying draught 1
Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace,
I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face ;
Implore for pardon with intense distress,
And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness I
Oh, what avails it that aerial forms.
And colors vivid as the bow of storms.
Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell ?
Say, have I used these varied talents well ?
Oh, what avails it that^ my hands would mould
Beautiful models from the marble cold ?
Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane
Brought one soil'd spirit to her Gk>d again ?*«•
BecaU'd a virtuous feeling to the heart,
And by religion consecrated art ?
Have the fair features and bri^t hues I wove '

In one dark breast ittumed the spark of love ?
Or lured the soul from sin's deceptioos toys
To pure devotion's memorable joys ?
Oh, have the gifls of music and of song
Soothed one sad being of the human throng ?—
Angelic thoughts — submissive, hopeful, kind-
Breathed o'er a mournful or a shattered mind ?
And has my genius, with a potent sway,
Qilded the road to heaven— that straight and narrow way ?

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2S6 Prop^rzia Rom.

Grod has been verj bounteous ; he has given
Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven.
The threefold cords* of talismanic power
Were meant to yield employment for the hour-
Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain^-
Brief as the April drops of sunny rain ;
And jet by mercy recompensed above,
If well improved in hope, and faith, and love.
But conscience whispers, and in these dark days
That voice grows louder as my strength decays,— i
Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime,
And of a judgment awfully sublime !
Of duties unfuLfiU'd, of gifls misspent.
Of futuie pangs, of fitting punishment !

I muse no longer on the pr««i^— no—
My life is with the future or the pcut,

And both are mingling in a magic flow,
Like turbid waters in a fountain cast.

The /Kz«^-— oh, whether fair, or dark, or both,
Is but a picture mirror*d on the wave.

The moral sicknesses — guile, anger, sloth-
Arise as spectres from a yawning grave ;

What boots it that misfortune paled my cheek.
That penury and pain obscured my way ?

Sorrow is voiceless ; 'tis remorse that speaks
In awful tones of merited decay,

And of the worm that dieth not — ^the vale
Of never-ending, still-beginning death.

Methinks I hear the harsh, continuous wail,
The sobs and catchings of convulsive breath.

Guilt unatoned for— thoughts and words of sin-
How do they rise up, burning as on glass I

The evil pent the wishful heart within
Asking for vengeance ! O the hideoo^ mass

Of wickedness heap'd up, long, long oonceal'd !

But now as by a lightning flash reveal'd.

Woe ! woel the Eternal Judge's fiery dart

Hath pierced the labyrinthine cells within,
Where underneath the pulses of my heart

Dwells the mysterious form of crouching sin.
Thoughts, baneful wishes, — ay, as well as deeds,

A^nst me in strong phalanx are array'd.
In vain these tears— in vain this bosom bleeds :

I look upon myself, and am dismay'd,
Powerless, and weak, and agonized I cry,—
And hear the words, ^ Lost sinner, thou must die I **

Clouds roll around me, and from an abyss,
Drear, dark, profound, behold a hideous form I

Ciloser and closer serpents coiling hiss.
And thunders boom along a sky of storm.

* Mat Ic, painting, and acalptnrt.

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I%$ Oapuekin of Bruges. 237

Tbere is no deed to offer thee of good,
Thou mocking fiend ! laugh on without restraint I

I seem as borne along a sulphurous flood,
Too meteoricallj wild to paint

The couch heares under me, mj sight is gone,—

I am with the accuser, and alone I

Akme ! alone ! O tell me not 'tis so.

That I must grapple powerless with the foe.

Jesus, thou Lamb of God, arise ! arise !

Arrest these doubts, these daring blasphemies.

It was for sinners thou didst shed thy blood.

For guilty mortals, not for angels' good.

Listen ! attend I a sinner asks for aid, —

For me that blood was spilt, for me thou wast betrayed.

As when a night of storms has sped away.
And robed in florid hues appears the day,
Stealingly, gently lighting up the %kies
With gleams, as from a seraph's smiling eyes,
Thus o'er my spirit breeds a gracious calm,
O'er my deep wounds is poured a healing balm.
Heduidu the mild Redeemer stands above,
And pleads Ms righteousness, his cross, his love ;
While angels' voices wafted straight from heaven
Proclaim^ << Thy Savior calls I thou art forgiven ! **

From The Hibendan Haxaslne.

THE CAPUCHIN OP BBUOES.

** Three moiiks.8at bj abogwood fire—

Bare were tneir crowni», and their garments grej.
Close sat thej bj that bogwood lire.
Watching the wicket till break of day."

Baixad Postkt.

Sathto the color of their garments, the days of Cassar, were shaded by •*

which, instead of grey, were ot a dark the dense forests of Flanders, three

brown, and the omission of any allu- lay-brothers of the order kept watch

sion to their long flowing beards, the for any wayfarer that might require

above lines convey as accurate an idea hospitality or information on the

as any words could of the parties that evening in question. Their convent

occupied the spacious guest-chamber stood— and a portion of it still stands

of the Capuchin convent of Bruges on —at the southern extremitj^ of the

ihe last night of October, 1708. town, close beside the present railway

Seated round the capacidns hearth, station. But Bruges was not, a cen-

OQ which, without aid of grate, cheqr- tury and a half ago, what it is to-

fdllj blazed a pile of dark gnarled day. War, and the recent decline of

logs dug up from the fens, which, in its ancient commerce, rendered it, at

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S88

ne Oqmekin of Bntfi$.

the period of which we write, any-
thing but a safe or attractiye locality
for either tourist or conunercial trav-
eller to visit There was no ^ Hotel
de Flandre,** or «Fleur de BW," or
even "Singe d'Or,'* for the weary
itinerant to seek refreshment or lodg-
ing. Neither were there gens-d*annes
in the streets, nor affable shopkeepers
in their gas-lit mageutiu, as at pres-
ent, to whom the benighted stranger
•might apply for information regarding
the locality in which his friends resid-
ed. The convents and monasteries,
however, with which Belgium was
then, as now, studded, were ever open
to the traveller, be his rank or condi-
tion what it might, and pre-eminent
for their hospitality were the Oapu-
chin fathers.

The night was a wild one; and the
dying blasts of October seemed bent
on a vigorous struggle ere they ex-
pired.

" What an awful storm I" exclaim-
ed Brother Anselm, rising to secure
the huge oak window shutters that
seemed, as if in terror, every moment
ready to start from their strong iron
festeninga.

** Grod preserve us I but 'tis fearfol,*' *
replied one of his companions. Brother
Bonaventure, "and what dreadful
lightning I "

Peal after peal of thunder resound-
ed through the spacious hall and ad-
joining corridors; and then, again,
came the wind beating the rain, in tor-
rents, against door and casement, and
completely drowning the chimes of the
Carillon, though the market-place,
^where the belfry stood, was close
beside them. Still not a word es-
caped their third companion, Brother
Francis, a venerable old man who sat
nearer than his younger brethren to
the ample fireplace. He continued
silently reciting "Ave" afler "Ave**
on the beads of the large rosary at-
tached to his girdle, and seemed, in
the excess of his devotion, utterly un-
conscious of the storm that howled
without

A loud knocking at the outer gate.

followed quickly by the ringing rf the
stranger's bell, at length announced
the arrival of some gyest In an in-
stant, the old man let his beads fall to
their accustomed place by his side —
for the rule of St Francis gave char-
ity toward the neighbor a first place
among its spiritual observances — and
hastened, as eagerly as his younger
brothers, to admit the poor traveller,
who must be sore distrait, on such an
awful night

Lighting a lantern, they proceeded
through the court to the outer porch,
and drawing back the slide that cov-
ered a small grated aperture in the
wicket, demanded who the wayfarer
might be. The gleam of the lamp
fell upon the uniforms of two military
men, who seemed engaged in support-
ing a third between them, while their
horses stood neighing in terror, and
pawing the ground beside them. In
a second the gate was unbarred, and
three of Venddme's txKxpers entered
the court-yard; two of them still sup-
porting their comrade, who had been
badly wounded in a skirmish with
Maiiborough*s troops, near Auden-
arde, that morning. Leaving Anselm
with the two other soldiers to look
afler the horses, brothers Frauds and
Bonaventure led the wounded man
into the convent. He seemed weak
and faint; but the cheerful blase of
the fire, and the refreshment speedily
administered by the good brothers^
soon restored hnn somewhat, though
he still suffered acutely from his
wound, and was utterly unable to
stand without the aid of support

For the first time Brother Francis
broke silence. From the moment he
caught a distinct view of the stran-
ger's iSace, as he sat in the light of the
fire, his gaze seemed riveted upon
him ; and an observer might have no-
ticed the old man's lip quiver and his
face grow paler, might have even ob-
served a tear steal down his cheek, as
he continued for a while to vgaze m
silence on the pallid features of the
young soldier. At length he ad-
dressed him^ not ia French or Flem-

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!!%€ Ckg^uMn of Brug^i,

239

iflh, but in a langnage which to Broth-
er Bonarentare was foreign.

The stranger's face brightened at
the soand of his own tongue, and he
readily made answer to the few hur-
ried questions put him bj the old
monk. Their conversation was of
very brief duration; but its result
seemed astounding. For when An-
selm returned with the soldiers, he
found Bonaventure and the stranger
chafing the old man's temples as he laj
in a swoon on the bench before them.

To their inquiries as to the cause of
this strange occurrence, Ansclm could
give no definite answer. All he knew
was, that although he could not under-
stand what passed between Brother
Francis and their comrade, the con-
versation seemed to produce a won
derful effect on the former. He ti-em-
bled from head to foot, and then
smiled, and seemed about to grasp the
stranger in his arms, when he sud-
denly fell back on the bench as thej
now saw him. The young soldier-^
he was almost a boy, and strikingly
handsome — was equally puzzled.
Brother Francis had merely asked
him if he were Irish ; and when he
answered "Yes;" — ^if his name was
Herbert, and if it was Gerald Her-
bert, and if his father and grandfather
were Irish; — and when he replied
that hia name was Gerald Walter
Herbert, and that his grandfather was
not Irish, but English, the old man
mnttered something which lie could
not catch, and fainted. That was all
he could teU them ; but what that had
to do with Brother Francis's fit still
remained a mystery.

For a considerable time the aged
monk lay senseless and almost motion- *
less, the only symptoms of animation
he presented being those afforded by
the convulsive throbbing of his heart,
and an occasional deep-drawn sigh.
His brothers seemed deeply afflicted,
and sought by every means in their
power to restore him; for Francis,
though few knew anything of his his-
tory, was, notwithstanding, the £E^vor-
ite of the whole community.

Toward midnight the old man re-
vived, and his first inquiry was for the
young soldier. He now embraced
him, and, as he pressed him again and
again to his heart, with tears and
blessings called him " his son," '^ his
dear chLld." Brothers Anselm and
Bonaventure looked at each other in
mute astonishment. They feared that i^
their dear old friend, the patriarch of
the lay-brothers, was losLug his rea-
son. They knew that, for thirty
years at least, he had been an inmate *
of the cloister, while the party whom
he thus lovingly called his son could
at furthest number twenty birthdays,
if indeed he could count so many.
Still greater, however, was their sur-
prise, when, on a closer scrutiny, they
could not fail to observe a nuirked fam-
ily likeness between their aged broth-
er and the individual on whom all his
afiections seemed now centred.

But this was no time for the indul-
gence of curiosity. The two troopers,
drenched and travel-stained, must be
attended to, and the wound of their
comrade looked aflber. Fortunately
their convent numbered among its in-
mates one of the best leeches in all
West Flanders. He had been
already summoned to the aid of
Brother Francis, and now that he no
longer required his services, he di-
rected his attention to the other inva-
lid, whose case seemed the less urgent
of the two. In a short time his skil-
ful hand extracted a spent ball from
the sufferer's knee, and, by the appli-
cation of a soothing poultice, restored
him to comparative ease. Nor were
Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure
idle meanwhile. Piles of well-but-
tered tartines made of wholemeal
bread baked in the convent, with plen-
tiful dishes of rashers and. omelets,
and a fiagon or two of foaming Lou-
vain beer, soon covered the table.
Cold meats, too, of various kinds,
were served up in abuudance ; and
the two dragoons were soon busily en-
gaged in satisfying appetites good at
all times, but now considerably sharp-
ened by a hard ride and a long fiut.

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240

I%e Capuchin of Bruges.

It was the first peaceful meal thej
enjoyed since the Duke of Bur-
gundy got command ; and they blessed
their stars for having been selected to
escort young Herbert to the rear.
Having completed the bandaging of
his wound, and administered such
medicine as he deemed best calcu-

"* lated to make up for his patient's loss
of blood, the infirmarian led him to
the chamber prepared for his recep-

« tion ; and Brother Francis begged to
be allowed to take charge of him.
His request was granted, but on the
sole condition that no conversation of
an exciting nature should take place
between him and the invalid till such
time as all feverish and inflammatory
symptoms had subsided. Day after
day, and night after night, the old
man watched, in strict silence, beside
the stranger's couch ; and all were in
amazement at such assiduity and at-
tention on the part of one who, as
long as any remembered him, seemed
utterly detached from all earthly af-
fections. They even saw him mingle
tears with his prayers, as he knelt be-
side the piUow of the sleeper. It was
whispered that the guardian knew
something about the matter; for he,
too, now cameTrequently, and looked
widi evident interest on the invalid.
No one else ventured to speak to
Brother Francis on the subject, for
though generally kind and gentle, and
communicative as a child, there were
times when he became sad and re-
served — and this seemed one of them.
Ten days passed on, and the invar
lid made such rapid progress that the
infirmarian and his staff pronounced
him quite out of danger, in no further
need of medical treatment, and only
requiring the aid of the cook to recov-
er completely his wonted vigor. The
interdict was now removed, and
Brother Francis seemed happy. He
could, henceforth, speak as he pleased
to his young protege. The latter felt
equally deSghted; for he felt, he
knew not why, a sort of unaccounta-
ble attachment — it was certainly more
than mere gratitude— -toward the old

man growing daily stronger and
stronger within him. And then
Brother Francis called him ''my son ^
—but perhaps, as an old man, that
was the name by which he addressed
all youngsters. At all events, he
loved the old monk as a child loves a
father, and always felt sad when the
duties o£ his rule obliged his venerft-
ble friend to leave him for a time.

*^ And so you tell me you have no
recollection of your fkiher?" said
Brother Francis, with a sigh, as they
sat together one evening — ^it was the
eve of St. Martin — ^in the same apart-
ment where wo first introduced them
to our readers.

" None whatever,** replied his com-
panion ; ** he lefl France as a volun-
teer with d'Usson's division, and was
killed at Limerick when I was but three
years old. So I often heard my
mother say."

The speaker did not remark the
shudder that ran through the old
man's frame at mention of Limerick ;
but only paid attention to his next
question, which rapidly followed.

« And your fiither's father ? "

^Was, as I have already said, aa
Englishman — ^but be, too, died in the
wars long ago. They say he fell in
Spain."

The old man could no longer re-
strain his feelings. Bursting into
tears, and clasping his young compan-
ion to his bosom, as he had done on
the night of theu: first meeting, he
said:

" No, my child — ^your grandfather,
Walter Herbert, is not dead, but yet
survives to give you that blessing
which your own poor &ther could not
bestow on you with his parting breath
— ^he stands before you."

It was a touching scene to witness
— ^that old Capuchin monk, with his
long white beard, and coarse dark
gown, and leathern cincture, and bare
sandalled feet, locked in the fond em-
brace of the young soldier of "the
Brigade," on that eve of Su Martin,
in the old convent of Bruges ! We
do not mean to intrude on the sacred

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I%$ Oapudnn of Bruge$.

241

privacj of domestic feeling, but lear-
ing parent and child to commune with
each other in the fahiess of their
hearts, will, with our readers' kind
permission, assume, for the nonce, the
province of the Senachie, and brieflj
relate as much of their history as we
have ourselves learned, Outre Mer —
and is still oftentimes related on long
winter evenings by the brothers who
have succeeded — ^literally stepped into
tiie sandals of — ^Brother Frands and
his comrades.

THE CAPUCHIN'S STORY.

Walter Herbert, or, as he was
ctdled in religion, Brother Francis,
was die only child of an ancient fam-
ily in Nottinghamshire. Entering
the army at an early age, he found
himself stationed with his regiment in
Limerick, when the army of the " Con-
federates " sat down bef(»e that city
in (he summer of sixteen hundred and
forty-two. He was then in his twen-
tieth year. Forming part of CJourte-
na/s company, when the city opened
its gates to Garret Barry and Lord
Muskerry, he retired with his com-
mander to Elng John's castle, where,
though closely besieged, they resolute-
\y held out till St. John's eve, when
Gonrtenay was obliged to capitulate.
In the course of the attack on the cas-
tle, a mine was sprung by the besieg-
ing party, and a turret, in which Her-
bert was stationed, fell to the ground
with a terrific crash. For weeks he
lay delirious ; and when at length he
awoke to consciousness, he found him-
self the occupant of a handsomely-fit-
ted chamber looking out on the church
of St Nicholas. His host was a mid-
dle-aged, gentlemanly-looking person,
of grave yet affable manners. He
was a widower, and his household
consisted of himself, an aged house-
keeper, two sons, and an only daugh-
ter. The latter— Eily O'Brien— was
the sick man's principal nurse, and no
Sister of Mercy could have bestowed
more care on a suffering invalid than
she did on Walter Herbert-— stranger
• vcu/. 11. 16

though he was to her creed and her
country. From lengthened and al-
most continual intercourse, a feeling of
mutual affection sprang up between
the young people. Gratitude on the
one hand, and sympathy for the suf-
ferings of the handsome young officer
on the other, heightened this feelings
till it grew into deep and lasting love.
Like Desdemona, she loved him ^ for
the dangers he had passed ; " and he
loved her ^ that she did pity them.''
But an insurmountable obstacle to
their union lay in their difference of
religion. Herbert was a Protestant ;
and old Connor O'Brien would never
hear of any child of his being united
to one of that creed which, in its
struggle for ascendency, he believed
to be the cause of so much suffering
to his country, even though no other
impediment whatever existed* A pri-
vate marriage was thus their only al-
ternative, and to this, in an evil hour,
poor Eily consented.

Months rolled on— months of bliss
to Walter and Eily — but their separa-
tion was at hand. Important letters
called Herbert away, almost at a mo-
ment's notice. He hoped^ however,
that his absence would be of no length-
ened duration, and that he would soon
return to publicly claim his own Eily
as his wife. But alas I his hopes were
doomed to sad and bitter disappoint-
ment. On his arrival in England, he
found the entire country in arms;
and as it became impossible to remain
neutral, or return to Ireland, he was
forced to join the newly-formed corps
just raised in his native county by
Henry Ireton, his father's landlord.
Once under military discipline there
was no retreating; and though all his
thoughts were turned to Ireland, he
was doomed to maddening suspense
regarding her who alone made Ireland
dear to him. All communication be-
tween the two countries was now sus-
X>ended. At Edgehill and Newbury
he retreated before the king's troops —
and at Marston Moor and Naseby had
a share in defeating them. But vic-
tory or defeat was alike void of inter-

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242

I%0 Capuchin of Brugei.

est to him. It was even with indiffer-
ence he heard of his promotion for
having saved his general's life at
Nasebj. The sole engrossing thought
of his ozistenee was how to get back
to Limerick. That long-sought for
opportunity at last arrived ; but when
it did, it flcaroelj brought joj to Her-
bert. He was order^ to join in the
invading Parliamentary force; and,
when he called to mind the fierce fan-
atics who were to be his fellow-soldiers,
love made him tremble for the Irishry.

The fourteenth of June saw him on
the battle-field of Naseby-^the follow-
ing autunm found him sailing up the
Shannon— and, ere the close of the
year, he was gazing on the steeple of
St. Mary's and the towers of Limerick
from the battlements of Bnnratty,
which had fallen into the hands of
the Parliamentarians. He fancied he
could even see the very house in
which he had spent so many happy
days. But beyond £uicy he could not
go. To reach the city was utterly im-
possible. All he could learn, from an
Abbey fisherman whom they had tak-
en prisoner, was that Connor O'Brien
was still alive, and that lus daughter
was married and had a beautiful little
boy. Who her husband was his in-
formant could not say; but he thought
he was an officer in Earl Glamorgan's
army. Herbert, hbwever, well knew
who he was, and he would have risked
worlds to have sent back his prisoner
in safety, with even one line to Lim-
erick. But Lord Inchiquin's troops
were too vigilant to allow of any com-
munication with the city. Even this
intelligence, scanty though it was, af-
forded him some consolaticm. He
knew his wife was safe, and unable
any longer to endure the Tantalus-like
position in which he was placed, he
found means of returning again to
England.

His next and last visit to Ireland
was in the summer of sixteen hundred
and fifty. He was then pretty high in
command, and had hopes, as he sat
down with Waller's army of invest-
ment beforo Limerick, in the July of

that year, that should he be only able
to effect an entrance into the town, his
authority would be sufficient to pro-
tect whomsoever he pleased. But the
year passed away, and still the city
held out And, had he but his wife
and ehOd without its walls, he would
have counselled its burghers to hold
out even still mpre manfully, for he
well knew the iron heart and bloody
hand of the execrable Hardress Wal-
ler.

The spring of the next year found
him still before Limerick ; and could
he but communicate with any of its
gallant defenders, his hatred of treach-
ery would have urged him to expose
to them the perfidy of <xie of their own
whom they had raised to the rank of
colonel. This wretch was named Fen-
nell ; and, for his troason in selling the
passes of the Shannon at Elllaloe,
their commander-in-chief Cromwell
had promised him and his descendants
many a fair acre in Tipperary. By
this pass Iroton and his myrmidons
crossed the river into Glare ; and with
them passed Walter Herbert Still
his heart was full of hope of saving all
he held dear in the leaguered city.
Spring passed away, and summer
again came; and stiU the assailing
host made no prepress toward the
capture of the town which Ireton and
his fisither-in-law regarded as the key
of all the Munster territories. In the
burning heat of July, while pestilence
daily thinned the ranks of the besi^-
ed, an assault was ordered on the fd-
most defenceless keep that guarded
the northern extremity of the salmon
weir, and Herbert was reluctantly
obliged to form one of the storming
party. His immediate senior in com-
mand was a person named Tuthill —
one of those heartless hypocrites who
could preach and pray while his brutal
soldiery were massacring the wives
and children of the brave men whom
the chances of war made his victims.
The fort was carried by overwhelming
numbers ; and Herbert was doomed to
witness, with horror, the butchery of
the surviving defenders, mercilessly

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243

ordered hj Tuthill — an order which
he onhappOj had no power of connter-
mandingy but in the execution of which
he took no part. Still the city held
out, though the ^leaguer sickness"
was n4>idlj decimating its brave gar-
rison. The north fortress of Thomond
bridge was nert carried bj assault —
but to no purpose. The townsmen
snoceeded in breaking down two of its
arches, and thus cutting off aU ap-
proach to the city in that quarter, and
in resisting the sortie three hundred of
their assailants perished. Winter was
now fast approaching, and the plague
extending from the city, in which fihy
of its victims were now daily interred,
commenced to thin the ranks of the
besiegers themselves. Ireton had se-
rious thoughts of raising the siege,
and he would, beyond all question,
have done so, were it not for treach-
ery. FenneU, the traitor of Killaloe,
was again at work — this time, unfor-
tunately, within the very walls of the
dty itself.

A truce of some days was agreed
on ; and Herbert was one of those ap-
pointed to treat with the townsmen.
The deputies met on neutraf ground,
midway between the city and camp,
and within range of the rival batteries.
His heart was now full of greater
hopes than ever. Could he but meet
with any member of Eily's family, he
hoped that his love fpr her would in-
duce them to listen to his counsels.
But fate, it would seem, had leagued
all chances against him. Had he met
them, he meant to put them on
their guard against Fennell's treach-
ery, and, without absolutely breaking
trust, give them such a key to
Ireton's fears and readiness to make
concessions as would, he hoped, lead
to an honorable capitulation, and
prevent the bloodshed which, from the
shattered state of the town walls, and
the additional element of treachery
wiihin those walls, he now judged to
be inevitable, unless they came to
terma with Ireton. But not one of
them appeared; for the traitor had
laid his plans deeply, and succeeded

in divertbg them and the clerical
party, to which they faithfully adher-
ed, from anything hke a compromise.
He wished that the sole merit and re-
ward of surrendering the city should
be his own. And he succeeded. The
conference ended fruitlessly; and
Herbert returned to the camp well-
nigh broken-hearted.

The plague continued its ravages
meanwhile ; and, day afler day, with-
in the city, the dying were brought by
their relatives to the tomb of Cornelius
O'Dea, where many, it was believed,
were restored to health through the
intercession of that saintly prelate,
who lay buried in the cathedral Its
effects were visibly traced in the ranks
of the besieging aimy. Still Ireton,
relying on treason within, pressed on
the siege. By a bridge of pontoons
he succeeded in connecting the Tho-
mond side of the river with the King's
Island, where he now planted a for-
midable battery, to play on the eastern
side of the city. Herl^rt had fortu-
nately escaped witnessing the hoiTors
of Drogheda and Wei^ord ; but a
sight almost as appalUng now met his
eyes. In the smoke of the cannonade
crowds of plague-stricken victims —
principally women and children — ven-
tured outside the city walls to catch
one pure breath of air from the Shan-
non, on ''the Island** bank,*-and
there lie down and die. But when
this was discovered, the heartless
Waller forbade even this short respite
from suffering. By his orders, those
unhappy beings, who could have no
share in protracting the siege, were
mercilessly dogged back by the sol-
diery into the plague-reekmg city— *-
and such as refused to return were, by
the same pitiless mandate, hangedt'^
within sight of their feUow-towns-
men!

The daily sight of this revolting
butchery was sickening to the noble
heart and refined feelings of Herbert.
But suffering for him had not yet
reached its climax. As he was seated
in his tent, one evening toward the
* Historical.

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244

2%e Capuchin of Brugu.

dose of October, fatigaed afler a long
foraging excursion to the Meelick
mountains, and musing sadly on the
fate of hf r who was ahnost within
sight of him, and jet whom, by what
seemed to him an ahnost supernatural
combination of adverse circumstances,
he had not seen for years, his attention
was arrested by the cries of a female
who seemed struggling with her cap-
tors. His manhood was aroused by
such an outrage — committed almost in
his Tery presence — and he rose at
once to rescue the victim from her
assailants. But, horror of horrors I at
the very door of his tent, and in the
grasp of an armed ruffian, lay the
fainting and all but inanimate form of
his wife I To fell the wretch, and
clasp the beloved object to his bosom,
was but the work of a second. But,
oh ! how sorrow and sickness had
changed that once beautiful face, and
wasted that once symmetrical form.
Death had already clutched her in his
bony gripe, and selected her for his
own. His kiss was upon her lips, for
they were livid and plague-stained.
And her beautiful blue eyes! how
they now wandered with the wild look
of a maniac. All that remained of
the beautiful Eily he once knew were
the long fair ringlets that now fell
down in dishevelled masses on her
heaving bosom. The sight almost
drove him mad. In vain he clasped
her to his heart, and called her by the
dear fond name of wife. She knew
him not, yet, when she spoke, her
ravings were all about him; and he
often wondered afterward how his
brain stood the shock, when, without
knowing him, she still called on him,
" her own dear, dear "Walter, to save
her, to take her away from those ter-
rible men — at least to come to her —
for, to come to him, she had left her
poor old father and little Grerald be-
hind."

Wholly occupied with his wife,
Herbert paid no attention to the ser-
geant's guard that stood at the tent
door under arms. When at length he
perceived them, he flew into a pb^nzy

of passion, asking them how they
dared stand thus in his presence? —
and ended by ordering "the catifis
who could thus treat a woman to get
out of his sight presently."

But the orderly remained unmov-
ed. Were his hands free at the mo-
ment, Herbert would have unques-
tionably run him through for pre-
suming to disobey his orders, such
was the irritated state of his feelings.
But he could not leave the shrinking,
still unconscious being that clung to
him for support. Stamping his foot
in a rage, he demanded what he
wanted, or why he regained there?

"Prisoner, sir," was the sergeant's
laconic reply, as he mechanicallj
touched his hat /

** What prisoner ?"

** The woman, sir."

^ Heavens and earth ! do j^sa mean
to drive me mad, man ?" and the sol-
dier recoiled for an instant at the voice
and look of his officer.

« Can't help it, sir— gen'ral's orders.
Woman came to the camp three times,
sir — supposed to be a spy, and order-
ed to be hanged."

« Hanged !" In a second his burth-
en was laid on the camp-bed, and the
sergeant hiid prostrate by a blow that
would have almost felled an ox.

The guard now interposed; and
from them he learned that the party
in question had been several times
seen to leave the city, in defiance of
Sir Hardress Waller's orders. Twice
abeady she had been flogged back,
but she came out again, that day, at
noon, and was by the general's orders
sentenced to execution. The soldier
added that an old rebel* calling him-
self her father, when he heard of the
sentence, offisrcd himself in her stead ;
but Sir Hardress ordered him to be
instantly flogged back. " She was to
have been lianged," he continued, " at
sunset, but she broke loose from them
and ran toward his tent as he had seen.**

" Touch not a Jiair of her head, on
your peril," exclaimed Herbert as the

• A fkcL y\aA '* Ferrari Hlttoiy of Umerick,**
page 64.

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I%e Oc^mchin of BrtitgeM.

245

corporal concluded, and kissing the
pallid lips of his wife, he rushed out
of the tent to seek the general, just as
returning consciousness revealed to
Eilj the name of her deliverer.

^Walter, mj own dear husband.
Oh ! oome back, don't leave me," were
the last words he heard as he flew to-
ward the tent of the conunander-in-
chie^ more Hke a maniac than any-
thing else.

^ Bj the bones of St. Pancras, he's
• diher mad, or she is," said a tall wea-
ver from Lamb^h, who wore the
badge of a lance-corporal.

^Ay is he, and sore wrathful to
boot," replied his rear-rank man, with
a giin — ^he was a butcher from New-
gate. ^ But we are the sufferers, and
shall, I fear, be late for supper. The
gallows, however, is ready to hand,
thank Grod, and we shall make short
work of it when the captain returns."

The name of Grod on the lips of
such a miscreant, and on such an oc-
casion, makes us almost shudder. But,
reader, these were Cromwellian times,
and such were Cromwellian customs.

Herbert found Ireton and his sec-
ond in command seated at the supper
table-— and hell could not have un-
chained two such incarnate demons
on that same evening. The object of
his visit was soon explained. But it
seemed only to supply subject of mirth
to his superior officers.

*^ Pooh, pooh ! man," said the com-
mander-in-chief, "you are, I fear,
grown quite a papist, too soft-hearted
entirely. I wonder how you would
actrhad you been at the hattue in
Dro^eda or Wexford?" and Ireton
sipped his hock with a devilish leer.

** But, general, she is my. wife,"
gasped Herbert.

«PoUy, man!" rejoined WaUer;
^no faith to be kept with heretics,
yon know, and all these Irish are
such. You will easily find another, I
trow you, when we sack the city one
of ibe»e fine days."

Herbert heeded not the coarse jest
of the speaker, but, turning to the
geoeral, implored him to torn a seri«

ous ear to a matter on which the hap*
piness of his life depended. But lie-
ton seemed inclined to laugh it off as
an excellent joke.

Driven to desperation, the brave sol-
dier, who never before feared or sup-
plicated any man, sank on his knees,
and with tears of agony besought
him to cancel Waller^s iniquitous sen-
tence. He even asked him to do so
in memory of the act by which, at the
risk of his own life, he saved his at
Naseby. And Ireton seemed almost
inclin^ to relent, and hope began to
brighten in the heart of the suppliant,
when a whisper from Waller to the
general blasted them for ever. He
had himself in person given the order
for execution, and his callous heart
was too obdurate to feel compunction
even for a bad act. Summoning an
orderly, he gave him some instructions
m an undertone; and Herbert was
directed by his conunander-in-chief to
make his report of the progress of the
trenches under his command in the
King's Island. This was but a feint
to turn his attention from the main ob-
ject of his visit His report was,
however, quickly made, and as there
was no other pretext for detaining
him he arose to depart There was
something more tlum fiendish in the
laugh of Hardress Waller as he
wished him safe hoiKe, and a good
night's rest

That night, a heart-broken man
knelt beneath the gibbet erected on
the green sward in front of King
John's castle. For him all earthly
happiness was now over ; and there,
in the presence of the pale moon that
looked silently on his sorrow, that
cold October night, he vowed eternal
fealty to his wSfe in heaven, eternal
hatred to her murderers. There was
a strange admixture of reverence and
irreligion, of love and hatred, in his
feelings and sentiments, no doubt; but
the camp of Cromwell was but an in-
different school for the culture of
Christian ethics. Beside, his bram
was, for the time, astray from sorrow
and outraged feeling ; he followed but

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246

I%e OopKcAin of Brugu.

the dictates of hnmati pasnon nni^
•trained by either^ reason or religion.
His heart and his hopes were ah^ady
buried in the graye that was soon to
close over the remains of his first and
only love ^ and, from that night oat,
though his life was a long and a che-
quei^ one, ha was never known to
smile, till he became an inmate of the
monastery where we found him at the
commencement of our narrative.

The remainder of the siege was
a blank chapter in his life. By na-
ture a soldier, he got through his du-
ties fearlessly but mechanically, with-
out the slightest feeling of interest in
any enterprise in which he had a
share. To him defeat or victory was
a matter of utter indifference ; uad it
was in this mood he entered the fallen
city, as tiie sun was sinking, on the
27th of October, 1651, and took up
his quarters with Ireton, in the old
Dutc^hgabled house which is still
standing, and adjoins the Tholsel in
Mary street It is more than proba-
ble that his reason would have alto-
gether succumbed breath the terrible
shock it had sustained, were it not for
some new incidents that now occurred
to awaken it for a time* to activity.

By sunrise on the 29th, the Crom-
welluui garrison beat to arms. It was
the signal for the assemblage of the
Irish troops in the old cathedml of St.
Mary's, where, in accordance with
the third article of capitukttion, they
were to lay down their arms. It was
not Fennell's fault that they escaped
the fate of the soldiers and women of
Drogheda and Wexford. He had
done his work of treachery well ; and
we cannot venture to say what his
feelings were when he beheld . his
brave but ill4ated countrymen assem-
bled round the altar to deposit at its
rails the weapons ihey had so long
and so gallandy wielded in the cause
of one who was afterward to despoil
their chUdrea of their lawftil heritage,
and sanction its appropriation by &e
murderers of hie &ther. Ah ! no
Irishman can ever forget die ingrati-
tude of the second Charies. But

Walter Herbert thought little of die
ceremony gone tiirough that mommg
in the old church of the O'Briens dll
all was over. As the disarmed garri-
son mandied down the long aisle of the
cathedral many of them drc^ped dead
«— it might have been of the plague,
or it might have been of a broken heart.
Among tiie dead were two whose
faces he had not looked on for years-
Terence and Donat O'Brien, his wife's
brothers. The sight awakened a new
thought within him— •that of his child
whom he had not yet seen-^-and bat
few moments elapsed ese he was
standing in front of the old comer
house opposite the church of St.
Nicholas. But its appearance was
sadly changed since huat he saw it.
Gable and chinmey bore evident
marks of the enemy's cannon, while
all around wore an air of desolatioa
and sorrow. He looked up into one
well-remembered window, but no fra-
grant geraniums were now there, as
of old ; no lark carolled the eheering
song he so often listened to, with pleas-
ure, some nine years before ; balcony,
and shutter, and curtain had disap-
peared. The whole house seemed in
mourning. Even his knock rang
through the house as through a sepul-
chre—so he thought. Twice he re-
peated it; and, at length, an aged
head peered cautiously trough a fir-
mer window, and asked who was
there. His answer quickly bimight
down the old domestic ; but a flood of
tears was her only welcome, as she
opened the door and admitted hinu
She had been the nurse of Eily and
her brothers in childhood, and partly
his own in sickness ; and was now the
survivor of all her <^d heart loved ;
of all, save one, a blue-eyed, curly-
headed boy, who now hid behind her,
evidently scared at the presence of a
visitor in that desolate dw^ing. A
few words of greeting on the part ot
old Winny or Winifred assured him
that he was known and welcome ; and
a few words of fondness addressed to
the child soon restored his confidence.
He was eve% ere long^ seated eatit-

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2%« Capuchin of Brugei.

247

tentedly on his &liier^8 knee, playing
wkhh^ Bwoid-backle — ^for that fair-
headed, blue-eyed boj was the only
chUd of £ily O'Brien and Walter
Heri>ert And as he gazed with
pride on his beautiful boy, new hope
and a new sense of duty sprang up
within him. He felt that there was
even yet s(Mnething to live for. To
protect that half-Karpiian child and his
sorrowing grandsire would from that
moment be the sole duty of his life,
the sole solace of existence ; and to
this he pledged himself in Eil/s little
room, to whidi he ascended with his
youthful companion^ who, at his
nurse's biddings now called faun father,
and twined his little hands round his
neck as he kissed him. The sudden
roll of drums at length announced to
him that it was time to depart, and
fondly embracing his chUd <mce more,
he hurried out of the house. He
would never have left it did he then
but know that in so doing he was bid-
ding bis boy fisurewell for ever.

The beating to anns announced the
commencement of the mock trial of
two dozen individuals^ whom Iret<m
had already virtually sentenced to
death, by excluding them from the
protection guaranteed to th# remain-
ing citizens in the terms of capitula-
.tion. How readily would Herbert
have saved every <me of tjiem, but his
vote was <mly ^ective in one case,
that of the gallant Hugh ONeil, the
<aty governor. The rest were con-
demned, by a m%)ority, to die ; and it
was not without a tear he beheld that
long file of brave and resolute men led
forth to the scaffi)ld. Priest and lay-
man, aoldier and citizen, were alike
Baerifieed, and for no crime save that
of loving and defending their native
land. And what Englishman, thought
he, would not readily be guilty of the
same offence ? All passed silently
fiwn the death-chamber ; all, save one,
a veneniMe man, who, with Father
Wonlfe, was arrested in the lazar-
boose while administering the last
•acramonts of the Charch to its plague*
stricken inmates, soon to be deprived

of all spiritual ministry. Herbert
thought he recognized him, as he stood
erect and fearless in the council-hall,
and with hand pointed toward heaven,
summoning Ireton to meet him, ere a
month, at its judgment bar. He had
certainly seen him before, but dressed
in white serge, and not, as now, in
purple. Nay, if he remembered
rightly, he had been EU/s confessor,
and, with the parish dexgyman's per-
mission, had married them privately
in the church of St. Saviour, hav-
ing first obtained a promise, freely
granted by Herbert, that the children
of that union, if such there were,
should be brought up in the religion of
the mother. What would he not haye
done to preserve the live of that ven-
erable, heavenly-looking man ! The
last of Ireton's victims was one whose
presence among the condemned he
^tnessed with astonishment. He
had seen him closeted for hours with
that same Ireton; and knew him to
have been promised lands and money
for certain services to be rendered to
the general But treachery was met
with treachery; and Fennell, the
traitor, .ended his days on the same
scaffold with Terence O'Brien, the
bishop and martyr.

The last guard was relieved on the
day of execution — ^it was the eve of
All-Hallows-— and the clock of the
town-hall was just chiming midnight
as Herbert, who was the officer of the
night, commenced his rounds. As he
passed along, in silence and alone, by
the Dean's Close, on his way to the
castle barracks, he was suddenly stop-
ped, at the head of an arched passive,
over which an oil lamp feebly flickered,
by an individual closely wrapped up
in a large, dark fiieze over-coat. To
draw his sword was his first impulse ;
but a single glance at that wan hibe^
whose gaze was sadly fixed upon him,
changed his purpose in an instant.
And, though armed to the teeth, he
trembled in presence of that defence-
less old man, and stood in silence be-
fore him.

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248

I%e OgnuMn of Brugei.

"Don't you know me, Walter?"
0aid the stranger.

''Alas! too well,* was his reply.
" But can I hope that you wiU ever
forgive me?*

^ Af y creed tells me to forgive even
my enemies — ^but I believe you never
meant to be such"—- and the old man
extended his hand to Herbert

They stood atone— with no eye
upon them save that of the all-seeing
Chie, and, in his presence, Walter fell
on his knees, protesting his purity of
intention, and asking the old man's
blessing. And Conner O'Brien, for it
was he, with head uncovered, blessed
the stranger for the first time, and,
raising him up, clasped him to his
bosom as his son — ^the husband of his
darling £ily, now sleeping with h^r
mother in Killely.

Herbert was about to respond, with
a fervent assurance of his undying
love and devotion to her, when die old
man stopped him short, and, drawing
him into the recess of the bow way,
asked him if he might now rely on his
friendship and protection.

''Henceforth, as God is my wit-
ness," earnestly replied Heri)ert,
"your interest and mine are but
one."

"Good!" returned his companion.
" Then, when occasion presents itself,
you will procure a pass for myself
and a friend in whose safety I feel the
deepest interest For my own Hfe I care
not, as I have no one save you and my
grandson now remaining to care for."
Then the old man, despite his resolu-
tion, sobbed aloud. " But my friend,"
he continued, after a few mometits,
" cannot yet be spared. We cannot
afford to lose him, and it is solely on
his account— thoa^ he knows noth-
ing of my pn>ject---4hat I have waited
here to meet you."

After some further brief conversa-
tion, they parted with a fond embrace
— the old man to his friend, and Wal-
ter to the barracks. When his watch
was ended, he lay down to enjoy, for
the first time during many months, a
j>eaceful slumber of several hours.

The 1st of November, 1 651, dawned
brightly on the oki city of Lnimneaeh,
and its now shattered fortifications —
brightly on the brown heath of the
Meelick mountains— brightly on the
waving woods of Cratioe — ^brightly oa
the rapids at the salmon weir, and on
the snowy sails of the English tfWka^
ports at anchor in " the pool " — bright-
ly on the gory head of Terence O'-
Brien, Bishop of Emly, impaled on the
center tower of the city — ^brightly,
too, on his mui^erer, Henry Ireton, as
he- reviewed the body of troops des-
tined for the siege of Carrigaholt Cas-
tle ; for God ^maketh his sun to rise
upon the good and bad." Ere the sun
set the vanguard of that body had
left the CiuUoe hills far behind them,
on their march westward; and Her-
bert was second in command of the
first division. He was well mounted,
and with him rode two peasants thor-
oughly acquainted with the country,
and destined to serve him as guides
Of late his soldiers remarked t^ he
had grown unusually silent and mo-
rose, and few of them oared to intrude
on him uninvited. Thus it happened
that, during the nutrch, he rode consid-
erably iu advance, though always
within Slight of his detaclunent, with
no other companions than the two
guides.

With on^ of them he seemed well
aoqoainted, and the soldiers remarked
that he conversed freely with him on
the road. The other seemed to speak
but seldom, and then only to his
brother guide. This, however, was
no matter of surprise, as it was
supposed he spoke in Irish, a lan-
guage ahnost utterly unknown to
the English commander. And such,
in reality, was the fact Whether he
understood English or not, he Bp<Ae
in his native tongue to O'Brien, who,
as the reader may have guessed, was
Herbert's other guide on the eveoion^
in question. As they approached
Ennis the old man seemed much ex-
cited, alleging, as his reason, that he
feared being recognised; but it. was
not difficult to perceive that his anxie-

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The Capuekin of Bruges.

tf was more for hi3 companion than
himflelf. They suooeeded, however,
in reaching their destination, and en-
camped near Kilfiehera to await the
arriyal of the main bodj from Kil-
msh. Under pretext of exploring
the wild coast of Kilkee and Farahee,
Herbert left the camp at sunrise, at-
tended solelj by the two individuals
who had been his companicms on the
march from Limerick. He returned
alone, however, in the evening, and
mmor went abroad that he had been
deserted by his guides amid the wild
recesses oif the coasL This new
piece of treachery on the part of the
Irishry, after being warmly denounced
round the Cromw^lian camp-fires that
night, was forwarded next morning to
Limerick, to be faithfully chronicled,
with many other facts of like authen-
ticity, in <' Ludlow's Memoirs.^ Her-
bert was too much overjoyed at the
escape of his iatheiMn-law and the
friend in whom he seemed so deeply
interested, to give himself any con-
cern about the camp-fire gossip, or
Ludlow's version of Uie matter.

The next week found him again
in Limerick. Sudden news of the
alarming illness of the general had
reached the camp, and the expedition
to the west was, for the time, aban-
doned. Herbert found his new post a
trying one — to keep watch and ward
with Hardress Waller, one of his
wife's murderers, beside the dying bed
of another. Waller was Ireton's con-
fidant, the ready instrument of all his
infamy ; and Herbert was selected by
the general to attend him as the only
surviving officer attached to his own
raiment since it was first raised in
Nottingham, the native county of
both. To escape from his post was
impossible. Nothing short of suicide
eoold free him from it; and the
tliought of his Uttle son, if no higher
motive, prevented him from putting
an end to his existence. Night after
night was he doomed to sit by the
bed-«ide of the dying man and listen
to the wild ravings of remorse and
blasphemy that, almost every moment

esci^ped his plague-stained lips. He
would start up betimes, and, with the
frantic look of a maniac, call for his
sword to ward off the fiends that
seemed to mock his tortures; and
then he would sink back exhausted,
still wildly raving of Charles Stuart,
and Terence O'Brien, the "Lord's
anointed," as he now called them, whom
he had murdered. Nay, he wonki
clutch Herbert's hand, fmd, with tears,
implore his forgiveness. But Hard-
ress Waller strnxi there too, and a
look from him would again rouse the
murder-fiend witliin him. All feeling
of compunction would then pass
away; and grim despair again lay
hold of him. Oh I it was a fearful
sight — ^that death-bed of despairing
remorse. It never left Herbert's
memory, and was the commencement
of that change that ultimately con-
verted the Puritan soldier into a
Christian monk.

Ireton died in his house in Mary
street on the 26th of November,
1651, still *^ raging and raving," says
the chronicler,* of the unfortunate
prelate, whose unjust condemnation he
imagined hurried on his death. Her-
bert was of the party appointed to
guard the remains to England, and,
before setting out, hastened to his
father-)a4aw's house to bring his child
with him. But, alas! he found it
empty, and not the slightest trace of
Winny or the boy. Nor could any
one tell him whkt had become of
either. With a bursting heart, he set
out with the funeral cortege to Cork,
and thence to Bristol, resolved never
more to draw sword in Cromwell's
cause. Arrived in London, he deliv-
ered up his charge, and at once quit-
ted the kingdom, without waiting for
the lying in state at Somerset House,
or final interment in Westminster
Abbey, of Ireton's plague-stricken
corpse. Though pledged never again
to serve in the ranks of the monsters
whose atrocities in Ireland made him
so often blush for his native country,
he oould not yet entirely wean him-
* Burke, '* Hilbemia IkmiMcaiia,^

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n$ CapwMn of Brugt$.

self away fitnn his old profession.
After a few months passed in idleness
and minui on the continent, during
which he vainly tried to forget the
loss of his wife and child, he Altered
the Earl of BristoFs reg^ent as a
volunteer, and fietithfully maintained
the cause of King Qiarles till his re-
storation. It was when forming a
part of his body-guard at Lord Tara's
residence in Bruges, where the exiled
monarch occasionally resided, that he
first met with the Capuchin fathers,
and was by them received into the
Catholic Church. With the king he
returned to England, but (mlv to have
all his sad recollections awakened by
meeting once more with his old ene-
mies, Waller and Ireton.

Ireton ! some astonished reader will
exclaim. Why, surely, we buried
him years ago, and are not expected,
we presume, to believe in ghosts in
this enlightened nineteenth century of
ours.

And yet we must repeat what we
have written. On his return to Lon-
don, Walter Herbert again stood face
to fhce with Waller .and Ireton-— the
former, with a smile of hypocritical
adulation, welcoming the return of
him whose father he had aided in
murdering — ^the latter, a hideous spec-
tacle, first dangling on a gallows
at Tyburn, and then grimly staring
at the by-passers — if those sightless
sockets could be said to stare— from
the highest spike on Westminster
Hall. It was a shocking sight to
Herbert — that ghastly skeleton and
that ghastly head — and recalled to his
memory, with sadness and horror,
another but far different head which,
ten years before, he saw set up, pallid
and blood-stained, on the castled tower
of Limerick. God is very just,
thought he, as he passed on, with a
shudder.

On his return to England Herbert
found himself friendless. All his re-
latives had died, or perished on the
battle-field, during the civil wars, and
KsS his child there was still no trace.
All he could learn was that he had

been sent to his grandiather, then res-
ident on the continent; but where
the grandfather resided, there was no
means of ascertaining. Tired of Eng-
land, and the cruelties and perfidies
he daily saw endorsed by the sign-
manual of one who, he imagined,
should have learned toleration and
honor in the school of affliction — in
hopes also of meeting with his child-
he quitted his native land for ever,
and joined the ranks of the Duke of
Lorraine, the old ally and friend of
his former commander, the Earl of
BristoL With him and Sir Geoige
Hamilton he fought the battles of
Spain for nigh fifl^n years ; and his
last achievement in her service was
(me of the brightest on record. With
a few resolute companions he held his
ground for two entire days in the
shattered citadel of Cambrai, though
the battery to which they returned
shot for shot was under the personal
inspection of Louis XIV. and the re-
nowned hunchback Luxemburg. The
bursting of a shell laid him senseless,
and when, after a long and painful ill-
ness, he was again restored to health,
he resolved, in thanksgiving, to devote
the remainder of his days to the ex-
clusive service of God, in the convent
where he first learned to know him.

During the recital of the foregoing
narrative, which, for brevity's sake, we
have given consecutively, and in our
own words, Brother Francis was fre-
quently interrupted by his youthful
auditor, as new light was thrown by
htm on events in his family history
which, till then, he had never heard
satisfactorily cleared up. He had al-
ready learned from his mother that
his grandfieither had been an English
officer, supposed to have fallen in
Cromwell's wars, though a vague re-
port reached the family that he was
seen in Spain after CnHUwelFs deadi.
Of his grandmother, he only heard
that she died young, and that her fa-
ther resided for a considerable time in
Brussels, with his grandson, whom, at
his death, he confided to the care of
th^ guardian of St. Antoine's at Lou-

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3S1

TaJn, who was his brotber-iu-law, and
wlio had brought the boy, when a
mere child, fi:om Ireland. He further
learned that, after the completion of
his studies, and contrary to the wish
of his uncle, who intended him for the
ecclesiastical state, his fieither embraced
the profession of arms, and, shortly-
after his marriage, embarked with the
French troops sent by King Louis to
Ir^and* He fell at the siege of Lim-
erick, and his widow died of a brokw
heart soon aft^ the intelligence of
her husband's death reached her. He
was himself then bat a boy, and was
placed by his mother's relatives at the
Benedictine ooUege of Douai, whence
he passed, in due time, like his father,
fo the ranks, and was then serving, as
we have already seen, in the Duke of
Yenddme's anny.

^Bat yon did not say who the
other person was that accompanied
yon on the march from Limerick to
GuTigaholt, or what became of him
or his companion," resumed the young
soldier, When he had concluded.

^ That remains to this day a mys-
tery to me," replied his grandfa^er,
"for I never saw either after we
parted that evening. I left them on
a lofty isolated ro^ off the coast of
dare, to which they were conveyed,
as the surest place of safety, by a few
poor fishermen, then dwelling in a
ruined keep on the verge of the diffs,
which, if I remember rightly, they
called Dunlicky. Had I much curi-
osity I might have poesibly learned
the stranger's name, but I never in-
quired, and probably, as I did not, my
fother-in-law never told me. Certain
it is that he must have been a person
of high distinction, as all addressed
him with marked respect, I might al-
most say reverence, and seemed most
devoted to him, though, as &r as I
could see^ he possessed no earthly
means of remunerating them— -nothing,
in &ct, save the half-military, half-
rustic garments in which he was clad.
And as they left him and his compan-
ion in one of the two small huts that
served as a shelter in stormy weather

for the few wild-looking sheep that
browsed on the island, they promised
soon to return with such necessaries as
he might require during his stay
among them. On returning to the ca^
noe that brought us from the mainland,
I remen^red that I heard something
^l from the stranger as he stepped
ashore on a ledge of the island. In my
hurry at the moment I paid no attention
to the circumstance ; and it was only
on our arrival at the foot of the cliff on
which the old castle stood, that I found
the object which he had dropped lying
in the bottom of the boat. Hoping
soon to be able to restore it to its
owner, I took it with me, and ever
since it has remained in my posses-
sion ; for I need scarcely say, after all
you have heard, that an opportunity
of restoring it never since presented
itself. I still retain it, with Uie father
guardian's permission, in hopes of one
day discovering its lawful claimant."

Here Brotlier Francis drew from
the folds of his garment a small ebony
crucifix, inlaid with pearl, and richly
set in gold, and, reverently kissing it,
handed it to his companion* The lat-
ter, after carefully examining it, read
the following inscription, beautiftdly
engraved in text chiuracters round the
rim — ^ J. B. RiKuc leg. ap. b.k.d.d.

B1>MW». O'dWTBR EPO. LUIM^. ICDCX-

LVi." Still the history and after fate
of the owner of the crucifix remained
a mystery to them. Perhaps some
reader of the foregoing pages may be
able to throw some light on the subject,
if not for their benefit, at least for ours,
liittle moro remains to be told of
Brother Francis. Li his ninetieth
year he died peacefully in the midst of
the brotherhood with whom so many
years of his life had been happily
spent-— «nd his eyes wero closed in
death by the hands of Eily O'Brien's
grandcUld, young Gerald Herbert,
who had likewise joined the order, and
given up the camp and its turmoil,
and the world and its deceit, to don
the cowl of St. Francis, and spend the
rest of his days with the humble, hos**
pitable Capuchins of Bruges.

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252

The DaughUn of the Due SAym.

From Tho Month.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE DUG D'ATEN.

The stirring events, poUtical and
military, which followed on the out-
break of the great French reyolution,
giving a shock to every institution,
secular and religious, and leaving
their mark on the history of every civ-
ilized country, affected also, to an un-
exampled degree, 4 the fortunes of
families and individuals throughout
Europe. The troubles that over-
whelmed the thrones of kings, and
seemed to threaten the Church her-
self with destruction, penetrated even
to the very lowest classes of society.
The great were mined as well as their
princes ; the wealthy and noble were
proscribed and exiled; new families
arose as well as new dynasties ; and if
the cottage was spared persecution, it
did not escape the conscription, while
in many cases its inmates died on the
guillotine by the side of the tenants of
tiie neighboring palace. By this great
and universal convulsion hearts and
characters were tried to the utmost;
and if many in every class sank under
the ordeal which called for courage,
patience, and prudence, and other vir-
tues in the heroic degree, it is no less
true that many others, who seemed to
have been bom for a life of quiet and
ordinary duty, for unbroken and un-
eventful happiness, displayed unex-
pected strengdi of character, great qual-
ities of heart and mind, and revealed
graces of the highest order under the
blows of affliction. We are in some
respects fortunate in living just at the
distance we do from a period l&e this ;
for it has not yet passed into the re-
gion of pure history, in which we can
feel no practical concern; and yet time
enough has elapsed since its close
for us to reap a part at least of the
rich iaheritanoe that it has left behind
it of memoirs and correspondence re-
lating to those who played an actual

part in its scenes. It was crowded
with lives that deserve to be written,
fuU of interest and instroction.

Let us confine ourselves to France
alone. That country produced a
number of most remarkable men,
brought to the surface, as it were, by
the breaking up of the great fountains
of her national life, who^ for bad or
for good, played the chief part in the
political changes which so powerfoUy
affect Europe to tlie present day, or,
as the soldiers of a new Bra k£ mili-
tary glory, bore her flag in triumph
into every capital on the continent.
These men figured in events which
write themselves sooner than any
other on the pages of history; and
every one, therefore, has heard of the
names and exploits of the emperor
and his marshal. More noble and
heroic, more beneficial, and more truly
glorious to their country, were the
lives of hundreds — ^men and women—
who took a part in the great outburst
of fresh religious activity which fol-
lowed upon the restoration of free-
dom to Catholicism, of whose {Mety,
charity, and devotion the present
Church of France is the fruit and the
monument A great deal remains to
be done as to the biography and his-
toiy of this great religious restoration,
in many respects already equalling,
in others even outshining, the earlier
glories of the French Church, for a
moment submerged by the revolution.
Lastly, there is another department
also in which Hterary labor will be
well repaid — ^the histoiy of the sufi*er-
ers in tiiie revolution, whether ecclesi-
astics or secular, whether they per-
ished on the guillotine, were trans*
ported to Cayenne, or ckimed as end
grants the hospitality of England and
other European countries.
Many of these emigrants were per*

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1%$ Daughien of the Due JPAyen.

258

SODS who bad never known what it
was to haye a whun ungratified ; who
had lived all their lives amidst the
fiiv<^oiis dissipation of the highest so-
ciety in Paris, infected as it was with
the withering inflnences of Voltairian-
ism ; and who had shared in the ilia-
sive enthusiasm with which the ear^
lier steps of the revolution had been
welcomed. Exile, povertj, forced in-
action, obscurity, and the utter want
of all that had before been the occupa-
tion of their lives, came upon them
as a far more severe, because more
wearing and protracted, trial than if
tiiej had had to bear the short i^nj
of the massacres or the revolutionary
tribunaL Yet, under an ordeal such
as this, great and wonderful vir-
tues often unfolded themselves, which
bore witness to the sound religious
training that so many of them had
received, of which their patience
and courage were the natural fruits.
In this way their history furnishes us
with many characters of wonderful
interest ; and the effect of it is not only
to enlist our sympathies for individ-
uals, but to give us also a higher idea
of the upper classes in France than is
generally derived from the annals of
that dreadful period.

I have been led to these remarks by
reading a little volume lately pub-
lished in Paris, under the title ^ Anne
Paule Dominique de I^oailles, Mar-
quise de Montagu," There may, per-
haps, be many more such memoirs:
this, at all events, though written with-
out pretension or ambition, certainly
gives the history of a very beautiful
character, drawn out by continual mis-
fertnne, and it contains incident enough
to famish the plots of three or four ro-
mances. Although it deals chiefly
with the history of Madame de Mon-
tagu, it gives us incidentally the out-
line both of the lives and characters of
her sisters. There are also, of course,
other subordinate figures in the pic-
tare ; and the author has shown great
skill in giving us a very graphic ac-
count of each in a few words or lines.
I shall proceed, without further pro-

logue or apology, to use the materials
furnished by this volume for a short
sketch of Madame de Montagu and
her sisters.

These ladles were the daughters of
the Duo and Duchesse d'Ayen. The
duke was the eldest son of the last
Mar^chal de Noailles; his wife was
the daughter of M. d'Aguesseau, son
of the chancellor of that name. They
had five daughters, called, as the cus-
tom was, Mdlle. de NodUes, Mdlle.
d'Ayen, Mdlle. d'Epemon, Mdlle. de
Maintenon, and Mdlle. de Monclar.
The eldest married her cousin, the
Viscount de Noailles ; the second be-
became Madame de la Fayette, wife of
the celebrated marquis ; Mdlle. d'Ep-
emon was twice married, but died
young, and we shall have no occasion
to mention her name agam ; Mdlle.
de Maintenon is the principal subject
of the volume we have before us, hav-
ing married the Marquis de Montagu ;
Mdlle. de Monclar became Madame
de Grammont. The sisters probably
owed more to their mother than to any
<Hie else in the world, and were formed
by her ; a short notice of her is, there-
fore, the natural introduction to their
history.

Many who have been acquainted
with the effects of the influence of the
French emigrants who came to Eng-
land at the time of the revolution
have remarked that some of the most
devout and religious among them must
have had a certain tinge of strictaess
and rigor about them which betrayed
the distant influence of Jansenism,
^even over those who were in no sort
of way its disciples. This may be
seen even in some of their ascetical
works. The Duchesse d'Ayen seems
either to have been brought up in this
school, or to have taken up its teach-
ing from something in her own charac-
ter congenial to it As was natural
in a granddaughter of d'Aguesseau,
she loved order and prudence with
hereditary instinct, and was, moreover,
acquaint^ with suffering; her piety
was most genuine, and as wife and
mother none could surpass her. The

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254

I%e Damgkien of the Due ^Ayen.

doc was a man of the world, a thoroiigfa
gentleman, with all the dilettante
learning that befitted his hi^ station.
He had passed throngh several bril-
liant campaigns, was a member of the
Academy of Sciences, and shone even
in Paris in the art of conversation.
His time was mostly spent at court, or
in gay circles away horn home ; bat
when he did return the most deUcato
attentions were lavished on his wife ;
and she, on her side, had taught their
five children to greet his visits with
love equal to their respect And in
truth, though their father's quick tem-
per ixispired the girls with some nat-
ural fear, his many amiable qualities
could not fail to call forth their de^
est affection.

Madame d'Ayei^ they dearly loved.
The free unbroken intercourse which
is natural to English homes was not
in accordance with the rules ci those
stately Parisian families, but the first
act of the day was to go and salute
their mother ; next, they were sure to
meet her going to or returning from
mass, when they were taking their
morning walk; afterward, they all
dined together at three, and then
came the pleasant hours spent in her
bedroom, while she instructed and
amused them by turns in gentle ma*
temal converse. They had other in-
structors I but she really formed their
minds.

A bright worldly future opened be-
fore these young girls, with their good
birth, high connections, and splendid
fortune. Who would have dreamed
of coming storms? But the pious
mother did not wait for misfortune to
teach them companionship with sor-
row; they began when children to
visit the suffering, and two poor peo-
ple of the parish stood sponsors for
Mdlle. de Maintenon at the baptismal
font. She was bom in 1766, and the
parish church was St. Boch ; opposite
stood the family hotel, with its spacious
gardens reachmg up to the Tuileries.

After their marriages the sisters
became brilliant stars in Parisian
society, and the tenderest union ever

reigned between them. The eldest,
Madame de Noailles, was admired by
every one for her sweetness and grace,
being commonly called either ^that
angel,** or the ^ heavenly viscountess.''
Even the family confessor, the saintly
Abb4 EdgwcHlh, writing of her afler
her death to Madame de Montagu,
says, ^ The &te of that angelic soul,
which I knew so intimately on earth,
can inspire no uneasiness. For my
part, I acknowledge in all simplicity
that she seems now to return me ten*
fold all the good I formerly wished
her. The mere remembrance of her
strengthens me, and would keep me
from lovmg earth, could it stiU offer
any enjoyment"

The sisters vied with each other in
love and veneration for their mother
and Madame de NoaUles especially
had the happiness of being scarcely
ever separated from her. The young
wife, however, espoused with ardor
her husband's political opuiions ; and
he was much more libend in his views
than the Duchesse d'Ayen. Like
many other nobles of the time, both
about court and in the provinces, M.
de Noailles hailed with enthusiasm the
fiirst dawn of the revolution, believing
it would bring about a new era for
France, a grand national reform.
Madame d'Ayen, on the contrary,
looked on events with some mistrust ;
her experience, her natural prudence
and cautious character, made her more
anxious, more inclined to drcnmspeo-
tion.

Even after the Bastille had heaa
taken, and when so many fajnilies be-
gan to emigrate, M. de Noailles, like
his brother-in-law M. de la Fayette,
continued to hope. The events of
1792, however, induced him to seek
refuge in England. The Due d'Ayen
had taken refuge in Switserland ; but
when he heard of the attack on the
Tuileries in June, 1792, he flew to the
aid of the king and the royal family,
considering that though his post of
captain of the royal guard had been
abolished, the danger of Louis had
created it anew. He was with that

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2%e Iktughtm of tie Due d^J^m.

255

small band of devoted adherents who
would have defended tiie king on the
fatal 10th of August— the last daj of
ibi& real monarchy — ^when Louis*
heart £uled him, and he took refuge
in the assemblj. The Due d'Ajen
managed again to get away into Switz-
erland; the other members of his
fiimilj, quitting their splendid hotel,
hid themselyes in a wretched dwelling
of the nearest feuboutg. Madame de
Noailles was to have joined her hus-
band in London, where they intended
shortly to embark for America; but
she lingered with her mother, first to
assist her grandfather, the Marshal
de Noailles, in his dying moments, and
next to ccmsole his aged widow, now
well-^igh reduced to second childhood.
Hie result was captivity and death for
all time. Madame de Noailles* virtue
shone forth with lustre throughout
these trying hours, audit is as a meek
victim of the revolution that she es-
pecially deserves remembrance.

At first the three ladies were sim-
ply detained as "• suspected" in their
own hotel, during the winter of *93 ;
but in April following thev were
transferred as prisoners to the Luxem-
bourg. There they found in a toom
below them their relatives, the Mar^
chal de Mouchy and his wife, who
had already sufiered a detention of five
months. Not far off was a cousin,
the Duchesse d'OrMans, widow of
Philippe Egalit^ lately executed.
These were sad recognitions, few or
no prisoners being ever set at liberty,
though many went through the mock-
ery of a triaL Soon after Madame
d'Ayen's arrival, M. and Madame de
Mouchy were guillotined. From the
first she and her daughter prepared
for death. Both did all they could to
alleviate the suffering around them.
Madame d*Ayen gave up her bed
to the Duchesse d'Orl^ans, who was
very ill, and treated Vith even excep-
tional cruelty. Madame de Noailles
shared her mother's attendance on this
lady, and on several others. She
made the beds for all their relatives,
helped them to dress, and washed up

the dishes ; in short, waited upon the
whole party as if she bad been accus-
tomed all her life to servile occupa-
tions. With true virtue, she even
showed no repugnance at anything,
but preserved tlurougfaout her usual
sweet serenity of temper. Her con-
solation was to mount up twice a week
to an upper story, under pretence of
breathing the freish air, but in reality
to obtain a view from the window of
her children in the garden beneath.
She had contrived to keep up some
correspondence outside, and they
came at the stated hour, under the
care of their tutor. Occasionally she
managed to receive notes from him,
or to send him one. An extract
from the last she wrote, and when
she felt an eternal separation im-
pending, shows the strength of her
piety:

^ God sustains me, and will, I am
Convinced, to the end. Farewell ! Be
assured that my gratitude toward you
will accompany me above. But for
you, what would have been my chil-
dren's fate ? Farewell, Alexis, Alfred,
Euphemia ! Bear God in your hearts
every day of your lives ; attach your-
selves steadfastly to him; pray for
your father, and for his true happi-
ness; remember your mother also,
and that her sole desire has been for
your eternal welfare. I hope to be
re-united with you in the bosom of
God, and in that hope give my last
blessing to you all."

These words show a soul which
could not be ill prepared for death.
When hastily summoned one day to
leave the Luxembourg for the Gon-
dergerie, a certain road to execution,
both Madame de Noailles and her
mother were quite ready. Madame
d'Ayen had the ^^Lnitation" open at that
beautiful chapter on the cross. Hast-
ily writing on a scrap of paper-^
** Courage, my children, and pray '*—
she put it in as a mark, and begged
the Duchesse d'Orl^ans, if her life
were spared, to give it to them. This
commission was faithfully executed,
and the litde book still exists, showing

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256

The Daughters of the Due J^Ayen.

traces of Madame d'Ajen's last tears
as she named her daughters.

The poor old marechale scarcely
knew what was going on, but followed
mechanically. The Conciergerie was
crowded, and afforded small accommo-
^ dation for new-comers. Madame de
' Noailles thought it useless to sleep
that night When her mother
pressed her to lie down a little, she
said, " Why seek repose on the brink
of eternity?" Early neirt morning
all three were astir, and persuaded
each other to break their fast, for no
dinner had been provided on the pre-
vious evening. Madame de Noailles
insisted on dressing both her mother
and grandmother, whispering, ^ Have
good courage, mamma; there is only
one hour more !"

But nearly the whole day passed in
terrible expectation. Not till five in
the afternoon came the open carts that
were to carry forty condemned prison-
ers to the Barrifere du Trdne for exe-
cution. Long previous to detention,
Madame de Noailles had secured, in
case of danger, the services of a good
priest — Pere Carrichon, of the Ora-
tory. News of their coming fate
reached him, and, faithful to his
promise, despite the personal risk, he
arrived at the prison door in time.
The first cart filled and passed out.
It contained eight ladies, of whom the
last was the old marechale. In the
second were Madame d'Ayen and her
daughter; after whom six men took
their places.

The account ^ven by P^re Carri-
chon of this closing scene is our last
view of Madame de Noailles, and tal-
lies with what has gone before.
Serene and gentle, her thoughts ap-
peared wrapt in Gk)d. Pfere Carri-
chon tried to make himself seen as the
cart came out. Evidently Madame
de Noailles was looking for some one ;
but her glance did not rest on him.
Having made a great circuit, he posted
himself in a conspicuous place at the
opening of a bridge. Again Madame
de Noailles anxiously scanned the
crowd around, and again without dis-

cerning the face she sought. Pfcre
Carrichon was tempted to give up the
effort in despair. Priestly charity
prevailed, however, and he hastened
forward to the Rue St. Antoine. A
violent storm had come on; thunder
and lightning raged, the wind blew
furiously. The poor victims were
drenched; the ladies' hair streamed
about their faces, and their hands,
closely tied behind each, could give
no relief. What with the jolting and
wind, they could hardly keep their
seats on those narrow planks. The
savage curiosity of the populace
yielded to the violence of the storm ;
the crowd dispersed; windows and
doors closed. P^ Carrichon ven-
tured nearer the cart, amid the very
escort of soldiers intent on guarding
themselves from the storm. Suddenly
Madame de NoaiUes' countenance
lighted up with her own sweet smile ;
her eyes were thankfully raised to
heaven, and then she leaned forward,
whispering to hex mother. She had
seen him, Pere Carrichon felt sure of
it. A grateful smile stole over the
duchess's foce also.

Pere Carrichon continued walking
beside the cart; his heart raised in
prayer; the mute confession was
made, the silent absolution given*
Solemn, touching scene! — those two
heads, one so &ir, reverentially bent
down with looks of mingled contrition
and hope; the priest fulfilling his
errand of mercy ; and the storm raging
on.

At length the carts stopped. The
executioner and his assistants came
forward, one carelessly twirling a rose
between his lips. The guillotine fell
on the mar6chale; afterward on
Madame d'Ayen ; and Madame de
Noailles suffered next. Up to the
last moment both mother and daughter
employed themselves in exhorting
their companions' to Christian repent-
ance. The vicomtesse devoted her-
self especially to a young man whom
she had overheard blaspheming. One
foot was already on the bloody ladder,
when, turning round a last time, she

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I%e Daughters of the Dtte d^Ayen.

257

mnrmured, with imploring accents,
*•! conjure 70U, say — Forgive me!"
Their own sweet countenances spoke
only of heaven. So beautiful were
these deaths, that, despite the horrors
of the scene, Pere Carrichon could
bat raise his full heart in praise and
thanksgiving to God. Thus lived and
died the eldest of these five sisters.

The second, Madame de la Fayette,
is a beautiful character ; so enthusias-
tic in spirit, so warm and generous in
heart. Endowed with good natural
powers, her mind had been highly
cultivated, she could reason well, and
possessed a ripe judgment. Prompt
and decided on great occasions, she
was then energetic enough in carrying
oat her resolutions ; but by a strange
contradiction of nature, doubts often
assailed her in little matters, and she
would hang back, uncertain what
coarse to pursue. Ardent in her pi-
ety, she was yet tormented with scru-
ples ; and unfortunately Madame
d'Ayen had so far condescended to
these as to allow her daughter not to
make her firat communion till after
marriage. Naturally enough, at that
late period the great act was accom-
plished with much mental suffering.
Madame de Montagu said with trath
that this beloved sister was not suffi-
cientlj interior, and tliirsted too eag-
erly after the consolations of human
affections ; but for sincerity, faith, zeal,
and submission to the divine will Ma-
dame de la Fayette was most admirable.
Her greatest quality was self-sacrifice,
unshrinking devotion to those she
loved — the virtue of a wife and a
mother. M. de la Fayette attests
thai he owed to her unalloyed happi-
ness during a wedded union of thirty-
four yeai-s. ** Gentle, tender, virtuous,
and high-souled, this incomparable
woman has been the charm and pride
of my existence."

She too was imprisoned, but was
afterward released. Her first thought
was to join her husband, a captive at
Ohnutz. Other duties detained her
for a while; but the ultimate object
was kept steadily, though silently, in

vou IL 17

view. Madame de la Fayette sent
her young son out of France across
the Atlantic, confiding him to Wash-
ington's protection ; then she hastened
to look after her daughters m Au-
vergne, and settle money accounts
th^re. Happily, she was able to buy •
back Chavaniac, the property of an
old aunt who had brought up her has
band. Business concluded, she sought
for Madame dei Grammont ; the two
sisters had not met since the tragic
death of their relatives. Madame de
Noailles' orphan children were living
with their aunt. Tearing herself from
them, Madame de la Fayette— who
couM only obtain a passport for Amer-
ica — ^then went round by sea to Al-
tona, in Denmark, where her other
sister, Madame de Montagu, and
many French exiles, had fixed their
residence for a while. This also was
a meeting in which bitter pain was
mingled with joy. "Did you see
them?' were the only words Madame
de Montagu could sob forth, after a
long, mute caress. " Alas ! I had not
that happiness,^' replied Madame de
la Fayette, whose filial heart was
choking with the same remembrances*

Proper measures having been taken
for obtaining an audience of the em-
peror, Madame de la Fayette an-*
nounced her intention of proceeding to
Vienna forthwith, that she might so-
licit permission to share her husband's
captivity. The simple words in which
she mentioned her generous purpose
thrilled tlirough the little circle ; vain
attempts were made to dissuade her
from it; she gently, but firmly, per-
sisted. Her sister could best under-
stand the feelings that guided her, and
that she did so was expressed by si-
lent repeated pressures of her hand.

Madame de la Fayette — accom-
panied by her two girls, aged thirteen
and fifteen— reached Vienna under an
assumed name. The emperor granted
her request, and she hastened joy-
fully to Olmutz. Such was her en-
thusiasm at sight of the gloomy fort-
ress in which her husban<l was con-
fined, that she began repeating To-

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298

2%e Daughters of the Due ^Ayen.

bias' beaatifal canticle (c. xiii.), and
entered with it on her lips.

It was the 15th of October, 1795.
M. de la Fajette had already been a
close prisoner for three years ; during
the last eighteen months especially he
• had received no tidings of what was
going on in the world without. A
vague rumor of excesses committed in
France had indeed reached his un-
broken solitude, but not the name of
one victim ; he knew nothing of the fate
of his wife and children. Now, without
one word of preparation, the door of
his cell was unlocked; figures dark-
ened the threshold. Ck)uld it be?
His heroic wife and their two chil-
dren I Yes ; they had come to share
the hardships of his prison life.

The emperor of Austria had spoken
to Madame de la Fayette of her hus-
band's place of confinement in a man-
ner which showed her aflerward that
he was quite ignorant of the rigorous
treatment to which £hc prisoner was
subjected. Two little cells, with a
wretched bed and a table and chair in
each, formed the sole acconmiodation.
As for eating, there was one pewter
spoon, no such luxury as knife or fork
being allowed. Pens, paper, and ink
were only forthcoming on rare occa-
sions, and then the open letter had to
be written under the eye of an official.
Madame de la Fayette endured all
these annoyances for two years ; and
truly the abnegation of her young
daughters during this long period is
nearly as admirable as her own. The
girls employed themselves very use-
fully in concocting new articles of
clothing out of old materials. Ma-
dame de la Fayette, like her husband,
soon began to sufier from such close
confinement; but when, afler eleven
months' illness, she applied for leave
to go and consult a physician at Vi-
enna for a few days only, the answer
was that, onoe outside the fortress,
she would never be re-admitted. The
prison doctor could only exchange
conversation in Latin with her hus-
band, and neither of Uiem appear to
have been adepts in that language;

moreover, his hurried visit was obliged
to take place in the presence of an of-
ficer.

Friends wearied both France and
foreign powers with solicitations for
the release of Greneral de la Fayette.
Fox painted the miseries endured at
Olmutz in eloquent terms before a
British House of Commons; but it
was not until October, 1797, that the
prison gates opened at length, through
Bonaparte's intervention.

The name she bore often proved
detrimental to her, but Madame de la
Fayette gloried in it. With Robes-
pierre's fall all prisoners in France
were set at liberty. General de la
Fayette, however, was accused of
having betrayed the revolution be-
cause he had refused to become privy
to its crimes, and his wife was there^
fore detained. Interrogated by Le-
gendre, who ^Id her how much he de-
tested the very name of la Fayette,
she boMIy expressed her readiness to
defend him and it against whatsoever
accuser. Legendre remanded her to'
prison " for insolence."

This devoted love for husband and
children did not suffice to fiU her
heart. It was burning also with other
affections. To Madame de la Fayette
we owe a touching life of the Da-
chesse d'Ayen, written while at Olmutz,
on the margin of a stray volume of
Buffi)n, with a broken toothpick for
her pen and a piece of Chinese ink.
When told of the tragic fate that had
overtaken her relatives, she could not
believe it at firat ; especially it seem-
ed impossible that men could have
been so barbarous to her '^ angelic sis-
ter." On recovering a little from this
overwhelming sorrow, she wrote to
her children :

<< I thank God for having preserved
to me life and reason, and do not re-
gret your absence at such a moment.
He kept me from revolt against him ;
but I could not long have borne the
semblance of any human consolation.
To follow in the track of such dear
footsteps would have sweetened the
last pangs for me."

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The Dctttffkten of the Due dPAyen.

259

In the prisons of the reyolution her
sole thought was how to relieve the
wants and sufferings of those around.
With her cousin, the Duchesse de
Duras, at Plessis, she was constantly
interceding for die sick and poor
among their fellow captives, and this
at a time when a chance won! sufficed
fi>r death, as sixty victims chosen by
caprice or at hazard were regularly
dragged forth each day for execution.
Her spirit n€ver forsook her under
trying circumstances, and she oflen
showed wonderful presence of mind.
Dace she pleaded her own cause before
the tribunal of Puy, and on several
occasions harangued the people. Her
language at these times was always
nobly firm, and sometimes proud even
to haughtiness. In a letter addressed
to Brissot, after asking for liberty, or
at least the favor of remaining a pris-
oner on parole, which the whole vil-
lage of Chavaniac volunteered to
guarantee, she concludes by saying,
** I consent to owe you this service."
Her letters to the two ministers,
Roland and Servan, or to foreign
princes on behalf of her husband, are
DO less elevated in tone. She never
stoops to flatter. No wonder that she
exercised a species of fascination over
all chose who approached her; with
whatever feelings the acquaintance
began, it was impossible to know and
not to love her.

In all her sorrows, ardent faith sus-
tained her. When danger again
threatened at Paris, she writes to Ma-
dame de Montagu : " We mast aban-
don ourselves wholly to God in this '
critical hour. Let us live like Abra-
ham, ready to start whenever God
calls, and to go wheresoever he ap-
points.** When she felt her end ap-
proaching, once more she repeated
aloud that canticle of Tobias, singing
which she had, years before, entered
the fortress of Olmutz. True in death
to her character through life, her heart
was inflamed with celestial desires,
and still overflowing with human af-
fection. Drawing all her loved ones
nrand her, she gave them a last bless-

ing, and gently expired, holding her
husband's hands within her own.

Of four dau^ters of the Duo
d'Ayen, Madame de Grammont was
the least attractive. Her person was
small, her appearance stiff, her fea-
tures marked ; there was nothing soft
about her look or manner. Her virtue
was of a stem kind ; she had school-
ed herself into a certain absence of
feeling, neither right nor lovable ; but
fortunately her actions often contrar
dieted her professions. Thus her
kindness never ^ed, and her charity
to the poor was boundless. There
was a contradiction too between what
she said and what she wrote— her
speeches are always more or less
stern, while her letters frequently be-
tray deep affection ; like a person who
speaks from principle, but dares to let
b^rself out on paper, sure of restrain-
ing emotion when necessary. Sacri-
fice was the prominent feature of her
piety ; duty dictated her every senti-
ment

Eight out of her nine children she
saw carried to their graves in youth,
and each time she could say with com-
posure, "The Lord hath given and the
Lord hath taken away; blessed be
the name of the Lord." Writing to
Madame de Montagu about a daugh-
ter whose end was approaching, she
uses these words: " As life ebbs away,
her peace and self-possession are pe'r^

feet I do not despair

of helping her passage into the bosom
of God aA;er having erst borne her in
my own ; and it is sweet to make her
repeat, ' I was cast into thy arms, O
Lord, from the beginning: thou art
my God, even from my mother's
womb.' " It was not in her chaiticter
to disclose the struggle of natural feel-
ing that was going on in her heart at
the time that she was writing words
like these.

Oace Madame de Grammont writes
to her sister: "The expectation, ex-
perience, and long continuance of mis-
fortune have at length male me twi-
passibleJ* " And 1," adds Madame de
Montagu, commenting on the word in

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260

The Dauffkten of ike Dtte ^Aym.

her jouraal, ^ am still a reed shaken
by every breath." The two phrases
ptly characterize each sister.

In 1848, Madame de Grammont,
who had been an eye-witness of the
two preceding revolutions, was quite
surprised at the fears entertained by
those around her. ''But, grand-
mamma,'' said a member of her family,
^ if the guillotine were set up again
as in the reign of terror, surely yoa
would feel some uneasiness P' << Poor
child r replied the old lady, << that has
nothing to do with the question. Must
we not all die ? The important thing
is to be well prepared; the mode of
death is a mere detail." And thus
unmoved she lived on to the age of
oighty-five— that is, till the year 1853
— shaving survived all her sisters.
Though her husband had been banish-
ed ibr some time, she never emigrated ;
and sixty-seven years of her life were
passed in retirement at their ch&teau
of YiUersexel. There she was much
beloved, being a true mother to all
the poor.

Her sisters also were warmly at-
tached to her. Madame de Montagu
held her in such veneration, that
though a little the older of the two,
she always kept a journal for Madame
de Grammont to read, that she might
point out her faults and help her to
amend. She called Madame de
Grammont her second consciencBj and
the province in which she resided the
kingdom of Virtue, with Peace (Vil-
lersexel) for its capitaL

Madame de Grammont felt their
mother's loss, in her way, as deeply as
the rest Perhaps, too, this heavy
trial laid the foundation of her re-
markable firmness ; for there are some
strong natures that cannot bend
through fear of breaking. When able
aflerward to communicate with Ma-
dame de Montagu, she writes :

'f Since -the immolation of those
dear victims, the cross is my sole
place of refuge. With you, and all
. those we love in this world and the
other, I cast myself into Grod's arms.
There let ail disquietude cease ; there

let our minds and hearts rest for ever ;
thence let us derive strength to per-
form our allotted task here below."

Her father had entreated Madame
de Grammont to consult her personal
safety in those perilous times by join-
ing himself and Madame de Montagu
in Switzerland. She dedined, because
her husband was only just recovering
f^om a dangerous iUness, and also
through fear of compromising his fam-
ily. Indeed, so much was circum-
spection necessaiy, that her letters
were written on cambric handker-
chiefs, which Madame de Grammont
took the further precaution of sewing
inside her messenger's waistcoat lining.

Madame de Montagu affords a
strong contrast to Madame de Gram-
mont. She went through life thrilling
at every step ; full of tears that often
gushed for joy, but ofltenest welled up
from deep fountains of sorrow ; heroic
in faith, like the others, but quivering
and writhing beneath each new load
of anguish. She never grew accus-
tomed to suffering, and yet God tried
her well ; but he could not weary her
love for himself. And thus, while hu-
man affections were ever causing
sharp pain, divine love gave her
strength to bear it without asking her
to overcome them. Such was her
character, which grace supported with-
out changing.

Madame de Montagu was admired
in the world, but never cared for tri-
umphs of any kind. Her sole wish
was to please God and her home circle,
and do good to her fellow-creatures.
We may believe that the pauper spon-
sors who held her at St. Boch watch-
ed over their charge through life. For
well and zealously, though full of nat-
ural shrinkings, did Madame de Mon-
tagu perform her part on the busy
stage. Her timidity was put to its first
great trial when, at sixteen, she had to
undergo her first introduction to her
intended husband, on whom she dared
not raise her eyes, to see whether her
parents' choice suited her, in appear^
ance at least, until he fortunately turn-
ed away to look at a picture. Next

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ne Daughters of the But tTAyen.

261

came the further suffering of receiving
congratulatoiy visits from (ill Paris,
during which the poor bride elect wm
seated bolt upright, pale and trembling,
beside her mother, and between two
goodlj rows of members of either fam-
flj, ranged along both sides of the
apartment. At church on the wed-
diftg-day she regained her com'posure,
because all else was forgotten in the
earnest prayer breathed that she
might well perform her new duties.

Almost immediately the yoong wife
had to sacrifice her greatest pleasure,
that of seeing her mother and sisters
frequently. M. de Montagu was
obliged to join his regiment, and she
was left under the tutelage of her fa-
ther-in-law, a kind and clever man,
but eccentric and full of vagaries. To
please him she did evexything pot
wrong, commencing that petty series
of daily yieldings, insignificant to care-
less eyes, but so meritorious because
so difficult. This is woman's battle-
field, obscure but high; and in this
path Madame de Montagu always
walked, perfectly ignorant that her
simplicity was in any way extraordi-
nary. -The good she did by example,
and without any words, was immense ;
only near relatives and intimate friends
could perceive it. One of these, M.
de Mun, used to say that she was the
only divote he ever knew who made
him wish to be saved. So far could
Bhe condescend even to the pleasures
of others, that in exile, afler all her
sorrows, she danced at a rustic ball.
And to a nature like hers, such griefs
as she had known were undying even
in {heir keenness. One of her charac-
teristic traits was that she never for-
got an anniversary: everything that
had happened to herself and to those
dear to her was treasured up, and re-
called as the days came round. If it
was an occasion of gladness, it was
celebrated in public ; but her life was
more crowded with the memories of
sorrow, and these she kept for the
quiet of her own room.

We should occupy a larger space
lliaa that which 'is at our disposal

were we to try to follow Madame de
Montagu through the various stages
of her exile from France. She £«t
came to England^ settling at Rich-
mond; then she went with her hus-
band to Aix-la-Chapelle, whence the
success of the revolutionary armies
drove them again to England. They
stayed at Margate for a while ; then
the declaration of war between Eng-
land and France brought out an order
for the hnigris not to live on the
coast, and Richmond received them
once more. Economy, however,
forced them to seek a cheaper abode at
Brussels. Aflerward this place of re-
fuge became unsafe, and Madame de
Montagu was forced to separate from
her husband, and accept the hospitality
of an aunt, Madame de Te8s6— ia phU^
osophe old lady, who had been a friend
of V oltaire's, but who, as one of her
grandnieces said of her, ^ tout en m
croyant incridule^ ne Icnssait pas de
faire un grand signe de craix derrth^
ses rtdeaux chaque fois qu'elle prenait
une nUdecine.** Madame de Tess^
lived at Lowemberg, in Switzerland ;
her character is charmingly hit off in
the memoir before us ; she frould have
delighted Mr. Thackeray. But the
presence of Madame do Montagu
brought persecution upon her kind re«
lation, who took the characteristic res-
olution of selling her property and go-
ing elsewhere. She took her niece
and family first to Erfurt, then to Al-
tona, where many French imigrSs
were assembled. Her plan was to
find a quiet spot beyond the Elbe,
where she could live in peace and
carry on her farming operations;
for her great delight was to manage
everything herself, and to supply aU
the needs of her household from
her own resources. They were a long
time in finding a place that would suit
Madame de Tess6. At length an es-
tate named Wittmold was found, on
the banks of the lake of Ploen ; and
here the exiles found rest for some
time. The best elements of Madame
de Montagu's beautiful character were
developed under the hardships and

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The Da^hien of the Due eTAyen.

sofierings of this life of poyeriy and
continaed apprehension. She had, of
cooTsei never known even the idea of
want before she left France. When
she left Paris, she so little expected to
have to manage for herself, that it was
only in consequence of Madame de
Grammont's imperturbable prudence
that she made anj provisicm for the
future. They had to part in secret, as
it was dangerous to let the servants
know of the intended flight of Mon-
sieur and Madame de Montagu. In
the suppressed agitation of the moment,
Madame de Grammont was charao-
teristicallj thoughtftil. She asked her
sister whether she was sure she had
her jewels. " Why take them ? we
are not going to a ftte." ** Haison de
plus ; c*est pareeque v<ms rCaJdez pas a
unejele, qJilfatU Us enmorterJ* The
advice was afterward round to have
been indeed important ; but even the
sale of her jewels only supported Ma-
dame de Montagu for a time. In the
course of her long exile, she never
made herself a very perfect manager.

She tried to study domestic econ-
omy; but she proved a greater pro-
ficient in not spending on herself than
in learning how to manage household
affairs on small means. Still her
superintendence of the &rm produced
good results, from the zeal with which
It inspired the workpeople. However
low her funds, she always visited the
sick and poor, managmg to procure
them some relief; she also worked
unceasingly at objects for sale.
Throughout life she never knew idle-
ness, devodng fixed hours to prayer,
reading, the instruction of her chil-
dren, and works of charity. As years
went on, she more and more be-
grudged the hours often forcibly given
in social life to frivolous conversation.
Her pleasure was to employ each
moment usefully in some home duty ;
but this could not always be the case
during exile, especially when residing
with her kind but worldly aunt,
Madame de Tess6.

At this period it was that she organ-
ized her ceuvre des emigris ; a stupen-

dous work, if we consider that there
were 40,000 persons to assist, and
16,000,000 francs the moderate sum
tstimated as requisite for carrying it
out with success. Unfortunately the
details in figures of this work have
been lost; for Madame de Montagu
carefully noted down every fraction
received, from what quarter it came,
and how expended. But we know
that the correspondence* alone cost
annually about 500 francs during the
four years it existed — ^that is, from
1796 to 1800. She collected money
in Germany, Denmark, Switzerland,
France, the Netherlands, and Eng-
land; and beside distributing pecun-
iaiy assistance, solicited employment
for persons of all ages and sexes.
She had children to get into schools,
young women to place as governesses,
drawings and needlework to sell, etc
All this was done without quitting her
quiet home on the borders of Lake
Ploen, or giving up one domestic oc-
cupation. When pressed for time she
sat up at night. Winter only in-
creased her zeal. " The colder it is,*
said she, ''the warmer my heart
grows.'' Indeed, she ended by selling
for this work the mourning worn for
her mother and sister, which she had
kept as a relic; at another time she
also sold her prayer-book for the same
object. But she never would take
from this fund for members of her own
family; she preferred working for
them, not from pride, but through
delicacy. For another charity she
once cut off her beautiful hair and sold
it, receiving eighty francs.

It is curious to remark that this
gentle woman nevertheless had her
own firm opinions, even on politics;
and though never obtruding, still con-
stantly held them. One is surprised
to find also that these opinions were
not often identical with tbe views held
by those she most respected and loved.
In 1790, M. de Beaune, her fatber-io-
law, alarmed at the turn affairs were
taking, wished to emigrate with all his
family. His idea was to draw
Frenchmen together on neutral

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I%e Daughten of the Due ^Ayen.

263

groand, to place their families in
safety, and having gained the support
of foreign powers, to return with a
good army for the protection of the
king and the party of order in the
state. Madame de Montagu fully
shared these views ; but her husband
at this time disapproved of emigration,
ooBsiderlng it the greatest mistake
that could be committed by the king's
friends. He hoped to arrive at an
understanding between the liberal
party and the droite, so as to save
both the monarchy and liberty. His
two elder brothers-in-law, MM. de
Noailles and la Fayette, went far be-
y<md these views. Without wishing
to overturn royalty, their dream was
to see it based on republican princi-
ples.

80 indignant did this render M.
de Beaune, that he broke with them
entirely, and wished Madame de Mon-
tagu to give up seeing her two sisters,
who naturally embraced their hus-
bands' opinions. She could by •no
means understand that persons were
to be proscribed because of their polit-
ical opinions; but, not to irritate M.
de Beaune farther, she would not re-
ceive Madame de la Fayette, who
<^ered to pay her a visit at Plauzat
in Anveigne, and went instead to
meet her privately at a neighbouring
inn.

Meanwhile M. de Montagu had
yielded to his father's wishes, and at
the end of 1791 resolved to emigrate;
his choice, however, fell on England
rather than Coblentz, where M. de
Beaune then was. Madame de Mon-
tagu was to accompany her husband*
Ere leaving Plauzat she had the
happiness of seeing her mother again,
bnt could not summon up courage to
tell her of her own approaching de-
parture for England. Both mother
and daughter looked on public matters
exactly in the same way; there was
great similarity between them as to
judgment; but the duchessc was not
impulsive, like Madame de Montitgu.
They parted most tenderly, with a
presentiment of commg evil; btit

little did either dream that the guil-
lotine was to separate them for ever.

Then commenced for Madame de
Montagu the miseries and heart-
burnihgs of exile. Twice she visited
England, spending some time at
Richmond and Margate. Griefs be-

rto accumulate; she lost a child
the third time; Marat was lording
it over Paris ; M. de Montagu in dis-
gust again quitted France, and went
to serve under his father's orders on
the banks of the Rliine ; the massacres
of September took place, followed by
the fatal battle of Jemappes. The
imigris were henceforth baxiished*
Then the king and queen fell victims
to the revolution ; Savenay destroy*
ed the last hopes of the Yendeans.
In addition to aU these public sorrows,
and to the pressure of poverty, Ma-
dame de Montagu lost another child,
her fourth ; it seemed as if all her
children were born but to die.

All her life she suffered from great
delicacy of constitution, and this na-
tural tendency was further increased
by her extreme sensibility. Just after
losing a child for the first time, and
while she was praying, bathed in
tears, beside its dead body, a messen-
ger came to tell her that Madame de
Grammont had just given birth to her
first infant Madame de Montagu,
drjring up all traces of her own sor-
row, immediately hastened off to con-
gratulate the young mother ; but she
had scarcely lefl her sister's room
when she famted in the adjoining
apartment^ A severe illness followed,
the precursor of many others ; indeed,
it tnay be said that her whole life was
passed amid moral and physical suf-
fering. Death was ever busy in her
family.

£he lost her only son Attale, a fine
young man, just when he had attained
his twenty-eighth year; and in this case
sorrow was aggravated by the circum-
stance of his dying through accident
— a gun went off in his hand. No
fears, however, were entertained at
first Madame de Montagu herself was
only recovering by slow degrees from

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264

2%0 Daughters of the Drtc ^Ayeru

a dangerous malady; a sudden and fa-
tal termination had occurred for her
son, and she knew it not Thcj dared
not tell her. But the next day, being
Trinity Sunday, Madame de Qram-
mont suggested that she should re-
ceive holy communion, though still in
bed : the priest, in presenting the sa-
cred host, invited her to meditate on
the passion, and especially on the senti*
ments of the Blessed Virgin at the
foot of the cross, where her son died*

Madame de Montagu immediately
untierstood him. Her husband then
brought to her bedside the young wid-
ow and three orphan girls. Attale*s
mother wept in silence, at length ejac-
ulating : " Thy decree, O Lord, has ^us
ordained, and I submit. But strike no
more, for I am ready to faint beneath
the weight of my cross." But she re-
proached herself afterward for this.

Often before had she endured the
mother's agony; but this was the
hardest blow of all. And Madame de
Montagu lived on to see many loved
ones go before her; father, and hus-
band, and several other relations pre-
ceded her to the tomb ; for she linger-
ed till 1839. Among them was M. de
la Fayette, who died in 1834, having
survived his wife twenty-seven years.
Madame de Montagu and all the mem-
bers of her family requested to be
buried at Picpus.

This spot was hallowed to them by
sacred memories, for there reposed
above thirteen hundred victims of the
revolution. Its continued existence
as a cemetery was due to the pious la-
bore of Madame d'Ayen's daughters.
In the days of terror, a pit had been
dug outside the Barri^re du Trdne, and
all the persons immolated in that quar-
ter of Paris were promiscuously
thrown into it. The savage mode of
proceeding has been related. As each
head fell from the guillotine, it was
cast, together with the body, still
dressed, into a large barrel painted
red. Each night after the executions
^ere over, these barrels were taken to
Picpus, and their contents indiscrimi-
}iiately emptied into the pit. The

ground had formerly belonged to an
Augustinian convent. There, it could
not be doubted, lay the I'emains of
Madame d'Ayen and her daughter.
Madame de Montagu and Madame de
la Fayette, on their return to France,
ardently wished to raise a monument
to their memory ; but on discovering
the immense number of victims inter-
red together, it seemed more desirable
that the undertaking should be of a
less private nature. By their joint
efforts, many families of other victims
were attracted to the pious enterprise ;
souls devoted to prayer gathered
round ; the old convent and church of
Picpus rose from their ruins. A cem-
etery was constructed round that
gloomy pit, where not even a name
had been scrawled to recall the mem-
ory of those who slept below. Madame
d'Ayen's three daughters could at
least ei]joy the sad consolation of pray-
ing near their mother^s tomb.

All the sisters had bitterly, keenly,
fek the cruel stroke that deprived
them of three such near relatives, and
in such a painful manner; but none
suffered more enduringly than Itfia-
dame de Montagu. She was staying
with Madame de Tesse, in Switzer-
land. News had reached her of the
execution of her gnmd-aunt and un-
cle, M. and Madame de Monchy ; but
she was completely ignorant of what
had become of her mother and sister.
Fears, however, were rife. One day
she set out to meet her father, whom
she had not seen for some time ; and
he was so changed, that, perceiving
him on the way, she only recognized
him from his voice. Each alighted,
and his first question was to ask
whether she had heard the news ; bat,
seeing her excessive emotion, he hast-
ened to assure her of his own perfect
ignorance. She felt a calamity im-
pending, but dared not press for in-
formation in the presence of a third
pereon. They drove to an inn ; and
when father and daughter were alone
together, he, after some preparatioo,
informed her that he had just lost hia
niother. A deadly paleness oveiw

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l%e Daughter$ of Ae Due ^Ayen.

265

spread ber countenance; confused
and dizzy* she exclaimed with clasped
hands, «< And I — ^ " I am nneasj
about jour mother and sister,** an-
swered M. d^Ayen, cautiously. But
she was not to be deceived. His looks
belied his words. That was the hour
of bitterest anguish in Madame de
Montagn's life. Cries and tears gave
no relief. Again and again she saw
the scene re-enacted. Reason trem-
bled, but still she strove to pray and
be resigned. Remembering her moth-
er's pious practice in times of sorrow,
she also recited the magnificat ; then,
with beautiful feeling, in the midst of
her own anguish, she knelt down and
prayed, all shuddering, for those that
made them suffer. But nature strug-
gled still; and days passed ere she
recovered sufficient composure to be
left alone. When all the details reach-
ed her, strong religious feeling trans-
formed the dutfgeon, the cart, the
Bcaffi>ld, into so many steps by which
the martyrs had ascended up to heaven.
The love unceasingly manifested by
the tiiree sisters for their martyred re-
latives is very touching. They were
first reunited at Vianen, near Utrecht,
in 1799. The ostensible object was
to settle the division of property ren-
dered necessary by their mother's
death ; but in reality they were much
more occupied in calling up sweet me-
mories of her and of their beloved sister.
Madame de la Fayette was then al>out
forty years of age ; Madame de Mon-
tagu YnfA reached her thirty-second
year; and Madame de Grammont
was racier more than a twelvemonth
younger. They remained a month
together, their husbands and families
bemg also on the spot Not a little
suffering was caused by cold and hun-
ger, for their united purses could still
only produce insufficient means ; fuel
was wanting, and they had scanty
fiire. The three, however, would sit
up at night to enjoy each other's soci-
ety, wrapping their mantles round them
to keep out the cold, and sharing one
wretclied chaufferette* They spoke
Teiy low, so as not to ^turb huslMtnds

and children sleeping in the adjoining
rooms. One great subject of conver-
sation was to point out their mutual
defects — a Christian habit acquired
under Madame d*Ayen*s training, and
surprisingly brought into play again
under such circumstances.

Madame de Grammont remarked
that events were graven in letters of
fire in Madame d«» Montagu's counte-
nance, and characteristically advised
her to become more calm. She also
took the opportunity of teaching her
how to meditate — a service which
the elder sister gratefully acknow-
ledges in her diary. Madame de
Montagu observed with admiration
Madame de Grammont's recollected
demeanor at mass, which they attend-
ed almost daily, saying she looked like
an angel, absolutely annihilated in the
presence of God. <* As for me, I feel
overwhelmed at my poverty beside
her." Indeed, the two sisters vied in
humility with each other. Madame
de Grammont having once said, " You
excite me to virtue and attract me to
prayer," Madame de Montagu quickly
repUed, " Then I am like the horses in
this country; for one sees wretched-
looking animals along the canals draw-
ing large boats after them."

But the chief theme at night was
ever their mother. Madame de Mon-
tagu was accustomed to unite herself
with the dear victims in special pray-
er every day at the " sorrowful hour,**
and the other two now undertook the
same practice. They also composed
beautiful litanies in remembrance of
them during their stay at Vianen.
Madame de Grammont held the pen,
writing sometimes her own inspiration,
and sometimes what her sisters dic-
tated. They called these pra]^
" Litany of our Mothers ." •

One of the most interesting episodes
in the life of Madame de Montagu
was her intimacy with the celebrated
Count Stolberg, whose conversion to
Catholicism seems to have been main-
ly attributable to the influence of her
character. She came across him dur-
ing her residence at Floen and Witt-

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266

A Few iSaturmne ObservatUnu.

mold. He was at that tiihe at the
head of the gorernment of the Dake
of Oldenburg; and he assisted her
with all his power in her charitable
labors for the relief of the French em-
igrants. The acquaintance between
Ihem sprung up in 1796. Count
Stolbeig, with his wife and sister, —
the only one of the three who did not
afterward become Catholic, — ^had al-
ready begun to see something of the
inconsistencies and deficiencies of Lu-
theranism. They were calm, thought-
ful, upright souls ; grave, severe, and
simple, at\er the best type of the Grer-
man character. They often conversed
on and discussed religious matters
among themselves; but they were
very ignorant about the Catholic
Church and its doctrines. Madame
de Montagu taught them more about
Catholicism, without speaking on the
subject directly, than a whole library
of controversisd theology. Fragile in
health, sensitive to excess, overflowing
with sjrmpathy and tenderness, tried
by long and varied suffering, and
strengthened, elevated, and spiritual-
ized by the cross, without having been

hardened or made impassible,— her
whole character showed a force and
power and greatness that was obvious-
ly not its own. Such persons have
an irresistible attractiveness ; and they
speak ^vith a strange silent eloquence
to intelligent hearts in favor of the re-
ligion which can produce and sustain
them. Madame de Montagu was not
a person to introduce controveinsial
topics; but she won upon her new
friends graduaUy, and at last they
could not help telling her so, after lis-
tening to the account they had begged
Ifer to give of her own and her sisters'
sufferings. After a time their hearts
strongly turned to Catholidsm; but
intellectual difficulties remained on the
mind of Stolberg, which were not set
at rest till 1800, after he had been en-
gaged in a correspondence with M.
de la Luaerne and M. Asseline, to
whom Madame de Montagu and
her sisters had introduced him.
The French prelates did their part;
but the illustrious convert must ever
be considered as in truth the spirit-
ual child of Madame de Mon-
tagu.

From All the Tear Ronndi

A FEW SATURNINE OBSERVATIONS.

Hebe is a gentleman at our doors,
Mr. R. A, Proctor, who has written a
book upon that planet Saturn, and he
asks us to stroll out in his company,
and have a look at the old gentleman.
Itus a long journey to Saturn, for his
liSle place is nine and a half times
further from the sun than oars, and
his is not a little place in comparison
with our own tenement, because Saturn
House is seven hundred and thirty-five
times bigger than Earth Lodo^o.

The people of Earth Lodge made
Satum*s acquaintance very long ago ;
nobody remembers how long. Venus

and Jupiter being brilliant in oompaay,
may have obtruded themselves first
upon attention in the evening parties
of the stars, and Mars, with his red
face and his quick movement, couldn't
remain long unobserved. Saturn, 4all,
slow, yellow-faced, might crawl over
the fioor of heaven like a goaty and
bilious nabc^, and be overlooked ibr a
very little while, but somebody would
soon ask, Who is that sad-faced fellow
with the leaden complexion, who some-
times seems to be standing still or go-
ing backward?

He was the more noticeable, becaose

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A Few Saturnine OUervaHone*

267

t]i08e eTemng parties in the sk j difier
from like parties on earth in one ver^
Ycmarkable respect oa to the behavior
<^ the oompanj. We hear talk of
dancing stars, and the masic of the
spheres, but, in fact, except a few, all
keep their places, with groaps as un-
changing as those of the guests in the
old iabl^ banquet, whom the sight of
the head of Medusa turned to stone.
Onlj thej wink, as the stone guests
probably could not. In and oat among
this eompanj of fixtares move but a
few privileged stars, as our sister the
moon and our neighbors the planets.
These alone thread the maze of the
company of statnes, dancing round
their sun, who happens to be one of
the fixed company, to the old tune of
Sun in the mid^e and can't get out.
S<»ne of the planets run close, and
some nm in a wide round, some dance
round briskly, and some slip slowly
along. Once round is a year, and
Saturn, dancing in a wide round out-
side ours, so that in each round he has
about nine times as ikr to go, moves
at a pace about three times slower
than ours. His year, therefore, is
8<Hne twenty-seven times longer; in
fiict, a year in the House of Satam is
as much as twenty-nine years five
months and sixteen days in our part
€X the world. What, therefore, we
should consider to be an old man of
dgbty-eight would pass with Saturn
for a three-year-old.

A hundred and fifty years ago,
Bishop Wilkins did not see why some
of his posterity should not find oat a
ecmveyance to the moon, and, if there
be inhabitants, have commerce with
them. The fint twenty miles, he said,
is all the difficulty ; and why, he asked,
writing before balloons had been dis-
covered, may we not get over that ?
No doubt there are difficulties. The
journey, if made at the rate of a thou-
sand mile« a day, would take half a
year ; and there would be much trouble
fitim the want of inns upon the road.
NeTeziheless, heaviness being a con-
dition of closeness and gravitation to
the earthy if one lose but the first

twenty miles, that difficulty of our
weight would soon begin to vanish,
and a man — clear of the influence of
gravitation — might presently stand as
firmly in the open air as he now does
upon the ground. If stand, why not
go ? With oar weight gone from us,
walking will be light exercise, cause
little fatigue, and need little nourish-
ment. As to nourishment, perhaps
none may be needed, as none is needed
by those creatures who, in a long sleep,
withdraw themselves from the heavy
wear and tear of life. " To this pur-
pose,** says Bishop Wilkins, "Men-
doca reckons up divers strange rela-
tions. As that of Epimenides, who
is storied to have slept seventy-five
years. And another of a rustic in
Germany, who, bemg accidentally cov-
ered with a hayrick, slept there for all
autumn and the winter following, with-
out any nourishment.'' Though, to be
sure, the condition of a man free of
all weight is imperfectly suggested by
the man who had a hayrick bud atop
of him. But what then ? Why may
not smells nourish us as we walk
moonward upon space, ailer escape
from all the friction and the sense of
burden gravitation brings ? Plutarch
and Pliny, and divers other ancients,
tell us of a nation in India that Hved
only upon pleasing odors ; and Demo-
critus was able for divers days together
to feed himself with the mere smell of
hot bread. Or, if our stomachs must
be filled, may there not be truth in the
old Platonic principle, that there is in
some part of the world a place where
men might be plentifully nourished by
the air Uiey breathe, which cannot Im
so likely to be true of any other place
as of the ethereal air above this ? We
have heard of some creatures, and of
the serpent, that they feed only upon
one elemen t, namely, earth. Albertus
Magnus speaks of a man who lived
seven weeks together upon the mere
drinking of water. Bondoletius af-
firms that his wife did keep a fish in a
glass of water without any food for
three years, in which space it was con-
stantly augmented, till at first it could

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A Feio Saturnine OhservcUions.

not come ont of the place at which it
was put. in, and at length was too big
for the glass itself, though that were
of large capacity. So may it be with
man in the ethereal air. Onions will
shoot out and grow as they hang in
common air. Burds of paradise, hav-
ing no legs, live constantly in and up-
on air, laying their eggs on one
another's backs, and sitting on each
other while they hatch them. And, if
none of these possibilities be admitted,
why, we can take our provision with
us. Once up the twenty miles, we
could carry any quantity of it the rest
of the way, for a ship-load would be
lighter than a feather. Sleep, proba-
bly, with nothing to fatigue us, we
should no longer require; but if we
did, we cannot desire a sofler bed than
the air, where we may repose ourselves
firmly and safely as in our chambers.

As for that difficulty of the first
twenty miles, it is not impossible to
make a flying chariot and give it mo-
tion through the air. If possible, it
can be made large enough to carry
men and stores, for size is nothing if
the motive faculty be answerable there-
to — ^the great ship swims as well as
the small cork, and an eagle flies in
the air as well as a little gnat In-
deed, we might have regular Great
Eastern packets plying between Lon-
don and No Gravitation Point, to
which they might take up houses, cat-
tle, and all stores found necessary to
the gradual construction of a town
upon the borders of tbe over-ether
route to any of the planets. Stations
could be established, if necessary,
along the routes to the moon, Mars,
Venus, Saturn, and the rest of the
new places of resort; some London
society could create and endow a
new Bishop of Jupiter; and daring
travellers* would bring us home their
journals of a Day in Saturn, or Ten
Weeks in Mars, while sportsmen
might make parties for the hippogriff
shooting in Mercury, or bag chimeras
on the mountains of the moon.

Well, in whatever way we may get
there, we are off now for a jstroU to

Saturn, with Mr. R. A. Proctor for
comrade and cicerone, but turning a
deaf ear to him whenever, as oflen
occurs, he is too learned for us, and
asks us to "let N F F' N' represent
the northern half of Saturn's orbit
(viewed in perspective), n E n' E'
the earth's orbit, and^N p p' p" N' the
projection of Saturn's orbit on the
pkine of the earth's orbit Let N S
N' be the line of Saturn's nodes on
this plane, and let S P' be at right
angles to N S, N', so that when at P'
Saturn is at his greatest distance from
the ecliptic on the northern side."
When of such things we are asked to
let them be, we let them be, and are,
in the denseness of our ignorance,
only too glad to be allowed, not to say
asked, to do so. We attend only, like
most of our neighbors, to what is easy
to us. Sun is gold, and moon is sil-
ver ; Mars is iron. Mercury quicksil-
ver, which we, in fact, rather like still
to call Mercury, thinking nothing at
all of the imprisoned god with the
winged keek when we ask how is the
mercury in the thermometer. Jove
is tin ; yes, by Jove, tin is the chief
among the gods, says little Swizzles,
who, by -a miracle, remembers one
thmg that he leamt at school--Jove'3
chietlainship among the heathen dei-
ties. Venus is copper, for the Cyprian
is Cuprian ; and as for Saturn, he is
lead. A miserable old fellow they
made Saturn out in the days of the
star-decipherers. Mine, Chaucer
makes Saturn say, is the drowning
in wan waters, the dark prison, the
strangling and hanging, murmur of
discontent, and the rebellion of churls.
I am the poisoner and the house-
. breaker, I topple down the high hall^
and make towers fall upon their build-
ers, earth upon its miners. I sent the
temple roof down upon Samson. I
give you all your treasons^ and your
cold diseases, and your pestilences.
This is* the sort of estimation in which
our forefathers held the respectable
old gentleman we are now going out
to see.
When Galileo's eyes went oat to-

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A Fmo jSahimine Ohervatiom.

ward Satora through his largest tele-
scope— which, great as were the dis-
ooveries it made, was damsier aod
weaker than the sort of telescope now
to be got lor a few shiliings at any
Cretan's 8lKq[>— he noticed a peculi-
arity in the appearance of Saturn
which caused hkn to suppose that
Saturn ccMiBisted of three stais in con-
tact with one another. A year and a
half later he looked again, and there
was the planet round and single as
the disc of Mars or Jupiter. He
cleaned his glasses, looked to his tele-
scope, and looked again to the per-
l^exing planet Triform it was not.
^ Is it possible,'^ he asked, ^ that some
mocking demon has deluded me?"
Afterward the perplexity increased.
The two leaser orbs reappeared, and
grew and varied in form strangely:
finally they lost their globular appear-
ance altogether, and seemed each to
haTc two mighty arms stretched to-
waid and encompassing the planet.
A dxawing in one of his manuscripts
would aoggest that Galileo discovered
the key to the mystery, for it shows
Saturn as a globe resting upon a ring.
But this drawing is thought to be a
lat^ addition to the manuscript. It
was only afVer many perplexities of
others, about half a century later, that
Hnygcnsy in the year sixteen fifty-
nine, announced to his contemporaries
that Saturn is girdled about by a thin,
flat ring, inclined to the ecliptic, and
not touching the body of the planet
He showed that all variations in the
appearance of the ring are due to the
varying inclinations of its plane to-
ward ns, and that, being very thin, it
becomes invisible when its edge is
turned to the spectator or the sun.
He found the diameter of the ring to
be as nine to four to the diameter of
Saturn's body, and its breadth about
equal to the breadth of vacant space
between it and the surface of the
planet.

The same observer, Huygens, four
years earlier, discovered one of Sat-
urn's satellites. Had he looked for
iBore^ ha coold have found them. But

six was the number of known plan-
ets, five had been the number of
known satellites, our moon and the
four moons of Jupiter, which Galileo
had discovered ; one moon more made
the number of the planets and of the
satellites to be alike, six, and this ar-
rangement was assumed to be exact
and final But in sixteen seventy-
one another satellite of Saturn was
discovered Ij Cassini, who observed
that it disappears regulariy during
one-half of its seventy-nine days'
journey round its princijMd. Whence
it is inferred that this moon has one
of its sides less capable than the other
of reflecting light, and that it turns
round on its own axis once during its
seventy-nine days* journey; Saturn
itself spinning once round on its axis
in as short a time as ten hours and a
half. Cassini afterward discovered
three more satellites, and called his
four the Sideria Lodoicea, Ludovick-
ian Stars, in honor of his patron,
Louis the Fourteenth. Huygens had
discovered, also, belts on Saturn's
disc Various lesser observations on
rings, belts, and moons of Saturn
continued to be made until the ^ime of
the elder Herschel, who, at the close
of the last century, discovered two
more satellites, established the rela-
tion of the belts to the rotation of the
planet, and developed, afler ten years'
careful watching, his faith in the
double character of its ring. " There
is not, perhaps," said this great and
sound astronomer, ^ another object in
the heavens that presents us wi^ such
a variety of extraordinary phenomena
as the planet Saturn: a magnificent
globe encompassed by a stupeadous
doubiering; attended by seven sat-
ellites; ornamented with equatorial
belts ; compressed at the poles ; turn-
ing on itc axb ; mutually .eclipsing its
rings and satellites, and bclipsed by
them; the most distant of the rings
also turning on its axis, and the same
taking place with the furthest of the
satellites; all the parts of the system
of Saturn occasionally reflecting light
to each othe]>— the rings and moons

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270

A Few SiOwmine OUervaHom.

illuminating the nights of the Satur-
nian, the globe and moons enlighten-
ing the dark parts of the rings, and
the planet and rings throwing back
the sun's beams upon the moons when
thej are deprived of them at the time
of their conjunctions.'' During the
present century, other observers
have detected more divisions of the
ring, one separating the outer ring
into two rlhgs of equal breadth seems
to be permanent It is to be seen
onlj by the best telescopes, under
the most favorable conditions. Many
other and lesser indications of division
have also at different times been ob-
served. Seventeen years ago an
eighth satellite of Saturn was discov-
ered by Mr. Bond in America, and by
Mr. LasscU in England. Two years
later, that is to say, in November,
eighteen My, a third ring of singular
appearance was discovered inside the
two others by Mr. Bond, and, a few
days later, but independently, by Mr.
Dawes and by Mr. Lassell in England.
It is not bright like the others, but
dusky, almost purple, and it is trans-
parent, not even distorting the outline
of the body of the planet seen through
it This ruig was very easily seen by
good telescopes, and presently became
visible through telescopes of only four-
inch aperture. In Herschel's time it
was so dim that it was figured as a
belt upon the body of the planet
Now it is not only distmct, but it has
been increasing in width since the
time of its discovery.

These were not all the marvels.
One of the chief of the wonders since
discovered was a faint overlapping
light, differing much in color from the
ordinary light of the rinpr, which light,
a year and a half ago, Mr. Wray saw
distinctly stretched on either side from
the dark shade on the ball overlap-
ping the fine line of light by the edge
of the ring to the extent of about one-
third of its lengtli, and so as to give
the impression that it was the dusky
ring, very much thicker than the
bright rings, and, seen edgewise, pro-
jected on the sky. Well may we be

told by our guide, Mr. Proctor, that
no object in the heavens presents so
beautiful an appearance as Saturn,
viewed with an instrument of ade-
quate power. The golden disc, faint-
ly striped with silver-tinted belts ; the
circling rings, with their various
shades of brilliancy and color; and
the perfect symmetry of the system
as it sweeps across the dark back-
ground of the field of view, combine
to form a picture as charming as it is
sublime and impressive.

But what does it all mean ? What
is the use of this strange furniture in
the House of Saturn, which is like
nothing else among the known things
of the universe? Maupertuis thought
that Saturn's ring was a comet's tail
cut ofi^ by the attraction of die planet
as it passed, and compelled to circle
round it thenceforth and for ever.
Bufibn thought the ring was the equa-
torial region of the planet which had
been thrown off and lefl revolving
while the globe to whicli it had be-
longed conti*acted to its present size.
Other theories also went upon the
assumption tliat the rings are solid.
But if they are solid, how is it that
they exhibit traces of varying division
and reunion, and wliat arc we to think
of certain mottled or dusky stripes
concentric with the rings, which stripes,
appearing, to indicate that tlic ring
where they occur is ftemi-transpar-
ent, also are not permanent ? Then,
again, what are we to think of the
growth witliin the last seventy years
of the transparent dark ring which
does not, as even air would, refract
the image of that which is seen
through it, and that is becoming more
opaque every year? Then, again,
how is it that the immense width of
the rings has been steadily increasing
by the approach of their inner edge
to the body of the planet? The
bright ring, once twenty-three thousand
miles wide, was five thousand miles
wider in Herschel's time, and has now
a width of twenty-eight thousand
tlu-ee hundred on a surface of* more
than twelve thousand millions of

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A Few' Saturnine Obeervatums.

271

square miles, whUe the thickness is
onlj a hundred miles or less. Eight
jeans ago, Mr. J. Clerk Maxwell ob-
tained the Adams prize of the Uni-
versity of Cambridge for an essay
upon Satam's rings, which showed
that if they were solid there would be
necessary to stalulity an appearance
altogether different from that of the
actual system* But if not solid, are
they fluid, are they a great isolated
ocean poised in the Satumian mid
air ? If there were such an ocean, it
18 shown that it would be exposed to
influences forming waves that would
be broken up into fluid satellites.

But possibly the rings are formed
of flights of disconnected satellites, so
small and so dosely packed that, at
the immense distance to which Saturn
is removed, they a^^pear to form a
continuous mass, while the dark inner
mass may have been recently formed
of satellites drawn by disturbing at-
tractions or collisions out of the bright
outer ring, and so thinly scattered that
they give to us only a sense of dark-
ness without obscuring, and of course
without refractlDg, the surface before
which they spin. This is, in our
guide's opinion, the true solution of
the problem, and to the bulging of
Saturn's equator, which determines
the line of superior attraction, he as-
cribes the thinness of the system of
satellites, in which each is compelled
to taravel near the plane of the great
planet's equator.

Whatever be the truth about these
vast provisions for the wants of Sat-
urn, surely there must be living in-
habitants there to whose needs they
are wisely adapted. Travel among
the other planets would have its in-
conveniences to us of the earth.
Light walking as it might be across
the fields of ether, we should have
half our weight given to us again in

Mars or Mercury, while in Jupiter our
weight would be doubled, and we
should drag our limbs with pain. In
Saturn, owing to the compression of
the vast light globe and its rapid rota-
tion, a man who weighs twelve stone
at the equator we^hs fourteen stone
at the pole. Though vast in size, the
density of the planet is small, for
which reason «we should not find our-
selves very much heavier by change
of ground from earth to Saturn. We
should be cold, for Saturn gets only a
ninetieth part of the earth's allowance
of light and heat. But then there is
no lack of blanket in the House of
Saturn, for there is a thick atmosphere
to keep the warmth in the old gentle-
man's body and to lengthen the Sat-
umian twilights. As for the abate-
ment of light, we know how much
light yet remains to us when less than
a ninetieth part of the sun escapes
eclipse. We see in its brightness, as
a star, though a pale one, the reflec-
tion of the sunshine Saturn gets,
which if but a ninetieth part of our
share, yet leaves the sun of Saturn
able to give &ve hundred and sixty
times more light than our own bright-
est moonshine. And then what long
summers ! The day in Saturn is only
ten and a half hours long, so that the
nights are short, and there are twenty-
four thousand six hundred and eight-
een and a half of its own days to the
Satumian year. But the long win-
ters ! And the Satumian winter has
its gloom increased by eclipses of the
sun's light by the rings. At Saturn's
equator these eclipses occur near the
equinoxes and last but a little while,
but in the regions corresponding to our
temperate zone they are of long du-
ration. Apart frooi eclipse, the rings
lighten for Saturn the short summer
nights, and lie perhaps as a halo under
the sun during the short winter days.

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272

SKpf of Ab JRm.

Fhm CbMkbera^a Jonnud.
SLIPS OF THE PEN.

When Mrs. Caxtoa innocentlj
made her wiser-half the &ther of an
anachroiiism, that worthy scholar was
much troubled in consequence. His
ftDacfaronism was a living one, or he
might have comforted himself by re-
flecting that greater authors than he
had stood in the same paternal prt^dic-
ament. Our old English dramatists
took tremendous liberties this way,
nerer allowing considerations of time
and place to stand in the way of any
allusion likely to tell with their audi-
ence. Shakespeare would have been
slow to appreciate a modem mana-
ger's anxiety for archaeological fidelity.
His Greeks and Romans talk about
cannons and pistols, and his Italian
clowns are thorough cockneys, famil-
iar with every nook and corner of
London. And so it is with other ca*
terers for the stage. Nat Lee talks
about cards in his tragedy of " Hanni-
bal f Otway makes Spartan notables
carouse and drink deep; Mrs. Cow-
ley's Lacedaemonian king speaks of
the niffhea still Sabbath; D'Urfey's
ancient Britons are familiar with Pu-
ritans and packet-boats; and Rymer
(though he set himself up for a critic)
supplies a stage direction for the rep-
resentative of his Saxon heroine to
pull off her patches, when her lover
desires her to lay aside her orna-
ments.

When Colman read "Inkle and
Yarico " to Dr. Moseley, the latter ex-
claimed : « It won't do. Stuff 1 Non-
sense ! "— « Why ? " asked the alarm-
ed drainatist.— ->" Why, you say in the
finale:

* Come let ne dance and aine.
While all Barbadoea* beUa ahall rin^ I'

cusable enough ; but when Milton de-
scribed

" A green mantling Tine,
That crawlB along the aide of yon small hlU,^*

he must certainly have forgotten he
had laid the scene of *^ Comas " in
North Wales. Ernest Jones, d^
scribing a battle in his poem, ^ The
Lost Army," says :

** Delay and doubt did more that hoar
Than bayonet-charge or carnage shower ;**

and some lines further on pictures his
hero

" All worn with wonndf , when day was low.
With severed sword and shattered shield ;**

thus making his battle rather a trial
of the respective powers of ancient
and modern weapons than a conflict
between equally-armed foes. Mr.
Thackeray perpetrates a nice little an-
achronism in " The Newcomes," when
he makes Clive, in a letter dated 183-,
quoting an Academy exhibition cri-
tique, ask : " Why have we no picture
of the sovereign and her august con-
sort from Smee's brush ?*' — ^the author,
in his anxiety to compliment the artist,
forgetting that there was no consort
till 1840.

A bull in a china-shop is scarcelj
more out of place than a bull in a se-
rious poem, but accidents will happen
to the most regular of writers. Thus
Milton's pen slipped when he wrote :

*' The sea-girt ialea
That like to rich and various gem^ inlof
The unadorned bosom of the deep ;'*

a quotation reminding us that the fiir
Torite citation,

** Beanty when unadorned, adorned the most, '
It won't do; there is but one bell in
th^ island I" This mistake was ex- is but a splendid bull, beautiful for ita

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8fyi (fikel^.

•273

boldness. Thomson was an adept at - . "How mm, ye heavent i grow you

«. ▲i^ 1. 11 1 • A. So proQd, that yon mast needs pat on curled locks.

making pretty bulls ; here is another : auS <siothe younetf in periwige of are r

Nearlj equalled in abaurditj bj this
from Nat Lee's << (Edipus :**

^ He SAW her cbarmls^, but be saw not balC
The chamu her dowuc&at modesty concealed ;"

as tf it were possible to see some of
them, although thej were concealed.
Pope, correet Pope, actually tell us :

M Young Mars in hie boundless mind.
A work V ouUaet immortal Rome designed.*'

The author of ""The Spanish
Rogue'' makes **9l sSleat noise" in-
yade the ear of his hero. General
Tajlor immortalized himself bj per-
petrating one of the grandest balis on
record, in which he attained what a cer-
tain literarjr professor caMs ^a peffec"
tioH hardly to be surpassed." In his
presidential address he announced to
the American Congress that the United
States were at peace with all the worldj
and continued to dierlsh relations of am-
ity with the rest of mankind. Much
simpler was the blunder of an EngUsh
officer, during the Indian mutiny, who
informed thcT public, through the
TimeMy that, thanks to the prompt
measures of Colonel Edwardes, the
Sepoys at Fort Machison ^ were all
unarmed and taken aback, and, being
called upon, laid down their arms."
There was nothing very astonishing
in an Irish newspaper stating that
Robespierre ^ left no children behind
him, except a brother, who was killed
at the same time ;" but it was startling
to have an English journal assure us
that her majesty Queen Victoria was
''the last person to wear another
maiCt crown."

A single ill<-chosen word often suf-
fices, by the suggestion of incongru-
ous ideas, to render what should be
sublime utterly ridiculous. One can
hardly believe that a poet like Dry-
deu could write :

■^My floul it packing up, tad luat on wis|(,"

Snch a line would have come with
better grace from the author of ** The
Courageous Turk," a play containing
the following curious passage :

VOL, XL 18

"Sach trembling ghoet shall rise.
And leaTe their grUly k&g without a waiter.**

When the news of Captain Cook's
death at Owhyhee came to England,
the poetasters, of course, hastened to
improve the occasion, and one of the
results of their enthusiasm was a
monody commencing :

" Minerva in hearen disconsolate mourned
The lose of her Cook ;**

an opening sufficient to upset the grav-
ity of the great navigatoi^s dearest
friend.

Addison lays it down as a maxim,
that when a nation abounds in physi-
cians it grows thin of people. Filli-
buster Heaninpen seems to have
agreed with the essayist, or he would
hardly have informed Greneral Walk-
er, in one of his dispatches, that
.^ Doctors Rice and Wolfe died of the
cholera, and Dr. Lindley sickened,
after which the heakh of the camp vis-
ibiy imprwedJ* Intentionally or not,
the stout-hearted soldier suggests that
the best way of getting rid of the
cholera is to make short work of the
doctors. Among the obituary notices
in a weekly paper, not many months
ago, there appeared the name of a
certain publican, with the following
eulogium appended to it: ^'He was
greatly esteemed for his strict probity
and steady conduct through life, he
having been a subscriber to the ' Sun-
day Times' from its first number."
This is a worthy pehdant to Miss
Hawkins's story of the undertaker
writing to the corporation of London,
" I am desired to inform the Court of
Aldermen, Mr. Aklcrman Gill died
last night, by order of Mrs. Gill f
and not far short, in point of absurd-
ity, is Madame Tussand's announce-
ment of the exhibition of the ^^^
of the notorious Palmer, <'who was
executed at Stafford with two hun-

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274

Saints ofAe Dueri.

dred other celebrities*^ The modem
fashion of naming florists' flowers
must be held responsible for the very
dubious paragraph we extract from a
gardening paper: ^Mrs. Legge will
be looked af^er; she may not be so
certain as some, but she was neyer-
theless very fine in the earlj part of
the season. Lady Popham is useful,
one of the old-fashioned build, not
quite round in the outline, but makes
up well.'*

Thackeray seems to have had an
intense dislike to the trouble of revi-
sion, for his popular works, especially
those published periodically, abound
in trivial mistakes, arising from haste,
forgetfulness, and want of care. The
novelist mortally wounds an old lady
with a candle instead of a candlestick,
and afterwards attributes her death to
a stone staircase. Newcome senior is
colonel and major at one and the same
time; Jack Belsize is Jack on one
page and Charles on another; Mrs.
Raymond Gray, introduced as Emily,
is suddenly rechristencd Fanny ; and
Philip Permor on one occasion be-
comes transformed into the author^s
old hero, Clire. With respect to the
Iast*mentioned gentleman, author and

artist seem to have differed, for while
Mr. Thackeray jc^ta about Clive's
beautiful whiskers and handsome
moustaches, Mr. Doyle persists to the
end in denying young Newcome's
possession of those tokens of mao-
hood.

It is not often that an author b sa-
tirical upon his own productions ; but
Charles Dickens has contrived to be
so. Describing the old inns of the
Borough, in his "Pickwick Papers,"
he says they are queer places, widi
galleries, passages, and staircases wide
enough and antiquated enough "to
iumish materials for a hundred ghost-
stories, 8uppo$ing we should ever he
reduced to the lamentaUe necessity of
inventing any." How little could Box
have anticipated certain charming
Christmas books witching the world a
few years later ! So, also, " American
Notes,'' Mr. Jefferson Brick, and the
transatlantic Eden lay unsuspected in
the future, when he made Old Wellor
suggest Mr. Pickwick's absconding to
America till Dodson & Fngg were
hung, and then returning to his native
land and writing "a book about the
'Merrikens as 'ill pay all his expenses
and more, if he blows 'em up enough I"

From The Month.

SAINTS OF THE DESEBT.

BY THB BBV. J. H. KEWHAN, D.D.

1. Abbot Antony said: The days are coming when men will go mad;
and, when they meet a man who has kept his senses, they will rise up against
him, saying, ^ You are mad, because you are not like us."

2. While Arsenius was still employed in the imperial court, he asked of
God to lead him in the way by which he might be saved.

Then a voice came to him : ^' Arsenius, flee the company of men, and thou
art in that saving way."

8. Abbot Agatbo said : Unless a man begin with the observance of the Pre*
cepts, he will not make progress in any one virtue.

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SatnH of the De$erL 275

4. Abbot Amtaaonas said: Sucb be thj thougbt as tbat of malefactors in
prison. For tbej are ever asking, ^Wbere is the judge? and ^hen is he
ooming 7^ and thej bewail themselves at the prospect

5. Holy Epiphanins said : To sinners who repent God remits even the prin-
dpal ; bat from the jast he exacts interest.

6. Abbot Sjlvanus had an ecstacj : and, coming to himself, he wept bitterlj.
^ What is it, mj father?*' said a novice to him*

He made answer : Because I was carried up to the judgment, Omj son, and
I saw many of our kind going off to punishment, and manj a secular passing'
into the kingdom.

7. An old man said : If you see a youngster mounting up to heaven at
his own will, catch him bj the foot, and fling him to the earth; for such a
flight doth not profit,

8* Abbot Antony fell on ^ tune into weariness andigloom of. spirit ; and he
eried out, ''Lord, I wish to be saved ; but my searchmgs of mind wiU not let

And, looking round, he saw some one like himself, sitting and working, then
rimng and praying, then sitting and rope-making again. And he heard the
•ngel say : ^ Work and pray ; pray and work ; and thou shalt be sav^.**

9« Arsenius, when he was now in solitude, prayed as before.* ''Lord, lead
me along, the way of salvation." And again he heard a voice, which said :
*^ Flight, silence, quiet ; these are the three sources of sinlessness."

10. " Which of all our duties,** asked the brethren, " is the greatest labor ?*
Aggtho answered : " Prayer ; for as soon as we begin, the devils try to stop us,
since it is their great enemy. Rest comes afler every other toil, but prayer is
a struggle up to the last breath."

11. Abbot Theodore said: "Other virtue there is none like this, to make
naught of no one."

12. Abbot Sylvanus said : " Woe to the man whose reputation is greater
than his work."

18« Holy Epiphanius said: " A great safeguard agamst sin is the reading of
the Scriptures ; and it is a precipice and deep gulf to be ignorant of the Scrip-
tures."

14. Once a monk was told, "Thy father is dead." He answered: "Blaspheme
nol ; my Father is immortal."

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276

IfifCtfCony

MISCELLANY.

7^ D&ad iS^— The level of the
Dead Sea is at last finally settled by
the party of Royal Eagineers, under
Captain Wilson, who were sent by the
Ordance Survey for the purpose of sir-
veying Jerusalem and levelling the
* Dead Sea. The results of the survey
are being prepared for publication.
The levelling from the Mediterranean
to the Dead Sea was performed with
the greatest possible accuracy. The
depression of the surface of the Dead
Sea on the 12th of March, 1865, was
found to be 1,293 feet, but from the
line of drift-wood observed alon^ the
border of the Dead Sea it was found
that the level of the water at some pe-
riods of the year stands two feet six
inches higher, which would make the
least depression 1,289*5 feet. Captain
Wilson also learnt from inquiry among
the Bedouins, and from European resi-
dents in Palestine, that during the early
summer the level of the Dead Sea is
lower by at least six feet ; this would
make the greatest depression to be as
near as possible 1,298 feet Most of the
previous observations for determining
the relative level of the two seas gave
most discordant results. The Dead
Sea was found by one to be 710 feet
above the level of the Mediterranean,
by another to be on the same level, by
another to be 710 feet lower, and by
another to be 1,446 feet lower ; but the
most recent before that now p;iven, by
the Due de Luynes and Lieutenant
Vignes of the French navy, agrees with
the present result in a very remarkable
manner.

Elozoon in Irdamd, — ^The fossil Rhizo-
pod is not confined to Uie Canadian
rocks. Mr. W. A. Sanford has discov-
ered Eozoon in the green marble rocks
of Connemara in Ireland. His asser-
tion that it is to be found in these de-
Sosits at first excited ver^ grave
oubts as to the accuracy of his ob-
servations. Since his first announce-
ment of the discovery, his specimens
have been examined by the distinguish-
ed co-editor of the ** Geological Ma^a-
Bine" (Mr. H. Woodward), and this
gentleman fully confirms Mr. Sanford^s
opinion. In the specimens prepared

from Connemara marble, ^< the various-
formed chambet^B — ^thc shell of varying
thickness — either very thin, and ^-
versed by fine tubuli, the silicate filling
which resembles white velvet-pile, or
thick, and traversed by brush-like
threads, are both present. Although
the specimens were not so carefully
prepared as those mounted for Dr. Car-
penter, still the structure was so plainly
perceptible as to render the dit^osia
mcontrovertible."

The MtnU Cmia Tunnd.— The follow-
ing particulars of the state of the works
at Mont Cenis will be read with inter-
est. We owe them to a recent report
of M. Sommeiller, the engineer in
charge. The length of the tunnel from
Bardonndche to Modena is 12,220 me-
tres, and, at the end of 1804, 2,322
metres had been pierced on the Bar-
donnfiche side, whilst the work had ad-
vanced 1,763 metres from the Modena
end, making in all 4,085 metres— nearly
a third of the whole distance. From
the 1st of January to the 10th of June
of the present year the progress of the
work has been considerably augmented,
upwards of 654 metres having been ac-
complished. The excavation is now,
however, retarded by a mass cf gran-
ite, which lessens the work of the ma-
chinery by one-third. The presence of
this impediment was almost exactly
predicted by MM. Elie de Beaumont
and Sismonda, who stated, as a result
of their survey, that granitic rocks
would be met with at a distance of
1,500 or 2,000 metres from the mouth
of the tunnel on the Italian side.

lAgkUiing, — ^M. Boudin has recently
laid before the Academy of Sciences a
return of the deaths which have been
caused by the action of lightning in
France during the period 1835-63.
During these thirty years 2,238 persons
were struck dead. Among 880 victims
during 1854-63, there were but 248 of
the female sex; and in several instances
the lightning, falling amon^ groups of
persons of both sexes, especially struck
those of the male sex, and more or less
spared the females. In a great number of
cases flocks of more than 100 animals^

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MiscdUmy^

277

catUe, bogs, or shcop, have been killed,
wbile tbe sbepberds or herdsmen in
tbeir midst have remained uninjured.
In 1833, of 34 persons killed in the
fields, 15, or nearly half, were struck
under trees ; and oi 167 killed between
1841^3, 21 had taken shelter uAder
trees. Reckoning, then, at only 25 per
cent, the proportion struck under trees,
we find that of 6,714 struck in France
nearly 1,700 might have escaped the
accidents which occurred to them by
avoiding trees during storms.

More about ike JSTde. — ^Another source
of the Nile has been discovered by the
adventurous Mr. Baker, whose name has
been frequently mentioned of late
Among i^eographers. But this so-called
source is a lake only, the Luta Nzige,
about two hundred and sixty miles
Ion«^, and of proportionate breadth,
which lies between the lake discovered
by Captain Speke and the heretofore
explored course of the Nile. Tbe sreat
river flows from one to the other, Knrm-
ing on the way the Karuma waterfall,
one hundred and twenty feet in height,
in which particular it represents the
Niagara Fall between lakes Erie and
Ontario. But it sterns right to remark
that the true source of the Nile has not
yet been discovered, and that it must
be looked for at the head of one of the
streams which flow into the upper lake
— ^the Victoria Nyanza of Speke. That
the two lakes are reservoirs which keep
the Nile always flowing, may be ac-
cepted as fact ; but to describe them as
sources is a misuse of terms. If lyt.
livingstone, in his new exploration,
should get into the hill-country above
the Victoria Nyanza, we might hope to
hear that the real source, the fountain-
head, of the Nile had been discovered.
It is worthy of remark that these lakes
of the Nile are laid down and describ-
ed in old books on the geography of Af-
rica. Ptolemy mentions them; and
they are represented in some of the
oldest Arabian and Portuguese maps.
It is well known to scholar^ that the
Emperor Nero sent two officers expressly
to search for the head of the Nile. '' I
myself^'' vnrites Seneca, " have heard the
two centurions narrate that after they
had accomplished a long journey, being
furnished with assistance by the king
of Bthiopia, and being recommended
by him to the neighboring kings, they
penetrated into far distant regions, and

came to immense lakes, the termination
of which neither the inhabitants knew
nor could any one hope to do so, be-
cause aquatic plants were so densely
interwoven in the waters." This de
scription holds good to the present
day; and it is thought that certain
rocks seen by the centurions mark the
site of the Karuma Falls. Mr. Baker
describes his voyage down the Luta
Nzige as ^^ extremely beautiful, the
mountains frequently rising abruptly
from the water, while nunierous cata-
racts rush down their furrowed sides.

The water is deep, sweet,

and transparent," and, except at the out-
let of the river, the shores are free from
reeds. " Mallegga, on the west coast of
the lake, is a large and powerful coun-
try, governed by a king named Kajoro,
who possesses boats sufficiently large
to cross the lake." *•*■ About ten miles
from the junction," he writes, " the chan-
nel contracted to about two hundred
and fifty yards in width, with little
perceptible stream, very deep, and
banked as usual with high reeds, the
country on either side undulating and
wooded. At about twenty miles from
Magungo, my voyage suddenly termi-
nated; a stupendous waterfall, of
about one hundred and twenty feet per-
pendicular height, stopped all further
progress. Above the great fall, the
river is suddenly confined between
rocky hills, and it races through a gap,
contracted from a grand stream of per-
haps two hundred yards width to a
channel not exceeding fifty yards.
Through this gap it nmes with amaz-
ing rapidity, and plunges at one leap
into a deep basin below."

The Burning WeU at Broaeley, — ^Mr.
John Randall, F.G.8., writes to the
^^ Geological Magazine" anent this ex-
tinct petroleum spring. The so-called
burning well has ceased to exist for
nearly a century. It was fed by a
spring, and petroleum and naphtha also
found their way from rents in the rock
into the water of the well. Springs of
petroleum on a much larger scale are
met with in the neighborhood, and the
yield of them was formerly much

greater than at present. Many hogs-
eads from one oi these were exported
some years ago under the name of
"Bettou's British Oil," The rocks
were tapped by driving a level through
one of the sandstone rocks of the coal

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278

Mucdlany,

measures; but these are now drained;
and very little is found to flow from
them.

The Origin of tha 8aU inthsDead Sea,
— One of our most distinguished explo-
rers of the Holy Land attributes the in-
tensely saline character of the Dead
Sea to the hill of Jebell Usdum. This
is a huge ridge of salt, about a mile
wide, and running N.E. and S.W. for a
distance of three miles and a half, then
due N. and S. for four miles further.
It is situated near the southern extrem-
ity of the Dead Sea, and renders that
portion of it much more salt than the
northern portion. Further, Mr. Tris-
tram thinks that it is the proximate
cause of the saltness of the Dead Sea,
the drainage to which has been dissolv-
ing away portions of salt, and carrying
it to the Dead Sea, ever since the eleva-
tion of the ridge of Akabah separated
the latter from the Red Sea, or since
the desiccation of the ocean, which ex-
isted to the Eocene period, presuming
(which seems most probable) that the
fissures of the Ghor were of submarine
origin, and that the valley itself was
during the Tertiary period the north-
ernmost of a series of African lakes, of
which the Red Sea was the next. — Geo-
logical Magazine.

Iron Implementi in Orannogues, — ^In a
letter addressed to the London Header^
by Mr. George Henry Kinahan, some
important points relative to the an-
tiquity of iron, and the necessity for
seeking for traces of this metal, havo
been dwelt upon. Whila investigating
one of the largest crannogues or artifi-
cial islands in Loughrea, County Gal-
way, Ireland, he found only stone im-
plements, with the exception of a rude
knife, which appeared to be of some
sort of bronze. Bat he observed facts
which woujd seem to indicate that iron
implements had been in use among the
inhabitants of the crannogues. These
fiicts are as follows : 1st, AH the stakes
that were drawn had been pointed by
a sharp cutting instrument, as were evi-
denced by the clean cuts. 2d, Pieces
of deer's horn that were found had
been divided by a very fine saw, as was
proved by the absence of marks of
graining on the surface of the sections.
Bd, On some of the bones there were
farrows, evidently made by sharpen-
ing fish-hooks or some pointed imple-

ment on them. 4th^ In varioas places
nests of peroxide of iron were observed^
as if an iron instrument had once been
there, but had been corroded away in
course of time. Mr. Kinahan draws
particular attention to the circumstan-
ces that '* few metals corrode as fast as
iron, and that, while stone and bronze
would last for ages, iron would disap-
pear, owing to corrosion, in a compara-
tively short space of time."

The Gibraltar Cave FosiOs.—liT.
Busk in his paper on this subject says :
The rock in which the caverns of Gib-
raltar were found is limestone, and ex-
tends for about three miles from north
to south, at an elevation varying from
1,400 to 1,200 feet. It is geologically
divided into three nearly equal portions
by cleavages which separate the higher
parts of the rock on the north and
south from the central and lower part
At the southern face of the rock there
is comparatively low ground, the Wind-
mill Hill being about 400 feet above
the level of the sea; but the strata
there are inclined in an opposite direc-
tion to the great mass of what is term-
ed the ** Rock of Gibraltar." In the
Windmill rock the tcavems have been
found, and in these latter a great quan-
tity of bones was discovered. The
bones, which were mingled with pot-
tery, fiint implements, and charcoal,
appear to have been deposited at diflTer-
cnt periods, and were found at various
depths, the lowest being fourteen feet
below the floor of the cavern. Those
in the lowest layer consisted of the
bones of mammals, several of which
were of extinct species. They were
imbedded in ferragtnous earth partially
fossilized, and were covered with sta-
lagmite — no human bones were with
them. Above this layer were depos-
ited the remains of about thirty human
skeletons, with fragments of pottery,
fiint implements, particles of charcoal,
and a bronze fishing-hook. Some of
the pottery had been turned in a lathe,
and bore evidence of classic art In
another cavern, discovered under the
foundation of the military prison, the
remains of two isolated skeletons were
also found. Only one skull had been
discovered there, and that had been
sent to Mr. Busk, who remarked that
the lower jaw transmitted with the cra-
nium did not belong to it, showing
that there must have been another aknfi

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279

in the caTem, ihough no traco of it bad
been found. There was nothing in the
form of the skull to distinguish it from
the ordinary European type; but the
bones of the leff were remarkably com-

Sressed; for wnich appearance it was
ifficult to account. Since Mr. Busk^s
attention had been dltiwn to this char-
acter, he had observed a similar com-
pression in the le^-bones of other hu-
man skeletons wmch were known to
be of great antiquity. Whether this
conformation was to be regarded as a
race-character, or was produced by
special occupation or habit, Mr. Busk
would not venture an opinion upon. —
Sifcial Science Review,

Sun's Photosphere, — ^Prom a strict ex-
amination of the sun-pictures obtained
at Kcw, near* London, and from Mr.
Carrington's maps, Mr. De la Rue and
assistants hare arrived at the conclu-
sion that the sun-spots are cavernous,
and lie below the general level of the
luminous surface, whilst, on the con-
trary, the Taculte are elevated above the
latter. The reason that the faculsB
appear brighter is, that on account of
their height above the solar surface,
they are less dimmed by passing through
its atmosphere. They further conclude
that the sun^s luminous surface is of the
nature of cloud, and that the spots are
influenced by the planet Venus. They
find that the faculao retain nearly the
iame appearance for days together,
and consider them to be small particles
of solid or liquid matter in suspension,
tnd composed of the same cloudy mat-
ter as the luminous surfiEU^e of the sun.
They notice that in the majority of
cases the faculs appear to the left of
tile spots, as if they had been abstracted
from them, and, rising to a greater ele-
vation where the velocity of rota-
tion is greater, are consequently left be-
hind. They remark that all the spots
which are seen on the solar surface
about the same time show a resemblance
to each other ; for instance, if one spot in-
creases to the central line or past it, an-
other will do the same ; if one spot di-
minishes from its first appearance, an-
other will do the same; if one spot
breaks out on the right half; another
will do the same. It appears from Mr.
Carrington*s and all the Kew pictures,
that the influence of Venus is exerted
in such a manner that as the spots ap-
proach the neighborhood of thia planet

by rotation tiiey decrease ; but as the
solar surface passes away in the same
manner, this influence causes it to
break out into spots on the opposite
side. The question is also proposed,
whether the falling behind of the facu-
Ise may not be the physical reaction of
the motion of the spots detected by Mr.
Carrington, the current passing upward
and carrying the luminous matter fall
ing behind, whilst the current coming
down from a colder region moves for-
ward, carrying the spot with it, and ac-
counting for its deficient luminosity. —
Social Sienee Beciew.

The Aretie .ExpedUUm,^The Open Po-
lar Sea again. — ^Last month we publish-
ed an extract in which it was stated af
the belief of the writet that there was
an open Arctic sea. Here is another
opinion which we find in the London
Reader of a late date: "We have re-
ceived from the Royal Swedish Acade-
my of Sciences a map of Spitzbergen,
with explanatory remarks in illustra-
tion (by N. Duner and A. E. Kordens-
ki^ld). This beautiful mai> is the re-
sult of the two last expeditions under-
taken to explore that group of islands.
It is based upon astronomical observa-
tions, made at about eighty different
places on the shores of Spitzbergen,
with prism-circles by Pistor and Mar-
tins, mercury horizons and good chron-
ometers by Frodsham and Vessels. The
observations were calculated by Profes-
sors D. G. Lindha^en and Duner. The
latitude and longitude of seventy-nine
different points are given — ^the longitude
of Sabine's Observatory, determined as
11* 40' 80", bein^ taken as the starting
point of the longitudes. The value of
such a map is at once apparent. All
the highest mountains were ascended
during the expedition, and the height
of twenty-eight peaks is given; the
highest being Lindstrdm's Mount of
8,800 English feet. The permanent
snow-line commences at about 1,500
feet. The whole interior country forms
an even ice plateau, here and there in-
terrupted by rocks. There are many
good harbors, and on this map the
places are marked where the explorers
anchored. Fish, fowl, and reindeer are
to be met with in great numbers. We
quote from the memoir as bearing upon
one of the most interesting questions of
the day. * During the last years the
idea has been vindicated that the Polar

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S80

ifteeOcmy.

bana is compoaed of an open sea, only
here and there covered with drift ice.
The learned geographer, Dr. Peter-
mann, has even asserted that it would
be as easv to sail from Amsterdam
Island (70^ AT) to the Pole, as from
Tromsd to Amsterdam Island. This
view is in itself so contrary to all ex-
perience that it scarcely merits refuta-
tion, but as different prominent Eng-
lish Arctic navigators seem inclined to
adopt tiie same view, in spite of the
experience gained by their own nu-
merous Arctic expeditions, we will
here give some of the most important
reasons against this supposition. All
who for a long penod have navi-

gated the northern seas, whalers and
pitzbeigen hunters, have come to
the conolu^on thAt the Polar basin is
so completely filled with ice that one
cannot advance with vessels, and all
the atteilnpta that have been made to
proceed toward the north have been
quite without success. Passing by
older voyagers, Torell and Nordens-
kidld ascended, during the expedi-
tion in 1861, on the 23d of July, a
high top on Northeast Land, Sn&top-
pen (80^ 08' L.), without being able,
from that, height, to see trace of open
water to the north of the Seven Isl-
ands. A few days latei', when the ice
between Northeast Land and the
Seven Islands was separated a little,
they could push forward as far as to
Pany's Island, though they, even from
the highest tops on these islands
(1,900 ieet, SO" 40' L.), could see noth-
ing but ice northward. From the
top of White mountain, at the bottom
of Wyde JtaiB Water (3,000 feet), we
could, on the 22d of August, 1864,
not see anything but ice between
Giles Land and Spitsbergen. Some

vessels that had the same year at-
tempted to sail round Northeast Land
were shut up by ice, and had to be
abandoned by their crews. Before
leaving the ships, an attempt was
made to sail north,-* in order to return
this way to Amsterdam Island, but
they were soon met by impenetrable
fields of ice. Notwithstanding a high
prize has been offered for the reaching
of high degrees of latitude, none of
the whalers, who else sail boldly
wherever the hope of gain allures
them, have considered it possible to
win this prize. We have had oppor-
tunities of speaking to most of the mas-
ters of vessels sailing to Sjpitzbergen.
All experience hitherto acquired seems
thus to prove that the Polar basin, when
not covered with compact, unbroken
ice, ia filled with closely-packed, unnav-
igable drift-ice, in which, during cer-
tain very &vorable years, some larger
apertures may be formed, which aper-
tures, however, do not extend very far
to the north. Older narratives^ by
Dutch whalers, who are said to have
reached SQ" or 87% nay, even 89i% must
therefore be received with the greatest
diifidence, if not looked upon as pure
fictions, and the prospect of being
able to advance with vessels from
Spitzbergen to the Pole is, no doubt,
extremely slight. It tooitld he particu-
lady unioUd to choose the spring for such
an attempt^ and the passage east of Spitz-
hergen. At that time and hy that pa^
sage it would he diffumUj if not impossi-
hie, to reach even 78'' of latitude.
Whereas, on the west side, one can
every year depend on reaching the
80th degree of latitude, aud in favor-
able years it mi^ht be possible, ti»
September or October^ to sail even a
couple of degrees higher.* '*

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281

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

SiXTBEN BeYEXiATIONB OF DlYINS

LoYx. made to a devout servant of
our Lord, called Mother Juliana, an
ancborite of Norwich, who lived in
the days of King Edward the Third.
12mo., pp. 214. Boston : Tioknor A
Pields.

We Catholics of the United States
have good reason to congratulate our-
selves upon the appearance of this
work. The selection of such a work
for republication is proof of good judg-
ment m the Boston publishers, while
certainly nothing can be mgre elegant
and tasteful than the *^ getting up.*^

Mother Juliana lived in the city of
Norwich, England ; and, a^ we are noti-
fied by the &mous Father Cressy, who
first published and edited her " Revela-
tions,*' she wrote during the reign of
iklward the Third, and about three
yean before his death. She was an an-
choret or recluse, a religious woman
who, like St. Bees and many others in
England and elsewhere, lived alone,
shut up by herself, in contemplation
and prayer. It is to us a great mystery
that these ** Revelations," so excellent
in themselves, and edit-ed once by such
a man, should be so little known in our
day, and should owe their reproduction
once more in English literature to Pro-
testant curiosity and not to Catholic
jHcty. We know of nothing of the
same kind which can compare with
them. There is an odor of supernatu-
ral sweetness about them, and a depth
of contemplative thought, a freshness
moreover and originality, which has
never impressed us oefore when reading
books of revelations. Critical authors
have sometimes complained of works
of this nature that much in them of
what seems elevated or profound is evi-
dently derived, at second hand, from
the speculations of theologians, and
especially of the philosophical school-
men ; while other things, supposed to
have been seen in vision, are the repro-
duction of early histories, once popu-
lar, but proved to be apocryphal and
destitute of all authority. Nothing of
the kind can be said of these revela*
tions of Mother Juliana. They some-
times touch upon questions most pro-

found and difficult, but in the simplest
and most inartificial manner, and there
is not the slightest appearance of repro-
ducing what she had read elsewhere.
Every thought bears the stamp of orjg-
inality and freshness. All is drawn
from the same deep well of contempla-
tion. All comes from her own mind,
whether that mind be divinely illumin-
ated or not There is not the least sem-
blance of searching after what is won-
derful, or calculate to strike an undis-
ciplined and curious imagination. For
our own part, we cannot resist the im-
pression that the beautiful and holy
light which beams upon these pages is
a divine illumination, is something su-
pernatural. When we say mpernaeurai^
this does not necessarily infer anything
strictly miraculous, or revelation in the
highest sense of the word (supematur-
ally attested, as well as supematurally
given). We mean simply to say that
there is apparent a certain unction and
power of spiritual vision which betok-
ens an extraordinary gift of divine
love and light, to which her natural
power, unaided, could never reach. In
reading this book one is impressed in
the same way as when reading the Holy
Scriptures or Thomas d Eempis. There
is a natural beauty of style and
thought, but that is not all. There is
inspiration, too. It is like a far-reach-
ing landscape in a lair day, where the
distant hills are not fairly distinguisha-
ble from the sky, and the beauty oi
earth is mingled with the beauty ol
heaven.

We have room to give just one exam-
ple, which we select as showing, in a
ew lines, the general characteristics of
piety, sweetness, simplicity, and beauty
which everywhere pervade this little
book:

" Ee is our clothing, that for love wiap-
peth us, and windeth us, halseth us, and
all bedoeeth us, hangeth about us for ten-
der love, that he niaie never leave oa.
And so in this sight I saw that he is all ^
thing that is good, as to my understand-
ing.

" And in this he shewed a litle thing. '
the qoantltie of a hasel-nutt, lying in the
palme of my hand, as me seemed ; and it
was as found as a ball. I looked thereon

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282

2few PuHiccOiom,

with the eie of my undeTStanding, and
thought, • What may this be?* and it was
answered generallie thus.

"*It is all that 18 made.* I marvelled
how it might last: for methoaght it might
Bodenlie have fallen to nanght forlitleness.

" And I was answered in my nnder-
Btanding, * M kuUth andeverthaU: for
God loveth U, And %o hath all thing
being by the love of God.* **

Complete Works of the Most Ret.
John Hughes, D.D., Archbishop of
New York. Comprising his Ser-
mons, Letters, Lectures, Speeches,
etc. Carefully compiled from the
best sources, and edited by Lawrence
Kehoe. 2 yols. 8vo., pp. 608 and
810. New York: Lawrence Kehoe,
No. 7 Beekman street.

In opening these two capacious vol-
umes, one of the first things that
strikes us is the great number of ex-
cellent pieces from the pen of the late
Archbishop of New York which are
now entirely forgotten by the general
publ ic. There never was an author more
careless of his fame than Dr. Hughes.
He cast his writings upon the world,
and gave no thought to them after-
\rard. He was not even at the pains
of keeping single copies of his own
publications. So it has happened that
many of his best productions have not
only been long out of print, but have
never even been heard of except by a
few of the writer's special friends, or
sqme of our oldest and best read Cath-
olic citizens. We make no doubt that
the collection for which the Catholic
public is so much imlebt^d to the zeal
and indiifttry of Mr. Kehoe, will cause
cou3i<lcrable surprise among those who
supposed themselves to be well ac-
(^uninted with Archbishop Hughes's
literary label's. How many persons,
for instance, have ever heard or remem-
ber anything of a tract of some thirty
or forty pages called "An Answer
to Nine Olycctions," which Father
Hughes published when he ^fas first a
priest? Or of his controversies with
Dr. Delancey, the late Protestant Epis-
copal bishop of western New York,
and Dr. Onderdonk, P. £. bishop of
Pennsylvania ? Or of his letters on ** In-
fallibility," written while he was in
Philadelphia? Or his once famous
scries of letters on the " Importance of
being in Communion with the Catho-
lic Church?" And yet some of these

deserve to rank among the roost im-

gortant and valuable productions of
is pen. Our readers will find them all
in Mr. Kehoe's volumes, and many
other pioces with them which possess
a more than ordinary interest There
is a long letter here to the Leopoldine
Society of Vienna, in which Dr. UugheB
exposes in a very graphic and masterly
manner the condition of the Irish emi-
grants in this country: to the best of
our belief it has never been published
before. There is a touching and beau-
tiful narrative, extract^ from the An-
nals of the Propagation of the Faith
for 1840 of the conversion of the Dodge
Family in western New York. There
is a description of a storm at sea, writ-
ten during the bishop's voyage to Eu-
rope in 1889. And the second volume
closes with a " Christmas Vesper
Hymn,'' which has often been printed
before, and even set to music, but will
doubtless be new to many people.

"We have mentioned these portions of
Mr. Kehoe's collection, not only be-
cause they are less known than the arch-
bishop's great controversies; but be-
cause every true friend of the lamented
prelate's fame ought to desire them to
be far better known than they are.
Archbishop Hughes was one of the
kindest, tenderest-hearted men that
ever lived; and any one who should
judge him by the severe, caustic tone
of his letters to Breckinridge, for ex-
ample, or his speeches on the school
question, would gravely mistake his
cnaracter. Host of the pieces that we
have named, and some others as well,
show him in his true and most amiable
light

The first volume is occupied princi-
pally by the archbishop's various let-
ters and speeches on the School Ques-
tion ; his letters to David Hale, Mayor
Haiper, and Colonel Stone: Letters on
the Importance of being inSbmmunion
with the Catholic Church; Kirwan
Unmasked ; and a number of miscella-
neous lectures and sermons. The sec-
ond contains a number of letters, ser-
mons, etc., on the Temporal Power of
the Pope; various lectures; over
thirty miscellaneous sermons; the
Church Property Controversy with Sen-
ator Brooks and others; and a great
deal of miscellaneous matter, including
the archbishop^s speeches at banquets
etc., during his last visit to Enropc
Bishop Bayley^s admirable lecture on

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288

the Life and Times of Archbishop
Hughes is giTen in inll, by way of in-
trodnction to the second yolume.

Mr. Kehoe's collection is the most
important contribution to the history
of the Chnrch in the United States that
has been made for many a year. Arch-
bbhop Hughes not only played an im-
portant part in the ecclesiastical histo-
ty of his time and country, but he may
be said without much exa^^ration to
hare made that history. His writings
are d<»tined to hold a permanent place
in American Ca^olic literature by the
aide of those of Bishop England, while
from their subjects, as well as the com-
paratively cheap form in which they
are now presented to us, they will no
doubt be more popular than those of
the illustrious Bishop of Charleston.

Caps Cod. By Henry D. Thoreau.
Boston: Ticknor ^ Fields. 1865.
12mo., pp. 253.

This IS a readable book, notwith-
standing some of its critics have put it
down as ^^di^.^ The keen observa-
tions, and quaint remarks sprinkled all
over its pages, keep its reader in good
humor chapter after chapter until the
book is read. Thoreau's books are
healthy, and deserve to be read, espe-
cially by our young men.

This is true of the general tone of
his writings. Occasionally, however,
there is a slight vein of skepticism run-
ning throui^h them. But he has less of
this than his contemporaries. Thoreau
had deep religious feeling, but he
found no expression for it in the relig-
ious denominations around him. Had
he lived in the fifth century he would
have been a father of the desert. As
it is, he gives yon the natural side of
life and things exclusively, but with
fieshness and originality.

The sturdy integrity of the man, the
fixed determination of seeing life and
things with his own eyes, and his re-
solve to have his own say about them,
is what characterizes all his writings,
and what makes them valuable where
popalar opinion sways.

As a sample of his talent for descrip-
tion, read tue following pen-drawing of
a wrecker :

•• We soon met one of these wreckers,—
a r^alar Cape Cod man, with a bleached
and weather-beaten Ikce, within whose
wrinUai I dJstingnlahed no partieular fsa-

tore. It was like an old sail endowed with
life—a hanging cliff of weather-beaten flesh
— ^like one of the clay boulders which oc-
euned in that sand-bank. He had on a hat
which had seen salt water, and a coat oi
many pieces and colors* though it was
mainly the color of the beach, as if it had
been sanded. His variegated back — for
his coat had many patches, even between
the shoulders — was a rich stndv to us,
when we had passed him and looked
around. It might have been dishonorable
for him to have so many scars behind, it
is true, if he had not had many more, and
more serious ones, in front. He looked as
if he sometimes saw a donghnut, bat
never descended to comfort ; too grave to
laugh, too tough to cry ; as indifiSrent as
a clam, — like a sea^clam with hat on, and
legs, that was oat walking the strand.
He may have been one of the Pilgrims —
Peregrine White, at least — who has kept
on the back side of the Cape and let the
centuries go by. He was looking for wrecks,
old loffs, water-logged and covered with
bamados, or bits of boards and Joists —
even chips, which he drew out of reach of
the tides and stacked up to dry. Whm
the log was too large to carry feir, he cut
it up where the last wave had left it, or,
rolling it a few feet, apnropriated it by
sticking two sticks into tne ground cn^
wise altove it. Some rotten trunk, which
in Maine encumbers the ground, and is,
perchance, thrown into the water on pur-
pose, is hero thus carefully picked up, split
and dried, and husbanded. Before winter
the wrecker painfully carries these things
up the bank on his shoulders by a long
diagonal slanting path made with a hoQ
in the sand, if there is no hollow at hand.
You may see his hooked pike-staff always
lying on the bank, ready for use. He is
the true monarch of the beach, whose
' right there is none to dispute,' and he is
as much identified with it as a beaoh
bird."

The Stobt op the Great March.
From the Diary of a Staff Officer.
By Brevet Major George Ward Nich-
ols, Aid-de-camp to General Sherman.
With a Map and Illustrations. 12mo.,
pp. 394. New York : Harper Brot hers.

The advance of General Sherman,
with 70,000 men, through the heart of
the seceded states, will ever be mem-
orable in the annals of American his-
tory as the greatest achievement of
modem times. From the time of his
departure from Atlanta, Ga., until the
purpose on which he started was ao-
complished in the surrender of Gen.
Johnston, near Raleigh, N. 0., his move*

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284

Ntw PiMi&aiom,

ments attracted the attention, and call-
ed forth the criticism, of tmmilitary as
well as military men in Europe and
America. Many were the prophecies ut-
tered of his total failure, but the able
captain who conceiyed the plan and
to whose care it was intrusted, carried
the expedition successfully through.
Of this march most of our readers have
read more or less, in the daily papers.
These statements hare oftentimes been
Tery incorrect and vague, from the ex-
citement and hurry of the correspond-
ents in getting them up. The hand-
some yoTume before us, however, is a
clear and concise narrative of that great
march, noted down from day to day by
a member of General Shcrman^s staff.
The author in this sketch gives us a
true narrative of the entire march, and
account of the interview between Sher-
man and Johnston* His style is plain
and unaffected, but occasionally a little
inflated. This, however, is pardonable,
for he is very brief, and brevity, the poet
says, ^^ is the soul of wit.*' He wastes
but few words in ** saying his say,'' and
has evidently taken mucm pains in get-
ting his statements in as small space as
possible. The book is embellished with
a fine map of the march, and several
appropriate wood-cuts. It also con-
tains General Sherman's official reports
of the campaign, and statement before
the Congressional committee on the
conduct of the war — valuable docu-
ments in themselves. We copy the fol-
lowing extracts from the chapter per-
sonal to General Sherman :

" Late in the summer of 1864, 1 was re-
lieved fW)m detached service in the west,
and ordered to report to the general com-
manding the military divitfion of the Blia-
sissippl. I found General Sherman at At-
lanta, seated in the parlor of his headquar-
ters, surrounded by several of his generals,
and shall never forget the kindness with
which he received me when he heard that
I was a stranger in the western army ; he
said, " Very well ; I will retain you on my
staff.' The expression of gentleness, sym-
pathy, and consideration which accom-
panied this brief announcement, made an
impression upon me which will be folly un-
derstood by any officer who has had the
fortune to be suddenly ordered to a
strange and distant field of duty, where
anxiety and embarrassment awaited him.
The incident is introduced here because it
gives the key-note to a striking feature in
the character of General Sherman.

** A striking evidence of his sense of Jua-

tioe and his unselfishness may he seen In
his refusal to accept the commission of a
nugor-general in the regular army which
was offered him previous to the &U of
Atlanta. In his letter dedining the hon-
or, he said : ' These positions of so much
trust and honor should he held open till
the dose of the war. They should not be
hastily given. Important campaigns are
in operation. At the end, let those who
prove their capadtv in merit be the ones
appointed for these high honors/

" General Sherman's memory is marvel-
lous. The simplest incidents of friendly
intercourse, the details^of his campaigns,
dtations of events, dates, names, &ceB»
remain fresh in his mind. A soldier who
may have addressed him long years ago in
the swamps of Florida ; some heroic deed €A
an officer at Shiloh ; a ham or a hill-side
in Gheorsia ; a chance expression of your
own which you mav have forgotten ; mi-
nutest description of the plan of the cam-
paign ; whatever he has seen, heard, or
read, he remembers with astonishing ac-
curacy. Napoleon had a similar trait.

" He is also remarkably observant, espe-
cially of the conduct and character of the
officers of the army. He sees what many
persons suppose it is impossible for has
eye to reach. In an army of 70,000 men,
it might be reasonably imagined that the
commanding general is too far removed
from the great mass to know or be known
bv them ; but when it is remembered thai
Sherman has marched during this cam-
paign alternately with one and another
corps, it ceases to be a matter of surprise
that he is thoroughly acquainted with the
character of the different organizations
In truth, nothing escapes that vigilant and
pierduff eye, from the greatest to the mi-
nutest detail of the command.

" General Sherman is sodable in the best
sense of the word. When tlie responsi-
bilities of the hour are cast aside — and he
throws them off with the utmost £EunUty
— ^he enters into the spirit of a meiry-
making with all the zest and appredatioa
of the joliiest of the party. He has a
keen sense of wit and humor ; and not
unfrequently he is the centre and life of
the occasion. He converses freely, yet he
is reticent to the last degree, knowing how
to keep his own counsel, and never be-
traying his purpose. He is cautious and
often suspicious ; yet no man ever aociiaed
him of deceit or dishonesty either in wosd
or deed. His unmeasured scorn and ooa-
tempt are visited upon pretense, new phi-
lantnropy, arroganoe, self-conceit, or hoaat-
ing ; but he never CiilB to recognize aAd
pay a hearty tribute to unpretentiooa
merit, courage, capadtv. Christian manli-
ness and simplicity. He is not prodigal
of promises, but his word once given ia

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ncred as holy writ. General Sbennan is
terribly in earnest in his method of con-
ducting war, bat he is neither viadictive
nor implacable. He once said to a Metho-
dist preacher in Georgia who had. by voice
and example, helped to planfle the nation
into war : ' You, sir, and Buch as you, had
the power to resist this mad rebellion;
but you chose to strike down the best
government ever created, and for no good
reason whatsoever. You are suffering the
oonseqaenoe, and have no great reason to
complain/

*' let there is a depth of tenderness akin
to the love of woman ^behind that face,
which is farrowed with the lines of anx-
iety and care, and those eyes, which dzxt
keen and 6us{)iciou8 glances. Little cliil-
dren cling to the generaFs knees and nes-
tle in his arms with intuitive faith and af-
fection. During our sojourn in &ivannah
his headquarters and private room became
the play -ground of hosts of little ones,
upon whom the door was never closed no
matter what business was pending.

"General Sherman's integrity seemed to
pervade every trait in his character. His
intense dislike of the men who have been
inu^rested in the war only to make money
out of it, is well known. From the first
instant of the rebellion pecuniary consid-
erations were cast aside by the general,
and he has ^ven himself wholly to the
service of hfa country. He knows the
value of money, but he can say with hon-
orable pride tluit the atmosphere of integ-
rity and honesty about him withers and
destroys the lust of gain. Not even the
taint of suspicion in this regard has ever
been cast upon him nor upon the officers
\ with him.

^on. General Sherman is nearly
iheight. with a wirv, muscular,
and dRflftorraceftd frame. His age is only
forty-seven years, but his face is furrowed
with ^ep lines, mdicating care and pro-
fbundlwpught. With surprising rapidity,
howevl^ these strong lines disappear
when he talks with children and women.
His eyes are of a dark brown color, and
sharp and quick in expression. His fore-
head is broad and £&ir, sloping gently at
the top of the head, which is covered with
thick and light brown hair, closely trim-
med. His beard and moustache, of a
sandy hue, are also closely cut. His con-
stitution is iron. Exposure to cold, rain,
or burning heat seems to produce no ^ect
apon his powers of endurance and
strength. Under the most harassing con-
ditions I have n^f&r seen him exhibit any
'symptoms of fai%ae. In the field he re-
tires early, but at midnight he may be
found pacing in front of his tent, or sit-
ting by the camp fire smoking a cigar.
His sleep mast be light and onrestful, for

the ffallopping of a ooarier's hone down the
roacT instantly wakes him, as well as a
voice or a movement in his tent. He falls
asleep as easily and as quickly as a Uttle
child — by the road-aide, upon the wet
ground or the hard floor, or when a battle
rages near him. His mien is never clumsy
or commonplace ; and when mounted upon
review he appears in every way the great
captain that he is.

" When sounds of musketry or cannon-
ading reach his ears, the general is extreme-
ly restless until he has men satisfied as to
the origin, location, and probable results of
the fight inprogress. At such moments he
lights a fresh cigar, and smokes while walk-
ing to and fro ; stopping now and then to
listen to the increasing rattle of musketry ;
then mattering 'Forward,' will mount
old ' Sam,' a horribly fast-walking horse,
which is as Indifferent to shot and shell as
his master, and starts off in the direction
of the fire.

" One afternoon during the Atlanta cam-

Siign the general paid a visit to General
ooker, who had pitched his headquarters
in a place almost as much exposed to the
fire of the enemy as any" that could
have been found along the line. The
two generals seated themselves com-
fortably, with their feet planted against
the trees, watching the operations imme-
diately in front and in full view of the
rebels. Verv soon a rebel shell passed
them, shrieking overhead, clearing the
crockery from the dinner-table with amaz-
ing rapidity, and frightening the cook
Sambo, who afterward excusea hiinsolf on
the ground that his mate had been killed
the night before by one of * them things.'
Another shell quidely followed, demolish-
ing a chair wluch had just been vacated
by an officer. Meanwhile the rifle bullets
were singing and ' fi<zing' about in a reck-
less way, chipping the bark from the trees,
and cutting their leaves and branches.
Still the two generals sat, discussing mili-
tary questioi^, with the utmost indiffer-
ence until the sun went down ; while the
staff officers, not seeing any fun in the
business, cairied on their own conversation
as companionably as could reasonably be
expected in a spot where the protecting
trees were five to ten feet apart.

** The general's habits of life are simple.
Primitive almost as first principles, his
greatest sacrifice will be made when he
resigns campaigning for a more civilized
life. He has a keen sense of the beauty
of nature, and never is happier than
when his camp is pitched in some forest
of lofty pines, where the wind sings
through the tree-tops In melodious meas-
ure, and the feet are burled in the soft
carpeting of spindles. He is the last one
to complain when the table-fare is redaoed

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to beef and 'hard tack/ and, in truth, he
rather enjoys poverty of food as one of the
conditions nf a soldier's life. I remember
that he apologized to our guest, the secre-
tary of war, one day at Savannah, because
certain luxuries, sach as canned fruits and
jellies, had found their way to his table.

"'This/ he remarked, 'is the conse-
quence of coming into houses and cities.
The only place to live, Mr. Secretary, is
out of doors in the woods.'

" General Sherman's patriotism is a vital
force. He has given himself and all that
he has to the national cause. Personal
considerations, I am sure, have never in-
fluenced him. Doubtless he is ambitious,
but it is impossible to discern any selfish
or unworthy motive, either in his word or
deeds. I do not believe it possible for a
man more absolutely to subordinate him-
self and his personal interests to the great
cause than he. His patriotism is as pure
as the faith of a child ; and, before it, fam-
ily and social influences are powerless.
His relatives are the last persons to receive
from his hand preferment or promotion.
In answer to the request of one nearly al-
lied to him that he would give his son a
position on his staff, the general's reply
was curt and unmistakable : ' Lej him
enter the ranks as a soldier, and carry a
musket a few years !'

" In no instance is it possible for the

feneral to favor the advancement of sol-
iers upon mere political grounds ; bravery
and capacity are the considerations which
weigh with him. When a paper is handed
to him for endorsement, accompanied by
questions relative to promotion, he leaves
the selection of the candidate to army or
corps commanders, reserving his own opin-
ion until the proper time.

" He has had as great responsibilities to
meet as any man of the age, but there has
never yet been an instance when he was
not equal to the occasion, even to the ac-
ceptance of a new truth. Few men have
so harmoniously united common sense and
genius as General Sherman."

Thk Old House by the Botke. By
Hrn. J. Sadlier. 12mo., pp. 87d.
New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co.
1865.

Another new story by Mrs. Sadlier I
"Why, it is only the other day" the
reader will naturally exclaim^ **I read
one also from her pen/* But such is
the fact. "The Old House by tlie
Boyne" is, however, J^er latest produc-
tion, and well does it sustain her repu-
tation as one of our best living Irish
novelists at home or abroad. ]l£i8.

Sadlier is thoroughly Irish in her
stories, and her sole object in them all is
the elevation and ediflcation of her
countrymen and countrywomen on thia
side the Atlantic. A most praise-
worthy object, and one which must in
the end bring forth good fruit. The
low and the vulgar, which the English
novelists, and we are sorry to say some
Irish writers also, take particular pains
to bring forward as the leading cfaarae-
ters in their works, find no place in Mn^
Sadlier^s books. AH that is good and
generous in the Irish character is given
Its true value, and when necessity com-
pels her to describe the ruffian, she does
so in such a manner as to make the
reader abhor his actions, and not a3
other writers have done — make him a
sort of a hero, as if his crime was the
rule and not the exception.

Her descriptions of Irish manners,
customs, and characteristics can always
be relied upon as correcf, for she has
made the Irish character her constant
study, and beside, she feels for the mis-
eries and misfortunes of that unfortu-
nate but generous and kind-hearted peo-
ple.

Mrs. Sadlier has done much for the
Catholic literature of America. Her
works, original and translated, put to-
gether, make a large library in them-
selves, and every year sees additions to
them. We trust she will be spared a
good longtime yet, to aid by her ]M*oli-
fic pen the good cause in this country.

The Peep o' Day; or, John Do«|and
Crohoore of the Billhook. By the
0*Hara Family. A new edition, with
Introduction and Notes. Bv Michael
Banim, the suiTivor of " TllijD'Hara
Family." Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4. New
York : D. & J. Sadlier. I860.

These are the first four parts of
" The Works of the Brothers Banim,"
known as " The O'Hara Family," now
publishing in numbers by the Sadliers.
The Banims were, without an excep-
tion, the most powerful Irish novd-
ists of the present century. Their style
of -writing was altogether different from
that of Griffin, who was their superior
in describing some pbhes of Irish life.
All through Grifflo2« writings can be
found that deep religious feeling which
he never for a moment lost sight of.
The BaniuLs, although Catholics, launch

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287

out more boldly into the world of paa-
«ion and folly, and give as more dra-
matic aoeaes; more of reality than
the ^* gentle Griffin'^ could possibly al-
low his pen to write. For this reason
we look upon Banim^s works as bolder
and more vivid pictures of Irish
life, as it existed forty years ago, than
Griffin^s. Griffin's are sounder and
safer reading, for no word ever escaped
his pen that could not be uttered in
any society.

The present editor, Mr. Michael Ban-
im, says in the preface to the first vol-
ume " that my brother and myself were
joint producers of the stories now about
to be republished. This being the case,
it will, I trust, be conceded that the ed-
itorship has not been intrusted, by the
publisher, to unfit hands. It is my in-
tention, as each volume appears, in con-
densed shape, to state in how far I have
been concerned therewith. It is my in-
tention also, 'as we go on, to append
notes here and there. It will be my en-
deavor to make these notations as little
cnmbrous as possible, and to throw in-
to them whatever of anecdote or histor-
ical reference may appear to me inter-
esting to the reader."

So far the notes are highly interesting.
We only wish the publishers had given
us the work in volumes, just as it ap-
pears in Dublin, instead of in numbers.
We do not like to read a story by
'* piecemeal," hence our objection to
the publication of novels in monthly or
semi-monthly parts. When the whole
is completed and published in bound
volumes, these writmgs will be a valua-
ble addition to our literature.

Rbxt St. Rs3Ct; or, The Boy in Blue.
By Mrs. 0. H. Gildersleeve. 12mo.,
pp. 352. New York : James O'Kane.
1865.

Another story of the late rebellion.
And we may make up our mind to be
overloaded with stories of this descrip-
tion for at least the next ten years.
^ The Boy in Blue" is the latest we have
seen, and is an indiflferent one enough.
There are plots sufficient in the book for
two or three good stories, but they are
badly managed, and the various parts
of the story clumsily put together.
"The Boy in Blue" proves to be a girl,
who thus unsexed herself for the double
purpose of thwarting the vengeance of
a rejected lover, whom she refused to

marry because he was didayal, and ol
beinff near a loy(U lover whom she after-
ward married. The scene opens in
Massachusetts, jumps abruptly to the
army of the Potomac, and from there to
that of the Cumberland, where the
principal events occur. The characters
are nearly all East Tennesseeaas, and
are made to fi^re in the story without
any regard to time or place. The book
is oae we cannot recommend ; for none
of the characters are any better than the
law allows them to be. The heroine is
no model for any virtuous modest girl ;
for no woman of correct training or
good morals could dress herself in the
habiliments of the opposite sex. If the
authoress cannot write a better story
than this one, she had better give her
time and attention to somethmg else
than novel writing. It is not her/arttf.

Catholic Ai<nB0DOTBfl ; or, The Catb-
csisic IN Examples. The Apostles*
Creed, etc. Translated from the
French by Mrs. J. Sadlier. 12mo.,

?p. 236. New York : D. & J Sadlier.
865.

An excellent little book, and
should meet with a general circulation.
The present volume contains anecdotes
on the different articles of the Creed,
and is to be followed, we believe, by
two more on the other portions of the
Catechism. The translation is well
made, and the book is very neatly got
up. We earnestly recommend it to our
readers as a book worthy of universal
circulation.

The Mbtrofolitbs ; on, Kxow tht
Neighbor. A Novel, by Robert St.
Clar. 12mo., pp. 575. The Ameri-
can News Company. 1865.

Here is a formidable volume describ-
ings fashionable society in New York.
The parentage of the leading character
in the story is at first unknown, but is
supposed to be the sou of some German
emigrant who was shipwrecked and
drowned off the coast He was brought
up by a German woman, and passed
through all phases of New York life,
from being a bootblack and newsboy,
to find himself an office boy with a
lawyer, who, seeing in him talent, sent
him to college and paid for his educa-*
tion. Nathan P. Trenk is the cogno-
men by which this person is designated

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in the story. Tlie author seems to
have taken every good quality possess-
ed by different men and placed them
aU in the person of his beloved Nathan.
His hero far exceeds in perfection the
gods of the ancients. He speaks
French like a Frenchman; German like
a German; Spanish like a Spaniard;
English of course, and we are led to
infer that if he chose he could con-
verse in the language of Timbuctoo,
Malay, or in the Sanscrit In fact, he
excelled in all things — was perfect in
dancing, music, tragedy, yachting, and
ike law. He is made to possess nearly
all these qualities before he was even
sent to school I ! He was also better
looking than any ofhis comrades — a per-
fect Apollo. One gets tired of this hero
called Nathan, and cannot help asking,
with the poet,

••How ono smiOl hesd oooldhold It aU.**

As a story, " The Metropolites" is a fail-
ure. There are many good passages in
it; but it is too inflated in style, too
absurd and impossible in its scope and
plot, and too pretentious, to suit the
merest tyro in light literature. It ends
too abruptly — ^in fact, the story is not
finished ; for only one or two of the
characters are disposed of, and you are
left to imagine what became of the au-
thor^s heau- ideal of a man — Nathan.
But there is no danger of such a ques-
tion troubling the reader, for it is very
few will have the patience to wade
through its pages to the end. If there
be any such, we pity them.

Thb Ambrican Republic. Its Consti-
tution, Tendencies, and Destiny. By
O. A. Brownson, LL.D. New York :
P. O'Shea.

We have seen some of the advance
sheets of Dr. Brownson^s forthcoming
work with this title. The book 'will
be out in the course of this month.
It will make a very handsome octavo

volume of seaily 500 pages^ eiegastly
printed. It appears from what we
have seen of it to have been written
with great care, and to be a profoundly
philosophical wosk on the prmciplea of
government, and especially on the con-
stitution of the United States.

Natural History. A Manual of Zo-
ology for Scheols, Colleges, and the
General Reader. By Sanborn Tenney,
A.M. Illustrated. 8vo., pp. 540.
New York: Charles Scribner ft Co.
1865.

This is an excellent manual for
schools and colle§[es ; beautifully illus-
trated; well printed on fine pap^,
from large type ; nicely bound ; and is
altogether a fine book.

The Lives op the Popes. By Cheva-
lier d'Artaud. Translated from the
French. Edited by Rev. Dr. Nelli-
gan. Nos. 1 and 2, pp. 96. New
York : D. & J. Badlier & Co. 1865.

This is, we believe, the first attempt to
give the ** Lives of the Popes" in English.
The French work from wbi':h this is a
translation has been looked upon as a
very reliable one. This work is one
that was much needed in this country,
and will no doubt have a decided sue-

BOOKS RECBIVBD.

Prom P. O'Shea, New York. Noe.
18 and 14 of the General History of
THE Church, by M. TAbbfi J. E. Dar-
ras.

From P. Donahoe, Boston. Parra
Sastha; or, The History of Paddy Go-
Easy, by William Carleton.

Prom Ticknor & Fields, Boston. Ly-
rics OF Life, by Robert Browning.

From Charles Scribner, New York.
Fronde's History of England. yolB.IIL
and IV.

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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL, IL, NO. 9.— DECEMBER, 1865,

From Le Correflpondant

GENERAL DE LA MGRIClilRE.

It is the sad destiny of those who
outlive'' their generation to be called
upon to speak over the graves of
friends, companions, and cUefs who
have the happiness of being the first to
depart. Forced to envy those who pre-
cede them their lot, they readily yield
to the temptation of beguiling their re-
grets by recalling their memory; and
while thas essaying to lighten their own
griefs, they think, perhaps not justly,
that they have something of which to
renund forgetful contemporaries, or
which they may teach an indifferent
posterity.

The elite of the men who date
from the early years of the century
begin already to be decimated by
death, and this death which strikes
them with a premature blow, while
in the full possession of the gifts
which Grod had lavished on them, has
oflen been preceded by a disgrace or a
retreat so prolonged that we naturally
regard them as having long since en-
tered into history. Their stekm and
melancholy fate, aggravated by the
inconstancy of their country, may
at least serve to lengthen the perspec-
tive from which our eye contemplates
them.

VOL.IL 19

What can less resemble the times in
which we live than those early and
splendid years of the parliamentary
royalty in which L^nde la«Mori(!i^re
was first revealed to France and to
glory ? A whole powerful generation,
delivered from military despotism and
the imperial censorship, enfranchised,
brought up, or completed by the free
and loyal rigime of the Restoration,
was then in full sap and full bloom.
A constellation of rare men, men of
original powers and popular renown,
appeared at the head of all the great
departments of the national intelli-
gence, and fulfilled the first condition
of the life of a people that are free
and master of their destiny. The na-
tion was governed or represented by
its most eminent men. All its living
forces, all its real wants, all its legiti-
mate interests, were represented by
men of an incontestable superiority.
The names of Casimir Perier, Royer-
Collard, Mol^ Benyer, Guizot,
Thiers, Broglie, Fitz James, ViUe*
main, Cousm, Dufaure, gave to the con-
tests of the tribune and to the coun-
try itself an ScUU never surpassed, not
even in 1789. Lamartine, Victor
Hugo, and Alfred de Musset stamped
poetry with a character as original
as ineffaceable. Ai;y Scheffer« Dela-

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Genend de la Marieiere,

roche, Delacroix, Meyerbeer, in the
arts ; Cuvier, Blot, Th^nard, Arago,
Cauchj, in the sciences ; Augustin
Thierry, Michelet, Tocqueville, in his-
tory and political philosophy, opened
new paths, into which rashed the ar-
dent and high-spirited youth of the
nation. Lacordaire and Bavignan
made radiate from the Christian pulpit
a halo of eloquence and popularity
unknown since Bossuet.

Perhaps this fertile opening of po-
litical, intellectual, and moral life did
not encounter an analogous develop-
ment in the military life ; perhaps this
purely civil glory extinguished the
necessary attraction of the glory of
arms. To this doubt, the army of
Africa takes upon itself to reply.

In the ranks of that army new men,
predestined to glory, began forthwith to
appear. Each year, each day, aug-
mented their renown. The true sol-
diers of free and liberal France were
found. We learned to greet in that
army a new line of soldiers, as chival-
ric, as formidable, as brave, as the
bravest among their fathers, and
adorned with virtues but too often
wanting in our soldiers in former times
— ^modest and austere virtues, civic
virtues, which were the honor, and in
the hour of danger the salvation, of
their country. The illustrious Chan-
gamier is the only one of that glorious
phalanx that can receive here below the
homage of our loyal gratitude. Of
his noble companions, some, like
Damesme, N^grier, Duvivier, Br^a,
gave themselves to be killed in the
streets of Paris in 1848, so that
France might remam a civilized
country ; others, and the most illustri-
ous, Cavaignac, Bedeau, La Morici^re,
have died one by one, obscurely and
prematurely, rendered by implacable
destiny useless to the country they had
saved. This oppresses the heart, and
certainly does no honor to our times.

Among all (hose valiant knights,
the youngest, the most sympathetic,
the most brilliant, and the most rapid-
ly popular, was this same La Mori-
d^e, who has just been torn from us

by death while still so full of fire,
light, and life, of strength and faith, of
physical and moral strength, of faith
in God and in the future of France.
Although few to-day know, or, having
known, remember, that the future con-
queror of Abd-el-Kader, a simple
lieutenant of engineers at the taking
of Algiers by Marshal Bourmont,
faithful to the traditions of his royal-
ist race, accompanied to the coast al-
n\ost alone that disgraced and pro-
scribed conqueror, and then returned
to take his rank in the army where he
was to conquer the most brilliant re^
nown, without suspecting, assuredly,
that he himself would one day experi-
ence injustice, ingratitude, proscription,
exile, and forgetfulness.* But all the
world knows that the name of La Mo-
rici^re, as that of Changamier, is in-
separably connected with the most
dramatic episode of our African his-
tory — ^the two expeditions against
Constantino. The pencil of Horace
Vemet has made us all fanuliar with
those prodigious exploits; he has
made live again for us the immovable
intrepidity of Changamier, inclosed in
the square battalion that saved the
a^ny on occasion of the first retreat,
and then the impetuous daring of La
Morici^re at the head of his Zouaves,
the red fez on liis head, the white bur-
nous on his shoulder, mshing the first
up to the breach, where he was soon
to disappear in the cloud of smoke
and dust, in the midst of a fearful ex*
plosion, to be found again, his eyes
almost destroyed, under a formless
group of soldiers blackened with pow-
der, their garments charred, and their
fiesh bumtf From that day he was
married to fame. All France felt
what has been so well rendered Jbj
Tocqueville in a private letter dated
November, 1887 : *< I am even more
interested in .La Morici^re than I can

* I mast be permitted to refer for all the de-
tails of the military career of General de la Mort-
cidre to the article of M. de Meaaz In ** Le Corre>
spondant'^ for April, 1880.

f'^'Leg Zouapea el us Ohtuatun d pUd^^"* by his
Royal Highness the Dnke d'Aomale* 1855. *^Ht$^
toire de Xa ConquiU d'AJger^'^' by Alfred Kette-
meat.

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291

explain. He carries me awaj in spite
of mjself ; and when I read the ac-
count of his storming of Constantine, I
seem to see him arrive first at the sum-
mit of the breach, and mj soul for the
moment is with him. I love him also,
I believe, for France; for I cannot
help believing that there is a great
general in that little man.*

Incorporated with the Zouaves
from the foundation of the corps in
1890, it was he who, in gaining with
them all his grades up to that of colo-
nel, created the European reputation
of that unequalled troop, at the same
time that by his vigilant activity in the
Arab bureaus, he preluded his re-
markable faculties as an organizer and
administrator. Major-general at thir-
ty-four, lieutenant-general at thirty-
seven, governor-general of Algeria
ad interim at thirty-nine, he never
quitted Algeria till he had rendered it
for ever French by forcing Abd-el-
Kader to surrender his sword to the
Duke d'Aumale, a young and merito-
rious prince, whose own rising glory
was soon to set unexpectedly in the
sad night of exile. He quitted Alge-
ria in the beginning of 1848, and bore
with him a reputation whose bright-
ness was dimmed by not a shade or a
breath. His courage, his rare stra-
t^c ability, the number and splendor
of his victories, were enhanced by the
most rigid integrity and at the same

* Tocqaeville, bom the S9th of Jaly, 180S, was
nearly of the Nime ase with La Moricldre, who
was bom the 6th of Febrnary, 1806. Before be-
ing colleagues in the Chamber of Deputies and in
the ministry, they had, still yonng, met in 182dat
Vendues, where TocqneyiUe was a Judge audi-
tor, and where he received a visit from La Mori-
cidre, then hardly out of the Polytechnic School.
In a letter of that date which is found in the
precious collection published by M. Gustave de
Beanmont, TocqneyiUe traces a portrait of the
future hero which remained a striking likeness
to his last days : ** I must say that I nave been
charmed with him personaUy ; I thought I saw
In him all the features of a truly remarkable
man. I who am habituated to live among men
proft&ae in words with little meaning, was whoUy
•nrprised at the craving for clear and distinct
understanding with which he sCbmed to be con-
stantly tormented. The sang-friAd with which
he stopped me to demand an account of one idea
before proceeding to' another, which several
times a little disconcerted me, and his manner
of speaking of only what he perfectly under-
stands, have given me an opinion of him supe-
rior to almost any that I have ever formed of any
sm St flnt Bight.*'

time by a humanity and a generosity
all the more meritorious from the pain
it must have cost his impetuous nature
to exercise it in favor of barbarous
enemies who massacred and mutilated
our soldiers who were taken pris-
oners.*

He re-entered France, already in-
vested with a sort of legendary halo,
and was everywhere recognized as the
true type of disinterested heroism, intel-
ligent boldness, moral dignity, indepen-
dence a little haughty, and liberal in-
stincts, which become the armies of
France, at least such as they were
then. Race apart, these Africans, as
brilliant as original in the military
history of £urope, as foreign to the
brutal manners of the soldier of for-
tune led by Gustavus Adolphus and
Frederic H, as to the savage and
cruel pride of the lieutenants of Napo-
leon, showed themselves always the
citizens of a free country, the "mission-
aries of civilization, as well as the first
W)ldiers in the world.

But military glory did not suffice for
La Morici^re. Sensible to an attrac-
tion then all powerful, he aspired to
enter political life, and as soon as he
was initiated into it he relished it, and
demoted himself to it with that passion
which he carried into everything he
undertook. In 1846 he solicited and
obtained the suffrages of his fellow-
citizens. Elected to the Chamber of
Deputies, he took his place with the
moderate opposition. By a privilege
rarely acconled, it was given him to
conquer at once, on this new and dif-

• '' In leavinfip the shores on which he had land,
ed youn^ and obscure, and which he quitted illus-
trious without appearing old. he bore with him
a recollection more precious than the fame of his
heroic deeds ; his glory was without a stain, his
hands, always burning for the combat, were sal-
lied by no abuse of victory. When ths Irritation
against an enemy that massacred our soldier
prisoners was at Its height. La Morlcldre, pur-
suing one dav a tribe that was in insurrection
notwithstanding their oaths, and having driven
them to the sea, he suddenly halted his columns
and suspended his vengeance. What fear had
seised his intrepid soul? He himself tells us :
* In the disposition of mind In which our sol-
diers then were, that vezigeance might have been
too severer BeautlAil and touching words,
which reveal the man In the warrior, and attest
a fear of excess In the bosom of a courage that
paused at no obstacles.''— Z« General de la Mari-
cUre, by Viscoont de Meaux, p. 11.

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292

General de la Moriciere,

ficult battle-field, a distinction and an
authority almost as fully acknowledged
and as legitimate as that which he had
gained on the theatre of his exploits
in Algeria.

La Mpriciero was born with the
gift of eloquence— that gift which is
the first condition neither of the love
of liberty nor of the exercise of power,
but which is seldom separated from
either in countries and times wliich
permitvfree discussion. He united the
three qualities, very rare, which the
prince of contemporary orators, M.
Thiers, exacts of those who aspire to
govern — ^knowledge of public affairs,
ability to expose them lucidly and in
order, and the weight of character
necessary to defend them. But,
. against the oi-dinary rule, his eloquence
was not at all the result of labor.
With him the orator was not slowly
disengaged, as with the most illustri-
ous, step by step, in a continuous
progress toward perfection; he re-
vealed himself at once as a bold and
successful improvisator, who, on a
chosen ground, had nothing to fear
from anybody. He jeered diose who
passed for eloquent without having lu3
extemporary facility. "You Acad-
emicians," saidj he, " must always re-
tice to make the toilet of your speech,
and are never ready when you are
wanted." As for him, he was always
ready, and it was a real pleasure to
hear him, and to see him spring to the
tribune, to mount it as if it were his
horee, stride it, so to speak, and master
it at a single word, with the ease of
the perfect horseman — ^then broach the
most complicated questions, provoke
the most formidable adversaries, even
M. Thiers himself, overcome the
tumult, regain and fix the distracted
attention, intftnict and charm even
those whom he failed to convince.
His eye sparkling, his head aloU, his
voice thrown out by jerks, he seemed
always in speaking to be sounding a
charge. He managed figures, meta-
phors, arguments, with as much celer-
ity, dash, and freedom as his Zouaves.
Supple and impetuous, bounding as

the panther, he turned around his
adversary, as if seeking his vulnerable
point, before springing upon and pros-
trating him. Rarely did he descend
from the tribune without having moved
his auditory, enlightened a question,
corrected a misapprehension, repaired
a defeat, prepared or justified a victory.
Never was the celebrated word of Cato
on the Gauls, Item militarem agere et
argute loqui^ more exactly verified.
Under this relation, as under so many
others, he was the most French of the
Frenchmen of our age.

This double superiority was mani-
fested with an iclcU as sudden as com-
plete in the midst of the irightful dan-
gers of the revolution of February,
1848. Named minister by a last ef-
fort of expiring legality, he presented
himself with his accustomed intrepidi-
ty before the insurgent populace. The
populace mistook and outraged him :
dragged from his horse, wounded with
the thrusts of a bayonet, he with diffi-
culty escaped with his glorious life
from the cowardly assassins. When
the Provisional Grovemment issued
from the mob, he would neither serve
it nor combat it But he promised to
accept the Republic, and to be loyal to
it, if it would preserve the army.
That army was about to become, in
the hands of the National Ajssembly
and under the orders of the African
generals, the last bulwark of European
civilization. When the terrible days
of June came to show the depth of
the abyss excavated by February, La
Moriciere was then by the side of
his friend Cavaignac, who, become bis
chief, after having been his lieuten-
ant, and retained himself from per-
sonally engaging in the struggle by
his duties as head of the executive,
hastened to confide to him the princi-
pal part in repressing the most terri-
ble insui>rection that ever broke out in
the most revolutionary city in the
world. Those who were there— those
who breathed the inflamed atmosphere
of those solemn and terrible days, run
through those narrow streets hicumber-
ed with barricades and heaps of the

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293

slain, and where flowed literally
streams of blood, those deserted quays
and blocked-ap quarters, whose silence
was broken only by the suUime horror
of the cannonade — those who were
obliged to deliberate through three
days and two nights amidst the roar
of that cannonade, while came alter-
nately messages of death and bulletins
of the most sad but most necessary
\'ictorie8 — those alone can know by
what means and at what cost their
country could really be saved, with-
out violating the laws of justice, honor,
or humanity. Those who were not
there will never form a conception
either of the extent of the danger or
of the yawning gulf in which he came
so near being swallowed up, nor of
the mixture of determined energy and
invincible patience needed to vanquish
those misguided but intrepid masses
inured to war, and desperate, and
whose blows too large a number of
former military officers directed
against the inexperience of the Gard
Mobile or the hesitation of the troops
that had just entered Paris.

La Moricifere, more than any other,
was the man for the occasion. His
fierf temperament protected him from
that patriotic sadness which overcast
the countenance of Greneral Cavaig-
nac all through the bloody crisis
which must raise him to supreme
power. In exposing himself as at
" Constantine, for a longer time, and to
still greater danger than at Constan-
tine, in rushing himself the first against
the barricades, defended by adversaries
far more formidable than Arabs or
Kabyles ; in prolonging the struggle
with a revolution madder that that of
the insurgents. La Moriciere finally
succeeded in wresting Paris from the
insurrection. The confidence with
which he inspired the troops, the high
spirits and gaiety, the heroic reckless-
ness which he mingled with his in-
domitable resolution, triumphed over
every obstacle, and decided the vic-
tory. Thanks to that victory, and to
that alone, France was drawn from
the abyss and saved from barbarism.

Hence, on his return from the fear-
ful struggle, he was greeted only with
a unanimous shout of enthusiasm and
gratitude. Cavaignac hastened to set
his seal to the general acclamation by
associating him to his government as
minister of war.

There was then a short period of
confidence, of union, of calm, and of
relative security. Those days must
have been sweet to the two friends
placed at the head of the country
which they had just saved, and which
gave them freely the gratitude which
they had so richly merited. Their
union, intimate and loyal, cordial and
frank, contributed often to the charm
and well-being of that bright intervaU
It received an official and touching
consecration during the discussion of
the constitution, on the occasion of
the articles relative to the public
force. It was a beautiful scene. An
imprudent member, apropos of the
promotion, a little irregular, of the fu-
ture Marshal OBosquet, accused the
minister of war of acting from private
friendship, and spoke of those whom
chance and fortune had placed at the
head of the army. La Moriciere re-
mained calm under the insult, but Ca-
vaignac, seated by his side on the
ministerial bench, was mdignant, and,
ascending the tribune, and addressing
the aggressor, said: ** There is one
thing that astonishes me ; it is that
you, sir, who were there, on the soil of
Africa, as well as me, — that you could
see no other motive for the elevation
of that man but chance and fortune.
As for me, if I am surprised, it is to
see him in the second rank, while I
am in the first." A noble word, and
worthy of the noblest antiquity, such
as could sometimes, by the side of
others by no means felicitous, fall from
the lips of the proud and loyal Ca-
vaignac, then still the idol of the fickle
enthusiasm of conservative France,
and which was so soon to leave him
only the right to say, with not less of
modest dignity, "I have not fallen
from power ; I have descended from it.**

La Moricidre was then at the

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294

General de la Moricilre.

apogee of a fortune which nobodj was
disposed to regard as excessive or
usurped. At the age of forty he was
everywhere known, was invested with
universal popularity, and was the sec-
ond man of France. The superiority
he had won on the battle-fields of Af-
rica and at the much more formidable
barricades in the streets of Paris, he
maintained and exercised in the coun-
cils of his country and on the uncer-
tain and perilous soil of the tribune.*
Even when individuals were not of
his opinion, nThich was often the case
with his friends of the evening as with
those of the morrow, they regretted or
were astonished not to agree with
him ; they ceased not to admire him,
and were drawn toward him. It was
known, it was felt, that however the
passions of the moment might mislead
him, the miserable instincts of envy,
servility, selfishness, mean ambition,
or thirst for wealth^ could never find
a place in his robust and manly heart.
We loved him even when we were
forced to oppose him. Beside, we
knew not yet how much better and
further on many essential points he
saw, in his transports and grufiness,
than many others more calm or more
experienced, and who were, though in
a different manner, as much deceived
as he.

Moreover, in the public life of free
nations and great assemblies, if the
i, clashing of opinions and the collision
of self-loves give birth to npisy or pas-
sionate dissents, they are rarely deep
or lasting. This is evident from what
is seen every day and has been for a
long time in England. One is not
forced there to brood in silence and
darkness over animosities which their
very impotence renders incurable.
Often, on the contrary, in that open-
day life, friendships the most serious,
and alliances the most sincere, succeed
to misunderstandings or transports

which with well-bom souls cannot
survive the action of time and the
lights of experience, when people are
agreed- on the great conditions of lib-
erty, dignity, probity, and honor, with-
out which all is null of itself. But
more than this, La Moriei^re, a short
time before getting power, gave to
what was then called the conservative
reaction a pledge the best fitted of all
to make us forget the dissensions
which had separated him from us. It
was he who directed the first steps of
the Roman expedition, and imprinted
on it from the outset its real character,
that of defending the Pope, and assure
ing the liberty and the security of the
visible head of the Church.

To him is due the honor of initiat-
ing that expedition, of which twelve
years later he must write the sorrow-
ful epilogue with the blood of the
young martyrs of Castelfidardo. To
him and to the assemblies belongs the
glorious responsibility of that grand
act of French politics, which has
been too often thrown at us as a crime,
by the Ccesarian democracy, hoping to
gain the right to give to others an
homage not their due.

Even afterwards, when the substitu-
tion of Prince Louis Napoleon for
General Cavaignac had removed him
from office, when the dismissal of his
friends,Odillon-Barrot,Tocque viUe, and
Dufour, had involved his resignation
of his embassy to Russia, which he
had accepted at their request — ^when,
in fine, the conservative party met
him often among its most active op-
ponents, before dividing and turning
against itself. La Moricifere preserv-
ed in the eyes of all a position apart
and a marked ascendency. In the
present he had no peer, and the fu-
ture, whatever might happen, seemed
to reserve to him a place always emi-
nent, and always preponderant in the
destinies of France and of Europe.

* " Never has been pnshed farther the intelU-

?:cBco, and the power of labor, with the passion
or struggle under all the forms which create
})ubllc me."'—I>Uoour9 du Ohieral Tnchu snr
a tombe (U la Mortain d Baint-PfUUbert de
Grand-LUu.

In one day, or, rather, in one night,

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General de la Moriexire.

295

all this present and all this fiiture
crumbled. La Morici^re, at the age
of fbrtj-five) faUing from the most
enyiable position a French soldier
could occupy, without its being possi-
ble to reproach him with the shiauiow
of a crime or even of a fault, saw for
CYor closed to him all access to either
of the two careers in which he had
won so much glory, and in which he
walked as the peer, or the superior, of
all his contemporaries. His military
and public life was closed. The most
brilliant of our soldiers succumbed to
a military revolution. The statesman
and the tribune, so in love with popu-
lar sympathies, was swept away by a
movement sanctioned by a popularity
none could dispute. He was broken
when the law was broken with the as-
sent of the people ; he was broken
for having remained faithful to an
opinion which had for it constitutional
right and the inviolability of oaths ;
broken much less by the unmerciful
demands of victory than by the forget-
fulness and abandonment of France ;
broken for not having comprehended
that France had wholly changed her
gait and her tendencies, and no longer
heM anytliing which she had pretend-
ed to hold and to love ever since 1814.
He must then, in his turn, undergo
those prodigies of inconstancy and in-
gratitude with which the contemporary
public delights to visit princes when
they are liberal, and superior men
when they are honest.

No cup of bitterness was spared
him : I mean bitternesses of the mind
and the heart, the most poignant and the
most unbearable of all ; and I speak not
for him alone, but also for his valiant
and unfortunate companions in glory
and in exile. In the first years of his
exile he met, outside of his family and
his wife, little sympathy in that Bel-
gium where Catholics especially were
almost all under the £eiscination of the
conqueror. At that period of life
when we have the full consciousness
of our strength and our resources,
when the employment of the gifts
received fix>m God is a prime neces-

sity, he saw himself condemned to
forego not only the exercise of power
and the management of great affairs
. to which he had become accustomed,
but all public life, and, indeed, all active
life. In vain he repeated the de-
vice of his giBnerous rival and friend
Changamier, Happijiess u gone, but
honor remains ; in vain he spoke and
wrote with Count de Maistre after
Tilsit, Europe is Bonaparte^s^ hut
my heoH is mine ; he was fohsed to
experience a long while the mortal
te^ousness of the dead calm after the
salutary and quickening excitements of
the storm, and to sink into a wearisome
idleness, the mother, as bouquet says
to Pignerol, of despair. He had
to bear the laceration of impatience,
that mortal despite, that sterility of
walks andr books for a man of his
condition, that lassitude of a life de-
prived bf all occupation, that fatigue
of doing nothing of which the bare
thought made Saint-Simon shudder,
and held him fast in the ante-chamber
of Louis XIV.

But there was for him a more cruel
trial still, a thousand times more bit-
ter, of which neither Fouquet nor
Saint-Simon had the remotest con-
ception.

France was on the point of making
war, a great war ; and these valiant
guards, these great war-chiefs, are not
to be there I From Africa are drawn
the battalions they formed, which they
commanded, and so oft:en led to victo-
ry. These battalions are now to
march under other chiefs to new vic-
tories. Themselves so long first and
alone, on whom the eyes of France and
of Europe were so long accustomed to
be fixed — ^themselves all glowing with
military ardor, full of vigor and pa-
triotism — ^having never failed their
country, honor, or justice, are now con-
demned to inaction, to forgetfulness,
to nothingness ; noted subalterns rise
and seize the first rank in the eyes of
the world ! — ^who can tell, who can con-
ceive, the anguish, the torture of these
men, so illustrious, so intrepid, and, be
'it not forgotten, so innocent, so irre-

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296

General de la Monetire.

proachable before the couotrj and the
army?

The " Epoqne** tells us to-day that a
word, a single word, had sufficed to re-
call them to France, and to commands
in the Crimea, the baton of the mar-
shal, and all the augmented splen-
dor and prosperity which victory
brings in its train. Nothing is known
of it Always is it a fact that this
word, whether it would have been list-
ened to or not, was not spoken, and
since it was not, it no doubt ought not
to have been spoken.

What, moreover, was that mar-
shaFs baton so cruelly stolen from
those who had so well earned it?
Those grades, decorations, gildings,
and salaries, the vulgar food of vulgar
souls, were they what attracted, what
inflamed, these heroic souls ? No, a
thousand times no. It was danger; it
was devotedness, enthusiasm, action,
the service of France, the love of
country, the love of the noble flag
which they had borne aloft for twenty
years ; the glorious brotherhood of
arms with so many good soldiers and
brave officers, their own offspring, so to
speak ; the burning desire, a thousand
times legitimate, of addmg new lau-
rels to those already won ; in a word,
it was HONOR — ^and it was precisely
honor that condemned them to silence,
to inaction, to death — ^the real deadi
and the only death they had ever
dreaded.

Never did Calderon, the great
Spanish poet, in those famous dramas
of his which always turn on the im-
perious exigencies, the merciless re-
finements, the ' torturing delicacies of
honor, imagine a situation more strik-
ing, a trisd more acute, a narrower
pass, or a yoke more crushing. The
trial wa« submitted to, the pass was
traversed, the yoke was borne to the
end. All we cannot say, and what we
do say is nothing by the side of the
suffering we have seen, felt, known,
^and shared. Perhaps a day will come
when these tortures of the soul will
!be comprehended and rewarded
-with the admiration which is their

due. But who knows? To hope
that, it is necessary to believe in the
justice of history, and who knows if
there will be again any history worthy
of the name? We may well doubt
it, when we mark what is passing
around us in an age which for a long
time boasts of having regenerated his-
tory, and when we see liberals make
the panegyric of the 10th of August,
Christians applaud the Revocation of
the Edict of Nantes, and writers in high
credit with their several parties un-
dertake to rehabilitate the reign of ter^
ror, the Inquisition, and the Roman
empire.

Nothing was wanting, we have
said, to the evil fortune of our friend.
After years of exile in Belgium, his
only son fell ill in France. And while
were debated with the desolate father
the conditions of his return, the son,
the only hope of his family, died.
When at length he was permitted to
return, it was too late ; he received
not the last sigh of his child. He was
inconsolable. " They restore me my
country," he said; *'but who will re-
store me my child ?*' It was no longer
his country, such as he had known it,
that was restored to him — the country, i y
above all, by which he had been so
well known, so proudly boasted, and
so admired. The real exile is not in
bemg torn from our native country,
but in remaining in it and finding no
longer that which made it specially
dear to us. La Morici^re perceived it
only too soon. But he comprehended
the difference alike of time and men,
and conformed with an intelligent and
manly resignation, which held in noth-
ing flrom his adhesion, and* which took
nothing from the energy of his con-
victions or the dignity of his attitude.
For the rest, he had brought back with
him fix)m the land of his exile neith^
the illusions of the emigri^ blind an-
imosities, nor mean or noisy bitterness.
And yet he was not at the end of his
cross.

There remained to him a last hu-
man good, a last plank saved from
shipwreck ! — ^his old popularity among

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297

his contemporaries, and the compaii-
ions in that shipwreck, near his old
political friends, in the bosom of the
party which he had not only served
and defended, bat, above all, had hon-
ored and protected with his glory.
That popnlarity he risked totally in
the most abandoned, the most con-
tested, and Che most vilipended cause
in the world* He risked all, and. he
lost! A priest whom he had known
as a soldier in Africa, under the flag
of France, before becoming his rela-
tion and his friend, oflered him, in the
name of Pins IX., an opportunity of
braving new perils, with the certainty of
being vanquished in the desperate
struggle. He ran thither. Forthwith a
long and loud howl of insult and de-
rision rose from the bosom of the
whole so-called European democracy.
He was dragged to the gemoniiB — ^both
he and the young warriors that fol-
lowed in his footsteps. A hideous
clamor arose from the lowest depths
of human baseness, from the Thames
to the Amo, and pursued with invec-
tives, railleries, and calumnies the
devoted band and their heroic chief.
.Hie vi^id calumniators of disinter-
Vsted virtue spoke all at once, and
spoke alone ; France and Europe
justified them. New Italy blushed
in her turn to find herself approached
by men bold enough to dare to fight
and die under the colors of a pontiff
and a &ther. She asked and obtain-
ed freedom to crush them. But she
essayed to kill them with falsehc^
before attacking them with the sword,
and by falsehoods such as the world
had not heard since the imperial trap
set at Bayonne in 1808. A Gialdini
dares call, in an order of the day to
his^anhy, La Morict^re and his com-
psCnions ^mercenaries thirsting for
.gold and pillage," and King Victor
Emmanuel announces to the Emperor
of the French that he « is marching
his troops into the Marches and Um-
bria to re-establish order there in rcr
lation to the temporal authority of the
Pope, and, if it should be necessaiy,
to give battle to the revolution on the

Neapolitan territory.''* Eight days
afler the troops of the king pounced,
ten to one, on the htlle army of La
Morid^re. The obscure bui^h of Cas-
telfidardo is immortalized by that
butchery. Pimodan perished there by
a death worthy of his chief, who
sought refuge in Ancona, and capitu-
late when his last gun was dismount-
ed. This French geheral — and what
a general ! — ^gave up his sword to the
Piedmontese I His young companions,
prisoners like himself, passed over
Italy in the midst of insults and out-
rages. La Morici^re, himself re-
leased as soon as the work of spoh-
ation was consmnmated, returned to
France, where he met the scofis and
jeers of those who insulted his de-
parture.

From that moment all was accom-
plished or marching toward the end
foreseen and determined. The darkest
forebodings, the saddest predictions, are
verified. Christian France is re-
signed, and Europe has habituated
herself to what five years ago ap-
peared to be the nee plus tdtra of
impossible miquity. People have
even come to regard confining the
spoliation within its present limits
as a benefit \vhich, if assured, would
make a Te Deum break forth from
the whole Catholic world, asleep or
deceived.

La Moriciere had seen and suffered
all this, and it was only the last phase
of a disgrace which lasted fifteen years
without relaxation and without re-
venge. As his life, rent asunder, drew
toward its end, by an insolent freak of
fortune, by a contrast and a coinci-
dence the strange mystery of which
will astonish the future, Abd-el-Kader
arrives in France to be received there
as a sovereign !

The conqueror and the conquered,
it is said, met in the street : La Mori-
ciere on foot, confounded with the

♦ circular qf M. T/umvend, Minister of For-
eign Afliilra, 18lh October, li«0. The " National
Opinion/' a worthy " Monltour " of Piedmont,
adda in its number for Sept. 14, 1800: " Victor
Emmanuel proposes precisely to protect the
Holy Father ana his temporal authority against
the enthusiasm of the volunteers.**

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General de la Mariciire.

multitude ; Abd-el-Kader with all the
pomp of his official train, and the
grand cordon of the Legion of Honor
on his breast. Thej exchanged a
single look. After which, the prisoner
of 1847 is found sufficiently avenged
on the prisoner of the 2d of December ;
pursuing his course with loud din,
caressed, feasted, toasted bj courtiers,
functionaries, and freemasons, pre-
sented to the nniversitarian youth as
the type of modem civilization and
the religion of large souls,. Abd-el-
Kader quitted triomphantly the soil of
France, to return with his wives, who
accompanied him, to his palace in the
East ; La Morici^re entered his house
to die there, and he did die there, all
alone, forgotten by the multitude, un-
known by the rising generation, and
buried in the silence of the flatterers
and satellites of fortune. The death
of this great servant of France is an-
nounced by the official journal among
the "Miscellaneous Facts," after an
article on conducting water into Paris I
At the decline of day his coffin, in
being directed toward a village ceme-
tery, traverses obscurely the streets of
that Babylon which he had saved,
really saved, from barbarism — ^those
very streets lately ploughed by the
pompous cortege of a marshal of
France, named grand master of free-
masonry by an imperial decree.

Whilst the Cialdinis, the Fantis,
and so many authors and fomentors of
the guet-apens of Castelfldardo, so
many other violators of the law of
nations and of their sworn faith, sur-
vive and triumph, rolling in opulence
and prosperity. La Moriciere, for
having been faithful to law, to honor,
and to religion, is extinguished and
disappears, vanquished, ignored, foiv
gotten.

I have said that I suspect the
judgments of history, because history
is almost always the servant or the
priestess of Success ; but its recitals
are always instructive, and I consent
that it be questioned to ascertain if it
furnish many instances of a destiny
more tragic

But after having touched Uie bottom
of the abyss, the soul rises to contem-
plate and adore the grandeur and gloiy
of adversity. La Moriciere, we know
and confess it, triumphant and satisfied,
marshal of France, conqueror at AJma
or Magenta, hailed by the curiosity of
the. eager multitude, fat and heavy by
prosperity, had not risen above tibie
throng of successful generals, had at-
tained no other glory than military
glory, with which France in all times
has been smitten, and in all times been
saturated^ His image, placed in its
rank in the galleries of Versailles, in
the midst of so many others, wodld
have awakened in the souls of the
visitors only a transient and common-
place emotion ; but La Moriciere, be-
trayed by fortune, disgraced, pro-
scribed, insulted ; La Moriciere, con-
queror of anarchy and victim of the
dictatorship ; La Moriciere, condemned
by his sense of honor to the punish-
ment of an obscure idleness ; La Mor-
ici^e, beaten at Castelfldardo and a
captive at Ancona ; La Moriciere, sub-
mitting to the wrongs of &te with a
modesty and a gravity wholly Chris-
tian, then dying all abne,,but standing
with the cruciflx in his hand — ^is a
personage of another stamp, and rises
at once from the ranks of the herd to
the loftiest height of human admira-
tion. This is a glory apart, which re-
youths the soul, which stimulates and
purifies it, and which it would not ex-
change for any other. This is a
spectacle such as history too rarely
offisrs, such as we Frenchmen, we
Catholics, too docile worshippers of
force and fortune, have special need
of. Yes, this glory is enviable, aad in
reality the most enviable of all glories.
In vaia nature rebels, reason and fakh
unite to prodaun it. We are all
moved by the recollection of Calinat,
old, retired, and resigned in his retreat,
and recalling there, as says Siunt-
Simon, " by his simplicity, his frugal-
ity, his contempt of the world, his
peace of mind, and the uniformity of

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299

his oondudy the memory of those great
mexk who, ai^r trimnphs the best
merited, returned tranquillj to their
plough, always loving their country,
and little affected by the ingratitude
of fiome, whieh they had so well
aerred." But Catinat, really unfor-
tunate ; Catinaf, a prisoner, exiled, dis-
graced ; Catinat, removed at the flower
of his age from the command of armies,
had h&sa much greater still, and, as
our La Morici^ have reoedled St.
Louis in chains. The ancients said
that the good man stru^ling with ad-
versity is the most worthy, if not
alone worthy, of the favor of God.
Christianity adds, that it is a sight the
most necessary and salutary to the
heart of man.

La Morici^re was chosen among us
to give this high lesson in all its ma-
jesty and in all its beauty. He has
shown that double character of docili-
ty under trial, and of empire over
misfortune, which makes great men
and great saints. It was bemuse there
W88 in him the stuff'of a great Christian.

Trials and exile rapidly developed ■
in his soul the germs of faith. which
early domestic education had planted,
and which pure and noble exam-
ples near him led him to admire and
chjerish. By his marriage with the
granddaughter of the Marchioness of
Montagu, he entered a family in
which calamities the most atrocious
and the most unexpected, borne with
superhuman energy, had left in the
soul <Hily a sublime serenity, and com-
passion greater still for the executioners
than for the martyrs. Inflamed by the
recitals of a mother-in-law who contin-
ued to the last his most devoted and
enthusiastic friend, he had the flrst
thought of a publication destined to
count among the treasures of our his-
tofy, and of wliich he himself dictated
the first draft.* In learning to appie-

* ""A/me Dominique de NbctUles, Marquise de
Montagu:'' Rouen, 1859. It mav be well to re-
mind the American reader that the Marqoiee de
Moatagn, ffrmndmother of General La Moricidre'e
wife, was a sister of Madame Laftiyette, who
eo beroicallr shared the prison of Olmntz with
her husband, and whoso folth and parity gave a
snperhoman strength and energy tD her noble
dnncter.— Tbs toakblavob.

date the action of Christian virtue on
the most touching victims of the Reign
of Terror as on the obscure duties of
domestic life, he was conducted further
and liigher still. A study, an active
study, ardent and profound, of the
doctrines and results of religion, be-
came henceforth his principal occupa-
tion, and he continued it with unwear-
ied perseyerance to his last moments.
Once a Christian in practice as well
as in belief, he would be so openly,
and no more recoil before human re-
spect and the disdains of infidelity
than before the Arabs or the barri-
cades. . He was seen at the foot of the
Christian piilpit, following the words
of the preacher with deep attention,
and the lively gesticulation habitual
to him, marking on his nobly chiselled
features an expressive assent and
sometimes an impatient contradiction,
as if he felt that he must in his turn
mount the tribune and reply. One
dayj at Brussels, a former colleague
and friend, who had known him quite
difierentfrom what he was now, found
him bending over his maps, tracing
the progress of our army in the
Crimea. To hold them unrolled he
took the books which he now general-
ly used, and which were the Cate-
chism, his mass-book, the Imitation
of Jesus Christ, and a volume of Pere
Gratry. At sight of these four wit-
nesses of a preoccupation so novel,
the visitor could not dissemble his
surprise. "Yes, indeed," said the
general, " J use these, I occupy my-
self with that. I do not wish, like
you, to remain with my feet dangling
in the air, between heaven and earth,
between light and darkness. I wish
to know whither I go, and by what I
am to hold. I make no mystery
of it" ' "

This public courage against the en-
emies of the faith availed him from Grod
the unhoped for and incomparable gift
of magnanimous patience, which he
needed to enable him to accept and
bear his trials, and to offer to God all
the goods of his glorious life, which
he had sacrificed. The progress of

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General de la Mmcilre.

that great soul, becoming every day
more obvious, was manifested espe-
cially by his resignation in presence
of the heavy cross which was inflicted
on him.

"We welcome the cross at a dis-^
tance," says Fenclon, "but shrink
from it when close by." It was not
so with La Morici^re. He had seldom
welcomed the cross when afar, but
when it came home to him, he em-
braced it, raised it up, and bore it even
to the tomb, with a supematuml gener-
osity, serenity, and simplicity. The
crucifying experience which, according
to F^nelon, is always needed to de-
tach us from ourselves and the world,
found in him no revolt, no fainting, no
feebleness. He entered this new
career and walked in it to the end
with the vehement and obstinate reso-
lution of a man of war determined to
become a man of God.

A great genius has said it concerns
the honor of the human species that
souls bom to suffer should know how
to suffer well. La Moricifere was not
bom to suffer ; he was bom to combat,
to command, to conquer, and to dazzle ;
nevertheless, when life became to him
only one long suffering, he learned how
to suffer well, to suffer as a Christian,
as a soldier of Christ, as the conqueror
of evil — to suffer not during fifteen
days or fifteen months, but through
fifteen years, till death came to relieve
him from his post

All of us who have known and
visited him in this second and sorrow-
ful phase of his existence, owe to him
great and valuable lessons, which his
memory and the stem example of his
death must render for ever sacred to
us. Doubtless, the acts of the saints,
the examples of the heroes of the
Christian life, their trials and their
triumphs, transmitted by historians or
commentators to their spiritual poster-
ity, are much; but they are notlung, or
next to nothing, in the real presence,
if I may so speak, of a man marked
with the seal of election, of a confessor,
not merely of the faitli, but of virtue,
patience, resignation, and Christian

abnegation. What history, what
preaching, conld avail so much as a
clasp of that valiant hand, an accent
of that vibrating voice, a look of that
lion's eye, coming to the support of a
tmth recognized, asserted, and prac-
tised by a soul of that temper ?

No; the flame of that beautifhl
eye, so limpid and so proud, will never
be forgotten by any who have once
seen it, whether touched with the sur-
prise of generous indignation or soft-
ened by sympathy and the desire to
persuade ; and that flame, always liv-
ing in our memory, will continue to
illumine for us the mysteries of life
and suffering.

Besides, no exterior metamorphosis
accompanied the deep and salutary
change in his interior. Such as he
was seen on the field of battle, or in
the assemblies of which he was a
member, in the most brilliant and the
most agitated portion of his career,
such he was in the solitude and ob-
scurity of his new life. He was as
vehement and as dazzling as ever,
> with all his fire and all his charm,
v/ith his exuberance of life, youth,
originality, enthusiasm, which seemed
always anxious to overflow on all and
on everything around him. Only
soumess, wrath, irritation even the most
legitimate, seemed swallowed up in
9ne master passion, the passion for
good — seeking and accepting the will
of Grod, in the love of souls.

Nothing in him was wom-out or
enfeebled, but all was pacified, reduc-
ed to order, animated with a higher
and purer inspiration. The touching
forgetfulness of his human glory, hu-
manly buried, rendered him only the
more dear and the more sacred to his
friends. These friends were still nu-
merous; and friends, relations, old
comrades, old colleagues, we were all
proud of him, all under his charm as
so^n as he reappeared, for too brief
moments, amongst us. Nothing, in-
deed, could be more natural, for I
cannot too often repeat that he pre-
served in his private relations all his
old fascination, and all his old attrao-

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tiTene38. fiflsentiallj French, with all
the good and generous instincts of our
oonntrj; essential!/' modem, abo, in
the tarn of his mind, his ideas, and his
eoQvictione, having nothing stern, mo-
rose, or auperannvated in his religion,
and willing to place at the service of
the old law, and the old faith, aU
the resources of modem civilization,
which none better knew or more justlj
appreciated; in fine, he remained a
liberal in spite of so many disappoint-
ments, so many defections, and so
manj mad crimes committed in the
name of liberty — a liberal certainly
more moderate aod more practical
than in the days of his youth, but lib-
eral akhotigh a soldiery as affirms to
OS one of those .valiant knights who
fought with him at Castelfidardo. He
thonght with the new generation, and
held liberty a thing so beautiful and
so good that he was willing to accept
it frankly and cordially whatever the
hand that c^ered it.

As the price of his suffering, God
granted him the conversion of his soul.
As the price of his conversion, it wa3
given him to fix for a last time the
eyes of Europe and of posterity on
Idmself, by a struggle as uneqiud as
generous, in the service of. a cause as
Intimate as abandoned. All has
been said both before an<^ since his
death on the epic grandeur and the
Christian heroism of the sacrifice he
made for the Papacy, so basely be-
trayed. It was, as repeated over and
over again, not the sacrifice of his life,
which he had.a hundred times exposed
with joy on the field of battle, but the
sacrifice of his name, his reputation,
his military glory, the victories he had
won. Se et ante actos iriumphos de'
vcvitj according to the tmly Roman
device of the medal ofiered him
by the magistracy of Rome. <^ He
marched,*' says Greneral Trochu, ^ with
weakness against force, a signal
and rare honor which remains at-
tached to his name in the judgment
of all honest men of aU creeds and
id all countries."

Let us endofkvor to define clearly

what it was, aside from the justice of
the sovereign and the sanctity of the
right he went to defend, that marks
his devotion with a character of ex-
ceptional grandeur and purity, which
places him — dare I say it? — almost
above Lescure and Larochejaquelein.
He was not young, obscure, and inexpe-
rienced, as were those heroes so pure ;
he was not attracted by novelty, the
irresistible charm of the unknown, the
chances of the struggle, or the fortune
of battle ; he was vanquished in ad-
vance, and he knew it ; he marched in
cool blood to an inevitable defeat, and
a defeat not simply material. To
yield to that sublime seduction of a
duty which can end only in a catas-
trophe, he was obliged to break with
most of his political friends. He
knew perfectly to what he exposed
himself; he knew thoroughly the cos-
mopolitan power and implacable fury
of the party which htf was sure to stir
up against him. He knew that cleric
cal unpopularity is that which is the
hardest to efface, and the last that is
pardoned. He knew it, and as for-
merly before the breach of Constan-
tiae, he threw himself, head lowered,
against it. He had the noble courage
to be unpopular, and so became unpop-
ular even' to heroism. Taking the
man such as we have known him,
with his character, his age, and his
antecedents, I fear not to affirm that
in no epoch has Christian chivalry
ever conceived anything more difficult,
more meritorious, more worthy of
eternal memory.

Thus in what must be his check,
Grod granted him here below a glory
as rare as refined and imperishable.
He counts in the first ranks of those
who are the seconds for God in the
great duel between good and evil —
men predestined to be sponsors for the
good, for honor and justice.*

A handful of young men, miserably
scanty in numbers, alone responded to
an appeal of so magnificent, so seductive
an example ; and of all the symptoms

* M^r. DapAnlonp " Oraison funSbre du
morU de Cattelfidardo:''

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General de la Moriciire.

of the decadence or transformation of
European society, there is none more
alarming, more humiliating, than that
very paucity of their numbers. Hmr
small number hoTion them, hut accuses
us, said, with too much truth, a brave
man, who died at the very moment
be was going to join them. But this
small number sufficed for what La Mo-
riciere sought, and for all that he re-
garded as possible. It sufficed to rep-
resent the honor of Catholic France
in the midst of the cowardly abandpn-
ment of Europe. Above all, it sufficed
to strip the lying mask from Piedmon-
tese usurpation, and to spot with
blood the hypocritical hands about to
be placed on the shoulder and the
white tunic of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.
This done, nothing remained for La
Moriciere but to die as he has died.
Death came suddenly, but it did not
take him unprepared. It found him
on foot, vigilant, decided, invincible, as
when, in the times of his youth, he
looked it every day in its face. It
found him armed with a force and a
faith it found not in him then. In
seeing it approach he ^' unhooked his
cruci&x as he formerly unhooked his
sword." The word is from a bishop
and it will remain : " She was sweet
toward death, as she had been sweet
toward life," said Bossuet of his
Henrietta of England. He would
have said of our hero, that he was
strong against death, as he had been
strong against life. He would have
greeted with his immortal accents that
death of the soldier which was also, and
above all, the death of a saint What
more admirable or more complete!
That last night afler a day divided
between private and public prayer,
and the study of the history of the
Church in which he will have a pagfr^
a page how resplendent I* That word

* It is well known that on Sunday, the eve of
his death, he assisted for the last time at the
Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, In the
village cjhnrch of Plonzel. He remained there
kneeling throngh the whole office. On Mb re-
turn he read ^* PHUtoire de V Bhlise^'''' bv the Abbd
Darras. It was his last reaolng. Tne volume
was open, near his bed, when ho rose to call a
domestic to go for the parish priest, who barely
arrived in time to receive his last siglL

only to call a priest — ^that only cry to
procure the grace of absolution — those
rapid moments passed while standing
in solitude, the crucifix in his hand«-
and, in fine, the supreme moment which
finds him in full adoration on his knees
before his Grod! — can there be oon-
ceived a life more generously, more
Christianly finished,, a death more
happy in its suddenness ? Behold him
saved from tasting, drop by drop, the
bitterness of separation from his
family — ^his noble wife, always so
worthy of him, and whom Grod had
given for his companion and his light,
and his daughters, whom he adored
with the tenderness and passionate
anxiety of an old soldier. Behold him
transported at once from his obscure
and wearisome idleness into eternal
activity, into a splendor and a glory
which no one can henceforth take from
him! What a triumphant exit from
his exile here below! What a
triumphant entry into the heavenly
country, the army of the elect, of the
confessors of the faith, the chevaliers
of Christ! Te martyrum candidatua
laudal exercitus,

* How he now loves and esteems
those fifteen years of h^man disgrace,
during which divine grace invaded his
sool, and led him through thorns and
the cross, scoffs, jeers, disasters, bitter-
ness, anguish, to the Christian coro-
nation of his career !

<^I will go," said the Bishop of
Orleans, in speaking of the graves of
the young soldiers of La Moriciere, im-
molated under his eyes in his last
battle, — " I will go there, to cast a look
toward heaven and demand the tri-
umph of justice and eternal honor on
the earth; I will go there to relicTe
my heart from its sadness and to
strengthen my soul in its fainlings. I
will learn from them to keep burning
within me seal for the Church and seal
for souls,— to devote myself to the
struggle of truth and justice, even to
the last whisper of my voice and my
last sigh/'

And we wiU go, and the great and
dear bishop will come with us ; — ^we

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303

will go and ask, and leara all that we
lack, near that grave opened on the
barren heath in Bretagne, at the foot
of an unrecognized cross, where lie
the remains of the immortal chief
of those victims — of him who, as
Dugaesclin, Dugacsclln his country-
man, had well deserved to sleep
among the kings at Saint-Denis.
So long as there shall be a Christiaa
France, that distant and solitarj tomb
wiQ appear to the soul clothed with a
solemn grandeur and a touching ma-
jesty. Far from the intoxications of
the battle-field, far from the theatre
of his struggles and his successes, un-
der that mound of earth which will
eover to the day of judgment that
brave heart and that victorious arm,— »
there, there with love it wiU go to in-
v<^e that great soul, beti-ayed by for-
tune and magnified by sacrifice. It is
there that it will admire without reserve
the warrior, the statesman, who pre-
served unstained his honor — ^ihe honor
of the soldier, of the citizen, and of the
Christian. It is there that it will be
needful to go to learn the emptiness
of human hopes, and at the same time
that there is even in this world true
greatness and real virtue. That grave
will tell us how necessary it is to de-
spise iniquitous victories, and to serve

in the army of justice against the
army of fortune; to protest against
enervating indolence, against servile
compliances, against the idolatry of
Success ; to place above the poor tinsel
of a false greatness fidelity to convic-
tions deserted, to the torn flag of liber-
ty denied, to friends persecuted, to the
proscribed, and to the vanquished.
That tomb will teach us, in the confu-
sion and instability of the present, to
preserve before idl things integrity of
character, which makes all the power
and all the value of the man here be-
low. But from that tomb will come
forth at the same time a harder and a
more necessary lesson still. It will
teach us how to be gentle and strong
in adversity ; to find calm and joy in
sufiering; to bear it without depression
and without sourness ; to consent, where
need is, to be only a useless servant,
and to gain thus eternal life. Yes,
all this will be revealed by the grave
of him who will not be forgotten, be-
cause he united in his life thmgs too
often separated ; because he was not
only a great captain, a great servant
of his country, a faithful soldier of
liberty, an honest man, a great citizen,
but also a great Christian, an humble
and brave Christian, who loved his
soul, and has saved it.

Ch. db Moktalbhbebt.

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Oanikmce Sherwooi.

From .The Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.

AK A.UTOBIOGRAJPHY OP THE SIXTEEirTH CENTtJBT.

BY LADY GEORQIANA FULLBRTON.

GHAPTEE XVXL

'When I had been a short time iii
my Ladj Lumle/s chamber, my
Lord Arundel sent for his grand-
daughter, who was wont, she told me,
at that hour to write letters for him ;
and I stayed alone with her ladyship,
who, as soon as Lady Surrey left us,
thus broke forth in her praise :

^ ELath any one, think you. Mistress
Sherwood, ever pictured or imagined
a creature more noble, more toward
in disposition, more virtuous in all her
actions, of greater courage in adver-
sity or patience under ill-usage than
this one, which Grod hath sent to this
house to cheer two * lonely hearts,
whilst her own is well-nigh broken ?"

"Oh, my Lady Lumley!" I ex-
claimed, " I fear some new misfortune
hath befallen this dear lady, who is
indeed so rare a piece of goodness
that none can exceed in describing
her deserts. Hitherto she hath conde-
scended to impart her sorrows to her
poor friend ; but t(May she shut up
her griefs in her own bosom, albeit I
could read unspoken suffering in every
lineament of her sweet countenance."

" God forgive me," her ladyship re-
plied, " if in speaking of her wrongs
I should entertain over-resentful feel-
ings toward her ungracious husband,
whom once I did love as a mother,
and very loth hath my heart been to
condemn him ; but now, if it were not
that I myself received him in my arms
what time he was bom, whose life was
the cause of my sweet young sister's
death, I should doubt he could be her
son."

« What fresh iiyury," I timidly ask-

ed, " hath driven Lady Surrey from
her house ?"

" Her house no longer," quoth Ladj
Lumley. <<She hath no house, no
home, no husband worthy of the name,
and only an old man nigh unto the
grave, alas ! and a poor feeble woman
such as I am to raise a voice in her
behalf, who is spumed by one who
should have loved and cherished her,
as twice before Grod's altar he vowed
to do. Oh," cried the poor lady,
weeping, '^ she hath borne all things
else with a sweet fortitude which
angels looking down on her must
needs have wondered at She would
ever be excusing this faithless hus-
band with many pretty wiles and lov-
ing subterfuges, making, swq^t sophist,
the worst appear the better reason*
^Men must needs be pardoned/ she
would say, when my good father
waxed wroth at his ill-usage of her,
*for such outward neglect as many
practice in these days toward their
wives, for that it was the fashion at
the court to appear unhusbandly ; but
if women would be patient, she would
warrant them their love should be re-
quited at last.' And when news came
that Phil had sold an estate for to
purchase — God save the mark!-*a
circlet of black pearls for th^ queen ;
and Lord Amndel swore he should
leave him none of his lands but what
by act of parliament he was compel-
led to do, she smiled winsomely, and
said : * Yea, my lord, I pray you, let
my dear Phil be a. poor man as his
father wished him to be, and then, if
it please God, we may live in a co^
tage and be happy.' And so turned
away his anger by soft words, for he

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305

laughed and answered : * Heaven help
thee. Nan ! but I fear that cottage
must needs be Arundel Castle, for my
hands are so tied therem that thj
knavish husband cannot fail to in-
herit it. And beshrew me if I would
either rob thee of it, mine own good
Nan, or its old walls of thy sweet
presence when I shall be dead/ And
80 she always pleaded for him, and
never lost heart until . . . Oh, Mis-
tress Sherwood, I shall never forget
the day when her uncle, Francis Da-
cre — wisely or .unwisely I know not,
but surely meaning well — ^gave her to
read in this house, where she was
spending a day, a letter which had
fallen into his hands, I wot not how,
in the which Philip-^Grod foi"give
him !— expressed some kind of doubt
if he was truly married to her or not.
Some wily wretch had, I ween, whis-
pered to him, in an evil hour, this ac-
cursed thought. When she saw this
misdoubt written in his hand she
straightway fell down in a swoon,
which recovering from, the first thing
she did was to ask for her cloak and
hat, and would have walked alone to
her house if I had not stayed her
almost by force, until Lord Arundel's
a>ach could be got ready for her. In
less than two hours she returned with
so wan and death-like a countenance
tbat it frighted me to see her, and
for some time she would not speak of
what had passed between her lord and
herself; only she asked for to stay
always in this house, If it should please
her grandfather, and not to part from us
any more. At the which speech I could
but kiss her, and with many tears pro-
test that this should be the joyfullest
news in the world to Lord Arundel
and to me, and what he would most
desire, if it were not for her grief,
which, like an ill wind, yet did blow
us this good. *Yea,' she answered,
with the deepest sigh which can be
Uiought of, 'a cold, withering blast
which driveth me from the shelter
which should be mine ! I have heard
it said that when Cardinal Wblsey lay
a-dying he cried, " It were well with

VOL. n. 20

me now if I had served my God with
the like zeal with which I have served
my king," or some words of that sort.
Oh, my Lady Lumlcy !' the poor child
exclaimed, ^ if I had not loved Philip
more than Grod and his Church, me-
thinks I should not thus be cast off!'
*■ Cast off,' I cried ; ^ and has my grace-
less nephew, then, been so wicked T
< Oh, he is changed,' she answered —
* he is changed. In his eyes, in his
voice, I found not Philip's looks, nor
Philip's tones. Nought but harshness
and impatience to dismiss me. The
queen, he said, was coming to rest at
his house on her way to the city, and
he lacked leisure to listen to my com
plaints. Then I felt grief and anger
rise in my breast with such vehemen-
cy that I charged him, maybe too
suddenly, with the doubt he had ex-
pressed in his letter to my Lord Ox-
ford. His face flushed deeply; but
drawing up haughtily, as one aggriev-
ed, he said the manner of our marry-
ing had been so unusual that there were
some, and those persons well qualified
to judge, who misdoubted if there did
not exist a flaw in its validity. That
he should himself be loth to think so ,
but that to seek at that moment to
prove the contrary, when \m fortunes
hung on a thread, would be to ruin
him.'

^ There she paused, and clasped her
hands together as if scarce able to
proceed; but soon raising her head,
she related in a passionate manner
how her heart had then swelled well-
nigh to bursting, pride and tenderness
restraining the utterance of such re-
sentful thoughts as rose in her when
she remembered his father's last let-
ter, wherein he said his chief prop
and stay in his fallen estate should
be the wife he had bestowed on him ;
of her own lands sold for the supply
of his prodigal courtiership ; of her
long patience and pleading for him to
others ; and this his present treatment
of her, which no wife could brook,,
even if of mean birth and virtue^
much loss one his equal in condition^
as well dowered as any in the laud^

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306

Oarutanee Sherwood.

and as faithful and tender to him as
he did prove untoward to her. But
none of these reproaches passed her
lips ; for it was an impossihle thing to
her, she said, to urge her own deserts,
or so much as mention the fortune she
had brought him. Only twice she re-
peated, * Ruin your fortunes, my lord !
ruin your fortunes ! God help me, I
had thought rather to mend them!'
And then, when he tried to answer
her in some sort of evading fashion,
as if unsaying, and yet not wholly
denying his former speech, she broke
forth (and in the relation of this scene
the passion of her grief renewed
itself) in vehement adjurations, which
seemed somewhat to move him, not to
be so unjust to her or to himself as to
leave that in uncertainty which so
nearly touched both their honors ; and
if the thought of a mutual love
once existing between them, and a
firm bond of marriage relied on with
unshaken security, and his father's dy-
ing blessing on it, and the humble
duty she had shown him from the time
she had borne his name, sufficed not
to resolve him thereunto, yet for the
sake of justice to one fatherless and
brotherless as herself, she charged
him Avithout delay to make that clear
which, left uncertain, concerned her
more nearly thaa fortune or state, and
without which. no, not one Say, would
she abide in his house. Then the
sweet soul said she hoped, from his
not ungracious silence and the work-
ing of his features, which visibly re-
vealed an inward struggle, that his
next words should have been of com-
fort to her ; but when she had drawn
nigh to him, and, taking his hand, call-
ed him by his name with so much of
reproachful endearment as could be
expressed in the utterance of it, a
gentleman broke into the room crying
out : * My lord, my lord, the trumpets
do sound ! The queen's ooach is in
sight.' Upon which, she said that,
with a muttered oath, he started up
and almost thrust her from him, say-
ing, * For God's sake, be gone V ' And
by a back-door,' she added, ' I went

out of mine own house into the street,
where I had left my Lord Arundel's
coach, and crept into it, very faint and
giddy, the while the queen's coach did
enter the court with gay banners wav-
ing, and striking-up of music, and the
people crying out, " God bless the
queen I" I cry God mercy for it,' she
said, ' but I could not say amen.' Now
she is resolved," my Lady Lumley
continued, ^' never to set her foot again
in any of her husband's houses, ex-
cept he doth himself entreat her to it,
and makes that matter clear touching
his belief in the validity of their mar-
riage; and methinks she is right
therein. My Lord Arundel hath
written to remonstrate with his grand-
son touching his ill-usage of his lady,
and hath also addressed her majesty
thereupon. But all the comment she
did make on his letter, I have been
told, was this : ' That she had heard
my Lord Arundel was in his dotage;
and verily she did now hold it to be
so, for that she had never received a
more foolish letter; and she did pity
the old white horse, which was now
only fit to be turned out to grass ;*
and other biting jests, which, when a
sovereign doth utter tiiem, cany with
them a rare poignancy."

Then my Lady Lumley w^iped her
eyes, and bade me to be of good cheer,
and not to grieve overmuch for Lady
Surrey's troubles (but all the while
her own tears continued to flow), for
that she had so noble and religious a
disposition, with germs of so much
virtue in it, that she thought her to be
one of those souls whom Almighty
God draws to himself by means of
such trials as would sink common na-
tures ; and that she had ahready mark-
ed how, in much prayer, ever-increas-
ing good works, and reading of books
which treat of wholesome doctrine
and instruction, she presently recalled
the teachings of her childhood, and
took occasion, when any Catholics came
to the house, to converse with thena
touching relisfion. Then, with manjr
kmd expressions, she dismissed me ;
and on Uie stairs, as T went out, I met

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GoTutance Sherwood,

307

Ladj Sarrej, who noticed mine eyes
to be red with weeping, and^ embrac-
ing mc, said :

^I ween Ladj Lumlej hath been
no hider of my griefs, good (instance,
and, i' faith, I am obliged to her if she
hath told thee that which I would fain
not speak of, even to thee, dear wench.
There are sorrows best borne in si-
lence; and since the last days we
talked together mine have grown to
be of that sort. And so farewell for
to-day, and may God comfort thee in
thy nobler troubles, and send his an-
gels to thino aid.''

When I returned to Holbom, Mis-
tress Ward met me with the news that
she had been to the prison, and heard
that Mr. Watson was to be strenuous-
ly examined on an approaching day
— and it is well known what that doth
signify — touching the names of the
persons which had harbored him since
his coming to England. And albeit
he was now purposed steadily to
endure extreme torments sooner than
to deny his faith or injure others,
she did so much apprehend the weak-
ness of nature should betray him, that
her resolve was taken to attempt the .
next day, or rather on the following
night, to further his escape. But how,
she asked, could my father be dealt
with in time touching that matter?
I told her I was to see him on the
morrow, by means of an order from
Sir Francis Walsingham, and should
then lay before him the issues offered
mito his election. She said she was
rery much contented to hear it ; and
added, she must now secure boatmen
to assist in the escape who should be re-
liable Catholic men ; and if in this she
did succeed, she feared not to fail in
her design.

At the hour I had fixed upon with
Hubert, on the next day, he came to
carry me to the prison at Bridewell.
Mistress Ward prevailed on Mr. Con-
gleton to go thither with us, for she
was loth to be seen there in company
with known persons, and added privily
in mine ear, '' The more so at a time
I it may happen I shonld get into

trouble touching the matter I have in
hand." When we reached the place,
Hubert presented to the gaoler Sir
Francis's letter, which was also signed
by the governor, and I' was forthwith
conducted to my father's cell. When
I enterec^ it, and advanced toward that
dear prisoner, I dared not in the man's
presence to show either the joy or
grief I felt at that meeting, but stood
by his side like one deprived of the
power of speech, and only struggling
to restrain my tears. I feared we
should not have been left alone, and
then this interview should have prov-
ed of little use or comfort ; but after
setting for me a chair, which he had
sent for — ^for there was only one
small bench in the cell — this officer
withdrew, and locked the door on me
and that dear parent, whose face was
very white and wan, but who spoke in
as cheerful and kind a manner^ as can
be thought of, albeit taxing me with
wilfulness for that I had not complied
with his behest tliat none should come
to visit him. I would not have the
chair which had been sent for me —
for I did hold it to be an unbecoming '
thing for a daughter to sit down in her
falher^s presence (and he a priest),
who had only a poor bench to rest his
limbs on — ^but placed myself on the
ground at his feet ; which at first he
misliked, but afterward said it should
be as I pleased. Then, after some af-
fectionate speeches, wherein his great
goodness toward me was shown, and
my answers to them, which dis-
burthened my heart of some of iha
weight which oppressed it, as did like-
wise the shedding of a few tears on
his hand, which was clasped in mine, 1
spoke, in case time should press, of
Sir Francis's offer, and the condition
thereunto attached, which I did with
a trembling voice, and yet such indif-
ferent tones as I could afiect, as if
showing no leaning to one way of
thinking or the other, touchmg his ao-
ceptance of these terms. In the brief
time which did elapse between my
speaking and his reply, methinks I.
had an equal fear lest he should at-

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808

Constance Sherwood.

sent or dissent therein — ^filial love
mightfullj prompting me to desire his
acceptance of this means of deliver-
ance, yet coupled with an apprehen-
sion that in that case he should stand
one degree less high in the favor of
Grod and the^yes of men. But I was
angered with myself that I should have
mine own thoughts therein, or in any
way form a judgment foreatalling his,
which perad venture would see no evil
m this concession ; and forecasting
also the consequences which should
ensue if he refused, I resolved to
move him tjicreunto by some such
words as these : " My dearly beloved
fiither, if it be possible, I pray you
yield this small matter to those that
seek to save your life. Let the min-
ister come to satisfy Sir Francis, and
all shall be well, yea, without your
speaking one word, or by so much as
one look assenting to his arguments/'
I dared not to meet his eyes, which he
fixed on me, but kept kissing his hand
whilst he said : " Daughter Constance,
labor not to move me in this matter ;
for far above all other things I may
have to suffer, nothing would touch me
so near, or be so grievous to me, as to
see you, my well-beloved child, try to
persuade me unto that which in re-
spect of my soul I will never consent
to. For, I pray you, first as regards
religion, can I suffer any to think, al-
beit I should give no cause for it but
silence, that my faith is in any wise
shaken, which peradventure would
prove a stumbling-block to others ? or,
touching truth and honesty, shall I ac-
cept life and freedom on some such
supposition as that I am like to change
my religion, when I should as soon
liiink to cast myself into hell of mine
own free will as to deny one point of
Catholic belief? No, no, mine own
good child ; 'tis a narrow path which
doth lead to heaven, and maybe it
shall prove exceeding narrow for me
ere I reach its end, and not over easy
to the feet or pleasant to the eye ; but
God defend I should by so much as
•ne hair's-breadth overpass a narrow-
ness which tendeth to so good a con-

clusion; and verily, to be short, my
good child, tender my thanks to Sir
Francis Walsingham^ — ^who I doubt
not meaneth excellently well by me —
and to young Master Rookwood, who
hath dealt with him therein ; but teU
them I am very well pleased with my
present abode as long as it shall please
Grod to keep me in this world; and
when he willeth me to leave it, believe
me, daughter Constance, the quickest
road to heaven shall be the most pleas-
ing to me."

His manner was so resolved that I
urged him no further, and only heav-
ed a deep sigh. Then he said, kindly :
^ Come, mine own good child, give me
so much comfort as to let me hear
that thou art of the same way of
thinking in this matter as thy unwor-
thy but very resolved father."

** My dear father," I replied, " me-
thinks I never loved you so well, or
honored you one half so much as now,
when you have cast off all human con-
solation, yea, and a certain hope of
deliverance, rather than give oocas^ion
to the enemies of our faith to boast
they had prevailed on you, in ever so
small a matter, to falter in the open
profession thereof; and I pray Grod. if
ever I should be in a like plight, I
may not prove myself to be otherwise
than your true child in spirit as in na-
ture. As to what shall now foUow
your refusal, it licth in God's hands,
and I know he can deliver you, if he
doth will it, from this great peril you
are in."

" There's my brave wench," quoth
he then, laying his scarred hand on
my head; "thy mother had a pro-
phetic spirit, I ween, when she said of
thee when yet a puling girl, ' As her
days, so shall her strength be.' Veri-
ly God is very good, who hath grant-
ed us these moments of peaceful con-
verse in a place where we had once
little thought for to meet."

As I looked upon him, sitting on a
poor bench in that comfortless cell, his
noble fair visage oldened by hardships
and toils rather than years, his eyes so
full of peace, yea of contentment^ that

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Cofuicmce Sherwood,

809

joj seemed to beam in them, I thought
of the words of Holj Writ, which do
foretell which shall be said hereafter
of the just bj such as have afflicted
them and taken away their labors:
** There are they whom we had some
time in derision and for a parable of
reproach. We fools esteemed their
life madness and their end without
honor. Behold, how they are num-
bered with the children of God, and
their lot amongst the saints."

At that time a knock against the
wall was heard, and my father set his
ear against it, counting the number of
such knocks ; for it was Mr. Watson,
he said, beginning to converse with
him in their wonted fashion. " I will
tell him I am engaged," quoth he, in
his turn tapping in the same manner.
" But pei'adyenture he hath some-
what to communicate," I said.

" No," he answered, " for in that
case he would have knocked three
times at first, for on this signal we
have agreed." Smilmg, he added,
" We do confess to each othef in this
way- Tis somewhat tedious, I do
admit ; but thanks be to God we lack
not leisure here for such duties."

Then I briefly told him of Mistress
Ward's intent to procure Mr. Watson's
escape.

« Ay," he said, *' I am privy to it,
and I do pray God it may succeed. It
should be to me the greatest joy in
the world to hear that good man was
set free, or made free by any good
means."

"Then," I added, "will you not
join in the attempt, if so be she can
convey to you a cord? and the same
boat should carry you both off."

** Nay," he replied ; " for more rea-
sons than one I am resolved against
that in mine own case which in Mr.
Watson's I do commend. This enter-
prise must needs bring that good wo-
man, Mrs- Ward, into some sort of
danger, which she doth well to run for
his isake, and which he doth not wrong
to coiUent unto, she being of a willing
mind to encounter it. For if the ex-
tremity of torture should extort the

admissions they do seek from him,
many should then grievously suffer,
and mostly his own soul. But I have
that trust in God, who hath given mo
in all my late perils what nature had
verily not furnished me with, an un-
daunted spirit to meet sufferings with
somewhat more Uian fortitude, with a
very great joy such as his grace can
only bestow, that he will continue to
do so, whatever straits I do find my-
self in ; and being so minded, I am re-
solved not again by mine own doing to'
put mine own and othei-s' lives in
jeopardy; but to take what he shall
send in the ordinary course of things,
throwing all my care on him, without
whoso knowledge and will not so much
as one hair of our heads doth fall to
the ground. But I am glad to be
privy to the matter in hand for JMr.
Watson, so as to pray for him this
day and night, and also for that noble
soul who doth show herself so true a
Christian in her care for his weal and
salvation."

Then, changing to other themes, he
inquired of me at some length touch-
ing the passages of my Jife since he
had parted with me, and my disposi-
tions touching the state of life I was
about to embrace, concerning which
he gave me the most profitable in-
structions which can be thought of,
and rules of virtue, which, albeit im-
perfectly observed, have proved of so
great and wholesome guidance to my
inexperienced years that I do stand
more indebted to him for this fine ad-
vice, there given me, than for all oilier
benefits besides. He then spoke of
Edmund Genings, who, by a Bpecial
dispensation of the Pope, had lately
been ordained priest, being but twen-
ty-three years of age, and said the
preparation he had made for receiving
this holy order was very great, and
the impression the greatness of the
charge made upon his mind so strong,
that it produced a wonderful effect in
his very body, affecting for a time his
health. He was . infirmarlan at
Rheims, and labored among the sick
students, a very model of piety and

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810

Ganstance Skeraood.

humilitj ; but vivamus in sps was still,
as heretofore, his motto, and that hope
in which he lived was to be sent
upon the English mission. These, my
father said, were the last tidings he
had heard of him. His mother he
did believe was dead, and his younger
brother had lefl La Rochelle and was
in Paris, leading a more gay life than
was desirable. "And now I pray
you, mine own dear honored father,"
I said, " favor me, I beseech you, with
a recital of your own haps since you
landed in England, and I ceased to re-
ceive letters from you." He conde-
scended to my request, in the words
whicli do follow :

^ Well, my good child, I arrived in
tihiis country one year and five months
back, having by earnest suit and no
small difficulty obtained from my su-
periors to be sent on the English mis-
sion ; for by reason of the weakness
of my health, and some use I was of
in the college, owing to my acquaint-
anceship with the French and the Eng-
lish languages, Dr. Allen was loth
to permit my departure. I crossed
the seas in a small merchant-vessel,
and landed at Lynn. The port-offi-
cers searched me to the skin, and
found nothing on me ; but one Sledd,
an informer, which had met me in an
inn at Honfleur, where I had lodged
for some days before sailing for Eng-
land, had taken my marks very pre-
cisely ; and arriving in London some
time before I landed in Norfolk, hav-
ing been stayed by contrary winds in
my longer passage, he there presented
my name and marks ; upon which the
queen's council sent to the searchers
of the ports. These found the said
marks very apparent in me ; but for
the avoiding of charges, the mayor of
the place, one Mr. Alcock, and Raw-
lins the searcher, requested a gentle-
man which had landed at the same
time with me, and who called himself
Ha ward, to carry me as a prisoner
to the lord-lieutenant of the county.
He agreed very easily thereunto; but
as soon as we were ont of the town,
^I cannot,' says this gentleman, 'in

conscience, nor will not, being myself
a Catholic, deliver you, a CaJiolic
priest, prisoner to the lord-lieutenant
But we will go straight to Norwich,
and when we come there, shit fur
yourself, as I will do for myself.'

" Coming to Norwich, 1 went imme-
diately to one of the gaols, and confer-
red with a Catholic, a friend of mine,
which by chance I found out to be
there imprisoned for recusancy. I re-
counted to him the order of my ap-
prehension and escape; and he told
me that in conscience I could not
make that escape, and peiisuivded me
I ought to yield myself prisoiicr;
whereupon I went to my friend Haw-
ard, whom, through the aian^aaid
Catholic prisoner, J found to be no
other than Dr. Ely, a professor ol
canon and civil law at Doaay. I re-
quested him to deliver to me the
mayor's letter to the lord-lieutenant.
'Why, what will you do with it?'
said he. *1 will go,' I s.vd, *and
carry it to him, and yield myself a
prisonei'; for I am not satisfieJ I can
make this escape in conscience, hav-
ing had a contrary opinion thcroon.'
And I told him what that prisoner I
liad just seen had urged. * Why,'
said Haward, 'this oounsel which
hath been given you proceeietlu I
confess, from a zealous mini ; but I
doubt whether it carrieth with it the
weight of knowledge. You shall not
have the letter, nor you may not in
conscience yield yourself to the perse-
cutors, having so good means oflfs^red
to escape their cruelty.' But as I
still persisted in my demand, * Well,'
said Mr. Haward, 'seeing you will
not be turned by me from this opinion,
let us go first and consult with such a
man,' and he named one newly come
over, who was concealed at th3 hauae
of a Catholic not very far off. This
was a man of singular wit aid learn-
ing, and of such rare virtuas that I
honored and reverenced him greatly,
which Mr. Haward perceiving, he
said, with a smile, ' If he be of your
opinion, you shall have the letter, and
go in God's name ! ' When we came

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Oorutanee Shenvodd.

Sll

to him, he ntterlj disliked of my in-
tention, and dissuaded me from what
he said was a fond cogitation. So
being assuaged, I went quietly about
my business, and travelled for the'
space of more than a year from one
Catholic house to another in Norfolk
and Suffolk, ministering the sacra-
ments to recusants, and reconciling
many to the Church, which, from fear
or lack of instruction or spiritual
counsel, or only indifferency, had con-
formed to the times. Me thinks,
dangfatcr Constance, for one such year
a man should be willing to lay down a
thousand lives, albeit, or rather be-
cause, as St. Paul saitb, he be 'in
jonmeyings often, in perils from his
own nation, in perils from false breth-
ren' (oh, how true and applicable do
these words prove to the Catholics of
tills land!), *in perils in the city, in
perils of the wilderness, in perils of
the sea.' And if it pleases Grod now
to send me labors of another sort, so
that I may be in prisons frequently, in
stripes above measure, and, finally, in
death itself, his true servant, — oh, be-
lieve me, my good child, the right fair
house l^onoe had, with its Kbrary and
garden and orchard, and everything
so handsome ab3ut us, and the compa-
ny of thy sweet mother, and thy win-
some clnldish looks of love, never
gave me so much heartfelt joy and
comfort as the new similitude X expe-
rience, and greater I hope to come, to
my loved and only Master's sufferings
and death I "

At this time of his recital my tears
flowed abundantly; but with an im-
psjied sweetness, which, like a reflect-
ed light, shone from his soul on mine.
But to stay my weeping he changed
his tone, ai^ said with good cheer :

«Come now, my wench, I will
presently make thee merry by the re-
cital of a strait in which I once found
myself, and which mitketh me to laugh
to think on it, albeit at the time, I
warrant thee, it was like to prove no
laughable matter. It happened that
year I speak of that I was once se-
cretly sent for by a coortlike gentle-

man of good wealth that had lived in
much bravery, and was then sick and
lying in great pain. He had fallen
into a vehement agitation and deep
study of the life to come ; and there-
upon called for a priest — for in mind
and opinion he was Catholic — ^that he
might learn from him to die well
According to the custom of the
Church, I did admonish him, among
other things, that if he had any way
hurt or injured any man, or unjustly
possessed other men's goods, he
should go about by-and-by to make
restitution according to his ability.
He agreed to do so, and called to
mind that he had taken away some-
thing from a certain Calvinlst, under
pretence of law indeed, but not under
any good assurance for a Catholic
conscience to trust to. Therefore, he
took order for restitution to be made,
and died. The widow, his wife, was
very anxious to accomplish her hus-
band's will ; but being afnud to com-
mit the matter to any one, her per-
plexed mmd was entangled in briers
of doubtfulness. She one day declar-
ed her grief unto me, and bcsceched
me, for God's sake, to help her with
my counsel and travail. So, seeing
her distress, I proffered to put myseS
in any peril that might befall in the
doing of this thing ; but, indeed, per-
suaded myself that no man would be
so perverse as of a benefit to desire
revengement. Therefore committing
the matter to God, I mounted on
horseback, and away I went on my
journey. When I came to the town
whore the man did dwell to whom the
money was to be delivered, I set up
my horse in the next inn, that I might
be readier at hand to scape immedi-
ately after my business was despatch-
ed. I then went to the creditor's
house, and called the man forth alone,
taking him by the hand and leading
him aside from the company of others.
Then I declared to him that I had
money for him, which I would deliver
into his hands with this condition, that
he inquired no further either who sent
or who brought it unto him, or what

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812

CbAstance Sherwood.

the cause and matter was, but only
receive the money and use it as his
own. The old fellow promised fair,
and with a good will gave his word
faithfully so to do, and with many
thanks sent me away. With all the
speed I was able to make, I hastened
to mine host's house, for to catch hold
of my horse and fly away. But
forthwith the deceitful old fellow be-
trayed me, and sent men af^r to ap-
prehend me, not supposing me this time
to be a priest, but making the surmise
againsft me that forsooth I was not a
man but a devil, which had brought
money of mine own making to be-
witch him. All the people of the
town, when they heard- the rumor,
confirmed the argument, with this
proof among others, that I had a
black horse, and gave orders for to
watch the animal diligently, whether
he did eat hay as other horses, or no.
As for me, they put a horse-lock
about my leg, shut me up close in a
strong chamber, and appointed a fel-
low to be with me continually, night
and day, which should watch if I did
put off my boots at any time, and if
my feet were like horses* feet, or that
I was cloven-footed, or had feet slit
and forked as beasts have; for this
they affirmed to be a special mark
whereby to know the devil when he
lieth lurking under the shape and
likeness of a man. Then the people
assembled about the house in great
numbers, and proffered money largely
that they might see this monster with
their own eyes ; for by this time they
were persuaded that I was indeed an
ill spirit, or the very defil. *For
what man was ever heard of,' said
they, * which, if he had the mind,
-understanding, and sense of a man,
-would, of his own voluntary will, and
without any respect or consideration
:at all, give or proffer such a sum of
money to a man utterly unknown ?'
God knowcth what should have en-
sued if some hours later it had not
chanced that Sir Henry Stafford did
ride into the town, and, seeing a great
•concourse of people at the door of the

inn, he stopped to inquire into the
cause; which when it was related to
him, he said he was a magistrate, and
should himself examine, face to face,
'this limb of Satan. So I. was taken
before him into the parlor ; and being
alone with him, and knowing him
to be well-disposed in religion, albeit
conforming to the times, I explained
in a general manner what sort of an
errand had brought me to that place.
Methinks he gue^^sed me to be a
priest, although he said nothing there-
on, but only licensdd me to depart and
go away whither I would, himself let-
ting me out of the house through a
back-door. I have heard since that
he harangued the people from the bal-
cony, and told them, that whilst he
was examining me a strong smell of
sulphur had come into the chamber,
and a pack of devils carried me off
through the window into the air; and
he doubted not I had by that time re-
turned to mine own lodging in hell.
Which he did, I knew, for to prevent
their pursuing me and using such vio-
lence as ho naght not have had means
to hinder."

"It was not, then," I asked, "on
this occasion you were apprehended
and taken to Wisbeach ?"

"No," he answered; "nor indeed
can I be said to have been apprehend-
ed at all, for it happened iq this wise
that I became a prisoner. I was one
day in Norwich, whither I had gone
to baptize a child, and, as Providence
would have it, met with Haward, by
whose means I had been set at liberty
one year before. After ordinary salu-
tations, he said to me,/ Mr. Tnnstall*
(for by that name only he knew me),
* the host of the inn where you were
taken last year says I have undone
him, by suffering the prisoner I had
promised to deliver to escape ; for he
having been my surety with the ma^
or, he is threatened with eight montlu'
imprisonment, or the payment of a
large fine. lie hath come to Uiis
town for to seek me, and hath seized
upon me on this charge ; so that I be
only at liberty for six hours, for J

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313

promised that I would bring jou to
him by four o'clock (a Catholic mer-
chant jielding him security thereof),
or else that I should deliver him my
body again. < I am content,' he said,
' so that I have one of you two.' So
either you, Mr. Tunstall, or I, must
needs go to prison. You know my
state and condition, and may guess
how I shall be treated, if once I ap-
pear under my right name before
them. You know, also, your own
state. Now, it is in your choice
whether of us shall go ; for one mast
go ; there is no remedy ; and to force
you I will not, for I had rather
sustain any punishment whatsoever.'
' Now God be blessed,' I cried, < that
he hath thrown me in your way at
this time, for I should never while I
lived have been without scruple if
you had gone to prison in my stead.
Nothing grieveth me in this but that I
have not finished off some business I
had in this town touching a person in
some distress of mind.' ' Why,' said
Haward, *itis but ten o'clock yet;
you may despatch your business by
four of the clock, and then you may
go to the sign of the Star and inquire
for one Mr. Andrews, the lord-lieu-
tenant's jdeputy, and to him you may
surrender yourself.' *So I will,' I
said ; and so we parted. At four of
the clock I surrendered myself, and
was straightway despatched to Wis-
beach Castle, where I remained for
three months. A message reached
me there that a Catholic which had
led a very wicked life, and was lying
OQ his death-bed, was almost beside
himself for that he could get no priest
to come to him. The person which
delivered this advertisement lefl some
ropes with me, by which means I
escaped out of the window into
the moat with such damage to my
hands that I was like to lose the use
of them, and perhaps of my life, if
these wounds had mortified before
good Lady 1' Estrange dressed them.
But I reached the poor sinner, which
had proved the occasion of my escap-
ing, in time for to give him absolution,

and from Mr. Rugeley's house visited
many Catliollcs in that neighborhood.
The rest is well known to thee, my
good child. ..."

As he was speaking these words
the door of the cell opened, and the
gaoler advertised me I could tariy no
longer; so, with many hlcf>sings, my
dear father dismissed me, and I went
home with ^Ir. Congleton and Hubert,
who anxiously inquired what his an-
swer hacLbeen to the proposal-! had
carried to him.

"A most resolved denial of the con-
ditions attached to it," I said, "joined
to many grateful acknowledgments
to Sir Francis and to you also for
your efforts in his favor."

" 'Tis madness I" he exdaipicd.

" Yea," I answered, " such madness
as tlie heathen governor did charge St.
Paul with."

And so no more passed between us
whilst we rode back to Holborn. Mr.
Congleton put questions to me touch-
ing my father's health and his looks,
— ^if he seemed of good cheer, and
spoke merrily as he. used to do; and
then we all continued silent. When
we arrived at Ely Place, Hubert re-
fused to come into the house, but de-
tained me on the outward steps, as if
desirous to converse with me alone.
Thinking I had spoken to him in the
coach in an abrupt manner which sa-
vored of ingratitude, I said more gen-
tly, " I am very much beholden to
you, Hubert, for your well-meaning
toward my father."

" I would fain continue to help you,"
he answered in an agitated voice.
" Constance," he exclaimed, after a
pause, ^ your father is in a very dan-
gerous plight."

" I know it," said I, quickly ; '' but
I know, too, he is resolved and con-
tent to die rather than swerve an inch
from his duty to God and his Church."

"But," quoth he> then, "do you
wish to save hun ?"

I lo&ked at him amazed. " TVish
it ! God knoweth that to see him in
safety I would have my hand cut off,
-->yea, and my head also."

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Constance Sherwood*

" Whatt and rob him of bis expect-
ant crown — the martyr's pabn, and all
the rest of it ?'* he said, with a per-
ceptible sneer.

" Hubert !" I passionately exclaim-
ed, " you are investigable to me ; you
chill my soul with your halt-uttered
sentences and uncertain meanings !
Once, I remember, you could speak
nobly, — ^yea, and feel so too, as much
as any one. Heaven shield you be
not wholly changed !"

" Changed !" quoth he, in a low
voice, '^I am changed;" and then
abruptly altering his manner, and
leaving me in doubt as to the change
he did intend to speak of, he pi^essed
me to take no measures touching my
father's release till he had spoken
with me again ; for he said if his real
name became known, or others dealt
in the matter, all hope on Sir Francis's
side should be at an end. He then
asked me if I had heard of B.isil late-
ly. I told him of the letter I had had
. from him at Kenninghali some weeks
back. He said a report had reached
him that he had landed at Dover and
was coming to London ; but he hoped
it was not true, for that Sir Henry
Stafford was very urgent he should
continue abroad till the expiration of
his wardship.

I said, " If he was returned, it must
surely be for some sufficient cause,
but that I had heard nothing thereof,
and had no reason to expect it."

" But you would know it, I presume,
if he was in London ?" he urged. I
misliked his manner, which always
put me in mind of one in the dark,
which feeleth his way as he advances,
and goeth not straight to the point.

" Is Basil in England ?" I inquired,
fixing mine eyes on him, and with a
flutter at my heart from the thought
that it should be possible.

" I heard he was," he answered in
a careless tone y " but I think it not
to be true. If he should come whilst
this matter is in hand, I do conjure
you, G>nstance, if you value your
father's existence and Basil's also, let
him not into this secret"

"Wherefore not.^ I quickly an-
swered. " Why should one meet to
be trusted, and by me above all other
persons in the world, be kept ignorant
of what so nearly doth touch me ?"

" Because," he said, " there is a
rashness in his nature which will as-
suredly cause him to run headlong in-
to danger if not forcibly withheld from
the occasions of it"

<*I have seen no tokens of Buch
rashness as you speak of in him," I re-
plied ; ^ only of a boldness such as
well becomes A Christian and a gentle-
man."

" Constance Sherwood I" Hubert
exclaimed, and seized hold of my
hand with a vehemency which caused
me to start, " I do entreat you, yea,
on ray bended knees, if needs be, I
will beseeclf you to beware of that in-
domitable and resolved spirit which
sets at defiance restraint, prudence,
pity even ; which leads you to brave
your friends, spurn wholesome coun-
sel, rush headlong into perils which I
forewarn you do hang thickly about
your path. If I can conjure them, I
care not by what means, I will do so ;
but for the sake of all you do hold
dear, curb your natural impetuosity,
which may prove the undoing of those
you most desire to serve."

There was a plausibility in this
speech, and in mine own knowledge of
myself some sort of a confirmation of
what he did charge me with, which in-
clined me somewhat to diffide of mine
own judgment in this matter, and not
to turn a wholly deaf ear to his adver-
tisement He had the most persuas-
ive tongue in the world, and a rare
art at representing things under what-^
ever aspect he chose. He dealt so
cunningly therein with me that day,
and used so many ingeniotts argu-
ments, that I said I should be very
careful how I disclosed anything to
Basil or any one else touching my fa-
ther's imprisonment, who Mr. Tunstall
was, and my near concern in his fate ;
but would give no promise thereupon:
so he was forced to content himself
with as much as he could obtain, and

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Gmskmce SherwoocL

815

withdrew himself for that day, he
said ; but promised to return on the
morrow.

CHAPTER XTm.

When at last I entered the house
I sought Mistress Ward ; for I desir-
ed to hear what assistance she had
piocnred for the escape of the prison-
ers, and to inform her of mj father's
resolved purpose not himself to at-
tempt this flight, albeit commending
her for moving Mr. Watson to it and
assisting him therein. Not finding
her in the parlor, nor in her bed-
chamber, I opened the door of my
aunt's room, who was now very weak,
and yet more so in mind than in body.
She was lying with her eyes shut,
and Mistress Ward standing by her
bedside. I marked her intent gaze on
the aged, placid face of the poor lady,
and one tear I saw roll down her
cheek. Tlien she stooped to kisa her
forehead. A noise I made with the
handle of the door caused her to turn
round, and hastening toward me, she
took me by the hand and led me to
her chamber, where Muriel was fold-
ing some biscuits and cakes in paper
and stowing them in a basket. The
thought came to me of the first day I
had arrived in London, and the com-
fort I had found in this room, when
all except her were strangers to me in
that house. She sat down betwixt
Muriel and me, and smiling, said :
"Now, mine own dear children, for
such my heart holds you both to be,
and ever will whilst I Hve, I am come
here for to tell you that I purpose not
to return to this house to-night, nor
can I foresee when, if ever, I shall be
free to do so.**

" O, what dismal news !" I exclaim-
ed, ^'and more sad than I did ex-
pect"

Muriel said nothing, but lifling her
hand to her lips kissed it.

"You both know," she continued,
^ that in order to save one in cruel
zifik and temptation o£ apostasy, and

others perhaps, also, whom his possi-
ble speaking should imperil, I be
about to put myself in some kind of
danger, who of all persons in the world
possess the best right to do so, as hav-
ing neither parents, or husband, or
children, or any on earth who depend
on my care. Yea, it is true," she
added, fixing her eyes on Muriel's
composed, Init oh how sorrowful,
countenance, '^ none dependent on my
care, albeit some very dear to me, and
which hang on me, and I on them, in the
way of fond affection. Grod knoweth my
heart, and that it is very closely and
tenderly entwined about each one in
this house. Good Mr. Coogleton and
your dear mother, who hath clung to
me so long, though I thauk Grod not
so much of late by reason of the
weakening of her mind, which hath
ceased greatly to notice changes about
her, and you, Constance, my good
child, since your coming hither a little
Iqss commended to my keeping. . .
. ." There she stopped; and I felt
she could not name Muriel, or then
so much as look on her; for if ever
two souls were bound together by an
unperishable bond of affection, begun
on earth to last in he^ivcn, theirs
were so united. I ween Muriel was
already acquainted with her purpose,
for she asked no questions thereon;
whei^as I exclaimed, " I do very well
know, good Mistress Ward, what perils
you do run in this charitable enter-
prise ; but wherefore, I pray you, this
final manner of parting? God's provi-
dence may shield you from harm in
this passage, and, indeed, human prob-
ability should lead us to hope for
your safety if becoming precautions be
observed. Then why, 1 say, this cer-
tain farewell P'

"Because," she answered, "what-
ever comes of this night's enterprise,
I retiim not to this house."

"And wherefore not?" I cried;
" this is indeed a cruel resolve, a hard
misfortune."

"Heretofore," she answered, "I
had noways ofiended against the laws
of the country, except in respect

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316

Ocmstixnce Sherwood,

of recusancy, wherein all here are
alike involved; but bj mine act to-
night I do expose myself to so seri-
ous a charge (conscience obliging me
to prefer the law of divine charity to
that of human authority), that I may
at any time and without the least hope
of mercy be exposed to detection and
apprehension; and so am resolved
not to draw down sorrow and obloquy
on the gray hairs of my closest friends
and on your young years such perils
as I do willingly in mine own person
incur, but would not have others to be
involved in. Therefore I will lodge,
leastwise for a time, with one who
feareth not any more than I do perse-
cution, who hath no ties and little or
nothing on earth to lose, and if she
had would willingly yield it a thou-
sand times over for to save a soul for
whom Christ died. Nor will I have
you privy, my dear children, to the
place of mine abode, that if question-
ed on it you may with truth aver
yourselves to be ignorant thereof.
And now," she said, turning to me,
" is Mr. Sherwood willing for to try to
escape by the same means as Mr.
Watson ? for methinks I have found
a way to convey to him a cord, and,
by means of the management he
knoweth of instructions how to use it.''

"Nay," I answered, "he will not
himself avail himself of this means,
albeit he is much rejoiced you have it
in hand for Mr. Watson's deliverance
from his tormentors; and he doth
pray fervently for it to succeed."

" Everything promiseth well," she
replied. "I dealt this day with an
honest Catholic boatman, a servant of
Mr. Hodgson, who is willing to assist
in it Two men are needed for to
row the boat with so much speed as
shall be necessary to carry it quick-
ly beyond reach of pursuers. He
knoweth none of his own craft which
should be reliable or else disposed to
risk the enterprise ; but he says at a
house of resort for Catholics which he
doth frequent, he chanced to fall in
with a young gentleman, lately landed
from France, whom he dotb make sure

will lend his aid in it. As dextrous a
man," he saith, "to handle an oar, and
of as courageous a spirit,, as can be
found in England."

As soon as she had uttered these
words, I thought of what Hubert had
said touching a report of Basil being
in London and of his rashness in
plunging into dangers ; a cold shiver
ran thi*ough me. "Di^ he tell you
this gentleman's name ?" I asked.

"No," she answered, "he would
not mention it ; but only that he was
one who could be trusted with the
lives of ten thousand persons, and so
zealous a Catholic he would any day
risk his life to do some good service to
a priest."

"And hath this boatman promised,"
I inquired, "to wait for Mr. Watson
and convey him away ?"

" Y^a, most strictly, " she answered,
" at twelve o'clock of the night he and
his companion shall approach a boat
to the side of some scaffolding which
lieth under the wall of the prison ;
and when the clock of the tower
striketh, Mr. Watson shall open his
window, the bars of which he hath
found it possible to remove, and by
means of the cord, which iS| of the
length he measured should be neces-
sary, he will let himself down on the
planks, whence he can step into the
boat, and be carried to a place of con-
cealment in a close part of the city
till it shall be convenient for him to
cross the sea to France."

" Must you go ?" I said, seeing her
rise, and feeling a dull hard heaviness
at my heart which did well-nigh im-
pede my utterance. I was not will-
ing to let her know the fear I had
conceived ; " of what use should it be,"
I inwardly argued, " to disturb her in
the discharge of her perilous task by
a surmise which might prove ground-
less; and, indeed, were it certainly
true, could she, nay, would she, alter
her intent, or could I so much as ask
her to do it?" Whilst, with Muriel's
assistance, she concluded the packing
of her basket, wherein the weighty
cord was concealed in an ingenious

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Ckmftanee Sherwood,

B17

manner, I stood by watching the do-
ing of it, fearing to see her depart, yet
enable to think of any means by
which to delay that which I could not,
even if I had willed it, prevent.
When the last contents were placed
in the basket, and Muriel was press-
ing down the lid, 1 said: "Do you,
peradventore, know the name of the
inn where you said that gentleman
doth tdrrj which the boatman spake
of?"

"No," she replied; "nor so much
as where the good boatman himself
lodgeth. I met with him at Mr.
Hodgson's hoase, and there made this
agreement."

" But if," I said, " it should happen
by any reason that Mr. Watson
changed his mind, how should you,
then, inform him of it?"

" In that case," she answered, " he
would hang a white kerchief outside
his window, by which they should be
advertised to withdraw themselves.
And now," she added, " I have always
been of the way of thinking that fare-
wells should be brief; and ' God speed
you,' and * God bless you,' enough for
those which do hope, if it shall please
God, on earth, but for a surety in
heaven, to meet again."

So, kissing us both somewhat hur-
riedly, she took up her basket on her
arm, and said she should send a. mes-
senger on th# morrow for berclotlies ;
at which Muriel, for the 6rst time,
shed some tears, which was an instance
of what I have often noticed, that
grief, howsoever heavy, doth not al-
ways overflow in the eyes unless some
£uniliar words or homely circumstance
doth substantiate the verity of a sor-
row known indeed, but not wholly ap-
parent till ita common effects be seen.
Then we two sat awhile alone in that
empty chamber — empty of her which
for so long years had tenanted it to
our no small comfort and benefit.
When the light waned, Muriel lit a
candle, and said she must go for to
attend on her mother, for that duty
did now devolve chiefly on her ; and I
could see in her sad but composed face

the conquering peace which doth ex-
ceed all human consolation.

For mine own part, I was so un-
hinged by doubtful suspense that I
lacked ability to employ my mind in
reading or my fingers in stitcb-work ;
and so descended for relief into the
garden, where I wandered to and fro
like an uneasy ghost, seeking rest
but findbg none. The dried shaking
leaves made a light noise in falling,
which caused me each time to think I
heard a footstep behind me. And Re-
spite the increasing darkness, afler I
had paced up and down for near uuto
an hour, some one verily did come •
walking along the alley where I was,
seeking to overtake me. Turning
round I perceived it to be mine own
dear aged friend, Mr. Roper. Oh,
what great comfort I experienced in
the sight of this good man I How
eager was my greeting of him ! How
full my heart as I poured into his ear
the narrative of the passages which
had befallen me since we had met!
Of the most weighty he knew some-
what ; but nothing of the last haunting
fear I had lest my dear Basil should
be in London, and this very night en-
gaged in the perilous attempt to carry
oflT Mr. Watson. When I told him of
it, he started and exclaimed :

" God defend it !" but quickly cor-
rected himself and cried, " God's mer-
cy, that my fii-st feeling should have
led me to think rather of Basil's safe-
ty than of the fine spirit he showed in
all instances where a good action had
to be done, or a service rendered to
those in affliction."

" Indeed, Mr. Roper," I said, as he
led me back to the house and into the
solitary parlor (where my uncle now
seldom came, but remained sitting
alone in his library, chiefly engaged
in praying and reading), " I do con-
demn mine own weakness in this, and
pray God to give me strength for
what may come upon us ; but I do
promise you 'tis no easy matter to
carry always so high a. heart that it
shall not sink with human fears and
griefe in such passagos as these."-

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Constance Sherwood.

" My dear," the good man ansTver-
ed, '< God knoweth 'tis no easy matter
to attain to the courage you speak of.
I hare myself seen the sweetest, the
lovingest, and the most brave creature
which ever did breathe give marks of
extraordinary sorrow when her father,
that generous martyr of Christ, was
to die."

" I pray you tell me," I answered,
" wliat her behavior was like in that
trial ; for to converse on such themes
doth allay somewhat the torment of
suspense, and I may learn lessons
from her example, who, you say, join-
• ed to natural weakness so courageous
a spirit in like straits."

Upon which he, willing to divert
and yet not violently change the cur-
rent of my thoughts, spake as fol-
loweth :

"On the day when Sir Thomas
More came from Westminster to the
Tower-ward, my wife, desirous to see
her father, whom she thought she
should never see in this world afber,
and also to have his final blessing,
gave attendance about the wharf where
she knew he should pass before he
could enter into the Tower. As soon
as she saw him, af^er his blessing up-
on her knees reverently received,
hastening toward him without care or
consideration of herself, passing in
amongst the throng and company of
the guard, she ran to him and took
him about the neck and kissed him ;
who, well liking her most natural and
dear daughterly afibction toward him,
gave her his fatherly blessing and
godly words of comfort beside ; from
whom, after she was departed, not
satisfied with the former sight of him,
and like one that had forgotten her-
self, being all ravished with the en-
tire love of her father, suddenly turn-
ed back again, ran to him as before,
took him about the neck, and divers
times kissed him lovingly, till at last,
with a full and heavy heart, she was
fain to depart from him ; the behold-
ing thereof was to many that were
present so lamentable, and mostly so
to me, that for very sorrow we could

not forbear to weep with her. The
wife of John Harris, Sir Thomas's
secretary, was moved to such a trans-
port of grief, that she suddenly flew to
his neck and kissed him, as he had
reclined his head on his daughter's
shoulder; and he who, in the midst
of the greatest straits, had ever a
merry manner of speaking, cried,
' This is kind, albeit rather unpolitely
done.' "

" And the day he suffered," I asked,
" what was this good daughter's be-
havior ?"

"She went," quoth he, "to the dif-
ferent churches, and distributed abun-
dant alms to the poor. When she had
given all her money away, she with-
drew to pray in a certain church,
where she on a sudden did remember
she had no linen in which to wrap up
her father's body. She had heard
that the remains of the Bishop of
Rochester had been thrown into the
ground, without priest, cross, lights, or
shroud, for the dread of the king had
prevented his relations from attempt-
ing to bury him. But Mai^aret re-
solved her father's body should not
meet with such unchristian treatment
Her maid advised her to buy some
linen in the next shop, albeit having
given away all her money to the poor,
there was no likelihood she should get
credit from strangers. She ventured,
howsoever, and having agreed about
the price, she put her hand in her
pocket, which she knew was empty,
to show she forgot the money, and ask
credit under that pretence. But to
her surprise, she found in her purse
the exact price of the linen, neither
more or less ; and so buried the mar-
tyr of Christ with honor, nor was
there any one so inhuman found as to
hinder her."

" Mr. Roper," I said,^ when he had
ended his recital, " methinks this an-
gelic lady's trial was most hard : but
how much harder should it yet have
been if you, her husband, had been
in a like peril at that time as her
father?"
A half kind of melanGholy, half

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Cbnsiance Sherwood.

819

roiiliDg look came into the good old
man's face as he answered :

" Her father was Sir Thomas More,
and he so worthj of a daughter's pas-
sionate love, and the affection betwixt
them so entire and absolute, com-
pounded of filial loTe on her part, un-
mitigated reverence, and unrestrained
confidence, that there was left in her
heart no great space for wifely doat-
ing. Bnt to be moderately affectioned
by such a woman, and to stand next
in her esteem to her incomparable
&ther, was of greater honor and worth
to her unworthy husband, than should
have been the undivided, yea idolar-
trous, love of one not so perfect as
herself.'*

After a pause, during which his
thoughta, I ween, reverted to the past,
and mine investigated mine own soul,
I said to Mr. Roper :

** Think you, sir, that love to be
idolatrous which is indeed so absolute
that it should be no difficulty to die for
hhn who doth inspire it ; which would
prefer a prison in his company,, how-
soever dark and loathsome (yea con-
sider it a very paradise), to the beau-
tifullest palace in the world, which
without liim would seem nothing but a
vile dungeon ; which should with a
good-will suffer all the torments in the
world for to see the object of its affec-
tion enjoy good men's esteem on earth,
and a noble place in heaven ; but
which should be, nevertheless, founded
and so wholly built up on a high esti-
mate of his virtues ; on the quality
he holdeth of God's servant ; on the
likeness of Christ stamped on his
soul, and each day exemplified in his
manner of living, that albeit to lose
his love or his company in this world
should be like the uprooting of all hap-
piness and turning the brightness of
nocmday to the darkness of the night,
it should a thousand times rather en-
dure this mishap than that the least
shade or approach of a stain should
alter the unsullied opinion till then
held of his perfections ?"

Mr. Roper smiled, and said that
was a too weighty question to answer

at once ; foi he should be loth to con-
demn or yet altogether to absolve from
some degree of overweeningness such
an affection as I described, which did
seem indeed to savor somewhat of
excess y but yet if noble in its uses
and held in subjection to the higher
claims of the Creator, whose perfec-
tions the creature doth at best only
imperfectly mirror, it might be com-
mendable and a means of attaining
ourselves to the like virtues we doated
on in another.

As he did utter these words a ser-
vant came into the parlor, and whis-
pered in mine ear :

^^ Master Basil Rookwood is outside
the door, and craves — ^'

I suffered him not to finish his
speech, but bounded into the hall, where
Basil was indeed standing with a trav-
eller's cloak on him, and a slouched
hat over his face. Ailer such a greet-
in<r as may be conceived ,(alas, all
greetings then did seem to combine
strange admixtures of joy and pain !),
I led him into the parlor, where Mr.
Roper in his turn received him with
fatherly words of kindness mixed with
amazement at his return.

" And whence," he exclaimed, " so
sudden a coming, my good Basil?
Verily, you do appear to have de-
scended from the skies !"

Basil looked at me and replied:
" I heard in Paris, Mr. Roper, that a
gentleman in whom I do take a very
lively interest, one Mr. Tunstall, was
in prison at London ; and I bethought
me I could be of some service to him
by coming over at this time."

" O Basil," I cried, " do you then
know he is my father?"

" Yea," he joyiully answered, " and
I am right glad you do know it also,
for then there is no occasion for any
feigning, which, albeit I deny it not to
be sometimes useful and necessary,
doth so ill agree with my bluntness,
that it keepeth me in constant fear of
stumbling in my speech. I was in a
manner forced to come over secretly ;
because if Sir Henry Stafford, who
willeth me to remain abroad till I have

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320

Constance SherwoocL

got out of my wardship, should hear
of mj being in London, and gain
scent of the object of my coming, he
should have dealt in all sorts of ways
to send me out of it But, prithee,
dearest love, is Mrsi Ward in this
house ?"

" Alas !" I said, " she is gone hence.
Her mind is set on a very dangerous
enterprise."

«I know it," he saith (at which
word my heart began to sink) ; " but,
verily, I see not much danger to be in
it ; and methinks if we do succeed in
carrying off your good father and that
other priest to-night in the ingenious
manner she hath devised, it will be the
best night's work done by good heads,
good arms, and good oars which can
be thought of."

" Oh, then," I exclaimed, "it is even
as I feared, and you, Basil, have en-
gaged in this rash enterprise. O woe
the day you came to London, and met
with that boatman !"

" Constance," he said reproachfully,
" should it be a w^oful day to thee the
one on which, even at some great risk,
which I deny doth exist in this in-
stance, I should aid in thy father's
rescue ?"

" Oh, but, my dear Basil," I cried,
"he doth altogether refuse to stir in
this matter. I have had speech with
him to-day, and he will by no means
attempt to escape again from prison.
He hath done it once for the sake of a
soul in jeopardy ; but only to save his
life, he is resolved not to involve
others in peril of theirs. And oh, how
confirmed he would be in his purpose
if he knew who it was who doUi throw
himself into so great a risk I V faith,
I cannot and will not suffer it !" I ex-
claimed impetuously, for the sudden
joy of his presence, the sight of his
beloved countenance, lighted up with
an inexpressible look of love and kind-
ness, more beautiful than my poor
words can describe, worked in me a
rebellion against the thought of more
suffering, further parting, greater fears
than I had hitherto sustained.

He said, " He could wish my fieither

had been otherwise disposed, for to
have aided in his escape should have
been to him the greatest joy he could
think of; but that having promised
likewise to assist in Mr. Watson's
flight, he would never fail to do so, if
he was to die for it."

" 'Tis very easy," I cried, " to speak
of dying, Basil, nor do I doubt that
to one of your courage and faith the
doing of it should have nothing very-
terrible in it. But I pray you remem-
ber that that life, which you make so
little account of, is not now youra
alone to dispose of as you list. Mine,
dear Basil, is wrapped up with it ; for
if I lose you, I care not to live, or
what becomes of me, any more."

Mr. Roper said he should think on
it well before he made this venture ;
for, as I had truly urged, I had a right
over him now, and he should not dis-
pose of himself as one wholly free
might do.

"Dear sir," quoth he in answer,
"my sweet Constance and you algo
might perhaps have prevailed with me
some hours* ago to forego this inten-
tion, before I had given a promise to
Mr. Hodgson's boatman, and through
him to Mistress Ward and Mr. Wat-
son ; I should then have been free to
refuse my assistance if I had listed ;
and albeit methinks in so doing I
should have played a pitifnl part, none
could justly have condemned me. But
I am assured neither her great heart
nor your honorable spirit would de-
sire me so much as to place in doubt
the fulfilment of a promise wherein
the safety of a man, and he one of
Grod's priests, is concerned. I pray
thee, sweetheart, say thou wouldst not
have me do it."

Alas ! this was the second time that
day my poor heart had been called
upon to raise itself higher than nature
can afford to reach. But the present
struggle was harder than the first.
My father had long been to me as a
distant angel, severed from my daily
life and any future hope in this world.
His was an expectant martyrdom, an
exile from his true home, a daily dy-

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Oouttance Sunoaod.

321

ing on earth, tending bat to one de-
sired end. Nature could be more
easily reconciled in the one case than
in the other to thoughts of parting.
Basil was mj all, mj second self, mj
sole treasure^ — ^the prop on whidi
rested youth's hopes, earth's joys,
life's sole comfort; and chance (as it
seemed, and men would have called
it), not a determined seeking, had
thrust on him this danger, and I must
needs see him plunged into It, and not
so much as say a word to stay him or
prevent it. .... I was striv-
mg to constrain my lips to utter tlie
words my rebelling heart disavowed,
and he kneeling before me, with his
dear eyes fixed on mine, awaiting my
consent, when a loud noise of laugh-
ter in the hall caused us both to start
up, and then the door was thrown
open, and Kate and Polly ran into
the room so gaily attired, the one in a
yellow and the other in a crimson
gown bedecked with lace and jewels,
that nothing finer could be seen.

'* Lackaday I " Polly cried, when
she perceived Basil; "who have we
here ? I scarce can credit mine eyes !
Why, Sir Lover, methought you were
in France. By what magic come you
here ? Mr. Roper, your humble ser-
vant. 'Tis like you did not expect
so much good company to-night, Con,
for yon have but one poor candle or
two to light up this dingy room, and
I fear there will not be light enough
for these gentlemen to see our ^%
dresses, which we do wear for the
first time at Mrs. Yates's house this
evening."

** I bought you were both in the
country," I said, striving to disguise
how much their coming did discom-
pose me.

" Methinks," answered Polly, laugh-
ing," your wish was father to that
thought, Con, and that you desired
to have the company of this fine
gentleman to yourself alpne, and Mr.
Boper^s also, and no one else for to
disturb you. But, in good sooth, we
were both at Mr. Benham's seat in
Berkshire when we heard of this good
VOL. n. 21

entertainment at so great a friend's
house, and so prevailed on our lords
and governors for to hire a coach and
bring us to London for one night.
We lie at Kate's house, and she and I
have supped on a cold capon and a
veal pie we brought with us, and Sir
Ralph and Mr. Lacy do sup at a tav-
ern in the Strand, and shall fetch us
here when it shall be convenient to
them to carry us to this grand ball,
which I would not have missed, no,
not for all the world. So I pray you
let us be merry till they do come, and
pass the time pleasantly."

*^ Ay," said Kate, in a lamentable
voice, " you would force me to dress
and go abroad, when I would sooner
be at home; for John's stomach is
disordered, and baby doth cut her
teeth, and he pulled at my ribbons
and said I should not leave him ; and
beshrew me if I would have done
so, but for your overpersuading me.
But you are always so absolute ! I
wonder you love not more to stay at
home, Polly."

Basil smilea with. a better heart
than I could do, and said he would
promise her John should sleep never
the less well for her absence, and she
should find baby's tooth through on
the morrow ; and sitting down by her
side, talked to her of her children
with a kindliness which never did for-
sake him. Mr. Roper set himself to
converse with Polly ; I ween for to
shield me from the torrent of her
words, which, as I sat between them,
seemed to buzz in mine ear without
any meaning; and yet I must needs
have heard them, for to this day I re-
member what they talked of; — that
Polly said, " Have you seen the inge-
nious poesy which the queen's saucy
godson, the merry wit Harrmgton,
lefk behind her cushion on Wednes-
day, and now 'tis in every one's
hands?"

" Not m mine," quoth Mr. Roper ;
" so, if your memory doth serve you.
Lady Ingoldsby, will you rehearse
it? "which she did as follows; and
albeit I only did hear those lines

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322

Constance SherwoocL

that once, thej still remain in my
mind:

" For ever dear, for arer dreaded prince,
Ton read a verse of mine a little »lucc.
And so prononnced each word and every letter,
Your eracions reading graced my irerse the

better ;
Sith then yonr highness doth by gift exceeding
Make what yon read the better for your read-
ing*
Let my poor mnse yonr pains thus far im-
portune,
Like as yon read my verae— bo read my for-
tune I"

" Tis an artful and witty petition,"
Mr. Roper observed ; " but I have
been told her majesty mislikes the
poet's satirical writings, and chiefly
the metamorphosis of Ajax.**

"She signified," PoUy answered,
" some outward displeasure at it, but
Robert Markham affirms she likes
« well the marrow of the book, and is
minded to take the author to her
favor, but sweareth she believes he
will make epigrams on her and all
her court Howsoever, I do allow
she conceived much disquiet on being
told he had aimed a shaft at Leices-
ter. By the way, but you, cousin
Constance, should bcst\now the truth
thereon'* (this she said turning to me),
^^'tis said that Lord Arundel is ex-
ceeding sick again, and like to die
very soon. Indeed his physicians are
of opinion, so report speaketh, that he
will not last many days now, for as
often as he hath rallied before."

" Yesterday," I said, " when I saw
Lady Surrey, he was no worse than
usual."

" Oh, have you heard," Polly cried,
running from one theme to another, as
was her wont, " that Leicester is about
to maiTy Lettice Knollys, my Lady
Essex?"

" 'Tis unpossible," Basil exclaimed,
who was now listening to her speeches,
for E[ate had finished her discourse
touching her Johnny's disease in his
stomach. The cause thereof, she
said, both herself thought, and all in
Mr. Benham's house did judge to
have been, the taking in the morning
a confection of barley sodden with
water and sugar, and made exceeding
thick with bread. This breakfast lost

him both his dinner and snpper, and
surely the better half of his sleep ;
but Grod be thanked, she hoped now
the worst was past, and that the dear
urchin would shortly be as merry and
well-disposed as afore he left London.
Basil said he hoped so too ; and in a
pause which ensued, he heard Polly
speak of Lord Leicester's intended
marriage, which seemed to move him
to some sort of indignation, the cause
of which I only learnt many years
later; for that when Lady Douglas
Howard's cause came before the Star-
Chamber, in his present majesty's
reign, he told me he had been privy,
through information received in
France, of her secret marriage with
that lord.

** 'Tis not unpossible," Polly retort-
ed, <' by the same token that the new
favorite, young Robert Devereux,mak-
eth no concealment of it, and calleth
my Lord Leicester his father elect.
But I pray you, what is impossible in
these days ? Oh, I think they are the
most whimsical, entertaining days
which the world hath ever known;
and the merriest, if people have a will
to make them so."

"Oh, Polly," I cried, unable to re-
strain myself, " I pray God you may
never find cause to change your mind
thereon."

" Yea, amen to that prayer," quoth
she; "I'll promise you, my grave little
coz, that I have no mind to be sad till
I grow old — and there be yet some
years to come before that shall befall
me. When Mistress Helen Ingolds-
by shall reach to the height of my
shoulder, then, methinks, I may begin
to take heed unto my ways. What
think you the little wench said to mc
yesterday? « What times is it we do
conform to, mother? dinner-times or
bed-times ? ' " " She should have been
answered, * The devil's times,' " Basil
muttered; and Kate told Polly she
should be ashamed to speak in her
father^s house of the conformity she
practised when others were sufiering
for their religion. And, methougnt,
albeit I had scarcely endured the jest-

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Constance Sherwood.

823

ing which had preceded it, I could
less bear anj talk of religion, least-
wajs of that kind, just then. But, in
sooth, the OHistraint I suffered almost
overpassed 1117 strength. There ap-
peared no hope of their going, and
they fell into an eager discourse con-
cerning the bear-baiting they had been
to see in Berkshire, and a great sort
of ban-dogs, which had been tied in
an outer court, let loose on thirteen
bears that were baited in the inner ;
and my dear Basil, who doth delight
in all kinds of sports, listened eagerly
to the description they gave of this
diversion. Oh, how I counted the
minutes ! what a pressure weighted
my heart! how the sound of their
voices pained mine ears ! how long an
hour seemed! and yet too short for
my desires, for I feared the time must
soon come when Basil should go, and
lamented that these unthinking wo-
men's tarrying should rob me of all
possibility to talk with him alone.
Howsoever, when Mr. Roper rose to
depart, I followed him into the hall
and waited near the door for Basil,
who was biddbg fere well to Kate and
Polly. I heard him beseech them to
do him so much favor as not to men-
tion they had seen him; for that he
had not informed Sir Henry Stafford
of his coming over from France, which
if he heard of it otherwise than from
himself, it should perad venture offend
him. They laughed, and promised to
be as silent as graves thereon; and
Polly said he had learnt French fash-
ions she perceived, and taken lessons
in wooing from mounseer; but she
hoped his stealthy visit should in the
end prove more comformable to his de-
fiires than mounseer's had done. At
last they let liim go ; and Mr. Roper,
who had waited for him, wrung his
hand, and the manner of his doing it
made my eyes overflow. I. turned my
fietce away, but Basil caught both my
hands in his and said, << Be of good
cheer, sweetheart I have not words
wherewith to express how much I love
thee, but God knoweth it is very
dearly.**

** Basil ! mine own dear Basil," I
murmured, laying my forehead on his
coat-sleeve, and could not then utter
another word. Ere I lifted it again,
the hall-door opened, and who, I praj
you, should I then see (with more af-
fright, I confess, than was reasonable)
but Hubert? My voice shook as X
said to Basil, whose back was turn
ed from the door, "Here is your
brother."

" Ah, Hubert V he exclaimed ; " I
be glad to see thee P' and held out his
hand to him with a frank smile, which
the other took, but in the doing of it
a deadly paleness spread over his
face.

" I have no leisure to tarry so much
as one minute," Basil said ; " but this
sweet lady will tell thee what weighty
reasons I have for presently remain-
ing concealed; and so farewell, my
dear love, and farewell, my good
brother. Be, I pray you, my bedes-
womah this night, Constance ; and you
too, Hubert, — ^if you do yet say your
prayers like a good Christian, which I
pray God you do, — ^mind you say a^i
ave for me before you sleep."

When the door closed on him I
sunk down on a chair, and hid my
face with my hands.

"You have not told him anything ?"
Hubert whispered ; and I, " God help
you, Hubert ! he hath come to London
for this very matter, and hath already,
I fear, albeit not in any way that
shall advantage my father, yet in seek-
ing to assist him, run himself into
danger of death, or leastways banish-
ment"

As I said this mine eyes raised
themselves toward him ; and I would
they had not, for I saw in his visage
an expression I have tried these many
years to forget, but which sometimes
even now comes back to me painfully.
"I told you so," he answered.
"He hath an invariable aptness to
miss his aim, and to hurt himself by
the shafts he looseth. What plan
hath he now formed, and what shall
come of it ?"
But, somewhat recovered from my

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824

Oomlance Sherwood.

surprise, I bethought myself it should
not be prudenty albeit I grieved to
think so, to let him know what sort of
enterprise it was Basil had in hand ;
so I did evade his question, which in^
deed he did not show himself very
careful to have answered. He said
he was jet dealing with Sir Francis
Walsingham, and had hopes of success
touching my father^s liberation, and so
prayed oie not to yield to despondency ;
but it would take time to bring mat-
ters to a successful issue, and patience
was greatly needed, and likewise pru-
dence toward that end. He request-
ed me very urgently to take no other
steps for the present in his behalf,
which might ruin all. And above all
things not to suffer Basil to come for-
ward in it, for that he had made him-
self obnoxious to Sir Francis by
speeches which he had used, and
which some pne had reported to him,
touching Lady Ridley's compliance
with his (Sir Francis's) request that
she should have a minister in her
house for to read Protestant prayers
to her household, albeit herself, being
bedridden, did not attend ; and if he
should now stir in this matter, all hope
would be at an end. So he left me,
and I returned to the parlor, and Kate
and Polly declared my behavior to
them not to be over and above civil ;
but they supposed when folks were in
love, they had a warrant to treat their
friends as they pleased. Then finding
me very dull and heavy, I ween, they
bethought themselves at the last of
going to visit their mother in her bed,
and paying their respects to their &-
ther, whom they found asleep in his
chair, his prayer-book, with which he
was engaged most of the day, lying
open by his side. Polly kissed his
forehead, and then the picture of our
Blessed Lady in the first page of this
much-used volume; which sudden
acts of hers comforted me not a little.
Muriel came out of her mother's
chamber to greet them, but would not
suffer them to see her at this unex-
pected time, for that the least change
in her customable haUts disordered

her; and then whispered to me that
she had oflen asked for Mistress
Ward, and complained of her absence.

At the last Sir' Ralph came, but not
Mr. Lacy, who he said was tired with
his long ride, and had gone home to
bed. Thereupon Kate began to weep ;
for she said she would not go without
him to this fine ball, for it was an un-
becoming thing for a woman to be
seen abroad when her husband was at
home, and a thing she had not yet
done, nor did intend to do. But that
it was a very hard thing she should
have been at the pains to dress her-
self so handsomely, and not so much
as one person to see her in this fine
suit ; and she wished she had not been
BO foolish as to be persuaded to it, and
that Polly was very much to blame
therein. At the which, 'T fiiith, I
think so too," Polly exclaimed ; " and
I wish you had stayed in the country,
my dear."

Eiite's pitiful visage and whineful
complaint moved me, in my then ap-
prehensive humor, to an unmerry biit
not to be resisted fit of laughter, which
she did very much resent ; but I must
have laughed or died, and yet it made
me angry to hear her utter such la-
mentations who had no true cause for
displeasure.

When they were gone, — she, still
shedding tears, in a chair Sir Ralph
sent for to convey her to Gray's Inn
Lane, and he and Polly in their
coach to Mrs. Yates's, — the relief I
had from their absence proved so
great that at first it did seem to ease
my heart. I went slowly up to mine
own chamber, and stood tiiere a while
at the casement looking at the quiet
sky above and the unquiet ci^ beneath
it, and chiefly in the distant direction
where I knew the prison to be, pictur-
ing to myself my father in Ids bare
cell. Mistress Wwd regaining her ob-
scure lodging, Mr. Watson's danger-
ous descent, and mostly the boat wMch
Basil was to row, — ^that boat freight-
ed with so perilous a burthen. These
scenes seemed to rise before mine
eyes as I remained motionlessi strain-

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Facts and Mcttans ahaut Some.

825

ing their sight to pierce the darkness
of the night and of the fog which hung
over the town. When the clock struck
twelve, a shiver ran through me, for I
thought of the like striking at Lynn
Court, and what had followed* Upon
which I betook myself to my prayers,
and thinking on Basil, said, ^ Speak
for him, O Blessed Virgin Mary I
Entreat for him, O ye apostles I
Make intercession for him, all ye
martyrs ! Fray for him, M ye con-
lessors and all ye company of heaven,
that my prayers for him may take ef-

fect before our Lord Jesns Christ!**
Then my head waxed heavy with
sleep, and I sank on the cushion of
my kneeling-stooL I wot not for how
many hours I slumbered in this wise ;
but I know I had some terrible
dreams.

Wben I awoke it was daylight A
load knocking at the door of the
house had aroused me. Before I had
well bethought me where I was, Mu-
riel's white face appeared at my door.
The pursuivants, she said, were come
to seek for Mistress Ward.

[to VM OOKTOrUSD.]

^ From The Literary Workman.

PACTS AND FICTIONS ABOUT ROME.

BY THE VBBT RJtV. DB. NORTHCOTB.

THE nOULS PEOPLE.

It is a relief to tum from the dull,
stupid, false witness of our own coun-
trymen to the more lively but not less
malicious falsehoods of the clever
Frenchman, Monsieur About He de-
serves a higher rank, too, in the scale of
truthfblness as well as of talent than
either Mr. Fullom or Dean Alford;
but on this very account he is the
more dangerous enemy. He handles
his pen well, and he has the fatal gift
of insinuating the poison he wishes to
administer in the minutest quantities,
bat with consummate skiU. Often it is
contained in a single word or phrase,
dropped apparently at random. Some-
times yon can hardly point out a sin-
gle statement that is really false, yet
a certam tone and flavor pervades the
whole which you feel to be unjust,
and which is all the more injurious
because of its extreme subtlety and the
difficulty of providing an antidote. An
air of moderation is thus imparted to
his book, which, if we may judge by
its laritj, it is not easy to maintain

when writing upon this subject He
does not paint either the Pope or his
people all black, but sees much to
commend both in the system and the
results of the government Indeed,
some of his descriptions are, in our
judgment, as just as they are graphic
Take, for example, the following de-
scription of the lower orders of the
Roman people, the genuine pleh :

" The noble strangers who do Rome
in their carriages are but slightly ac-
quainted with the little world of which
I am going to speak, or more proba-
bly form a veiy false judgment about
them. They remember to have been
worried to death by blustering/acc^tW
(porters) and followed by indefatiga-
ble beggars. They saw nothing but
hands open to receive; they heard
nothing but harsh voices screamuig
forth a petition for alms. Behind this
curtain of mendicity are concealed
nearly a hundred ti^ousand persons
who are poor without being idle, and
who labor hard for a scanty supply of

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326

I\xct8 and Fictions ahotU Rome*

dailj bread. The gardeaers and vLne->
di*essers who caltivate -part of the en-
virons of Rome ; workmen, arlizans,
servants, coachmen, studio models,
peddlers, honest vagabonds who wait
for their supper on some miracle of
Providence or some luckj chance in
the lottery, compose the majority of
the population. They manage to
struggle through the winter, when
visitors sow manna over the land ; in
summer they starve. Many are too
proud to ask for an alms, not one o^
them is rich enough to refuse it, if
offered. Ignorant and curious ; simple,
yet subtle; sensitive to excess, ydt
without much dignity ; extremely pru-
dent in the main, yet capable of the
most outrageous pieces of impru-
dence ; going to extremes both in de-
votedness and in hate ; easy to move,
difficult to convince ; more susceptible
of feelings than of ideas ; sober by
habit, terrible when intoxicated ; sin-
cere in practices of devotion the moat
outri^ but as ready to quarrel with the
saints as with men; persuaded that
they have but little to hope for in this
life ; comibrted from time to time by
tlie prospect of a better, they live in
a state of quiet, grumbling resignation
under a paternal government which
gives them bread when there is bread
to give. The inequalities of rank,
which are more conspicuous in Rome
than in Paris (?), do not move them
to hatred. They are satisfied with
the mediocrity of their lot, and con-
gratulate themselves that there are
rich men in the world, that so the
poor may have benefactors. No peo-
ple are less capable of managing
themselves, so that they are easily led
by the first who presents himself.
They have borne a part in all the Ro-
man revolutions, and many have ac-
quitted themselves manfully in the
fight witliout having the least idea
what it was about. They trusted so
little to the republic that, in the ab-
sence of all the authorities, when the
Holy Father and the Sacred College
had taken refuge at Gaeta, thirty poor
families quartered themselvets in Car-

dinal Antonelli's palace^ without
breaking a single pane of glass. The
restoration of the Pope, under the
protection of a foreign army, was no
matter of astibnishment to them ; they
had expected it as a happy event
which would restore public tranquillity.
They live at peace with our soldiers^
when the latter do nothing against the
peace or honor of their households ;
and the occupation of their city by a
foreign army does not trouble them,
except when they are personally in-
convemenced by it. They are not
afraid to plunge a dagger into the
breast of a conqueror, but I wUl an-
swer for their never celebrating any
Sicilian Vespers.

"They pride themselvea on their
descent in a direct line from the Ro-
mans of great Rome ; and these harm-
less pretensions seem to me to have a
very tolerable foundation. Like their
ancestors, they eat largely of bread,
and are very greedy after sights ; they
treat their wives simply as women,
not leaving a single farthing at their
disposal, but spending it all on them-
selves ; every one of them is the cli-
ent of some client of a patrician. They
are well-built, strong, and able to deal
%uch a blow as would astonish a buf-
falo ; but there is not one of them who
is not on the lookout for some means
of living without work. Excellent
workmen when they haven't a farth-
ing, impossible to be got hold of as
soon as they have a crown in their
pockets ; good, honest, kindly, and sim-
ple-hearted folks, but thoroughly con-
vinced of their superiority to the rest
of mankind. Economical to the last
degree, and living on dry peas, until
they can find some splendid occasion
for spending all their savings in a
day ; they gather sou$ by sous, two or
three pounds in the course of the year^
to hire the balcony of some prince at
the carnival, or to show themselves
in a carriage at the feast dd Ditin
'Amove, It is thus the Roman popu-
lace forget both the future and the
past m SaturTMdia. The hereditary
want of forethought which possesses

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Facts and FieHans about Rome.

327

them maj be explained by the irr^a-
laritj of their resources, the pejriod-
ical return of ftfias which exempt
them from labor, and the impossibilitj
of raising themselyes to anj higher
condition, save by the intervention of
a miracle. They are deficient in
many virtues, and, amongst others, in
refinement, which formed no part of
the inheritance to which they have
succeeded. That in which they cer-
tainly are not deficient is dignity and
self-respect. They never demean
themselves to low, coarse jokes, or vul-
gar debauchery. You will never see
them insult a gentleman in the streets,
unprovoked, or speak an offensive
word to a woman. That class of de-
graded beings which we call the car
natUe is absolutely unknown here; the
ignoble is not a Eoman commodity."

Here is another testimony of a simi-
lar kind, &om the same pen, to the
character of one particular class of
the Roman people, the Trastevimi,
or people who dwell on the northern
side of the Tiber. M. About invites
his readers to accompany him to one
of the osterte or public houses of the
quarter where blacksmiths, and shoe-
makers, and weavers, and hackney-
coachmen, etc, together with their
wives and daughters, resort on Sun-
day, to enjoy a better dinner and a
more generous fiask of wine than
they can afford themselves during the
week. The entrance is not inviting,
and there are not many foreigners,
or English gentlemen either, who
would like to ventm*e, as a mere mat-
ter of curiosity, and without any press-
ing necessity, into the corresponding
establishments of either France or
England. M. About is weU aware of
this, so he encourages his readers,
bidding them fear nothing ; ^you shall
dine well," he says, '* and nobody shall
dine upon you."

^ *^ You shall see men here strong as
bulls and quite as irascible ; men who
thmk as little of giving a blow as you
or I of drinking a glass of water, and
who never stnke without having a
knife in their hands. The police will

be nowhere near to protect us ; they
are always out of the way. Beside,
if you were to offend one of these
jolly fellows, he would kill you,
though you were in the very arms of
the police. Nevertheless you may
come and go in the midst of them,
spend lots of money, pay in gold,
make your purse jingle in ihe hearing
of all, and go home after midnight
through the darkest streets, without
any one dreaming of making an at-
tempt on your purse. More than this :
we shall be poUtely received, and they
will put themselves out of the way to
make room for us. They will not stare
at us, as though we were wild beasts ;
they will even obligingly gratify our
curiosity, if it is not impertinent We
need not fear that wine will excite
them to pick a quarrel with us ; but
woe betide us if we have the misfor-
tune to provoke them. They are not
aggressive when they are in liquor,
but they are very sensitive. They
forgive no offence, even an involun-
tary one, if it has exposed them to the
raillery of their companions. Wlien
you see a woman with her husband,
or a girl with her father, put a bridle
on your eyes. It is often dangerous
even to cast a furtive glance on a
Trasteverina ; and I have known more
than one instance in which the offend-
er has paid the penalty with his life.**
I dare say some of our readers
are a little disappointed at the sketch
of the character of the Roman people
which we have given on the authority
of M. About. They would rather
have heard us say they were all good
and pious and edifying members of
society and of the Church. Indeed
we have known some zealous souls
who expected to find Rome a sort of
monastery on a large scale, where
worldly passions and mortal sins were
never heard of, except among the
hardened and rebeUious few; and
even the imperfections of ordinary
mortals were rarely met with, and as-
sumed some character of special enor-
mity. Rome seems to have the gift
which, from the Catholic point of view,

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328

Facts and Fictions abatU Same.

we should naturallj expect it to have,
ylz^ of stirring the affection of men's
hearts in their lowest depths more
powerfully than in any other place in
the world. As our divine Master
himself was " set for the ruin as well
as for the resurrection of many in Is-
rael, and for a sign which should be
contradicted,'' so the capital of his
Church upon earth — the seat of his
vicegerent — ^that city where his inter-
ests take precedence of every earthly
consideration, and the world is* made
to wait upon the Church, not the
Church upon the world, inspires the
strongest possible sentiment of love or
of hatred into the minds of all ; and
where these feelings are strong, it is
hard to keep the exact balance of
impartial truthftdness. What we love
intensely, we naturally like to picture
to ourselves as faultless and perfect ;
and even if we cannot do this — ^if we
are conscious of defects and faults,
which cannot be denied, we still wish
to conceal them as long as possible
from others. What bitter hatred and
prejudice can do in the way of blind-
ing men's eyes and closing men's ears,
we have already seen in the melan-
choly examples of Messrs. Alford and
Co. ; nor should we have far to seek
if we desired to present our readers
with specimens of exaggerated praise
dictated by the partiality of affection.
Most of us have probably met with
generous enthusiasts, who did not hes-
itate to prefer Rome to England, un-
der any conceivable iwpect, secular as
well as religious, and who would
think it as much a point of honor to
defend' the character of the Roman
soldiers for bravery, the Roman police
for activity, the Roman scavengers
for efficiency, and the Roman people
for industry and honesty, as of the
Roman clergy for integrity of faith
and purity of morals, and the Roman
government for justice tempered with
clemency. Such persons are very
amiable friends, but somewhat embar-
rassing allies ; and writers, very infe-
rior to M. About, have no difficulty in
destroying their well-meant but ill-

planned system of defence. M. Aboat
himself is much too wise to fall into this
blunder of unmitigated extravagance,
from his side of the question ; and we
have been glad,ltherefi:)re,to avail our-
selves of his clever and spirited
sketches to lay before our readers
what we really believe to be a very
tolerable estimate of the true state of
the case. It is certainly no article of
the faith to believe the Romans to be
impeccable, or the Roman character
in itself to be the ideal of human
perfection ; and we hope our devotion
to the Holy See will not be called in
question for the avowal. We have
already quoted the testimony of a
Protestant traveller, who acknow-
ledges the strongly-marked character
of religion which stamps the whole
city of Rome ; but this, of com:se, is
not incompatible with the existence of
much that is evil, against which this
religious element is always contending.
We will add yet one more passage
from About, which concerns the gener-
al character of the country people,
rather than of the inhabitants of the
metropolis. We have spent several
months, at various times, in more than
one Italian village, and have been
greatly edified by the simplicity and
piety of the people. They were guilt-
less, for the most part, of any political
knowledge even as to the affidis of
their own country; and as to any
other country beside their own, it was
as far removed from their ordinary
range of thoughts as Mars, Venus, and
Saturn still are from the thoughts of
our own peasantry. They rose early
and worked hard ; still, as M. About
is obliged to acknowledge, one cannot
say of them— " as of the Irish, for ex-
ample," says M. About — "that they
are miserable. They are poor, and
that is all. The fact &at their religion,
their schooling, and their medical at-
tendance costs them nothing, compen-
sates to a certain degree for the
heavy taxation they suffer in other
ways. Their labor in the fields keeps
them alive till old age. Tkey pass
their life in earning their KveUhood*

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Facts (xnd IKcHam about Rome.

d29

The existence of this class resembles
a vicions circle.'* No doubt it does to
those whose view of things is limited
to this world, and who cannot recog-
nize any end or reward of the suffer-
ing of this life beyond it. But the
Romans, as he himself acknowledges,
" know how to die. This is a trait
in their character which justice obliges
us to recognize. The/ die as they eat,
or drink, or sleep — quite naturally,
simply, and as a matter of course.
This resignation is to be explained by
their hopes of a life of happiness in an
ideal world hereafter, and by the con-
tinual admonitions of a religion which
teaches that all men must die.** In
other words, the Roman peasantry
believe the Gospel; and so they ac-
cept with patience the primeval bur-
den laid upon fallen man — ^*In the
sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread
till thou return to the earth, out of
wbich thou wast taken." And for this
they earn the contemptuous pity of
the enlightened Frenchman. We ac-
cept his testimony, whilst we disclaim
his commentary and detest his spirit.
We think he speaks truly when he
seizes on this characteristic of the Ro-
man popular mind — familiarity with
the idea of death. We know of no
people to whom this and other truths
of the faith seem to be more habitually
present It gives a color and a tone
to their ordinary conversation, even
where it does not bring forth fhiits of
sanctity. We have ourselves heard of
a Roman lady reconciling herself to a
marriage which was proposed to her,
and which in some respects was not
inviting, simply by a consideration of
the piety of the intended bridegroom ;
bat this consideration found expression
in a truly Roman way, quite in keep-
ii^ with what M. About has observed
about them. " He is not lively, I
know,** said the lady, ^ nor handsome,
nor clever, but he is pious, and mU
make a good encU* And in a charm-
ing little book lately published (" Sanc-
tity in Home Life") we see another
Italian lady, the Countess IfEedolago,
confiding to a Mend her only idea of

her future husband much in the same
spirit : ^ All that I kaow is that he is
pious and very fond of the Jesuits."

THE POLITICS OF THE SOMAN PEOPLE.

The facts we have adduced, tli
pictures we ^ave drawn— or rathei
which M. About, a bitter enemy of the
Papal power, has drawn — of the con-
dition of the Roman people, ought,
one would think, to have great weight
with those who have any real care for
the well-being of a nation. A man
must be firmly wedded indeed to some
political crotchet, who is ready to risk
the loss of such advantages as these in
exchange for the realization of his
dreams. But in truth it is the hatred
of Catholicism, rather than the love of
any political principle, which lies at
the root of most of the declamation we
hear against the abuses of the Papal
government. Why is it else that those
gentlemen who profess so lively a con-
cern that the political liberties of three
millions of Italians should suffer some
abridgment for the sake of upholding
the Father of Christendom in the inde-
pendent exercise of his spiritual pow-
er, are yet able to bear with the ut-
most equanimity the sight of real cru-
elty and oppression infiicted upon ten
millions of Christians in European
Turkey? The balance of political
power among the different European
governments is of more value in their
eyes than the spiritual supremacy of
the Pope ; peace, commerce, and wealth
depend on the one, only virtue and re-
ligion on the other.

But let us come now to the political
question, and see how it really stands.
It has been often and truly said, that
the temporal sovereignty of the Pope
rests on more legitimate foundations
than any other European sovereignty
of the day. Long possession, to be
measured not by generations but by
centuries ; donations from other pow-
ers ; the free choice of the people, all
combine to impart to the chair of
Peter a dignity and a solidity which
does not belong to any other throne.

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SdO

Fcusts and FicHont about Rome.

And if it be objected that, however
thid may have been in times past, yet
now, at least, the consent of the people
is wanting, without which the modem
creed of nations will not allow any
power to be secure, we must answer,
what has been proved to demonstra-
tion, and what every one at all con-
versant with the facts of the case well
knows to be true: that it is not in
Rome and among Romans that plots
have been hatched against the Pon-
tifical government ; a portion of the
people, the discontented, of whom
there must ever be some under every
government, have only lent themselves
to the execution of plots conceived and
planned in the secret societies or clubs,
or even the ministerial chambers, of
Turin and Genoa. Strangers have
always been at the head of every Ro-
man revolution, adventurers who find
their fortunes in troubled waters, or
fanatical politicians, who cannot endure
that any one should be happy, except-
ing according to their own receipt
So long as English politicians encour-
«n.ge agitation by their presence in the
country and frequent communications
\vith disaffected parties in it, or by.
lending their names and their houses
as the medium of correspondence or
of banking transactions between the
conspirators, or by delivering sensa-
tional speeches in the house ; so long
will the Roman mind be more or less
agitated; so long as Piedmont can
send her emissaries into all the towns
and villages, distributing money as the
reward of acquiescence in her schemes,
conspirators, even among the Romans
themselves, will not be wanting ; but if
all these things could be removed, and
the question were lefl to the settiement
of the people themselves, we should
have no fear of the result. Whenever
the Popes have been driven out of
Rome, the people have hailed their re-
turn with universal acclamations of
joy, and already we are told the short
experience of the blessings of Pied-
montese rule which the Legations
have enjoyed has sufficed to make
them regret the change. The increase

of taxes and the military conscription
are a price higher than they are will-
ing to pay for the name of liberty un-
der the yoke of Victor Emmanuel.
We believe that the following account
of the political creed of the great ma-
jority of the Pope's subjects is as ac-
curate as it is moderate. We are in-
debted for it to a French ecclesiastic,
who has most gratefully followed M.
Abont through all his misstatements,
and published a complete refutation of
them. He teUs us iJiat most RomauB
are of opinion that people may be
happy or miserable under any form of
government, according to the way in
which it is administered ; that a gov-
ernment of foma kind there must be; or
disorder would be universal ; and that
the Pope being at the head of the Ro-
man government, is the cause of many
advantages: it attracts princes and
other wealthy foreigners to Rome;
sometimes seventy, eighty, or even
ninety thousand strangers at a time ;
it saves them from the scourge of
war; the operations of commerce, if
not so extensive as in some other cap-
itals, are at least more secure and
stable ; there is no financial crisis or
panic in the money market returning
ix periodical intervals, and spreading
ruin and desolation through innumer-
able families ; industry and good con-
duct, crowned by success in business,
open the way to the possession of es-
tates and tides ; the ranks of the priv-
ileged^ class itself, so to call it — ^the
clergy — ^are open to all comers ; the
great majority of lucrative offices
about the court, prelacies, bishoprics,
judgeships, etc., are given to mem-
bers of the middle cIslss, no less than
three-fourths of the cardinals (includ-
ing Cardinal AntoneUi himself) hav-
ing been chosen from among them;
that ninety-nine out of every hundred
holding office under government are
laymen ; that not more than 100
priests altogether are employed in the
administration of .secular affitirs; and
that among officials of the same rank,
a layman idways receives higher pav
than an ecclesiastic; that even in of-

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Facts and Motions about £ome.

B31

ficea which, as haying to deal with
matters of religion, might' seem &irly
to belong to ecclesiastics alone, two-
thirds of the posts are filled by lay-
men, and the salaries are divided in
about the same proportion ; that the
Popes, haying no families of their
own, are always spending their private
fortunes on public works for the good
of the country, or on the rebuilding
and decoration of churches, to the
great encouragement of the fine arts,
and the support of innumerable fami-
lies; or, finally, on schools and hos-
pitals, and other works of charity.
They know, too, that, thanks to this
liberality, the education of their chil-
dren need cost them nothing ; that
schools of all kinds are more numer-
ous (in proportion to the population)
in Rome than in any other European
capital, and these not only schools of
primary instruction for the children of
the poor, containing about 17,000
scholars, of both sexes, but also for
the middle and upper classes, 3,000
of whom receive here an education
fitted to qualify them for any pro-
fession they may prefer, quite gratu-
itously.

This we believe to be a very fair
account of the state of feeling on po-
litical matters among the majority of
the Roman people; and if it is not
satisfactory to our modem liberals,
because it ignores all their bright the-
ories and is content to forego the
blessings of representative govern-
ments and triennial parliaments, we
cumot help it We think there is an
intimate conviction in most iComan
minds that God's honor and glory, and
man's truest happiness, are more eam-
eatly sought for and more fully at-

tained in that city than elsewhere ;
and that this conviction both does, dnd
ought to, reconcile them to any politi-
cal disadvantages which such a state
of things may entail, as Mons. Yeuil-
lot has well said.

Elsewhere, man is considered prim-
arily as a power ; in Rome, he is pri-
marily a soul. At Rome, the public
manners, following more nearly the
august guidance of the Church, have
more firequently and more closely than
elsewhere approached the divine ideal
of the gospel. I know what cruel
ravages have been wrought by long
and wicked agitations, begun and fos-
tered from without; I know that
every people has its dregs, its popu-
lace ; but I know also that at Rome
this very populace is not without faith,
and I know, too, what solid Christian
virtues adorn the true Roman hearth.
Rarely or never do twenty years roll
by without Rome giving to the world
one of those heroes who devote them-
selves to the love of Grod and of souls
with the triumphant energy of sanctity.
Blest and encouraged by the Popes,
these chosen ones have always left
disciples to prolong, as it were, their
own existence, and works which have
not perished. And the enlightened
Christian conscience, despising the
empty boasts of ignorant pride, will
always assign the first place among
nations to &at which best preserves
the faith and produces the greatest
number of saints.

We are well aware that this test of
national greatness would find no favor
in the ears of an English Parliament,
but we are foolish enough to think
that there may be truth in it for all
that

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Malines and Wurzburff,

Translated from the Gennan.

MALINES AND WtlRZBURG.

k SKETCH OF THE CATHOLIC CONOBESSES HELD AT MALIKES A]n> Wt^RZEUBO.
BY ANDBEW NIBDERMASSER.

CHAFTEB m.

BdEMCE AND THE PBS88,

In the Belgian congress the pection
of science and the press do|s not treat
of the same subjects that occupy the
attention of that section in the Catho-
lic conventions in Germany. At Ma-
lines Christian instruction and educa-
tion are the principal questions debated ;
in Germany, on the other hand, the
university question is the chief subject
of discussion ; at Malines it is slimly
attended; at WUrzburg, Frankfort,
etc., on the contrary, there was a
crowded attendance, and the proceed-
ings were of the most interesting char-
acter. At Malines forty-five Catholic
journalists met and passed important
resolutions ; at Wttrzburg, more than
sixty representatives of German
science held a separate conference
and drew up an address to the Holy
Father. Even the meeting of liter-
ati held at Munich may be called the
o£&pring of the Catholic general con-
ventions. At Munich, in 1861, Pro-
fessor Michaelis proposed a scheme
planned by Dollinger for a meeting of
the German savans, which was re-
jected. Hereupon the project was
somewhat changed and a separate
meeting held at Munich. Its results
are well known.

The principal debaters in this sec-
tion of the Msdines congress were the
genial and venerable Count de YiUe-
neuve, Lenormant the daring travel-
ler, Lecheoni, Soudan, L^ger, du CU-
sieux, Ducpetiaux, Chopinet, Soenens,
Baeten, and Decoster. The presiding

officer was Nam^che, of Louvain, who,
together with de Ram, Lanny, Delooury
LaforSt, and Perin worthily repre-
sented Uie university at Louvain. His
neighbor was van der Haeghen, of
Brussels, a writer whose name is well
known, not only in Belgium bat in
foreign countries. Though an excel-
lent linguist, he deems it his first duty
to refute historical misstatements and
to expose without mercy the errors of
modem Protestant lustorians. As
Onno EHopp unsparingly demolishes
German scribblers, so van der Hae-
ghen puts down the Belgian dabblers
in history. He is intimately acquaint-
ed with Grerman literature.

The subjects that occupied the at-
tention of tlie section were popular in*
struction, the classics as a means of
mental training, the establishment of
professorships on social questions and
discipline.

On popular instruction Monseigneur
Dupanloup delivered a discourse,
which was the event of the congress,
and which has since been read by all
Europe. Count Desbassayns de
Richemout, of Paris, an orator favora-
bly^ known in Germany as the spirited
advocate of a Catholic university,
spoke on the mental activity of so-
ciety. In the Romanic world the
name of Dupanloup acts like a charm.
If a charity sermon is to be held,
which is to move and electrify Paris
and all France, the Bishop of Orleans
is called upon. In 1862, when it be-
came necessary to give a new impetoa
to the Catholic cause in the East, Du-
panloup was summoned to Rome to

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Afalines and Wurzburg.

833

call the nations of the earth to a sense'
of their duties ; thousands rushed to
hear him preach at the church of St
Andrea del GaUe. At Malines he met
with the same success. When Du-
panlonp speaks every listener glows
YnHh Catholic zeal, that becomes more
and more intense as he proceeds and
finally bursts forth in a fiery enthusi-
asm, whose influence reaches far and
wide. Such was the spectacle witness-
ed at BomCy and repeated at Paris
and Malines. One of the brightest or-
naments of the French hierarchy, Du-
panloup on every occasion expresses
the opinions of Catholic France with
irresistible force. No wonder, then,
that even the emperor fears the bish-
op's eloquence. His writings are
read by all, and admired for their
classic style. As an orator, he en-
chants the French and Belgians ; on
the Grermans, however, he exerts a
less powerfiil influence; they prefer
Montalembert, F. Hermann, or F.
FeUz. His discourse at Malines was
not, properly speaking, a discourse, but
a familiar conversation, grand and
, splendid in diction, and full of bril-
haot tarns and telling y^ux de mots.
The remarks made by Dupanloup on
August 30, when returning thanks for
his enthusiastic reception, were a mas-
terpiece of eloquence, which will never
be forgotten by those who listened to
him. The Bishop of Orleans is a
man of the people. '< I do not know
much ; but what I know best and love
best is the people." If Dupanloup's
speech was the brightest gem of ^e
congress in 1864, Montalembert, in
his speech on " Eeligious Liberty,**
eclipsed all his competitors in 1863.
Montalembert's discourse lasted five
hours, two hours longer than Dupan-
loup's speech. Montalembert and
Dupanloup are the most prominent
representatives of Catholic France,
Called by God to battle for his
Church, both are leading millions of
soldiers arrayed under the banner of
Christ to victory and triumphs. Mon-
talembert, the athlete of the tribune,
bailed by Pius IX. himself as one of

the bravest of the Christian host,
cherishes for the Church an ardent,
pure, and holy love. This love may
sometimes carry him too far. At Ma-
lines, in 1863, he laid down many prop-
ositions not approved by the congress.
The Cardinal of Malines, however,
and the Bishop of Orleans, charitably
threw a veil over every thing objection-
able, thus resolving into perfect har-
mony every tl;iing discordant. Dupan-
loup evidently Siought of his friend
Montalembert when, in his remarks
on August 30, 1864, he uttered the
words : ^ Let us not confound opinions
and principles, vital questions and do-
mestic difficulties ; among us let there
be no difierences, no disunion, no im-
prudence.'*

Count Richemont, of Paris, is a true
nobleman in appearance and bearmg ;
his black beard adds new beauty to
his handsome face and sparkling eyes.
His gestures are appropriate and
gracefuL He speaks very rapidly,
however, swallowing many words, so
that we Germans did not under-
stand him well ; in fact, we read his
speech with more pleasure than we
listened to it A more favorable im-
pression was made by Viscount Ana-
tole Lemercier, of Paris, a man of
agreeable manners, 'a true Parisian,
full of wit and humor, a graceful
speaker, who will be heard with pleas-
ure by any assembly. But, great as
are Lemercier's merits, he has a dan-
gerous rival hi Henry de Biancey,
who unites in himself every quality
required to become a general favorite.
Among the French journalists he is
one of the ablest In his opinions he
steers a middle course between the
extreme views of Montalembert and
VeuiUot, or Barrier, Faconet and
Chantrel, the oracles of the " Monde f
and " L'Union,*' the journal of which he
is the editor, occupies an intermediate
position between *^Le Monde" and
"Le Correspondant" But de Rian-
cey's labors are not confined to his
editorial sanctum; he cherishes holy
poverty, is untiring in the practice of
Christian charity, and justly deserves

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334

Malines and Wurxburg,

the title of "Father of the Poor."
These holy practices give an unction
to his woids, and throw a halo around
his person which he does not even sus-
pect, but which gains for him the hearts
of all that see or hear of him* His
(Speeches in the section of Christian
economy excited great interest^' and
when speaking on matters connected
with the Catholic faith he reminded
us of the fathers of the Church, His
discourse before the general meeting
of ihe congress, Sept. 12, 1864, was
a gem. He spoke as a soldier of
Christ, as an heroic defender of the
Churcli, showing at once that he was
a veteran, who had oflen struggled for
the triumph of principle. The fu|wre
does not inspire de Riancey with anx-
iety or fear ; he is full of hope and
confidence, believing that he lives in
an age destined to accomplish great
things. He is not discoura^^ by the
superior power of his opponents, for
he bears in mmd Christ's promise to
his Church.

When speaking, a pleasant smile
rests on de Riancey's lips, and his
features reflect the cheerful calmness
of his souL His friendly eyes charm
his listeners, who regret to see them
fixed on his manuscript, for de Rian-
cey reads his speeches. If the ap-
plause of the assembly become too
long and noisy, the speaker's face
beams with satis£eu^tion, and he grace-
fully passes his hand through his hair.
De Riancey fascinates the hearts of
all his hearers.

It is hard to say which of the many
eminent French orators at Malines
possesses most claims to our prefer-
ence. Who is the greatest orator,
Count Montalembert or Bishop Du-
panloup, de Riancey or Pfere Felix,
Viscount Lemercier, Count Riche-
mont, Viscount de Melan, Lasser^e,
or Lenormant? Each of them has
excellences peculiar to himself that
claim our admiration. In like manner,
among the g^jeat Italian masters,
Michael Angelo is first in grandeur of
style and conception; Titian is dis-
tinguished for the grace of his figures ;

Correggio for their angelic punty;
whilst Raphael merits the palm for
fertility of invention, correctness of
expression, and variety. P^re Felix,
we have already stated, pleased the
Grermans more than Bishop Dupan-
loup. His concluding discourse, de-
livered in St Rombaut's cathedral at
Malines, Sept 3, 1864, was a philo-
sophical review of ecclesiastical his-
tory ; the grandeur of its conception
well befitted the importance of the oc-
casion. . In appearance, F. Felix is
not 60 majestic as F. de Ravignan,
nor has he so powerful and sonorous
a voice as his predecessor. His dis-
courses betray less enthusiastic love of
liberty than those of F. Lacordaire,
but still he is at present the orator of
the day, no less than de Ravignan and
Lacordaire were some years ago. F.
Lacordaire, the Dominican, addressed
his words to thousands of young men,
who, carried away by the political and
literary revolutions of 1830, were
frantic with ideas of liberty, who
were attracted and tormented by the
" infinite," and panting for vague, un-
defined ideals. This yearning Lacor-
daire strove to satisfy, by pointing
out to them that Christ and his
Church were the realization of their
indefinite ideals, and by teaching them
to sanctify liberty by devotion and
sacrifice. The vast schemes of 1830
were not carried out, and their ideals
were not realized. French society
felt the vanity of its aspirations, and
was seized by a deadly lethargy, a
kind of despair, as if it had sufferer!
shipwreck. Like so many flaming
meteors F.' de Ravignan's conferences
suddenly shed a stream of light on
the universal gloom. How majestic
was his appearance, how sublime his
language, how ardent his faith, and
how holy his life ! All France listened
to the Jesuit, and seemed spell-bound.
Irreligion was banished from thousands
of hearts, and thousands returned to
the practice of their religious duties
and wero saved. The spirit of the
age took another direction ; men busi-
ed themselves exclusively with their

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Malines and Wunburg.

885

material interests, and thej thought
only of money, of steam, of machine-
ry and other hranchcs of industry.
For many years progress has been the
watchword — ^material progress — ^which
has brought about all these wonders
of modem times, which is due to hu-
man energy alone, and which, for this'
very reason, deifies itself in its pride
and threatens Christianity with de-
struction. To combat these false no-
tions, Grod raised up F. Felix. He
devoted his attention to the popular
idol, progress, but he dealt witH it in
his own way. In Lent, 1856, he began,
in the church of Notre Dame, in Paris,
bis famous conferences on *' Progress
by Means of Christianity.'* Archr
bishop Sibonr had blessed the orator
and his subject His success was as-
tounding, and henceforth F. Felix will
hold an honorable place among French
pulpit orators. F. Felix is about
fifty-five years of ^e; he has an
intelligent countenance, a noble, manly
brow, betokening a deep, penetHiting
mind, and a firm wilL Since 1856
his voice has improved, having gained
both in compass and in sweetness. It
is dear and piercing, completely fill-
ing the immense church of Our Lady
at Paris. The two discourses deliv-
ered by F. Felix at Malines (Sept.
2 and 3, 1864) are perhaps his
most finished productions. He did
not call forth any momentary burst
of enthusiasm, but produced a lasting
impression, that wUl console and
strengthen us in the struggle of life.

The university question, which has
been so prominent in Germany, was
not discussed at Malines. The Bel-
gians have had for thirty years a
Catholic university at Louvain, which
they support at a great expense, and
for the maintenance of which they
constantly struggle. The' English
speak of establislung a Catholic col-
lege at Oxford. Canon Oakley, a
learned English convert, is working
zealously Xo realize the plan, and if
Newman will agree to take the helm,
the enterprise will prosper. We
hope the project will succeed, for Eng-

lish Catholics will not send their
sons to the Catholic university at
Dublin, which does not flourish, and
numbers only some two hundred
students. In Holland a Catholic
university is not even thought of.

The interests of the Catholic press
were not neglected at Malines. Bel-
gium has done much to raise its char-
acter, as was shown by Count de
Theux. Since the congress of 1863
the Belgian journals — especially the
" Journal de Bruxelles" — have steadily
progressed. In Belgium, small as it
is, there are fifty Catholic periodicals,
some French and some Flemish. Tlie
" Journal de Bruxelles" already rivals
the Paris " Monde," and both are far .
in advance of any German journal.
At Malines the members of the press
form a section of their own, in which
the principal papers are represented
by j^eir du^ectors, editors, or corre-
spondents. The staff of the " Corre-
spondant" was represented by Count
Francis de Champagny, Viscount An-
atole Lemerciftr, and by Francis Le-
normant, the favorite of the Parisians.
" Le Monde," too, had sent its dele-
gates ; prominent among these was
Hermann Kuhn, the Berlin corre-
spondent, who contributes valuable ar-
ticles on Catholic Germany. He ap-
peared for the "Mayence Journar
also. We are already acquidnted with
de Riancey, the editor of " L'Union.**
The director of" La Patrie," published
in Bruges, Neut, was president of the
section. Although I earnestly desired
to form the personal aQiquaintance of
M. Neut, circumstances prevented it ;
but he appeared to be the leading
spirit of the section. A^ble and
obliging, liyely and ardent, he is a
flowing speaker, well fitted to take the
lead, and a bold, uncompromising
Catholic, without a trace of fogyism.
To see him is to love him. He is a
man of great practical ability, and
writes a popular style resembling that
of Ernest Zander, of Munich. Like
Zander he has grown grey in journal-
ism. The vice-presidents of the sec
tion were Count Celestm^ de Martini,

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836

Mdines cmd Wurzburg.

director of the "Journal do Brux-
elles ;" Leon Lavedan, who writes for
the " Gazette de France ;** and Las-
Berre, editor of the " Contemporain,**
well known in Grermany as a contro-
yersial writer. Lebrocquoi, editor of
" La Voix du Luxembourg," acted as
secretary. Digard of Paris took an
active part in the discussions of the
section. Spain was represented by
Enrique de Villaroya and Eduardo
Maria de Villarrazza ; Portugal by
Don Almeida. The Abb4 de Chelen
and F. Terwecoren also deserve men-
tion. Verspeyen, editor of " Le Bien
Public,** at Ghent, is one of the young-
est and most spirited journalists in
.Belgium. He is a good speaker, very
sarcastic and impressive. On his re-
commendation Casoni, of Bologna, who
has been shamefully persecuted by
the Sardinians, received a heavy sub-
sidy from the Malines congress. Lem-
mens, a very clever man, is associated
with Verspeyen in the editorship of
"Le Bien Public," which compares
with |he "Journal de Bruxelles" in
the same way as " Le Monde" and the
"Weekly Register" compare with
"Le Correspondant" and "The
Home and Foreign Review." De
HauUeville, formerly editor of the
" Universel," and at present connected
with the " Correspondanl," is one of
the best Belgian writers He is not
only a journalist, but also a thorough
historian, well versed in Grerman lit-
erature. I must not forget to men-
tion Demarteau, the editor of the
" Liege Journal ;" A. Coomans, an able
speatker, who represented the " Antwerp
Journal," and Frappier, the editor of
"L'Ami de TOrdre." Among the
English journalists the most prominent
were Simpson, a friend of Sir John
Acton, who wrote for the " Rambler"
and "Home and Foreign Review,"
and Wigley, editor of the " Weekly
Register," who writes for the " Monde"
also, a worthy rival of Coquille, Fa-
oonet, Leon Pag^, Kuhn, La Tour,
d'Aignan, and H. Yrignault. Among
the periodicals that had sent represen-
tatives to Malines were : " L'Ouvrier,"

"Le Messager de la Charite,""La
Revue Chriti^nne," " Le Journal des
ViUes et des Campagnes," "El
Diario" of Barcelona, " La Regenera-
cion" of Madrid, " L'Union" of Valen-
cia, " El Register Catolico" of Barce-
lona, "La Belgique," "La Paix,"
"Les Precis Historiques,""Le Cour-
rier de Bruxelles," " Le Moniteur de
Louvain," " L'Escaut," " Le Courrier
de la Sambre," « L'Union de Charle-
roy," " Le Nouvelliste de Verviers,"
" Le Journal de Hainaut," " L'lmpar-
tial dd Soignies," " La Gazette de
Vivelles," and several others.

The assembly consisted of forty-
five journalists, and their proceedings
^lade a favorable impression. The
gentlemen of the press knew why they
had met. It "was resolved to hold
every year a general convention of
Catholic journsdists and to establish
at Brussels an international telegraph-
ic bureau for Catholic journals, be-
cause most of the bureaus now exiist-
ing are in the hands of Jews, who fre-
quently forge untruthful telegrams.
The meeting tended to foster mutual
good feeling among the representatives
of the different journals, and resolu-
tions were passed to secure unity of
action in the Catholic press.

The managers of the " Correspond-
ant" strove to obtain the patronage of
the Malines congress by distributing a
list of contributors. Li fact, ita staff
comprises some of the most able Cath-
olic journalists, and we deem it proper
to give, the names of Bishop Dupan-
loup, the Duke d'Ayen^ the Prince de
Broglie, the Count Montalembert, the
Count Falloux, the Count de Came,
the Count de Champagny, Viscount
Lemercier, Viscount de Melun, Vicai^
Greneral Meignan, P#of. Perreyve, F.
Gratry, Villemain, de Laprade, Au-
gustine Cochin, Foisset, Leonoe de La-
vergne, Wallon, N. de Pontmartiii,
Lenormant, de Chaillard, Amedoe
Achard, Marmier, and de HauUeville.
No doubt it would be difficult to find a
greater array of talent The " Cor-
respondant" appears once a month,
making six kirge volumes per year.

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Malines and Wurzhurg,

.337

I bad been present at a meeting of
journalists connected with the second
general congress of the larger German
states held at Frankfort in October,
1864. Twenty-seven representatives
of the Grerman press attended. Many
resoluticms were passed, but not one of
them was carried out ; nay, the third
general congress of the larger German
states never convened.

The journalists of the minor Ger-
man states, also, met at Eisenach on
May 22, 1864. Thirty-four mem-
bers were present, and resolved to
meet at stated periods in order to con-
sult about the interests of the Grerman
press. A committee of delegates from
seven journals was appointed, whose
headquarters was to be at Frankfort-
on-the-Main until the next general
meeting in 1865. From the traiisac-
tion of these assemblies, it has become
evident that journalism in Germany
is still in its infancy. The German
journalists cannot compare with those
of other countries. They form no
class of their own ; they lack self-re-
spect and Mprit de corps; in short,
they are, without exception, in a la- .
mentable state of dependence, for they
are not wealthy nor do tiiey receive
becoming remuneration.

In Belgium the press is better or-
ganized ; it is not oppressed by taxa-
tion, and this is the reason why Brus-
sels alone can boast of sixty-seven
periodicals. In Belgium 10 to 1 2 francs
-wWL procure a well-written daily pa-
per, far surpassing our Grerman jour-
nals.

The Belgian journalists whom I
met at Maluies despise the Catholic
press in Germany. They reproach
us with not doing our duty, and sneer
at na for bemg duped by Jewish writ-
ers.

Journalism is an important profes-
sion, whose members should be oon-
sdentioua and honorable men. The
journalist addresses his language to
an audience far more numerous tban
the professor^Sy and at present his m-
fluenoe is, so to say, unlimited; he
reaches every part of educated sode-
V0L.n. 22

ty and sways public opinion. He is
called to be the standard-bearer of
liberty and truth. He must, therefore,
implant sound principles in the popu-
lar mind, and, ^tending above the reach
of paltry prejudice, unite in himself a
high degree of intelligence and true de-
votion to the eternal laws of the Church.
Such are the qualities which a journal-
ist should possess. Without independ-
ence, dignity, and moral freedom he
cannot do justice to the task imposed
on him by Gk)d. " JEnpavidumferient
rutnaJ*

In England, America, and Belgium,
the press wields a powerful influence ;
it has become sovereign, and is neces-
sary to the nation's life. Science feels
that unless it is diffused it is power-
less, and that the school-room is too
narrow a field ; hence it is that men
of learning make use of the press.
In Catholic Germany, on the contrary,
there are still districts where the
journalist is looked upon with a jeal-
ous eye, and where it is deemed pref-
erable to read papers written by Jews
and literary gipsies.

"Let the Church be free, let her un
fold fully her immense power, let he*
extend her influence to every grade and
station of society, and things will as-
sume a more promising aspect. Let the
Church be again respected, let her
word be heeded in the palace no less
than in the hut, let homage be paid to
her in the courts of justice and in insti-
tutions of learning, at the university no
less than at the village school, and a
new and golden era will dawn upon
us." These words, first addressed to
the German nation by its bishops, have
been repeated again and again by the
Catholic general conventions. The
Church has a right to watch over popu-
lar education and schools, but, as Mou-
fang says, she has an equally undenia-
ble title to direct the education of those
who are destined to be the leaders of
the people. The Church is the moth-
er of universities, but,*alas! most of
her daughters have forsaken her.
Germany possesses eighteen Protest-
ant universities, but she cannot boast

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338

Mahnes and Wiirzhirg,

of an equal number of Catholic insti-
tutions. The Church has been rob-
bed of her educational establishments
in the same way in which she has
been deprived of her mon^tcries and
other possessions. Of the twenty-two
German universities six only are
Catholic At the mixed universities
Catholics are by no means on a foot-
ing of equality with Protestants, and
a professor or a fellow who is a
staunch Catholic will almost certainly
fall into disgrace. The Protestant
professors number ten to one ; a great
grievance, no doubt.

Even previous to 1848, far-sighted
men were penetrated with the neces-
sity of establishing a purely Catholic
university. But since the emphatic
approval of the scheme by the episco-
pal council of Wiirzburg, in 1848,
the Catholic conventions have dis-
played a lively interest in the plan
and have done all in their power to
further its realization. At Regens-
burg (1849), Mayence (1851), MUn-
ster (1852), Vienna (1853), and
Linz (1856), it received the fullest
consideration. < The convention of
liinz recommended in the warmest
terms the restoration of the uhiversity
of Salzburg. This recommendation
was repeated by the Salzburg conven-
tion in 1857, which requested the
prince^rchbishop of Salzburg, Baron
von Farnoczky, to undertake this
affair, so important to Grermany. At
Salzburg the debates on this question
were very stormy, because Innsbruck
claimed the preference. In fact, the
university of Innsbruck has been
much better attended of late years.

But the most decisive steps in tliis
regard were taken by the convention
of Aix-la-Chapelle. Prof. MSller, of
Louvain, delivered an eloquent * dis-
course on the establishment of the
Louvain university! In glowing
words he represented to the assem-
bly how, on the opening of the first
course of lectures at Malines, in 1834,
but eighty-six students followed the
course, how the number of students
increased in 1885 to 26! and the fol-

lowing year to 360, whilst at the pres-
ent day the three state universities to-
gether number 800 students less than
Louvain alone! He spoke of the
generosity of the Belgians, of their
yearly subscriptions, and of their col-
lections, to which even the poorest
contribute their mite. He reminded
them that the Louvain professors are
among the most distinguished for men-
tal activity, and that they form men of
principle, who honorably fulfil the de-
signs of God upon them. "And is
it impossible for the great Catholic
German nation to do what four mil-
lions of Belgians have accomplished ?
Follow the example thus set you;
German laymen, raise your voices,
and shrink not before difficulties or
obstacles. Impossible — ^the word is
unworthy of Germans!" By this
speech of the noble Moller the assem-
bly was aroused, and its members
were ready to undergo every sacrifice
in order to realize their plans. On
the following day, when the convention
had met in secret session, Theising, of
Wareniorf, brought up the university
' question, and a debate followed, in
which Baron von Andlaw, of Frei-
burg, Schnlte, of Prague, Count Bran-
dis, of Austria, Thissen, of Frankfort,
Moller, of Louvain, and Heinrich, of
Mayence, participated. It was at
first proposed to appoint a committee,
which was to exert itself energetically
in favor of the project. Councillor
Phillips, Baron Felix von Loe, Count
Brandis, Baron Henry von Andlaw,
Chevalier Joseph von Buss, and Baron
Wilderich von Ketteler, were appoint-
ed members of the committee and
their nomination received with ap-
plause. The motion also provided
for the collection of the money neces-
sary to establish the university. A
wordy discourse followed, but no defi-
nite conclusion was arrived at, when
Baron von Andlaw struck the right
chord.. " I will give $500 for the es-
tablishment of a Catholic university,'*
he exclaimed. "I will give $500
more," cried Councillor Phillips o£
Vienna, «I subscribe $300," said

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MaUnes and Wurzburg,

8S9

Zander, of Munich. Count Richemont,
of Paris, next ascended the tribune,
addressed a few enthusiastic words to
the assembly^ and subscribed $500.
He was rapidly followed by Counts
Spee, Loe, Scl^lasbe^g, Stolberg,
Hoensbroich, Brandis, and many other
nobles from the Ehenlsh provinces
and Westphalia, who came forward
with generous contributions. Prof.
Schulte, of Prague, and Canon Mou-
fang each subscribed a thousand flor-
ins. Dumortier, of Brussels, Prisac,
of Aix-la-Chapelle, Martens, of Pelp-
lin, Thymus, Bachem, and Pastor
Be^er also gave solid proofs of their
interest in the enterprise. In a short
time the subscriptions amounted to
$7,000, and at Wurzburg, in 1864,
$30,000 had already been subscribed.
The scene at Aix-la-Chapelle was
more impo^g than any other that
marked the sixteen general conventions
of the Catholic societies in Grermany.
Joy and enthusiasm were depicted on
every countenance, and hope filled
€very breast The whole of Catholic
Germany shared in these feelings ; for
there was now substantial reason for
believing in the ultimate success of
the university scheme. True, sub-
scriptions did not continue to pour in
so rapidly as at Aix-la-Chapelle,
and tiie nobility of southern Ger-
many, in particular, were very remiss
in performing their duty. To collect
$7,000,000 IS no easy task, especially
as the German clergy have been de-
prived of almost all their possessions,
whilst the mass of the people show
little zeal for the undertaking. Still
the agitation of this question has been
productive of great good to Catholicity
in Germany, for it has inspired all of
us with redoubled zeal and energy.
The Catholies have begun to claim
their just rights and to insist upon
them till they are granted. As the
Rhenish Westphalian nobility have
demanded the restoration* of the old
Catholic university of Mttnster, so in
Bavaria, where there is a purely
Protestant university, the Catholics
flhoold urge the establishment of a

Catholic one, for it is our first duty,
as was remarked by Schulte at Aix-
la-Chapelle in 1862, and by Moufang
at Wurzburg in 1864, to insist tliat
universities which were founded by
Catholics should retain their original
chai-acter. In mixed universities, the
Catholic professors will, henceforth,
strain every nerve to secure true
equality. Where this eqaality is
trampled under foot, they will protest
and demand their rights. The pro-
fessors will be supported by the Cath-
olic students, who were ably repre-
sented at Frankfort and Wurzbui'g
by AnschUtz and Baron Dr. von
Hertling. Do not the Catholics out-
number the Protestants in Germany ?
No one knew Germany and its tribes
better than Frederick B^hmer, of
Frankfort, and he always maintained
that the CathoUcs can boast of ad
many able men as the Protestants,
and that southern Grermany, far from
being inferior, surpasses the northern
races in mental abilities. To carry
out the programme laid down above
will require our best energies, but we
must, moreover, found a new university
a purely Catholic and free institution,
untrammelled by state dictation, and
entirely under the direction of the
Church. To do this the bishops, the
nobles, and the clergy must use tlieir
best endeavors ; but the professors, too,
must do their share, and not look on
with cold indifference, as is the case
with most of them. If the state en-
croaches unceasingly on the rights of
the Church in the realms of science,
and if its tyranny persistently op-
presses the most able votaries of sci-
ence because they are Catholics, why
should we not rely on ourselves,
and seek strength in union ? There
is neither truce nor rest for us until
we are not only equal but superior to
our opponents in every branch of
science.

Since its organization, two yearvS
ago, the university committee has done
all in its power to promote the good
cause. One of the most zealous mem-
bers is the young Prince Charles, of

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840

Malines <md Wurzburg,

Lowenstein-WeiiUieim, who has been
Babstituted for the deceased Ck>iuit
Brandis.

Gaoon MoafiGuig, of Majence, spoke
on the university question at WUrz-
burg in 1864. Of all the members of
the convention he was best fitted to
do justice to the subject Since 1848
Dr. Moufimg has been present at al-
most every one of the sixteen general
conventions, and whatever good has
been accomplished by them he has
promoted and encoum^^ed. Connect-
ed with most of the Catholic move-
ments of our age, he understands the
feelings of his CathoUc countrymen
and knows how to give forcible and
opportune expression to them; at
times his woids are irresistible, like
the mountain torrent. At Munich he
delivered a discourse on the Holy
Father and his difficulties ; in Aix-la-
Chapelle he thundered against the
want of principle and of true manli-
ness which distinguishes our times;
at Frankfort he ridiculed anti-Catholic
prejudices, and at Wiirzbui^ he con-
vinced his hearers of the necessitj of
a Catholic university. But the school
question, also, and the relations be-
tween capital and labor, he has lately
treated in an admurable manner. ^ 11
fatU Sire de tan tempt^ is Moufang's
motto, and hence he is one of the rep-
resentative men of public opinion in
Catholic Germany, and when he com-
bats the enemies of the Church the
advantage is always on his side. On
the nineteenth of December, 1864, Dr.
Moufang celebrated the twentj-fiflh
anniversary of his ordination. Hun-
dreds of priests from the dioceses of
Mayence, Limburg, and Freiburg were
present on this solemn occasion, which
they will cherish for ever in their
memory. Dr. Moufang's name imme-
diately suggests that of Canon Hein-
rich. They are a "jwir nchiU fro-
truwP in litentnre as well as in public
life, emulating the example of Raess
and Weiss and of Axignstcis and Peter
Beichensperger. At the age of thir-
ty, after promoting the organization of
the first genend convention at May-

ence, Dr. Heinrich was appointed sec-
retary of the national council held at
Wttraburg in 1848. Since 1848 he
distinguished himself at almost ail the
general conventions by his activity and
the zeal he displayed in furthering
every Catholic enterprise. He is equal-
ly active in the committees, in the se-
cret and in the open sessions. He is not
only a fkvorite speaker, but also a
skilful controversialist and a journal-
ist of no mean ability. He published
the best reply to Renan, and afl a
theologian and jurist he is able to cope
with any adversary.

Pro£ Hafinor is the worthy col-
league of Mou&ng and Heinrich.
He cultivates th9 science which Aris-
totle and Plato pronounced the sub-
limest of all sciences — philosophy.
But Haffner is a phikwoj^ier who is
intelligible even to ordinary mortals ;
he nudkes a practical use of his know-
ledge, and is a favorite at the Rhenish
dubs. In fact, there is no reason why
he should not be so. His speeches are
instructive, sublime in conception, and
well writt^i. The details are well
arranged and he has due r^ard for
literary perspective. His incompara*
ble humor is unmixed with biting sar-
casm, and his figures are exquisitely
beautiM. • Haffiier^s speeches are
perfect gems. Long may you live,
noble son of Suabia !

The Mayence delegates form an
attractive group, and they all work
right earnestly for the success of the
conventions. Beside those already
noticed, I shall mention Dr. Hirschel,
canon of the cathedral, who presided
at the first general meeting of the
Christian art unions at Cologne in
1856; Monsignore Count Max von
Gralen, who delivered an elegant dis-
course on the Blessed Virgin at Aix-
la-Chapelle ; Professors Holzammer
and Hundhausen, profound schoUrs;
Frederic Schneidier, president of the
young men's associations in the dio-
cese of Mayence ; and Falk, president
of the social clubs or casinos.

Councillor Phillips, of Vienna, Is
generally chosen chairman of the eeo-

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Maitnes and Wurzhurg,

tion of science and the press. Bichly
does he deserve this distmcdon, for
Phillips is an ornament to German
literature, and his work on canon law
is a ^monumerUum aare perenmw^'
which will be numbered among the
German 'classics. On the Catholic
press, too, Phillips has conferred a
great benefit, for, in ooigunction with
Jareke and Joseph von Gorres,
he founded the '< Historico-Political
Journal,'' of Munich, which he edited
for a long time, assisted by Guido
Grorres. Being sent as a delegate to
the Frankfort Parliament, Phillips
was numbered among the men of ^ the
stone house ;" that is to say, he belongs
ed to the GathoUc party, and became
the associate of Dollinger, Lasaulx,
Sepp, Fdrser, Geritz, Dieringer, Von
Badly, and otiiers who took an active
part in the debate on the relations
between church and state. Since
1862 Phillips has been chairman of
the committee on the establishment of
the Catholic university. The speeches
of the learned professor were remark-
able for the force of their arguments
and the clearness of their ideas. His
committee reports are to the point,
and he presides with tact and
ability.

Privy Councillor Bingseis deliver-
ed telling speeches at Aix-la-Chapelle
and Munich ; at Frankfort and Wiirz-
burg he did not make his appearance,
being already too mudli bowed down
by age. Rmgseis was bom in 1785.
In the literary world he occupies a
prominent position ; but he has always
been more successfhl as an orator than
as a writer. His appearance is in-
spiring, his words enthusiastic. The
simplicity of his heart, his pleasing
cordiality, and the unchanging fresh-
ness of his intellect, endear him to all
with whom he comes in contact ; yet
he is one of the men who have brave-
ly weathered aU the storms of our age.
He resembles an oak that proucUy
withstands every hurricane.

Baron von Mby was president of
the Wiirzburg convention. From
1832 to 1837 he lectured on consti-

tutional and international laws, and
from 1887 he was for ten years pro-
fessor at Munich, at a time when the
feme of the Munich university attract-
ed hundreds of young men to the
Bavarian capital, when all Germany
knew that there was a great Catholic
university at Munich, and when, in
the words of Moufeng, ** Grorres, Rings-
eis, Dollinger, Mohler, Slee, Phillips,
Moy, Windischmann, and their col-
leagues, formed the central group of
Catholic Munich." Baron von Moy
presided at Wttrsbnrg with much tact
and success. Age has already made its
mroads, but his voice is still rich and
agreeable. He is untainted by the
ungenial formality of our German
professors. In him solid piety is
coupled with affability, cordiality, and
benevolence, and adorned by true
Catholic cheerfulness.

The Catholic professors, on the
whole, have taken little interest in
these conventions, because the majori-
ty of them are unacquainted with
real life. There are exceptions, how-
ever, such as those mentioned above.
Schulte, of Prague, also, has displayed
a laudable zeal in every convention
until 1862. He favors true progress,
and earnestly wishes the Catholics
not only to rival but surpass the Prot-
estants in every respect. Sometimes he
is a little too exacting in his demands ;
his expressions are rather strong, and
his strictures on abuses are not suffi-
ciently tempered with moderation.
Schulte is no visionary, for he is thor-
oughly acquainted with the state of the
Church, but he is carried away by a
burning zeal, a kind of holy anger.
Hermann Mtlller, professor at the
Wiirzburg university, a jurist and
philologer, and formeriy well known
as a journalist, was the most handsome
member of the Wiirzburg convention,
and his magnificent beard attracted
universal attention. The university
was likewise represented by Profes-
sors Contzen and Ludwig and by Dr.
Wirsing. Long continued study has
left its traces on the features of Prof.
Yering, of Heidelberg, but it has not

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34»

Malinss and WUrzhurg.

hardened his heart against the claims
of the Catholic cause.

At WUrzburg sixty-three professors
and authors signed an address and
sent it to the Holy Father. In it they
declare their readiness to submit un-
conditionally to the decision of the
Holy See regarding the meeting of
the German Uteratu I cannot refrain
from saying a few words on this meet-
ing) especially as it may be said to
have originated in the general conven-
tions. In facty the sensation caused
by the Wurzburg meeting has by no
means subsided. I have lying before
me Dollinger's " Discourse on the Past
and Present of Catholic Theology,"
and criticisms on it by the Mayence
« Katholik," the Paris "Monde," and
the "Civiltk Cattolica;" also Pi-qf.
Hergenrother's speech at Wiirzburg on
meetings of European scholars, the
pamphlet of Prof. Michelis. of Brauns-
berg, and a cutting reply in the Nov-
ember number of " Der Katholik." To
these I may add the papal brief to the
Archbishop of Munich (December 21,
1863), the despatch of Cardinal An-
tonelli to the nuncio at Munich (July
5, 1864 j, and the letter of tlie Holy
Father to Professors Hergenrother and
Denzinger, dated October 20, 1864. I
fear the matter will take a disagree-
able turn, and that our learned profes-
sors will bring themselves into diffi-
culty. No doubt there is much truth
in Hergenrother's reflections on his
colleagues : " All our learned men are
not as prudent as they should be; they
have not sufficient tact, and are want-
ing in knowledge of the actual state
of things ; many a professor in his
sanctum acquires ideas wholly at va-
riance with real life.**

The Catholic general conventions
will not alter their character in order
to busy themselves with purely scien-
tific concerns ; in short, it cannot be-
come a congress of learned men, nor
a substitute for such a congress.
Fully persuaded of this fact, Prof.
Denzinger declared, in the most ex-
plicit terms, that the meeting of the
German Uteraii was independent of

the sixteenth general convention, which
was nowise responsible for its doing£>.

Moreover, it is a fact to be borne ia
mind, that the Holy See has not for-
bidden such meetings, that the Ger-
man bishops do not wish them to be
interfered with, and that no Catholic
party, as Michelis says, has intrigued
to prevent them.

If, in spite of all this, the matter
does not prosper, the learned men
alone arc to blame. It seems to be
extremely difficult to prevent dissen-
sions among men who devote them-
selves to different branches of science,
to unite in the bonds of friendship
and concord the disciples of the spec-
ulative, the historical, and the practical
sciences. If I belonged to the class
of men of which I am speaking, I
would express my opinions more
fully. Why did not the illustrious
theologians of Tubingen deign to
come to Munich in 1863 ? Why i*
there so slim an attendance (^ Ger-
man professors at the Catholic con-
gresses ? Why do the representatives
of sciences so intimately connected re-
main estranged from each other? A
closer union would bring about renew -
ed activity, prejudices would be dis-
pelled, the jealous reserve with which
we now meet on every side would
give way to a more healthy state of
things, and youthful genius would bo
encour^ed by the conviction that they
are stayed and supported by men of
experience and acknowledged merit.

Will the congress of 1863 remain
a fragment, as the general meeting of
the art unions in 1857 ? We hope not.
The best rejoinder to all that has been
said on such meetings would be a gen-
eral European congress of all learned
Catholics, at Brussels, Greneva, or
Frankfort — attended by DoUinger,
Phillips, and Alzog, as the represen-
tatives of Germany ; by Perin, Del-
cour, and de Ram; by Newman, Oak-
ley, Acton, and Robertson ; by Meig-
nan,' Montalembert, and Rio, and by
the Italians Nardi, Cantu, and Oir
soni. The union between the civilix*
ed nations of Europe is becoming

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Malines caid Wurzburg,

843

closer day by day; mil our scholars
alone remain stationary and isolated ?
If they follow this course, the day of
retributictfi will soon arrive.

Foremost among the promoters of
scientific progress, during the second
half of the nineteenth century, stands
a Catholic prince, King Maximilian
II. of Bavaria. History tells of few
princes who have so hberally patron-
ized men of science. With royal
munificence he has founded and en-
dowed institutions of learning and
fostered scientific enterprise. He will
always be praised as one of the most
generous patrons of- German science,
and in the history of literature and
science will occupy an honorable posi-
tion. Unfortunately, however, the
ideas of the noble prince were not
realized by the men he protected.
He Hved to be sorely disappointed,
and to discov.er that he had bestowed
his benefits on men unworthy of his
confidence. Bollinger, without men-
tioning the king's mistakes, has done
full justice to his merits. Bollinger
himself holds a princely rank in the
European republic of letters. With
skilful hand he is rearing the im-
mense edifice of a universal Church
history. The comer-stone is already
laid and the foundation completed.
May Grod give life and vigor to the
architect, that he may finish hiB vast
undertaking. Since his famous lec-
tures at the Odeon at Munich, deliv-
ered before a mixed audience in April,
1861, Bollinger has fixed the attention
of men holding the most contrary
opinions both in and out of the
Church. Of late, many have been
disappointed in Bollinger, though
without any reason; they have given
a false meaning to his words — ^misin-
terpreted his intentions. True, he
speaks with a boldness to which all
cannot immediately accustom them-
selves, for he is a thorough enemy
of all mental reservation in theology.
Ue stands on an eminence, surveying
not only our own times but the whole
extent of sacred and profane history,
and combines a correct estimate of the

necessities of the age with a fervent
love of Christ and his Church.

Hergenrother, our revered profess-
or, is in many respects the scientific
complement of BoHinger. If BoUm-
ger at times goes too far, Hergenrother
knows how to explain, to correct, and
to limit his expressions ; this he has
done several times of late. Hergen-
rother is a man of great learning, ac-
quired by continued mental activity;
but he is likewise well acquainted
with the ideas of the present age.
His speech at the Wurzburg conven-
tion was a maj9terpiece, full of clear
and well-defined ideas..

His most active colleague in the
Wurzburg committee was Professor
Hettinger. He is perhaps the most
eminent of living controversialists.
He teaches apologetics, which forms
the transition from philosophy to the«
ology. Hettinger takes a large and
philosophical, but at the same time
truly Christian and Catholic, view of
the world. Every grand and beautiful
idea, both ancient and modem, he^as
made his own ; he has analyzed every
philospphical system, separating tmtli
from falsehood, and has gathdired every
sound principle scattered over the
wide range of philosophical literature.
His controversial works deserve to
be ranked among the classics of the
nineteenth century. His discourses
are listened to with pleasure, whether
he speaks from the pulpit, the profess-
or's desk, or the tribune. At Frank-
fort and Wurzburg he spoke in a ma^
terly style,

Benzinger presided at the WUrz-
burg conference which sent an address
to the Holy Fatlier. He is a deep
theologian, well versed in all pliiloso-
phical systems. His mind is admira-
bly trained, his character settled and
determined, and in leaming, notwith-
standing the frailty of his body, he
has attained an eminence to which few
can aspire. Self-possessed in debate^
sure and cautious in his remarks, a
deep thinker, he exhorted all to for-
bearance, and gave universal satisfac-
tion.

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344

Malines and Wilrzlmrg*

The Wurzburg professors do honor
to evtry assembly of scholars 4nd to
every Catholic convention.

Abbot Haneberg, of Munich, per-
haps the most venerable "of our Ger-
man monks, bishop elect of Treves, a
linguist who speaks fifteen languages,
a first-rate teacher, who will ever be
remembered by his many disciples as
one of the best pulpit orators in Ger-
many, was a zealous advocate of
the Munich congress of literati. The
circular was signed by Haneberg,
Dollinger, and Prof. Akog, of Frei-
burg. Alzog's manual of ecclesiasti-
cal history is the text-book, not only in
Hildesheim and Freiburg, but in al-
most every seminary in Europe. The
work resembles one of the beautiful
mosaics so much admired in St.
Peter's at Rome, and has been of great
use. Alzog was present at the Frank-
fort conventions.

Prof. Reusch, of Bonn, is one of
our best commentators. He has ren-
dered the Catholics of Germany a
. great service in translating the works
of the English cardinal, for Wiseman's
writings are read by the whole
Church. ^ About a hundred years ago
all Germany perused the productions
of the English free-thinkuig deists,
Shaftesbury, Locke, Morgan, Wools-
ton, and Toland ; at present all read
the works of Wiseman, Faber, New-
man, Marshall, Dalgaim, and Manning.
Toward the close of the last century,
Voltaire, Rousseau, d'AIembert, Dide-
rot, and the other infamous encyclo-
paedists furnished the educated portion
of Germany with intellectual food;
now we eagerly study the writings of
Dupanloup, Montalembert, L. Veuil-
lot, Segur, F. Gratry^ahd Nicolas.
True, Renan too and *^Le Maudit"
have their admirers, but the admira-
ble replies of Dupanloup, Felix,
Freppel, Lasserre, Veuillot, Segur,
Pressens^, Parisis, Scherer, Coquerel,
Lamy, and Nicolas, have likewise
found an extensive circle of readers.
Catholic controversy has never flour-
ished more than at present, when
hundreds of able writers plead the

cause of Christ and of his vicar on
earth.

Professor Yosen, of Cologne, is an-
other eminent controversialist ; he is a
skilful debater, and possesses a thor-
ough knowledge of parliamentary
rules and of the social condition of
Germany. His utterance is rapid, but
he uses no superfluous verbiage, and
every sentence is clear and well brought
out.

Prof. Reinkens, of Breslau, and
Floss, of Bonn, were members of the
executive committee at the Munich
convention of scholars. Not long ago
he dedicated to us his biography of
" Hilary of Poitiers," a work that
may be classed with Mohler's " Atha-
nasius."

Prof. ReiBchV of Regensburg, re-
peatedly a member of different com-
mittees at the general conventions,
and an excellent teacher, whose mem-
ory will ever be cherished by his stu-
dents, is on the point of finishing, in
the course of the present year, his la-
borious translation of the Holy Scrip-
tures. For twelve years he has labor-
ed unceasingly, and the work is the
golden fruit of his labors, and will out-
live many generations. We may
justly place Reischl's translation of
the Bible among our Catholic classics,
such as M6hler*s '* Symbolism," Dol-
linger's '^Pi^anism and Judaism,"
Hefele's "History of the Councils,"
Phillips' "Canon Law," Hettinger's
" Apologetics," Amberger's " Pastoral
Theology," Dieringer's "Book of
Epistles," Lasaulx's "Philosophy of
the Fine Arts," Stockl's " Philosophy
of the Middle Ages," Kleutgen's
"Theology of the Past," "The Le-
gends of Alban Stolz ," etc. Most of
tiiese have appeared since 1848, or
rather within the last twelve years, and
are the precursors of a great Catholic
literary period, for which every prep-
aration seems to be already made. That
our writers are improving in beauty of
style no observer can fail to notice ; as
a proof, I need only mention tiie names
of Haflaer, MoUtor, Redwitz, and
Hahn-Hahn. I cannot pass unnoticed

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Mcdines caid Wurzburg,

345

Stolbeig's « History of the Church,'*
Danbei^ger's ^ History of the Middle
Ages/' Gfrorer's great work on Greg-
ory YIL and his times, and the works
of Frederick von Hurter. " Sepp's
Jenwalem," also, is a work of undoubt-
ed merit Professor Sepp delivered
some brilliant speeches at the first
Catholic general conventions. His
last book is a telling refutation of
Benan and other modem infidels who
deny the divinity of Christ, and de-
serves to be ranked with the writings
of Heinrich, Haneberg, Deutinger, S.
Bronner, Wriesinger, Michelis, Danm-
er, and Hahn-Hahn on the same sub-
ject.

Michelis, of Braunsberg, shows
some of TertuUian's violence; nay,
sometimes he becomes personal in de-
bate, owing to his passionate temper
and hiis somewhat peevish character.
These qualities are coupled with an
ardent love of his religion and his
country, and manly honor and
straightforwardness. His epeech at
Frankfort, in 1862, was well-timed
and called forth immense enthusiasm.
Michelis bears a close resemblance to
Prof. Reminding, of Fulda, who has
lately acquired a great reputation as
a dogmatic theologian. Bemirding
has fbr a long time been a teacher in
England, and is thoroughly acquaint-
ed with English affairs. To him we
may apply the adage : ^' StiU waters
nm deep." He is silent, uncommuni-
cative, and fond of thought His
bright eyes beam with intelligence,
gentleness, and benevolence. Prof.
Janasen held his maiden speech at the
convention of Frankfort, in 1863 ; it
was very successful Janssen is a dis-
ciple of Bohmer, and he, as well as
Ficker, of Innsbruck, and Arnold, of
Marburg, is a worthy successor of
that great historian. He is weU fitted
to wi4te a satisfactory history of Ger-
many, for Giesebrecht's " History of
tbe German Emperors" fails to do
justice to the Church during the mid-
dle ages. There is no longer any
ladL of Catholic lustotians in Giermany,
and the labors of Protestant writers

have rendered the task easy for them.
. Among our Catholic historians I shall
* mention Onno Klopp, of Hanover;
Hoefler, of Prague ; Bader, Huber,
Hergenrother, of Wiirzburg ; Marx, of
Treves ; Dudik,Gindely,Kainpfschulte,
of Bonn ; Niehus, Rump, and Hiils
kamp, of Miinster; C. Will, of Nurem
berg; Lammer, of Breslau, who ha^
lately been appointed professor of
theology ; Remkens, of Bi-eslau ; Alex-
ander iLaufmann, of Werthheim ; Cor-
nelius, Friedrich, and Pichlcr, of Mun-
ich ; Roth von Schreckenstein, Watter-
ich, Dominicus, Ossenbeck, Ennen,
Remling, Junckmann, Kiesel, Bumiil-
ler, Weiss, Kerker, and Alberdingk-
Thym.

These gentlemen should try to meet
very often, for by seeing ourselves re-
flected in others we leam to know
ourselves. Bohmer, Pertz, Chmel,
and Theiner have laid the foundations
of historical research ; on their disci-
ples devolves the task of continuing
the building, and of completing it ac-
cording to &e intentions of their mas-
ters.

My subject is carrying me away,
and I am passing the limits I hvA
marked for myself. How many other
names connected with the Munich re-
union of scholars, or the last Catholic
congress, should I notice in order to do
justice to all ! Professors Reithmayer,
Reitter, and Stadlbauer, of Munich ;
Mayer, of Wiirzburg; the learned
Benedictines, Rupert Mettermiiller, of
Metten, Gallus Morel, of Einsiedeln,
Boniface Gams, of Munich ; Professors
Schegg, of Freising, Hahnlein, of
Wiirzburg; Zobl, of Brixen, Uhrig
and Schmid, of Dillingen, Engermann,
of Regensburg, Scheeben, of Cologne,
Oischinger and Strodl, of Munich,
Hagemann, of Hildesheim, Pfahler, of
Eichstadt, Kraus, of Regensburg,
Brandner and Schoepf, of Salzburg,
Nirschl and Greil, of Passau ; among
our rising scholars, Messrs. Constant-
ino von Schaetzler, of Freiburg, Lan-
gen, of Bonn, Wongerath, Silbemagel,
Friedrich, Pichler, and Wirthmiiller,
of Munidhi Hitz, Kaiser, Kagerer, J.

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846

Mcdines and Wurzburg,

M. Schneider, J. Daoziger, Bach, H.
Uayd, Pfeifer, Kaufmaaa, of Munich,
and Thinnel, of Neisse ; among the
clergy, Dr. Westermayer, a celebrated
preacher ; Schmid, of Amberg, Dr.
Gmelch, of Lichtenstein, Dr. Clos, of
Feldaffing, Dr. Zinler, of Gablingen,
Wick, of Breslau, Dr. Zailler ; and
finally, Canons Rampf and Herb, of
Munich, W. Mayer, of Regensburg,
Dux, of Wurzburg, Freund, of Pas-
sau, Werner, of Su Polten, Provost
Ernst, of Eichstadt, Canon Ebcrhard,
of Regensburg, Lierheimer, of Mun-
ich, and a host of others.

Truly Providence has blessed Ger-
many with many great intellects, and
a glorious period seems to have begun
for Catholic literature. Our leading
men should be animated with a fervent
love of their faith, and true patriotism ;
tljius they will be enabled to take a
truly Christian view of the world.

I cannot refrain from saying a £pw
words on the representatives of the
German press.

Dr. Ernest Zander, of Munich, is
the spokesman of the German jour-
nalists at the general conventions.

Zander has now been connected for
twenty-seven years with the press, but
he is still quite hearty and ready to
do battle, and the subscribers of " Der
Volksbote" read his spicy articles with
undiminished pleasure.

Although a poor speaker, his ^pear*
ance is always greeted with applause,
I and at the close of his remarks there
is no end of cheering.

He calls things by their proper
names, spares nobody, and has an in-
exhaustijble fund of wit and humor.

His numerous decorations, his
bushy eyebrows, his twinkling eyes,
and his sarcastic smile, make his re*
marks doubly interesting.

On matters connected with the
Catholic press, there are no authori-
ties more reliable than Zander and
Jorg, of Munich, Sausen, of Mayence,
and Sebastian Brunner, of Vienna.

J. B. von Pfeilschifler, of Darm-
stadt, is older than the gentlemen
above mentioned ; in fact, he is the

oldest Catholic journalist in Ger^
many.

Pfeilschi^r, says Maurice 3riihl,
combines varied learning and exten-
sive, reading with the experience of
many years.

Since 1815 he has been actively en-
gaged as a journalist, and for a long
time he was the only champion of law-
ful authority and political order, and for
this reason he was continually scoffed
at and slandered by his revolutionary
colleagues. Zander has a worthy
rival in Bachem, of Cologne. Prop-
erly speaking, Bachem is a publisher,
but he is likewise a very able editor.
At the conventions he is the most bus-
iness-like representative of the press,
and seems to know more about jour-
nalism than the editors. In 1865
Bachem's paper will probably number
6,000 subscribers, which is a very re-
spectable circulation. His journal is
one of the most influential Rhenish
papers, and very ably edited. If pa-
pers of equal merit were published at
Mayence, Carlsruhe, Stuttgart, Augs-
burg, Munich, Innsbruck, Vienna,
Prague, Breslau, and Munster, our po-
litical press would satisfy every rea-
sonable 'demand.

Francis Hulskamp, of Munster, is
one of the youngest among our Ger-
man journalists, but he has outstripped
many older men, for he was the first
to give a decisive impetus to the
Catholic press. Three years ago
Hiilskamp and his friend, Hermann
Rump, founded the " Literary Index."
Now, in December, 1864, the " Index'*
can boast of 6,000 subscribers and
30,000 readers. All the other Ger-
man literary papers together, Protest-
ant as well as Catholic, do not equal
the " Index" in circulation. Success
like this is unheard of in Germany,
and proves that for the Catholics tlie
time of inaction is past. Hiilskamp
is not only a critic, but also well-
versed in philology, exegesis, and ec-
clesiastical history. In poetry, too,
he has made some creditable essays,
and at Frankfort, in 1863, he proved
condusively that he is a promising

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Malines and Wurzburg.

847

speaker. Long m&j this energetic
son of Westphalia's red soil live and
flourish !

Among the most regular members
of the Catholic conventions is Dr.
Louis Lang, of Munich, who has dis-
tinguished himself by his ability as
secretary. The Catholic press also
owes him a debt of gratitude. He
has greatly enlarged and improved
the Munich " Sonntagsblatt'' and se-
cured for it the services of the best
writers in Germany, succeeding, by
these means, in making it rival the
*^ Heimgarten" and the ** Sonntags-
freude." The " Josephsblatt,** a
monthly published by Lang, has al-
ready a circulation of 40,000 subscrib-
ers, and bids fair to number 100,000
by the end of 1865. Our illustrated
papers, too, have improved wonderful-
ly since 1862 ; therefore let us not de-
spair, but trust in God.

At our Catholic conventions there
were no meetings of journalists exclu-
sively. But there were many com-
plaints of the ineflSciency of the press,
and the journalists were severely
blamed. Nor is the press so numer-
ously represented as at Malines, and
the journalists present are not so inde-
pendent as the members of the Bel-
gian, English, and French press, who
are fiilly conscious of the importance
of their position.

Among the journalists whose ac-
quaintance I formed at the Catholic
conventions, the most distinguished
are Dr. Max Huttler, of Augsburg, a
man who has the welfare of the Cath-
olic press deeply at heart ; Hoyssack,

of Vienna, Dr. Krebs^ of Cologne,
Dr. Stumpf, of Coblentz, Hermann
Kuhn, of Berlin, Daumer^ of Wiirz-
burg, Planer, of Laadshut, Dr. Frankl,
of Gran in Hungary, Dr. von Mayer,
of Hungary, Aichinger, of Pondorf,
Riedinger and Hallmayer, of Spires,
Stamminger, the enterprising editor
of the ** Chilianeum" at Wilrzburg,
Thtiren, of Cologne, and a number of
others.

It is but proper to give at least a
passing notice to the latest offspring of
the Catholic conventions, the '* Socie-
ty for the Publication of Catholic
Pamphlets." It was founded at
Wurzburg, but the seat of tte execu-
tive camnittee is at Frankfort. On
motion of Heinrich and TEissen, of
Frankfort, it was recomnJtended by
the Catholic convention at Wtirzburg.
Previous to the Wttrzburg convention,
Thissen had already made some at-
tempts at Frankfort.

The scheme was well received in
Germany. Already the number of
subscribers amounts to 2,000 and at
the end of 1865 it will probably reach
25,000. Canon Thissen has been one
of the leading spirits at every conven-
tion which he attended. Pie has an
artful way of suggesting ideas and
gaining for them the favor of the as-
sembly ; to carry them out, however,
he needs the help of others. A thor-
ough master of parliamentary tactics,
he is a capital manager, and in debate
he may safely trust to the inspiration
of the moment His brother, A. This-
sen, of Aix-la-ChapeUe, is well suited
to be the secretary of our conventions.

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^^ FaOing Stars.

From The Month.

FALLING STABS.

(FBOH the GERMAN.)

Oh, know'st thou what betideth
When from the heavens afar.

Like fiery arrow, glideth
An earthward-falling star ?

Ton glorious myriads, streaming
The^r quiet influence down,

Are little angels gleaming
Like jewels in a crown.

Untiring, never sleeping,
Gk>d's sentinels they stand ;

Where sounds of joy and weeping
Rise up on every hand.

If darkling here and dreary,
One patient cheek grow pale ;

If in the conflict weary
One trusting spirit fail ;

If to ih^ throne ascendeth
One supplicating cry, —

Then heavenly mercy sendeth
An angel from on high.

Soft to the chamber stealing,
It beams in radiance mild.

And rocks each troubled feeling
To slumber like a child.

This, this is what betideth
Wlien from the heavens afar.

Like fiery arrow, glideth
An earthward-faUing star.

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A Bundle of Chriitmcu CaroU.

849

From Once ft Week.

A BUNDLE OF CHftlSTMAS CAROLS.

Cabols, as the name implies, are
3070US songs for festive occasions, at
one period accompanied with dancing.
In an old vocabulary of A-d. 1440,
Ccaral is defined as A Songe ; in John
Palsgrave's work of a.d. 1580, as
Chanson de Noel; whilst in Anglo-
Saxon times the word appears to have
been rendered KyrnoUj a chanting at
the Nativity. The earliest carol in
English, known under that name, is
the production of Dame Bemers,
prioress of St Alban's in the four-
teenth century, entituled A CaroUe of
Huntynge. This is printed on the last
leaf of Wynkyn de Worde's collection
of Christmas carols, a.d. 1521, and
the first verse modernized runs thus :

** As I came hj a green forest side,
I met with a forester that bade me abide,
Whey go bet, hey go bet, hey go how.
We shall have sport and game enow.*^

liGlton uses the word caiol to ex-
press a devotional hymn :

" A quire
Of squadroned angels hear his carol sang."

And that distinguished Ught of the
English Church, Bishop Jeremy
Taylor, speaks of the angels' song on
the morning of the Nativity as the
first Christmas carol: "As soon as
these blessed choristers had sung their
Christmas carol, and taught the Church
a hymn to put into her offices for
ever,** etc

Aeeording to Durandus, it was
customary in early days for bishops
to sing with their clergy in the epis-
copal houses on the feast of the Na-
tivity. **£i NatdU pnelcUi cum suis
^ericis Ittdant, vel in domihus eptsco-
paUbui" These merry ecclesiastics
snx^ undoubtedly Christmas carols.

Bat carols, like everything else,
must be divided into two sorts, re-
Hgioiis and secular— the carols ^in

prayse of Christe'^ and the merry
songs for the festive board or fireside.
These may be broken up into further
varieties, thus :

BBUOIOXrS. 8B0ULAB.

Bcriptoral, ConTivial or festive.

Legendary, Wassail,

LoUaby. Boar's head.

In praise of holly and ivy.

Of the variety called Legendary^ I
propose now to speak. These are, as
a rule, the mosfpopular of all carols,
deriving mainly, as I said before, their
origin, and many of their expressions,
from the ancient mysteries. In the
old plays songs are frequently intro-
duced which resepible, in a very strik-
ing manner, what are commonly called
carols. The following song of the
shepherds occurs in one (^ the Coven-
try pageants :

" As I rode oat this endenes* night,
Of three Jolly shepherds I saw a sight,'
And all about their fold a star shone bright;

They sang terli, terlow,
So merrily the shepherds their pipes can blow."

The last lines actually fonn the chorus
of one of the carols in the fifleenth-
century manuscript formerly in the
possession of Mr. Wright : •

** About the field they piped fhll right,
Even about the mlast of the night ;
Adown from heaven they saw come a light,
Tyrle. tyrle.
So merrily the shepherds began to blow."

Again, in Ludus Goventria :

" Joy to God that sitteth in heaTen,
And peace to man on earth ground ;
A child Is born beneath the leyyn,
Through him many folk should be onbonnd."

A sixteenth-century carol com-
mences:

" Salvation overflows the land.
Wherefore all fsithfhl thas mav sing,
Glory to God most high
And peace on the earth continuaUy,
And onto men rejoicing/*

•Laat.

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350

A Bundle of Christmas Carols.

In the Ck)veiitry . Plays again we
find:

*^ Of a maid a child should be born,
On a tree he »hoald be torn,
Deliver folks that are forlorn."

A genuine carol of the sixteenth
century supplies us with the following :

" Jesn, of a maid thou wonldst be bom.
To save mankind that was forlorn,
And all for oar sins/*

And one of the reign of Henry VL :

" Thy sweet Son that thou hast borne,
To save mankind that was forlorn.
His head is wreathed In a thorn.
His blissfnl body is all to-torn/*

The " Cherry-Tree Carol,** formerly
a great favorite throughout England,
recollections of which yet linger
amongst the country-folk, is in many
instances a literal copy from the Cov-
entry Mysteries. I give the popular
version of the " Cherry-Tree Carol :"

^^ Joseph was an old man.
And an old man was he.
When he wedded Mary

• In the laud of Galilee.

"Joseph and Mary

Walked through an orchard eood.
Where were cherries and berries

As red as any blood.
« • # * *

" O then bespake Mary

With words both meek and mild,

* Gather me some cherries, Joseph,

They ran so in my mind/ "

St. Joseph refuses "with words most
unkind " to grant her request, appar-
ently unaware that his spouse is about
to become the mother of the Son of
Godu The unborn Saviour, however,
directs the Blessed Virgin to

** * Go to the tree, Mary,
And It shall bow to thee,
And the highest branch of all
Shall bow down to Mary's knee/

« * « 4 *

**Thcn bowed down the highest tree
Unto his mother's hand :
Then she cried. ' See, Joseph.
I have cherries at command.*

** * O eat yonr cherries, Mary,
O eat your cherries now,
O ent yoar cherries, Mary,
That grow upon the bough.* "

Another version gives the following
reply of S. Joseph :

** O then bespake Joseph.
'I have done Mary wrong.

Bat cheer np. my dearest.
And be not cast down.* **

I give a portion of the rest of the
carol, some of the verses being re-
markably touching and beautiiul:

" As Joseph was a-walking,
He beard an angel sing,
*ThiB nieht shall Be born
Our Heavenly King.

"He neither shall be bom
In honsen nor in hall,
Kor in the place of paradise.
Bat in an ox*s stall.

** He neither shall be clothed
In pnrple nor In pall,
Bnt all in ftilr linen
As were babies all.

" He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold,
Bnt in a wooden cradle.
That rocks on the moald.

**He neither shall be christened
In white wine nor in red.
But with the spring water
With which we were christened.* *'

In the fifteenth pageant of the
Coventry Mysteries the following lines
occur:

" Mary, Ah, my sweet hnsband, would .vou
tell to me
What tree is yon, standing on
yon hill?

" JoMph, Forsooth. Mary, 1 1 is yclept a cherry
tree.
In time of year you might feed
you thereon your fllL

^^Mar, Turn again, husband, and behold
yon tree.
How that it bloometh now ^o
sweetly.

*' Jot, Come on, Mary, that we wer« a
yon city.
Or else we may be blamed, I
teU yon lightly.

^*Mttr. Now, my spouse, I pray yon to
behold
How the cherries fare) grown
upon yon tree ;
For to have thereof right fiiln f
would.
And it please you to labor ^o
much for me.

"/oi. Your desire to fblfll I shall assay
sekerlv.
How to pluck you of these cher-
ries, it is a work wild.
For the tree Is so higb, It would not
be lightly (easy).

« « • • •

^''Mar. Now, good lx)rd, I pray thee, grant
me this boon,
To have of these cherries, and it
be yonr will ;
Now I thank Qod this tree boweiht
to me down,
I may now gather enow, and eat

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A Bundle of Christmas Carols.

851

*^Jot. Now I know well, I have offended--

my Qod ia trinity.
Speaking to my spouse tbese nnklnd

words.
For now I believe well It may none

other be,
Bat that my Bponse beareth the

King's Son of BUbh/'

It is interesting to note the way in
ifhieh the more modem composition
retains all the incidents and traditions
of the mediieval mystery. Our pop-
ular carol speaks of St. Joseph as an
old many and an old man was he,
while the mystery represents him as
saying (p. x.), I am an old man, and
lam so aged and so old. The tree is
the same, tiiere is the same desire of
the Virgin Mother to taste the fruit,
the same refusal and bitter retort of
her husband, the bowing-down of the
tree, and the regret of St. Joseph for
hb unkindness. Mr. Hone was not
ashamed to say of the " Cherry-Tree
Carol:" "The admiration of my
earliest days for some lines in it still
remains, nor can I help thinking that
the reader will see somewhat of cause
for it."

The following example is still given
on almost every brostdside annually
printed: it is called "The Three
Ships." I ought perhaps first to state
that the Three Ships are supposed to
signify the mystery of the Holy Trin-
ity, the Incarnation being, as the Spec-
uium ViUe Chrtsti hath it, " the high
work of all the Holy Trinity, though
it be that only the Person of the Son
wafl incarnate and became man :"

" I Miw three ships come sailing in,

Ou Christmas day, on Chriscmaa day :
I eaw three ships come sailing In
On Coristmas day in the morning.

^ And what was in those ships all three.
On Christmas dayt etc.,
And wliat was in. etc.,
On Christmas day in the morning T

" Our Saviour Christ and our Lady, etc..
On Christmas day in the morning.
Ptay whith jr sailed those ships all three ? etc..
On Christmas day in the morning.

*• O, they Failed Into Bethlehem, etc..
On Christmas day in the morning ;
And all the belU on earth shall ring, etc.,
On Chrlstmaa day in the morning.

^* And all the angela in heaven shall sing, etc,
On Christmas day In the morning.
And all the sonle on earth shall sing, etc.,
On ChrifltmaB day in the morning.

' *^ Then let ns all rejoice amain, etc..
On Corlscmas day in the morning."

Another rude and rather amusing
version is sometimes given of this
carol, called " The Sunny Bank :"

" As I sat on a sunny bank,
A sunny banlc, a sanny bank.
As I sat on a snuny bank,
On Christmas day in the morning,

" I spied three ships come sailing by, etc..
On Christmas d»y, etc. ;

** And who should be with those three ships ?
On Christmas day, etc.,

*^ But Joseph and his fair lady, etc.,
Ou Christmas day, etc.

" Oh, he did whistle, and she did sing,
And all the beiis on earth did ring.
For joy that our Saviour they did bring
On Christmas day in the morning.*^

An old Dutch carol, given by HoflT-
man, commences :

**■ There comes a vessel laden.
And on its highest eunwale
Mary holds the rudder,
The angel steers it on."

And thus explains the mission of
the ship :

" In one nnbroken course
There comes that ship to land :
It brings to us rich gifts,
Forgiveness is sent to us."

This translation is taken from Mr,
Sandys* book on "Christmas-tide/'
About the sixteenth century a similar
carol was sung at Yule, which is given
by Ritson:

" There comes a ship flir sailing then,
Saint Michael was the steersman ;

Saint John sat in the horn :
Our Lord harped, our Lady sang,
And all the bells of heaven they rang

On Christ's Sunday at mom. "

Another specimen I take from a
Birmingham collection; it is called
" The Seven Virgins." This is given
also by Mr. Sylvester from " the orig-
inal old broadside.'' It is singular,
however, that his old copy should in-
clude a line which he confesses t6 be
a " modem interpolation !"

** All under the leaves, and the learea of life,

I met with virgins seven.
And one of them was Mary mild.

Our Lord*s mother in heaven.
*0, what are you seeking, you seven pretty
maids.

All mulor the leaves of life ?^

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352

A Bundle of Christmas Carols.

•We're seeking for do leaves, Thomas,

Bat for a friend of thine.
We're seeking for ewect Jesus Christ,

To be our heavenly guide.'

* Go down, go down to yonder town,

And sit in the gallery,
And there yon'U see sweet Jesus Christ

Nailed to a yew tree.*
And they went down to yonder town

As fast as foot could fall,
And many a bitter and grievous tear

From our Lady's eyes did fall.
*0, peace, mother, O, peace, mother,

Your weeping doth m© grieve,
I must suffer this, he said.

For Adam and for Eve.

♦ ♦ • ♦ •

*■ O mother, take you John Evangelist

T» be your favorite son,
Anolie will comfort vou sometimes.

Mother, as I have aone.'
^ * ♦ * ♦ «

" Then he laid his head on his right shonlder.
Seeing death it struck him nigh,

* The Holy Qhost be with your soul,

I die, mother. Idle.'"

Manj of my readers will recollect
the femous carol of "The Seven
J078," still croaked out in the streets
of London and elsewhere about
Christmas time. Very similar carols
to this exist of the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries, one of which I
select from Mr. Wright's manuscript
I have, as in all other cases, modern-
ized the orthography :

OF THB l*rVX JOTS Or O0B LAST.

♦ # * * «

♦♦ The first Joy that came to thee
Was when the angel greeted thee.
And said, * Mary, Tullof charity,

Ave, plena gratia.*
The second joy that was full good
When God's Son took flesh and blood.
Without sorrow and changing of mood,

* Sniza es pucrpera.'
The third joy was ftill of might,
When God's Son on rood was put.
Dead and buried, and laid in sight,

' Surrexit die tertia.^
The fourth joy was on Holy Thursday,
When God to heaven took his way,
God and man withouton nay.

^ Ascendit supra sidera.*
The fifth joy Is for to come.
At the dreadful day of doom,
When he shall deem us all and some _

'Adcoelipalatia.'"

♦ • ♦ ♦ ♦

The following carol for St. Stephen's
day is from a manuscript of the time
of King Henry VL The reader will
be amused to find the great proto-
martyr here introduced as a serrant of
King Herod, and intrusted with the
task of bringing in the boar's head, a
famous dish, and ^ the first mess " at
Christmas and other high festivals.
There was evidently some honor at-
tached to this office, for Hohnshed tells

us that King Henry 11., in 1170, on
the day of his son's coronation, served
him as sewer, bringing up the boar's
head, according to the manner ; and in
1607, at St John's College, Oxford,
the "first mess was carried by the
taUest and lustiest of all the guard.**

" Saint Stephen was a clerk in Kins:
Herod's hall.
And served him of bread and doth
as ever king befall.

" Stephen out of kitchen came, with
Ixtar's head in hand.
He saw a star was fkir and bright,
over Bethlem stand.

^* Bq cast adown the boar's head, and
went into the hall,
" 3. Stephen* I forsake thee. King Herod, and thy
works ali,

"• I forsake thee, King Herod, and thy
works all,
There is a child in Bethlehem bom,
is better than we aU.

''''Herod. What aileth thee, Stephen? What
is thee befall f
Lacketh thee either meat or drink in
King Herod's hall f

"5. Stephen. Lacketh me neither meat nor drink
In Kinff Herod's hall.
There is a child in Bethlehem born,
is better than we all.
« * * i» #

^^ Herod. That is all so sooth, Stephen, all

so sooth, I wit,
Afl this capon crow shall
here in my dish.

thatljeA

"That word was no soon said, that
word in that hall.
The capon crew Ckrietue natm eet^
among the lords all."

This brings us to the more modem
legendary carol of "The Carnal
[a bird] and the Crane," in which the
same incident occurs of the bird crow-
ing in the dish :

" As I passed by a river side.
And there as I did rein [run].
In argument I chanced to near
A carnal and a crane.

'* The carnal said unto the crane,
' If all the world should turn.
Before we had the Father,
But now we have the Son.^

" ^ From whence does the Son comeT
From where and from what place V
Hu said, 'In a manner.
Between an ox and ass.* ^

♦ ♦ • • •

" * Where is the golden cradle
That Christ was rocked in 7
Where are the silken sheets
That Jesus was wrapt in T

" * A manger was the cradle
That Christ was rocked in ;
The provender the aasos left
80 sweetly he slept on.'

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A BundU of CStrittmat OaroU.

»53

** There was a star In the west land,
80 bright it did appear
Into King Herod's chamber.
And where King Herod were.

** The wise men soon espied it,
And told the kiog on high,
* A princely babe was bom that night,
Ko king coald e'er destroy/

•^ ' If thia be troe,* King Herod said,

* As tboa tellest unto me.

This roasted cock that lies in the dish,
Shall crow full fences three,^

^^The cock soon freshlr feathered was,
Br the work of God's own hand,
And then three fences crowed he
In the dish where he did stand."

Herod then gives orders for the
general massacre of the young children,
and the Saviour, with Joseph and his
mother, travel into Egypt amongst the
« fierce wild beasts." The blessed
Virgin being weary, "must needs sit
down to rest," and her son desires her
to ** see how the wild beasts come and
worahip him :"

** First came the lovely lion,

Which Jesa's grace did spring.
And of the wild beasts in the Held
The lion shall be the king."

The Holy Family continuing their
flight, pass by a hoBbandman <<juBt
while his seed was sown :"

**The hnsbandman fell on his knees,

Even before his face ;
*Long time tboa hast been look'd for,
Bat now thon'rt come at last.*

• « « « «

'* *The troth, man, thoa hast spoken,
or it thoo mayst be sare.
For I most lose my precious blood
For thee and thoasands more.

" *If any one should come this way,
Ana inqaire for me alone.
Tell them that Jesns passed br.
As thoa thy seed did sow.* "

King Herod comes afterward with
hia train, and furiously asks of the
husbandman whether our Saviour has
passed by; the husbandman replies
that

**■ * Jesns passed by this way
When my seed was sown.

** Bot now I have it reapen,
And some laid on my wain.
Beady to fetch and carry
Into my bam again.* "

Herod) supposing that it must be
^ Ml ^ree quarters of a year since the
seed was sown," turned back, and
^ fiirther he proceeded into the Holy
Land.'' A manuscript of the fifteendli
century, preserved in the British

VOL. n. 28

Museum, contiuns a representation of
the flight into Egypt, in which the
above legend is introduced. The city
of Bethlehem stands in the back'
ground, and on the right, in the
distance, a field of com and a reaper,
who is in conversation with 4i soldier
by his side. A curious Scotch tradi-
tion states that when Herod and his
soldiers made their inquiry of the bus-
bandman, ^ a little black beetle lifted
up his head, and exclaimed, 7%6 San
of Man passed here last night/*
Black beedes are probably not more
popular here than in Scotland, but
Highlanders, whenever they find the
dastardly insect, kill it, repeating the
words, ^Beetle, beetle, last night/*

« The Holy Well " is a very favorite
carol with the broadside printers; I
have seen it side by side with a very
lively " legendary " production, ** Fly-
away Carol:**

** There eood old Wesley, and a throng
Of saints and martyrs too,
Unite and praise their Savioor's name.
And there I long to goo.

Fly away I Fly away I
While yet it's called to<lay I"

The Magi or three Kings of Co-
logne form the subject of many an old
caroL The names of tiiese '^ famous
men** are supposed to have been,
Kasper or Gaspar, King of Tarsus,
young and beardless ; Melchior, King
of Nubia, old, with long beard and
grey ha.ir; and Balthazar, King of
Saba, a negro. Their offerings were,
as is well known, symbolical ; to use
the words of the Anglo-Saxon Hymn-
ary, translated by the recorder of
Sarum:

*' Incense to Ood. and myrrh to grace his tomb,

For tribute to their King, a golden store;
One they revere, three with three offerings como.
And three adore."

From an old commentary on the
gospel of St. Matthew, we gather some
curious matter relating to the history
of the Three Wise Men. A certain
nation dwelling close to the ocean, in
the extreme east, possessed a writing,
inscribed with the name of Seth, con-
cerning the star which was to appear :

" Twelve of the more learned men
of that country * * * im(j ^.

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A Bundle of Christmas Carols.

posed themselves to watch for that
star ; and when any of them died, his
son or one of his kindred * * was
appointed in his place. These, there-
fore, year by year, after the threshing
out of the com, ascended into a certain
high mountain, called Mans vtetorialis,
having in it a certain cave in the rock,
most grateful and pleasant, with
fountains and choice trees, into which,
ascending and bathing themselves,
they prayed and praised Grod in
silence three days. And thus they
did, generation after generation, watch-
ing ever, lest peradventure that star of
beatitude should arise upon themselves,
until it appeared descending on the
mountain, having within itself, as it
were, the form of a man-child, and
above it the similitude of a cross ; and
it spake to them, and taught them,
and commanded them that they should
go into Judasa. And journeying thither
for the space of two years, neither
food nor drink failed in their vessels.**
Other old accounts state that their
journey occupied twelve days only:
"they took neither rest nor refresh-
ment; it seemed to them indeed as one
day; the nearer they approached to
Christ's dwelling, the brighter the star
shone.'**
Tliere appears to have been no
decided opinion or tradi-
i0^'^////^ tion as to the form of the
%: Star ; it is shown thus by
^ Albert Durer, in an old
book which I have by
me of 1519 : it is drawn
with eight points, the
lowest one being much
longer than the others;
in another book, 1596, 1
find it represented as a
star of six points; in
some old pictures it is
shown as a sort of comet,
and it is described to
have been " as an eagle
flying and beating the air
with his wings,** having
within the form and like-
ness of the Holy Child.

* £arly Chrietiaa Legendis.

In " Dives and Pauper,** printed in
1496, we gather the following account
of it:

^^Dives. What manner of star was it
then?

^Pauper, Some clerks tell th^t it was
an angel in the^ likeness of a star, for
the kings had no knbwiedge of angels,
but took all heed to the star. Some
say that it was the same child that
lay in the ox-stall which appeared to
the kings in the likeness of a star, and
so drew them and led them to himself
in Bethlehem.*'

I wish it were possible to give here
a quaint illustration of the journey of
the Three Wise Men, from a sheet of
carols printed in 1820, which forma one
of the wood-cuts procured with no
little difficulty from the publisher bj
Mr. Hone, and is but little known.

The history of the Magi is even
traced further; aft^r their return to
their own country they were baptized
by St Thomas the Apostle, became
missionaries with him, and were^ it is
said by some, mlurtyred.

Their joumeyings did not, however,
end with their deaths — their bodies
were translated to Constantinople,
thence to Milan, and afterward to
Cologne, where they are still preserved
in the cathedral, and their history re-
corded in a series of frescoes. Their
shrine at Cologne was once exceed-
ingly rich and magnificent, but during
the excitement of the first Fren<i
revolution many of the jewels which
adorned the monument were sold and
replaced by paste or glass counter-
feits. The following description of
their tomb I gather from Mr. Fyfe's
book on " Christmas :**

"The coffin is stated to have two
partitions, the lower having a half, and
the upper a whole, roofing. The
former compartment contains tiie
bones of the three kings, whose
separate heads appear aloft through
the aperture in the half-roofing; and
on this roofing are inscribed the names
Gaspar, Melchior, Baitkaxary encrusted
in rubies. The heads are adorned
with crowns weighing six pounds a-

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A Bundle €f Quistnuu Carols.

855

piece, of gold, diamonds, and pearls.
It is asserted (bat doubted) that the
tomb and its contents are of the ralue
of £240,000."

From the offerings of the three
kings arose the practice of Christmas
gifts, and the festival of the Epiphany
has always been observed in remem-
brance of their visit to Bethlehem ; it
has ako been the custom from earliest
times for our sovereigns to offer the
three mystic gifls of gold, myrrh, and
incense at the altar on the day of the
Epiphany, which custom is still ob-
served at the Chapel Royal, the royal
oblations being received by the dean
or his deputy in a bag of crimson and
gold. The Epiphany is also a
"scarlet day" at the universities.
After this long roundabout discourse,
I am almost afraid to weary my
readers with a second edition of the
wanderings of the Wise Men, but I
must rely upon their generous forbear-
ance ; the accompanying carol is from
a manuscript of the time <^ King
Henry VII.:

** Now ia ChriBtmaB I-come,
Father and Son together In One,
Holy Ghost, as Ye oe One,

In fere-a :
God send tia all a good new year^.

"There came lij kings from Galilee
Into Bethlehem that Mr city
To aeek him that ever should be,

By riffht-a,
Lord, and King, and Knlght-a.

** At they came forth with their offering,
They met with Herod that moody Idng,

This tide-a,
And this to them he said-a.

" Bar. Of whence be ye, yon kings ly f
** Jfog. Of the East, as ye may see,

To seek him that ever ehonld be,
By rlffht-a.

Lord, and King, and Kmght-a.

** Btr, When yon at this child have been,
Come home again by me,
Tell me the sights that you have seen,

I pray you,
Go no q^her way-a.

»*The Father of heaven an angel down
sent
To these liiJ kings that made present

This tide-a.
And this to them he said-a,
My Lord hath warned you every one
By Herod King yon go not home
For an yon do, he will you slay,

And 0trew-a,
And hurt you wonderly-a.

** Forth then went these kings iij
Till they came home to their oounfcree.

Glad and blithe they were all iU,
Of the sighU that they had seen.

By dene-a.
The company was clean-a."
« • • •

I will conclude with a modem speo-
imen of a legendary carol written by
the Rev. Dr. Neale, and published in
Novello'a shilling collection. The
story of St Wenceslaus, the good King
of Bohemia, is given by Bishop Jeremy
Taylor in his " Life of Christ ;"

'^ One winter night, going to his de-
votions in a remote church, barefooted
in the snow, * * his servant Poda-
vius, who waited on his master's piety,
tuid endeavored to imitate his affections,
began to faint through the violence of
the snow and cold, till the king com*
manded him to follow him, and set liis
feet in the same footsteps which his
feet should mark for him ; the servant
did so, and either fancied a cure, or
found one, for he followed his prince,
helped forward with shame and zeai
to his imitation, and by the forming
footsteps for him in the snow."

'' Good Ring Wenceslans lookM oat.

On the Feast of Stephen ;
When the snow lay round about.

Deep and crisp and even :
BriehUy shone the moon that night,

Tnough the ft-ost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight,

Gathering winter fuel.

*^ ' Hither, page, and stand by me.
While thou know'Pt It telling,
Yonder peasant who is he f
Where and what bis dwelling T
" * Sire, he lives a^ood league hence
Underneath the mountain ;
Bight against the foreitt fence,
By Saint Agnes* foontain.*

** * Bring me flesh and bring me wine.

Bring me pine logs hither ;
Thou and I will see him dine,

When we bear them thither.*
Page and monarch forth they went.

Forth they went together :
Throngh the nide wlnd*s wild lament,

And the bitter weather.

*' * Sire, the night is darker now.
And the wind blows stronger.
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer.*
" * ICark my footsteps, good my page ;
Tread thou in them boldly;
Thou Shalt find the winter's rago
Freeze thy blood less coldly.*^

** In his master*s steps he trod.

Where the snow lay dinted ;
Heat was in the very sod

Which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men— be %nn-^

Wealth or rank possessing.
Ye who now will bless the poor.

Shall yoorselves find blessing.**

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856

The Formation of Christendom.

From The Dablin Bevlew.

THE FORMATION OF CHRISTENDOM.

77ie Formation of Christendom. Fart
First By T. W. Allies. Lon-
don: Longmans.

It is somewhat paradoxical, but
strictly trae, to say that the greatest
and most important revolution /which
ever took place upon earth is that to
which least attention has hitherto been
paid, and concerning which least is
known — the substitution of " Chris-
tendom" for the heathen world. Be-
fore our own day no historian, no phi-
losopher of modem times has felt any
interest in this rast theme, and what-
ever information with regard to it is
attainable must be sought in the frag-
mentary remains of ancient writers,
or in works very recently published
on the continent. In the volume be-
tore us Mr. Allies has taken ground
not yet occupied by any English au-
thor. He has availed himself of two
works — Ddllinger^s ^ Christenthum
und Kirche" and Champagny's Histo-
ries — ^and he acknowledges in the
most liberal and loyal manner his ob-
ligation to them ; but, in the main, he
has been left to find his way for him-
self, and no man could weU be more
highly qualified for the task, whether
by the gifts of nature or by the ac-
quirements of many years. We Infer
ftt>m the work itself that his attention
was immediately turned to the sub-
ject by his appointment as professor
of the " Philosophy of History" in
the Catholic university of Dublin, un-
der (he rectorship of Dr. Newman.
The duties of his post obliged him to
weigh the question, *' what is the phi-
losophy of history?^ and the inaugural
lecture with which the volume before
us commences, although it gives no
formal definition of the phrase (which
is to be regretted), supplies abundant
considerations by the aid of which we

may arrive at it. History, in its ori-
gin, was far more akin to poetry than
to philosophy, and even when it passes
into prose it is in the half-legendary
form, which makes the narrative of
Herodotus and of the annalists of the
middle ages so charming to all read-
ers. They are ballads without metre*
Next came that style of which Thu-
cydides is the model, and which Mr.
Allies calls " political history." " Its
Umit is tho nation, and it deals with
all that interests the nation." ^ Great,
indeed, is the charm where the writer
can describe with the pencil of a poet
and analyze with the mental grasp of
a philosopher. Such is the double
merit of Thucydides. And so it has
happened that the deepest students of
human nature have searched for two
thousand years .the records of a war
wherein the territory of the chief bel-
ligerents was not larger than a mod-
ern English or Irish county. What
should we say if a quarrel between
Kent and Essex, between Cork and
Kerry, had kept the world at gase
ever since ? Yet Attica and Lacouia
were no larger."

And yet it needed something more
than territorial greatness in the states
of which he wrote to enable even
Thucydides himself to realize the idea
of a philosophical histoiy. For the
five hundred years which followed the
Feloponnesian war brought to maturi-
ty the greatest empire which has ever
existed among men, and although, at
the close of &at period, one of the
ablest and most thoughtftil of writers
devoted himself especially to its his-
tory, yet, says our author, "I do not
know that in reading the pages of
Polybius, of Livy, or even of Tacitus,
we are conscious of a wider grasp of
thought, a more enlarged experience
of political interests, a higher idea of

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The FotTncttion of Ghristendom.

857

man, and of all that concerns his per-
sonal and public Hfe, than in those of
Thucydides." Great, indeed, was the
genius of those ancient historians,
magnificent were the two languages
which they made their instruments —
languages " very different in their ca-
pacity, but both of them superior in
originality, beauty, and expressiveness
to any which have fallen to the lot of
modem nations. It may be that the
marbles of Pentelicus and Carrara
insure good sculptors." " In the nar-
rative—that is, the poetic and pictorial
part of history — they have equal mer-
it. Their history is a drama in which
the actors and the events speak for
themselves. What was wanting was
the bearing of events on each other,
the apprehension of great first princi-
ples — ^the generalization of facts." And
this no mere lapse of time could give.
It is wanting in the works of the
greatest ancient masters. It is found
in modems in all other respects im-
measurably their inferiors. "What,*
then, had happened in the interval ?"
Christianity had happened — Christen-
dom had been formed. '^ There was a
voice in the world greater, more potent,
thrilling, and universal, than the last ciy
of the old society, Civis sum Romanus,
and this voice was Sum Ghristianus.
From the time of the great sacrifice
it was impossible to sever the history
of man's temporal destiny from that
of his eternal ; and when the virtue
of that sacrifice had thoroughly leav-
ened the nations, history is found
to assume a larger basis, to have
lost its partial and national cast,
to have grown with the growth of
n&an, and to demand for its complete-
ness a perfect alliance with philoso-
phy."

Thus, then, the ** philosophy of his-
tory" is the comparison and arrange-
ment of its great events by one whose
mind is stored with the facts which it
records, and who at the same time
possesses the great first principles
which qualify him to judge of it We
may, therefore, lay it down as an ab-
solute role, that without Christianity

no really philosophical history could
have been written.

Not unnaturally, then, the first ex-
ample of the philosophy of history was
given by a man whose mind, if 'not
the greatest ever informed by Chris-
tianity, .was at least among a very
few in the first class, was moreover so
thoroughly penetrated by Christian
principles, that to review the events
of the world in any other aspect, or
through any other medium, would
have been to him as impossible as to
examine in detail without the light of
the sun the expanse of plains and
hills, rivers and forests, which lay un-
der him as he stood on some predomi-
nant mountain peak. God, the Al-
mighty Creator — Grod incarnate, who
had once lived and suffered on earth,
and now reigned on high until he should
put all enemies under his feet, and
who was coming again to judge the
world which he had redeemed — the
Church founded by him to enlighten
and govern all generations through-
out all nations, and in which dwelt
the infallible guidance of God the
Holy Ghost — the evil spirits, power-
less against the divine presence in the
Church, but irresistible by mere hu-
man power — ^the saints, no longer
seen by man, but whose intercession
infiuenced and moulded ail the events
of his life, — all these were ever before
the mind of St Augustine, not merely
as articles of faith which he confessed,
but as practical realities. To trace
the events of the world without con-
tinually referring to all these, would
have been to him not merely irrelig-
ious, but as unreal, unmeaning, and
fallacious as it would be to a natural
philosopher of our own day to inves-
tigate the phenomena of the material
world without taking into considera-
tion the attraction of the earth and the
i*esistance of the air. This should be
noticed, because we have all met men
who, while professing to believe most,
if not all, of these things, would con-
sider it bad taste to introduce such
considerations into any practical afiyr.
They are, in short, part of that vexy

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358

7%« Formation of Christendom.

remarkable phenomenon, the '' Son-
day religion" of a respectable English
gentleman, which he holds as an in-
separable part of his respectability,
bat which is well understood to have no
bearing at all upon the business of the
week. Living as St. Augustine did at
the crisis at which the civilization of
the ancient world was finally break-
ing up, his eye was cast back in re-
view over the whole gorgeous line of
ancient history, which swept by him
like a Roman triumph. Egypt, As-
syria, Greece, Rome, each had its
day ; the last and greatest of them all
he saw tottering to its fall. But far
more important than this comprehen-
sive survey, which the circumstances
of his times made natural to so gbeat
an intellect, was his possession of fix-
ed and certain principles, the truth of
which he knew beyond the possibility
of doubt, and which were wide enough
to solve every question which the his-
tory of the world brought before him.
Great men there had been before him,
but the deeper their thoughts, the mor^
had they found that the world itself
and their own position in it were but
a hopeless enigma without an answer,
a cypher without a key. A flood of
light had been poured upon the pierc-
ing mental eye of St. Augustine when
the waters of baptism fell from the
hand of the holy Ambrose upon his
outward frame. Every part of the
Old Testament history glowed before
him, as when from behind a cloud
which cdVers all the earth the light
of the sun falls concentrated upon
some mountain-peak; and the man
who reverences and ponders as divine
that inspired history has learned to
read the inner meaning of the whole
history of the world as no one else can.
In every age, no doubt, Almighty God
rules and directs in justice and mercy
the world which he bas created ; but
in general he hides himself behind an
impenetrable veil. " Clouds and dark-
ness are round about him, justice and
judgment the establishment of his
throne." To' many an ordinary spec-
tator, the world seems only the thea-

tre of man's labor and suflPering. He
passes through it as he might through
one of the arsenals of ancient Greece
or Rome, where indeed great works
were wrought, but where the hand of
the workman was always as visible as
the result produced. A more thought-
ful man might see proofs of some un-
known power, just as in an arsenal of
our day works, compared to which
the fabled labors of giants and cydops
were as child's play, are hourly per-
formed by the stroke of huge ham-
mers welding vast masses of glowing
metal, while nothing is seen to cause
or explain their motion. AH this is
understood by one who has once been
allowed to see at work the engine
itself which sets all in motion. So
does the Old Testament history unveil
to the eye of faith the hidden causes,
not only of the Jewish history, but of
the great events of secular history. All
that seemed before only results with-
out cause, is seen to be fully accounted
for; not that we can always under-
stand the ends which the Almighty
Worker designs to accomplish, or the
means by which he is accomplishing
them, but everywhere faith sees the
operation of Almighty power directed
by infinite wisdom and love, and,
while able to understand much, it is
willing to await in reverent adora-
tion the development of that which as
yet is beyond its comprehension. It
sees that the history of other nations
is distinguished from that of the chil-
dren of Israel, not so much by the
character of the events which it re-
cords (for the extraordinary manifest-
ations of divine power were chiefly
confined to a few special periods), as
to the principle and spirit in which it
has been written, and that secular his-
tory viewed by eyes supematurally
enlightened assumes the same appear-
ance.

In fact, it is not difficult to write a
history of the reigns of David and Sol-
omon and their successors down to
the fall of the Hebrew monarchy
which sounds very much like that of
any other Oriental kingdom. The

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The Formation of Christendom.

859

thing has been done of late years, both
in Germany and in England. It was
bj this that Dean Milman, many
years ago, so greatly shocked the
more religious portion of English
readers. Nor were they shocked
without cause ; for his was a history
of the Jews from which, as far as pos-
sible, Almighty God was left out,
while the characteristic of the inspired
nairatiye is, that it is a record not so
much of the doings of men as of the
great acts of G^ by man and among
men. Only Dean Milman was more
consistetit than those who condemned
him. He was right in perceiving that
the greater part of the history of the
Jews is not materially different from
that of other nations. But he went on
to infer that, therefore, we may leave
God out of sight in judging of Jewish
history, as we do in that of other na-
tions, instead of learning from the ex-
ample of the Jews that in every age
God is as certainly working among
every nation. That by which he of-
fended religious Protestants was the
application of their own ordinary prin-
ciples to the one history in which
they liad been taught from childhood
to see and acknowledge with ex«
ceptional reverence the working of
Ahnighty God in the affairs of the
world.

This it is which gives its peculiar
character to many of the chronicles of
the middle ages. It is impossible not
to feel that the writers see no broad
distinction between the history of the
nations and times of which they are
writing and that of the ancient people
of Grod. And hence in their annals
we have far more of the philosophy of
history, in the true sense of the word,
than was possible to any ancient au-
thor. For with all their ignorance of
physical causes, which led them into
many mistakes, their main principles
were both true and vitally important,
and were wholly unknown to Thucydi-
des and Tacitus. But the circum-
stances of their times made it impos-
Bible that they should survey the
extensive range of facts which lies be-

fore a modem historian. In many
instances, also, they were led by the
imperfect state of physical science to
attribute to a supernatural interference
of God in th^ world things which we
are now able to refer to natural
causes. That God has before now
interfered with the course of nature
which he has established in the world,
and may whenever he pleases so in-
terfere again, these were to them first
principles. And so far they reasoned
truly and justly, although their imper-
fect acquaintance with other branches
of human knowledge sometimes led
them to apply amiss their true princi-
ple. Their minds were so much ac-
customed to dwell upon the thought of
Grod, and upon hi8 acts in the world,
tliat they were always prepared to see
and hear him everywhere, and in
every event. When they heard of
any event supposed to be supernatural,
they might be awestruck and impress-
ed, but could not be said to be surpris-
ed ; and hence, no doubt, they some-
times accepted as supernatural events
which, if examined by a shrewd man
who starts with the first principle that
nothing supernatural can really have
taken place, could have been other-
wise explained. Beside, their com-
parative unacquaintance with physical
science led them into errors in ac-
counting for and even in observing
those which they themselves did noi
imagine to be supernatural. But
their first principles were true. And
the modem who assumes, whether ex-
plicitly or implicitly, that the course
of the world is modified and governed
only by the passions and deeds of
many is in his first principles funda-
mentally wrong. They fell into acci-
dental error ; he cannot be more than
accidentally right.

Our author says :

'< In the middle ages, and notably in
the thirteenth century, there were
minds which have lefl us imperishable
memorials of themselves, and which
would have taken the largest and most
philosophical view of history had the
materials existed ready to their hand-

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860

I%e Formation of Okrutendam*

Conoeiye, for instance^ a history from
the luminous mind of St. Thomas with
the stores of modern knowledge at his
conmiand. But the invention of print-
ing, one of the turning points of the
human race, was first to take place,
and then on that soil of the middle ages,
so long prepared and fertilized bj so
patient a toil, a mightj harvest was to
spring up. Among the first-fruits of
labors so often depreciated bj those
who have profited by them, and in
the land of children who despise their
sires, we find the proper alliance of
philosd[)hy with history. Then at
length the province of the historian is
seen to consist, not merely in the just,
accurate, and lively narrative of ^ts,
but in the exhibition of cause and ef-
fect * What do we now expect in his-
tory ?' says M. de Barante ; and he re-
plies, ^ Solid instruction and complete
knowledge of things ; moral lessons, .
political counsels ; comparison witii
the present, and the general .know-
ledge of facts.' Even in the age of
Tacitus, the most philosophic of an-
cient historians, no individual ability
could secure all such powers" (p.
12).

Thus philosophical history is one of
the results of Christianity. Professor
Max MtiUer makes a similar remark
with regard to his own favorite study
of ethnology. Before the day of Pen-
tecost, he says, no man, not even the
greatest minds, ever thought of tracing
the genealogy of nations by their lan-
guages, because they did not know
Sie unity of the human race. The
unity of mankind is naturally con-
nected in the order of ideas with the
unity of Grod. Those who worshipped
many gods, and believed that each
race and nation had its own tutelary
divinity, not unnaturally regarded each
nation as a separate race. So far was
this feeling carried by the most civil-
ized races of the old world, that they
thought it a profanation that the wor-
ship of the gods of one race should be
offered by a priest not sprung from
that race. The *mo8t moderate and
popular of the Roman patricians re-

jected the demand of the pM$ to be
admitted to the highest o&ces of the
state, not as politically dangerous, but
as profane. The Soman consul, in
virtue of his office, was the priest of
the Capitoline Jove, to whom, on cer-
tain solemn occasions, he had to offer
sacrifice. It would be a pollution that
a plebeian, not sprung from any of the
tribes of Romulus, should presume to
offer that sacrifice. In fact, the con-
sulship would hardly have been thrown
(^en to itteplebs until the long contin-
ued habit of intermarriage had welded
the two portions of the Roman people
so completely into one that the ple-
beian began, at last, to be regarded as
of the same blood with the Furii, the
Comelii, and the Julii. The first
measure by which the tribunes com-
menced their attack upon the exclu-
sive privilege of the great houses waa
wisely chosen; it was the Canuleian
law, by which marriages between the
two orders were made legal and valid.
Before that, patricians and plebeians
were two nations living in one city,
and, according to the universal opin-
ion of the ancient world, this implied
that they had different gods, different
priests, a different ritual, and different
temples. But the day of Pentecost
blended all nations into a new unity —
the unity of the body of Christ; and
its first effect was, that the preachers
of the new law proclaimed every-
where, that ^God had made of one
blood all nations of men, to dwell upon
the fiuse of the whole earth." The
professor points out what curiously
completes the analogy between the
two cases, that while Christianity, by
collecting into one church all the na-
tions of the world, and by teaching
their original unity, naturally suggestr
ed the idea that all their different lan-
guages had some common origin, any
satisfactory investigation of the sub-
ject was long delayed by the unfound-
ed notion that the Hebrew must needs
be the root from which they aU
sprang. Thus, in both cases, the
geim of studies, whose development
was delayed for ages by the impsrfeo-

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I^ FomuUion of C^ristendanu

361

tkm of haman knowledge, appears to,
have been contained in the revelation
of the gospel of Christ.

It is important to bring these consid-
erations into prominence, because the
knowledge which would never have
existed without Christianitj, is, in
many cases, retained bj men who for^
get or deny the &ith to which they are
indebted for it Our author draws
oomparison between Tacitus and Gib-
bon (page 14):

" The worid of thought in which we
live is, afler all, formed by Christian-
ity. Modem Europe is a relic of
Christendom, the virtue of which is
not gone out of it Gregory VII. and
Innocent III. have ruled over genera-
tions which have ignored them ; have
given breadth to minds which con-
demned their benefactors as guilty of
narrow priesteraft, and derided the
work of those benefactors as an ex-
ploded theory. Let us take an ex-
ample in what is, morally, perhaps the
worst and most shocking period of the
last three centuries — ^the thirty years
preceding the great French revolution.
We shall see that at this time even
minds which had rejected, with all the
firmness of a reprobate will, the re-
generating influence of Christianity,
could not emancipate themselves from
the virtue of the atmosphere which
they had breathed. They are im-
measurably greater than diey would
^ve been in pagan times, by die force
of that faith which they misrepresent-
ed and repudiated. To prove the truth
of my words, compare for a moment
the great artist who drew Tiberius and
Domitian and the Roman empire in
the first century with him who wrote
of its decline and fall in the second and
succeeding centuries. How far wider
a grasp of thought^ how far more man-
ifold an experience, combined with
philosophic purposes, in Gibbon than
in Tacitus. He has a standard with-
in bim by which he can measure the
nations as they come in long proces-
sion before him. In that vast and
wondrous drama of the Antonines and
Constaiituiey Athanasias and Leo^ Jus-

tinian and Chariemagne, Mahomet,
Zenghis Khan, and Timour, Jerusalem
and Mecca, Rome and Constantinople,
what stores of thought are laid up—
what a train of philosophic induction
exhibited ! How much larger is this
world become than that which trem-
bled at Caesar! The very apostate
profits by the light which has shone on
Thabor, and the blood which has
flowed on Calvary. He is a greater
historian than his heathen predecessor
because he lives in a society to which
the God whom he has abandoned
has disclosed the depth of its being,
the laws of its course, the import-
ance of its present, the price of its
futurity.'*

A very little thought will show that,
constituted as man's nature is, this
could not have been otherwise. Man
differs from the inferior animals in
that he is richly endowed with facul-
ties which, until they have been de-
veloped by education, he can never
use, and appreciates and embraces
truths, when they have been set be-
fore him, which he could never have
discovered unassisted. This is the most
obvious distinction between reason
and instinct The caterpillar, hatched
from an egg dropped by a parent
whom it never saw, knows at once
what food and what habits are neces-
sary for its new life. Weeks pads
away, and its first skin begins to die ;
but (as if it had been fully instructed
in what has to be done) it draws its
body out of it as from a glove, and
comes forth in a new one. A few weeks
later it forsakes the food which has
hitherto been necessary for its life, and
buries itself in the earth, which up to
that very day would have been cer-
tain death. There a mysterious
change passes upon it, and it lies as
if dead till the time for another
change approaches. It then gradually
works its way to the surface, and
comes out a butterfly or a moth. It
is now indifferent to the plants which
in its former state were necessary to
its existence, but yet it chooses those
plants on which to deposit its e^s*

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The Formation of OhrUtendom,

We are bo apt to delude ourselves
with the notion that we understand
everything to which we give a name,
that ninety-nine people out of a hun-
dred seem to think they account for
this marvelous power of the inferior
animals to act exactly right under
circumstances so strangely changed,
by calling it " instinct." But, in truth,
why or how the creature does what it
does, we no more know when we
have called it " instinct" than we did
before. All we can suppose is that
as the Creator has left none of his
creatures destitute of the kind and de-
gree of knowledge necessary to ena-
ble it to discharge its appointed office
in creation, the appetices and desires
of the insect are modified from time
to time in the different stages of its
existence so that they impel it exactly
to the course necessary for it to take,
with much gre^iter certainty than if
it understood what the result was to
be. How different is the cose of man.
Not only is he a free agent, and there-
fore to be guided by reason, not by
mere propensity, but neither reason
nor speech, nor indeed life itself,
could be preserved or made of any
use except by means of training and
education received from others. A
man left to shift for himself like the
animal whose changes we have been
tracing, would die at each state of his
existence for want of some one to
teach him what must be done for his
preservation. This same training is
equally necessary for Ids physical, in-
tellectual, moral, and spiritual life. But
he is so constituted that the different
things needful for him to know for
eacli of these purposes approve them-
selves to him as soon as they are pre-
sented to his mind from widiout, and
the things which thus approve them-
selves, although he could never have
discovered them, we truly call natural
to man, because no external teaching
would have made him capable of
learning them unless the faculty had
been as much a part of his original
constitution as the unreasoning desires
which we call instinct are part of the.

constitution of brutes. And therefore,
when once developed by education,
they remain a part of the man, even
when he casts away from him those
teachers by whom they were develop-
ed. Nero would never have learnt
the use of speech if he had not caught
it from his mother ; yet when he used
it to order her murder he did not lose
what she had taught him, because it
was a part of his nature. And so of
higher powers, the result of a superior
training. Principles which men would
never have known without Christian
training are retained when Chris-
tianity itself is rejected, because they
are a part of the spiritual endowment
given to man by his Creator, although
without training he would never have
been able to develop them. His rejec-
tion of Christianity results from an evil
will. The parts of Christian teaching
against which that will does not rebel
he calls and believes to be the lessons
of his natural reason, although the
experience of the greatest and wisest
heathen shows that his unassisted
natural faculties never would have
discovered them.

Nor is this true only of individuals.
Nations trained for many generations
in Christian faith have before now
fallen away from Christianity. But
it does not seem that they are able to
reduce themselves to the level of
heathen nations in their moral stand-
ard, their perception and appreciation
of good and evil, justice and wrong,
or of the nature and destinies of the
human race. In some respects they
are morally much worse than heathen.
But it does not appear that in these
points thay can sink so low, because
their nature, fallen though it be, ap-
proves and accepts some of the truths
taught it by Christianity. Hence, in
order to judge what man can or can-
not do without the revelation of God
in Jesus Christ, we must examine him
in nations to which the faith has never
been given, rather than in those which
have rejected it Unhappily, there
are at this moment parts of Europe
in which the belief in the eupema-

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I%e' Farmaiian of Ohristendom,

363

tural seems wanting. An intelligent
correspondent of the Times a year
ago described such a state of things
as existing in parts of northern Grer-
manj and Scandinavia. The popula-
tion believes nothing, and practises no
religion. Public worship is deserted,
not because the people have dcTtsed
anj new heresy of their own as to
the m»iner in which man should ap-
proach God, but because they have
ceased to trouble themselves about the
matter at all. Lutheranism is dead and
gone ; but nothing has been substitut-
ed for it. The intelligent Protestant
writer was surprised to find a popula-
tion thus wholly without religion or-
derly and well-behaved, hard-working,
and by no means forgetful of social
duties. The phenomenon is, no doubt,
remarkable ; but it is by no means
without example. Many parishes
(we fear considerable districts) in
France are substantially in the same
state. The peasantry are sober, in-
dustrious, and orderly to a degrea un-

• known in England. They reap the

* temporal fruits of these good qual-
ities in a general prosperity equally
unknown here. They are saving to
a degree almost incredible, so that it
is a matter of ordinary experience
that a peasant who began life with
nothing except his bodily strength,
leaves behind him several hundreds,
not unfrequently some thousands, of
pounds sterling. But in this same
district whole villages are so absolute-
ly without religion, that, although
there is not one person for many miles
who calls himself a Protestant, the
churches are almost absolutely de-
serted, and the cures (generally good
and zealous men) are reduced almost
to inactivity by absolute despair.
Some give Uiemselves up to prayer,
seeing nothing else that they can do ;
some will say that they are not wholly
without encouragement, because, after
fifteen or twenty years of labor, they
have succeeded in bringing four or
^Ye persons to seek the benefit of the
sacraments out of a jtopulation of as
many hundreds, among whom when

they came there was not one such per-
son to be found.*

Appalling as is this state of things,
the natural virtues (such as they are)
of populations which have thus lost
faith are themselves the remains of
Christianity. History gives us no
trace of any people in such ^ state
except those who have once been
Christians. For instance, in aU others,
however civilized, slavery has been
established both by law and practice ;
no one of them has been without di-
vorce; infanticide has been allowed
and practised. Nowhere has the uni-
ty of man's nature been acknowledg-
ed, and, what follows from that, the
duties owing to him as man, not mere-
ly as fellow countryman. And hence,
nowhere has there existed what we
call the law of nations, a rule which
limits the conduct of men, not only
toward those of other nations, but,
what is much more, toward those with
whom they are in a state of war, or
whom they have conquered. In the
most civilized times of ancient Greece
and Rome no rights were recognized
in such foreigners. All these things
are the legitimate progeny of Chris-
tianity, and of Christianity alone,
although they are now accepted as
natural principles by nations by
whom, but for the gospel of Christ,
they would never have been heard of.

We have enlarged upon this point
because, not only in what he says of

• It Bhoitld be observed that the moraltty said
to exist In those parte of Franco which have so
nearly lost the faith is not Catholic morality: in
fact, the population in those districts is decreas-
ing, and that (it is universally admitted) from
Immorality. It should alsq be remcrabored that
there is a most marked contrast between these
districts and those Lutheran distrlcis of which
the Times spolce : In the latter, Lutheranism has
died out of itself. In the worst districts of
France, the Catholic rclio^ion has not died out.
bat has been displaced by a systematic infldel
education Inflicted on the people bv a godless
government. Lastlv, evea where things are the
worst, there are a few in each generation who,
in the midst of a godless popnlntiuu, turn out
saints, really worthy of that name. It is seldom
that a mission is preached in an v village without
some sQch being rescued Arom tne corrupt mass
around them. Nothinc, in fact, can more strong-
ly marlc the contrast Dctwoon the Catholic re-
ligion and Lutheranism. The snbiect Is far too
large to be discussed here, but we nave sug^st-
ed these considerations to avoid mlsconceptioni
of our moaning.

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364

The Formation of Vkristendom,

Gibbon, but in manj parts of his sub-
sequent chapters, Mr. Allies attrib-
utes to the influence of Christianitj
thii^B which a saperficial observer
maj attribute rather to some general
progress in the world toward a higher
civilization. We shall see instances
of this as we proceed. We are sat^
isfied that the objection is utterly un-
founded. We see no reason to be-
licTe that without Christianity any
higher or better civilization thfui that
of Rome under Augustus and Athens
under Pericles would ever have been
attained. That those who lived under
that state, so far from expecting any
** progress," believed that the world
was getting worse and worse, and
that there remained no hope of im-
provement, nor any principles from
which it could possibly arise, is most
certain. Nor do we believe that tliose
who thus judged of the natural ten-
dency of the world were mistaken,
although by a stupendous interference
of the Creator with the course of na-
ture an improvement actually took
place.

The philosophy of history then
sifls and arranges the facts which it
records, and judges of them by fixed
and eternal principles of right and
wrong; drawing from the past lessons
of wisdom and virtue for the future.
It will approach nearer and nearer to
perfection as the range of facts in-
vestigated becomes wider, and as the
principles by which they are judged
are more absolutely true, and applied
more correctly, more practically, and
more universally. Hence, it would
never have existed without Chris-
tianity, and although in Christian na-
tions it is found in men partially or
wholly unworthy of the Christian
name, but who retain many ideas and
principles derived from Christianity
alone, yet even in them it is exercised
imperfectly in proportion as they are
less and less Christian.

Mr. Allies thus compares Tacitus
and St. Augustine :

'^The atmosphere of Tacitus and
the lurid glare of his Rome compared

with St. Augustine's worid are like
the shades in which Achilles deplored
the loss of life contrasted with a land-
scape bathed in the morning light of a
southern sun. Yet how much more
of material misery was there in the
time of St Augustine than in the time
of Tacitus I In spite of the excesses
in which the emperors might indulge
within the walls of their palace or of
Rome, the fair fabric of civilization
filled the whole Roman world, the
great empire was in peace, and its
multitude of nations were brethren.
Countries which now form great king-
doms of themselves, were then tran-
quil members of one body politic
Men could travel the coasts of Italy,
Gaul, Spain, Africa, Syria, Asia
Minor, and Greece, round to Italy
again, and find a rich smiling land
covered by prosperous cities, enjoying
the same laws and institutions, and
possessed in peace by its children. In
St. Augustine's time all had been
changed ; on many of these coasts a
ruthless, uncivilized, unbelieving, or
misbelieving enemy had descended.
Through the whole empire there was
a feeling of insecurity, a cry of help-
lessness, and a trembhng at what was
to come. Yet in-tfae pages of the two
writers the contrast is in the inverse
ratia In the pagan, everything
seenis borne on by an iron fate, which
tramples upon the free will of man,
and overwhelms the virtuous before
the wicked. In the Cliristian, order
shines in the midst of destruction, and
mercy dispenses the severest humilia-
tions. It was the symbol of the com-
ing age. And so that great pictore of
the doctor, saint, and philosopher
laid hold of the minds of men during
those centuries of violence whidi fol-
lowed, and in which peace and justice,
so far from embracing each other,
seemed to have deserted the earth.
And in modem times a great genius
has seized upon it, and developed it
in the discourse on universal history.
Bossuet is worthy to receive the torch
from St Augustine. Scarcely could a
more majestic voice, or a mem) philo-

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77ie Formation of Cknttwdom.

aopSc spirity set forth the double suc-
cession of empire and of religion, or
exhibit the tissue wrought by Divine
Providence, human free will, and the
permitted power of evil."

After this estimate of St. Augustine,
he speaks of

" A living author— at once states-
man, orator, philosopher, and historian
of the behest rank — ^who has given us,
on a less extensive scale, a philosophy
of history in its most finished and
amiable form. The very attempt on
the part of M. Guizot to draw out a
pictnre of dvilization during fourteen
hundred years, and to depict, amongst
that immense and ever-changing
period, the course of society in so
many countries, indicates no ordinary
power; and the partial fulfilment of
the design may be said to have elevat-
ed the philosophy of history into a
science. In this work may be found
the moat important rules of the science
aecurately stated ; but the work itself
18 the best example of philosophic
method and artistic^ execution, united
to illustrate a complex subject A
careful study of original authorities,
a patient induction of facts, a cautious
generalization, the philosophic eye to
detect analogies, the painter's power
to group results, and, above all, a unity
of conception which no multiplicity of
details can embarrass ; these are some
of the main qualifications for a philos-
ophy of history which I should deduce
from these works. Yet, while the action
of Providence and that of human free
will are carefully and beautifully
brought out, while both may be said to
be points of predilection with the
anthor, he has not alluded, so far as I
am aware, to the great evil spirit and
his personal operation. Strong as he
is, he has been apparently too weak
to bear the scoff of modem infidelity
— ^ he believes in the devil"— unless,
indeed, the cause of this lies deeper,
and belongs to lus philosophy ; for if
there be one subject out of which eclec-
ticism can pick nothing to its taste, it
would be the permitted operation of
the great fallen spirit Nor will the

warmest admiration of his genius be
mistaken for a concurrence in all his
judgments. I presume not to say
how far such an author is sometimes,
in spite of himself, unjust, from the
point of view at which he dhiws his
picture. Whether, and how far, he be
an eclectic philosopher, let others de-
cide. It would be grievous to feel it
true of such a mind; for it is the
original sin of that philosophy to make
the universe rotate round itself. Great
is its complacency in its own conclu-
sions, but there runs through them
one mistake— -to fancy itself in the
place of God" (p. 31).

Those who have ever made the at-
tempt to analyze in a 'few lines the
genius of a great writer will best be
able to estimate the combination of
keen intellect, patient thought, and
scrupulous candor in this criticism.
We must not deny ourselves one more
quotation :

^^St. Augustine, Bossuet, Guizot,
Balmez, SchJegel : I have taken these
names not to exhaust but to illustrate
the subject. Here we have the an-
cient and the modern society, Africa
and France, Spain and Grermany, and
the Christian mind in each, thrown
upon the facts of history. They point
out, I think, sufficiently a common re-
sult. But amid the founders of a new
science, who shall represent our own
country? Can I hesitate, or can I
venture, in this place and company
[t. e., before the Catholic University of
Dublin, in the chair of which this lec-
ture was delivered], to mention the
hand which has directed the scattered
rays of light from so many sources on
the wild children of Central Asia, and
produced the Turk before us in his un-
tameable ferocity— the outcast of the
human race, before whom earth her-
self ceases to be a mother-^by whom
man's blood has ever been shed like
water, woman's honor counted as the
vUcst of things, nature's most sacred
laws publicly and avowedly outraged,
— has produced him before us for the
abhorrence of mankind, the infamy of
nations? To sketch the intrinsic

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866

79b Formaiian of Ohristendom.

character of barbarism and ciyilikation,
and out of common historical details,
travel, and observation to show the in-
effaoeable stamp of race and tribe, re-
producing itself through the long se-
ries of ages, Burelj expresses the idea
which we mean by the philosophy of
history" (p. 38).

We have given a disproportionate
space to this inaugu];^! lecture, both
for its intrinsic importance and be-
cause it gives a shadow of the whole
plan of Mr. Allies's work, both that
part which lies before us and that
which remans to be published ; for the
volume betbre us is " only a portion,
perhaps about a fourth, of the author's
design.'' In the six lectures which it
contains, he gives us an estimate, first,
of the physical and political condition
of the Roman empire in its palmy
days ; then, of the force by which it
pleased God to constitute the new
creation in the midst of it. In the
last four lectures he compares the
vital principles of these two vast so-
cial organizations — ^the heathen and
the Christian — ^flrst in a representa-
tive man of each class, then in the ef-
fects produced upon society at large
by the influence of each ; then in £e
primary relation of man to woman in
marriage ; and, lastly, in the virginal
state; although under this last head
there can hardly be said to be a com-
parison, as heathen society has simply
nothing to set against that wonderful
creation of Christianity — ^holy vir-
ginity.

We know not where we have met
any painting of the Roman empire so
striking as that contained in the first
lecture. Of the multitude of English-
men who read more or less^of the
classical Latin authors, a very small
proportion have ever paid any atten-
tion to the Roman empire, as it is dis-
played by Tacitus and Juvenal. This
is the natural result of the grace and
eloquence of Livy and Cicero, tnuch
rather than of any strong preference
for republican institutions. Indeed it
is impossible not to be struck with the
vast influence which Roman republi-

canism exercises in France compared
with England. Nor is it difficult to
account for this. France, except to a
limited degree under the monarchy of
July, has never enjoyed constitutional
liberty. The Frenchman, therefore,
who dreams of liberty at all, places
his dreamland in a Roman republic
Boys who in England would rant
about John Hampden are found in
France ranting about Junius Brutus.
For what the Englishman means when
he talks about liberty is '^ English lib-
erty ;" the Frenchman means the Ro-
man republic So much has this been
the case, that even in America the
war of independence began, not in any
aspuration after a republic, but for the
rights of English subjects. The sword
had been drawn for a year before the
colonies claimed independence, and
very shortly before Washington had
declared that '^ there was no tiionght
of separation, only of English liberty."
What proves that these were not mere
words was, that even after independ-
ence had been achieved, the leaders,
who met in congress, agreed almost to
a man in expressing their preference
for <' an English constitution," if cir-
cumstances had placed it within their
reach. All the world knows that
France became a republic chiefly be-
cause Rome in her palmy days had
been so called ; nay, to this hour all
the terms adopted by the revolution-
ary party have been borrowed from
classical times. Such was the term
^ citizen," so appropriate to a people
whose boast was that they were free
of a city which had conquered the
world, so absurd as denoting the mem-
bers of a groat nation in which not
even centuries of extreme centraliza-
tion have prevented political rights
from being exercised by each man in
his own province. Such, again, was
that inundation of pagan names which
the revolutionary times substituted for
those of the saints, and which are still
characteristic of France — Camilie,
Emile, Antonine, and even Brute and
Timoleon. This we take to be one
great reason why many sensible per-

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The Formation of Oknttendom.

367

sons in France are so greatly afraid of
classical studies in schools and col-
leges. They say that they turn the
heads of boys, especially French boys.
It is highly characteristic of the man,
that the officers of the House of Com-
mons, who made forcible entry into
the house of Sir Francis Burdett when
he was committed by order of the
House, found him reading with Ids
little son, not Plutarch's life of Brutus
or Cato, as would assuredly have been
the case with a Frenchman, but
''Magna Charta." He was not less
theatrical, but he was a thoroughly
English actor.

And yet we strongly suspect that
out of a hundred boys who leave a
classical school more than ninety be-
lieve that Roman history ends with
Augustus. The university no doubt,
gives a somewhat more extended
view. But even there Tacitus is
usually about the limit. We wonder
how far this feeling was carried be-
fore Gibbon published the " Decline
and Fall."

Hence we especially value the won-
derful picture of the empire painted by
our author.

It was in fact a federation of civil-
ized states under an absolute monarch ;
the municipal liberties were lefb so en-
tire that Niebuhr mentions Italian cit-
ies, in the immediate neighborhood of
Rome itself, which retamed all through
the times of the empire and the mid-
dle ages, down to the wars of the
French revolution, the same munici-
pal institutions under which Rome had
found them. They were swept away
by that faithful lover of despotism,
Napoleon L, to make way for the uni-
form system of a prefet and souspre-
fet uoL each district. It is more impor-
tant to bear this in mind because, as
the revolutionists aped the manners
and names of the Roman republic
without understanding them, the im-
perialists of France are apt to assume
that they faithfully represent the Ro-
man empire. Now the one striking
characteristic of the French empire
is that it raises yearly 100,000 mili-

tary conscripts^ beside the naval con-
scription, the police, and the very fire-
men, all of whom are carefully drilled
as soldiers. How was it under Au-
gustus?

" It is hard to conceive adequately
what a spectator called 'the immense
majesty of the RDman peace* (Pliny,
'Nat. Hist,' xxvii. 1). Where now
in Europe, impatient and uneasy, a
group of half-friendly nations jealous-
ly watches each other's progress and
power, and the acquisition of a prov-
ince threatens a general war, Rome
maintained, from generation to genera-
tion, in tranquil sway, an empire of
which Gaul, Spain, Britain, and North
Africa, Switzerland, and the greater
part of Austria, Turkey in Europe,
Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt formed
but single limbs, members of her
mighty body. Her roads, which
spread like a network over this im-
mense territory, from their common
centre, the golden milestone of the
Forum, under the palace of her emper-
ors, did but express the unity of that
spirit with which she ruled the earth
her subject,' levelling the mountains
and filLng up the valleys for the
march of her armies, the caravans of
her merchandise, and the even sweep
of her legislation. A moderate fleet
of 6,000 sailors at Misenum, and an-
other at Ravenna, a flotilla at Forum
Julii, and another in the Black sea,
of half that force, preserved the whole
Mediterranean from piracy; and
every nation bordering on its shores
could freely interchange the produc-
tions of their industry. Two smaller
armaments of twenty-four vessels each
on the Rhine and the Danube secured
the empire from northern incursion.
In the time of Tiberius a force of
twenty-five legions and fourteen co-
horts, making 171,500 men, with
about an equal number of auxiliary
troops, that is, in all, an army of 340-
000, sufficed, not so much to preserve
internal order, which rested upon
other and surer ground, but to guard
the frontiers of a vast popuktion,
amounting, as is calculated, to 120,-

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368

The Formation of Christendom,

000,000, and inhabiting the very fair-
est regions of the earth, of which the
gi*eat Mediterranean sea was a sort
of central and domestic lake. But
this army itself, thus moderate in
number, was not, as a rule, stationed
in cities, but in fixed quarters on the
frontiers, as a guard against external
foes. Thus, for instance, the whole
interior of Gaul possessed a garrison
of but 1,200 men — ^that Graul which,
in the year 1860, in a time of peace,
thought necessary for internal tran-
quillity and external rank and securi-
ty to have 626,000 men in arms.*
Again, Asia Minor had no military
force; that most beautiful region of
the earth teemed with princely cities,
enjoying the civilization of a thousand
years, and all the treasures of art and
industry, in undisturbed repose. And
within its unquestioned boundaries,
the spirit, moreover, of Roman rule was
far other than that of a military despot-
ism, or of a bureaucracy and a police
pressing with ever watchful suspicion
on every spring of civil life. The
principle of its government was not
that no population could be faithful
which was not kept in leading-strings,
but rather to leave cities and corpora-
tions to manage their own affairs them-
selves. Thus its march was firm and
strong, but for this very reason devoid
alike of fickleness and haste.^

It might have been added, that, as
a general rule, the army which guard-
ed each portion was composed of the
natives of the country in which they
were stationed. Roman citizens they
were, no doubt-, but citizens of provin-
cial extraction, and posted to guard on
behalf of Rome the very country
which their fathers, sometimes but a
very few generations back, had de-
fended against her.f This is a policy
the generosity of which France dares
not at this day imitate, even in her
oldest provinces. To say nothing of

* Sarely the author Bhonld have added the
Belginn army (flzed hv the lawtf of 1353 at 100,-
000), and that 6art of the Prassian, etc., which is
raided west of the Rhine, in comparinff the mili-
tary force of ancient Oaal with that of the same
diotrict in oar day.

t Champagny, Rome, and Judea.

the British army in Ireland, the Bi«-
ton conscripts are still sent to serve at
Lyons and Paris.

The extracts we have given will
doubtless lead every reader to study
for himself Mr* Allies's descriptions of
Rome, and the life of the Thermse,
and of the colonies, everywhere re-
producing the life of Rome. Every
page breathes with the matured
thought of a mind of remarkable na-
tural acuteness, and stored with re-
fined scholarship. There is nothing
of beauty or majesty in that magnifi-
cent old world which he does not seem
to have witnessed and mused over.

It is hardly possible to realize all
this greatness without being tempted
to repine in the remembrance whither
it was all hastening — that the peace
of the Roman world was but " the
torrent's smoothness ere it dash be-
low ;*' its magnificence only the feast
of Baltassar in that last night of the
splendor of Babylon, when the Modes
and Persians were already under her
walls, and the river had been turned
away from its course through her
quays, and a way left open for the
rush of the destroyer into her streets
and palaces. Already the mysterious
impulae had been given which, during
so many centuries,, drove down horde
after horde of barbarians from the
wild north-east, to overflow the favor-
ed lands that surrounded the Mediter-
ranean. In the early days of Roman
history the Gauls had rushed on,
sweeping away those earlier races
whose remains we are now exploring
in the shallows of the Swiss lakes, and
whose descendants are probably to be
found in the Basques, and in some of
those degraded castes which, in spite
of the welding power of the Church,
lefl proscribed remnants in France
and elsewhere until the great revolu-
tion. That mighty wave burst upon
the rock of the Capitol, threatened
for a moment utterly to bven^'helm it,
and then fell broken at its feet. But
it is not by repelling one wave, how-
ever formidable, that a rising tide is
turned back. In the day of Rome's

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I%e Formation of Christendom.

369

utmost power her very foundations
were shaken by the torrent of the
Cimbri and Teutones. They, too,
were broken against the steel-clad
legions of Marius, and fell off like
spray on the earth. But the tide was
still advancing. What need to trace
its successive inroads ? Every reader
of Gibbon remembers how the time
came at last when the very site where
Rome had stood had been so often
swept by it, that of all its greatness
there remained nothing more than the
sea leaves of some castle of shingles
and sand, after a few waves have
passed over it.

*^ Qaench*d is the golden etatae's ray ;
The breath of heavea hath swept away
What tolling earth hath oiled ;
6catterin«r wl^e heart ana crafty hand.
As breezes strew on ocean^s strand
The fabrics of a child l"

There even came a time when for
many weeks the very ruins of ancient
Borne were absolutely deserted, and
trodden neither by man nor beast* No
wonder that the world stood by afar off
weeping and mourning over the utter
destruction of all that the earth had
ever known of greatness and glory.
So the sentence had been passed, in
the day of her greatest gloiy, by the
prophetic voice of the angel, who
cried with a strong voice :

"Fallen — ^fallen, is Babylon the
great, and is become the habitation of
devils and the hold of every unclean
spirit, and of every unclean and hate-
ful bird. And the kings of the earth
shall weep and bewail themselves over
her, when they shall see the smoke of
the burning; standing afar off for fear
of her torments, saying, Alas ! alas I
that great city Babylon, that mighty
city ; for in one hour is thy judgment
come. And the merchants of the
earth shall weep and mourn over her,
and shall stand afar off from her for
fear of her torments, weeping and
mourning, and saying, Alas! alas!
that great cit^ which was clothed in
fine linen, and purple, and scarlet,
and was gilt with gold and precious
stones and pearls. For in one hour
VOL. n. 24

are so great riches come to nought"
(Apocalypse, chap, xviii.)

It was not the ruin of one city,
however glorious, but the sweeping
away of all the accumulated glories of
the civilization of the whole civilized
world, during more than a thousand
years. All had been embodied in
imperial Rome. In the words of our
author^-

^' The empire of Augustus inherited
thev whole civilization of the ancient
world. Whatever political or social
knowledge, whatever moral or intel-
lectual truth, whatever useful or ele-
gant arts, ' the enterprising race of
Japhet' had acquired, preserved, and
accumulated in the long course of cen-
turies since the beginning of history
had descended without a break to
Rome, with the dominion of aU the
countries washed by the Mediterra-
nean. For her the wisdom of Egypt and
of all the East had been stored up.
For her Pythagoras and Thales, Soc-
rates, Plato, and Aristotle, and all the
schools beside of Grecian philosophy
suggested by these names, had thought
For her Zoreaster, as well as Solon
and Lycurgus, legislated. For her
Alexander conquered, the races which
he subdued forming but a portion of
her empire. Every city, in the ears
of whose youth the poems of Homer
were familiar as household words,
owned her sway. The magistrates,
from the Northern sea to the confines
of Arabia, issued their decrees in the
language of empire — the Latin tongue ;
while, as men of letters, they spoke
and wrote in Greek. For her Car-
thage had risen, founded colonies, dis-
covered distant coasts, set up a world-
wide trade, and then fallen, leaving
her the empire of Africa and the
west, with the lessons of a long ex-
perience. Not only so, but likewise
Spain, Gaul, and all the frontier
provinces, from the Alps to the mouth
of the Danube, spent in her service
their strength and skill ; supplied her
armies with their bravest youths ;
gave to her senate and. her knights
their choicest minds. The vi^^r of

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870

7%€ Formation of Christendom,

new and the culture of long-polished
races were alike employed in the vast
&bric of her power. Every science
and art, all human experience and dis-
ooFcrj, had poured their treasure in
one stream into the bosom of that so-
ciety, which^ after forty-four years of
undisputed rule, Augustus had consol-
idated into a new system of govern-
ment, and bequeathed to the charge
of Tiberius" (p. 41).

No wonder the ancient world had
assured itself that, as nothing greater,
nothing wiser, nothing more glorious
than Home could ever arise upon
earth, so its greatness, wisdom, and
glory could never be superseded. It
was " the eternal city." It was " for
ever to give laws to the world." The
contemporary poets could imagine no
stronger expression of an eternity,
than that of a duration while Rome
itself should lasL Yet was it at that
very time that the eyes of a fisherman
of the lake of Tiberias were opened
to see the angel ^ coming down from
heaven with power and 'great glory,"
from whose mighty cry over the fall
of Babylon we have already quoted
some words. No wonder when the
time came that his prophecy was ful-
filled, the world stood by weeping and
mourning, not over the fall of a single
city (such as Scipio Africanus had
forecast as he watched the smoke of
old Carthage rising up to heaven), but
over the ruin of the civilization of the
whole world. No wonder that, even
in our own age, those whose hearts
have so far sunk back to the level of
heathenism as to value only material
prosperity and worldly greatness, still
re-echo the cry —

" Alas I the eternal city, and alas 1
The trebly hnndred triamphu, and the day
When Brutus made the dasger^s edse surpass
The conqueror's sword in beiiring fame away.
Alas I for earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye ahe wore when
Borne was free."

But the voice of divine wisdom was
far different : " Rejoice over her,
thou heaven, and ye holy apostles and
prophets, for God hath judged your
judgment upon her. And a mighty

angel took up a stone, as it were a
great millstone, and cast it into the
sea, saying, ' Witli such violence as
this shall Babylon, that great dty, be
thrown down, and shall be found no
more at all ; and the voice of hajrpers,
and of musicians, and of them that
play on the pipe and on the trumpet,
shall no more be heard at all in thee ;
and no craftsman, of any art whatso
ever, shall be found any more at all
in thee; and the sound of the miU
shall be heard no more at all in thee ;
and the light of the lamp shaU shine no
more in thee; and the voice of the
bridegroom and the bride shall be
heard no more at all in thee ; for thy
merchants were the great men of the
earth, for all nations have been de-
ceived by thine enchantments.' And
in her was found the blood of prophets,
and of saints, and of all that were slain
upon the earth."

Thus total, according to the proph-
ecy, was to be the destruction of the
wealth, civilization, greatness, and
glory of the ancient heathen world,
gathered together in Rome, that in the
utter sweeping away of that one city
all might perish together. How folly
the words were accomplished we
know by the lamentation of the whole
world over Babylon, the echoes of
which still ring in our ears. But to
us Christians it rather bel(Migs to
weigh the words which follow without
any break in the sacred text (although
the division of the chapters leads.many
readers to overlook the close conneo
tion). << After these things I heard,
as it were, the voice of much people
in heaven, saying, ' Alleluia. Salva-
tion, and glory, and power is to oar
Grod. For just and true are his judg-
ments, who hath judged the great har-
lot which corrupted the earth with her
fornications, and he hath avenged the
blood of his servants at her hands.'
And again they said, ' Alleluia. And
her smoke ascendeth for ever and
ever.' " Here is the answer to that
cry of the angel, " Rejoice over her,
thou heaven, and ye apostles and
prophets."

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Tlu Formation of Christendom.

371

Were any comment needed upon
Bach pn^hecies — any explanation of
the sentence passed upon a ciyiliza-
tion so great, so ancient, so widely ez-
teaded, and so refined — anything to
reeoneile us to the utter destruction of
80 much that was fair and mighty,
we may find it in the latter half of
the lecture before us. Not that our
author is insensible to the marvellous
beauty of that glow with which clas-
Bical literature causes the figures of
Aoae days to shine before us. That
would be impossible for a man of his
studies. He says :

** Is not the yeiy language of Cicero
and Vii^il an expression of this lord-
ly, yet peaceful rule ; this even, undis-
turbed majesty, which holds the world
together like the regularity of the
reasons, like the alternations of light
and dai^ess, like the all-pervading
warmth of the sun? If every lan-
guage reflects the character of the race
which speaks it, surely we discern in
the very strain of Yii^l the cjosing of
the gates of war, the settling of the na-
tions down to the arts of peace, the
reign of law and order, the amity and
ooncord of races, the weak protected,
the strong ruled : in a word,

* Bomanog rernm dominos, gentemqne toga-
tam.' "

Neither, need it hardly be said, has he
set the hideous pollutions of that civil-
ization fully before us: that is render-
ed impossible by its very hideousness.
Let those who recoil from the horrors
of what he has said — but a faint out-
line of the miserable truth, though
traced with singular artistic form and
beanty — ^bear in mind the while the
words of the inspired prophecy, ^' All
natioDS have drunk of the wine of her
fornication, and the kings of the earth
have conmiitted fornication with her^
^Her sins have reached unto

heaven, and the Lord shall reward
her iniquities'* — ^"In her was found
the blood of prophets, and saints, and
of all that were slain upon the earth.''
The crimes, as well as the civilization
of a thousand years, were accumulated .

at Home, and both were swept away
together by that overwhelming flood of
fierce barbarians. Little were it
worthy of Christians to nioum over a
civilization into whose very heart-
strings such unutterable pollution was
intertwined; especially as it was re*
moved, not like Babylon of old, to
leave behind it nothing but desolation,
but to make room for that kingdom of
God which was to be enthroned upon
its ruins ; for such was the purpose of
God, that the very centre of Christen-
dom, the very seat of the throne of
Christ upon earth, on which he would
visibly sit in the person of his Vicar,
was there to be established, whence
the throne of the Cassars and the
golden house of Nero had been swept
away in headlong ruin. '' I saw a
new heaven and a new earth, for the
first heaven and the first earth was
gone. And I heard a great voice
from the throne saying, < Behold the
tabernacle of God with men, and he
will dwell with them. And they shall
be his people, and God himself shall
be their God. And God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes.'"
" And he that sat on the throne said,
* Behold, I make all things new.' **
The full accomplishment of these
words we expect, in faith and hope,
when '< death shall be no more, nor
mourning, nor crying, nor sorrow
shall be any more; for the former
things are passed away ;" yet, surely,
whatever more glorious accomplish-
ment is yet to come, it were blindness
not to see how far they are already
fulfilled in the substitution of Chris-
tendom for the civilized pagan world,
the setting up the throne of the Vicar
of Christ upon the ruins of the palace
of the Caesars.

First among the causes of that hid-
eous accumulated mixture of blood
and filth in which heathen civilization
was drowned, Mr. Allies most justly
places the institution of slavery as it
was at Rome, because by this the
springs of human life were tainted-
It is certain that during all the long
years of the duration of the Roman

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872

The Formation of Christendom.

empire, there waa among its heathen
population no one human being, who
lived beyond the earliest childhood,
who was not polluted, and whose very
oul was not scarred and branded, by
the marks of that hideous moral pesti-
lence. We say " its heathen popula-
tion," because great as must have been
the evil it wrought upon ordinary
Christians, we doubt not tliat there
were those who gathered honey out of
corruption, and whose justice, charity,
and purity came out from that furnace
of temptation with a brightness which
nothing but the most fiery trial could
have given to them* From slavery
the whole of Roman society received
its form. Our author most truly
says, " The spirit of slavery is never
limited to the slave ; it saturates the
atmosphere which the freeman
breathes together with the slave ;
passes into his nature, and corrupts
it" This miserable truth can never
be too often impressed upon men, be-
cause, unhappily, there are still advo-
cates of slavery who think that they
apologize for it if they can prove, as
they think, that the slave is happy.
As well might they argue that the in-
troduction of the plague into London
would be no calamity, if the man who
brought it la upon him entered the
city dancing and shouting. In ancient
Italy slaves replaced the hardy rustics,
that ^prisca gens mortalium'* who,
though doubtless far less virtuous than
they appeared in the fevered dreams
of men sick of the vices of Rome in
the last days of the republic, were still
among the best specimens of heathen
life. Wherever slavery extends, la-
bor becomes dishonorable as the badge
of servitude, a few masters languish
in bloated luxury, but the nation it-
self grows constantly poorer, as an
ever-increasing proportion of its popu-
lation has to be maintained in indo-
lence. At Rome slaves were the only
domestic servants, and after a time
the only manufacturers. And yet
even this is nothing compared to the
evils of a state of society in which the
jgreat majority of womoa as welt as of

men arc the absolute property of their
masters. Horrible as was this state
of things, it offered so many gratifica-
tions to the corrupt natures of tliose
whose hands held the power of the
world, and without whose consent
it could not be abolished,, that it would
have seemed to any one who had ever
witnessed the life of a wealthy Roman
noble no less than madness to imagine
that any man would ever willi^ly
surrender them.

As a matter of fact, so far was this
state of society from holding out any
hope of its own amendment, whether
sudden or gradual, that, as our author
remarks —

" Of all the minds which have lefb
a record of themselves, from Cicero to
Tacitus, there is not one who does not
look upon the world's course as a rapid
descent. They feel an immense moral
corruption breaking in on all sides,
which wealth, convenience of life, and
prosperity only enhance. They have
no hope for humanity, for they have no
faith m it, nor in any power encom-
passing and directing it."

Faithless and hopeless they were ;
but whatever this world could give
they had in abundance :

" In the time of heathenism the
world of sense which surrounded man
flattered and caressed all his natural
powers, and solicited an answer from
them ; and in return he flung himself
greedily upon that world, and trlM to
exhaust its treasures. Glory, wealth,
and pleasure intoxicated his heart
with their dreams ; he crowned him-
self with the earth's flowers, and drank
in the air's perfume ; and in one ob-
ject or another, in one after another,
he sought enjoyment and satisfaction.
The world had nothing more to give
him ; nor will the latest growth of civ*
ilization surpass the profusion with
which the earth poured forth its gifts
to those who consented to seek on the
earth alone their home and their re-
ward ; though, indeed, they were the
few, to whom the many were sacrificed.
The Roman noble, with the pleasures
of a vai\quished world at his feet,

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Tke Formation of CkrUtenlom.

373

with men and women from the fairest
climes of the earth to do his bidding-—
men who, though slaves, had learnt
all the arts and letters of Greece, and
were ready to use them for the benefit
of their lords ; and women, the most
beautiful and accomplished of their
sex^ who were yet the property of
these same lords — ^the Boman noble,
as to material and even intellectual
enjoyment, stood on a vantage-ground
which never again man can hope to
occupy, however —

^Throngb the as:es an increasing pnrpose rnns.
And the thoughts of men are widen d with the
proceM of the isana/

^ Caesar and Pompey, LucuUus and
Hortensius, and the fellows of their
order, were orators, statesmen, jurists,
and legislators, generals, men of liter-
ature, and luxurious nobles at the
same time; and they were this be-
cause they could use the minds as well
as the bodies of others at their pleas-
ure. Not in this direction was an ad-
Tance possible" (p. 159).

Our author draws with great skill
and vigor a picture of the moral soci-
ety of the heathen world, and of the
beliefs upon which the practice of the
heathen rested. Into these we have
no room to follow him* At the end
of this lecture he shows what sights
they were which met the eyes of a
stranger coming from the east in the
days of Nero — an execution in which
four hundred men, women, and chil-
dren were marched through the streets
of Borne to the cross, because their
master had been killed by one of his
slaves. In all such cases the Roman
law required that every slave in the
house, hcrwever innocent, however
young or however old — man, woman,
or child — should be put to death.
Thence the stranger passed to a scene
of debauchery such as the world has
never imagined, in the gardens close
to the Pantheon. This stranger —

" Why has he come to Rome, and
what is he doing there? Poor, un-
known, a foreigner in dress, language,
and demeanor, he is come from a dis-
tant province, small in extent, but the

most despised and the most disliked (^
Rome's hundred provinces, to found
in Rome itself a society, and one, too,
far more extensive than this great
Roman empire, since it is to embrace
all nations ; far more lasting, since it
is to endure for ever. He is come to
found a society, by means of which
all that he sees around him, from the
emperor to the slave, shall be changed**
(p. 101).

What madness can have inspired
such a hope, or what miracle, real or
simulated, could fulfil it ? And that,
not in the golden age of pastoral sim-
plicity, in which men looked for won-
ders with an uncritical eye, but '* amid
the dregs of Itomulus," when all the
world seemed to have fallen together
into the " sere and yellow leaf." *

^ He has two things within him, for
want of which sdtsiety was perishing
and man unhappy: a certain know-
ledge of God as the Creator, Ruler,
Judge, and Rewarder of men; and
of man's soul made afler the image
and likeness of this Grod. This Grod
he has seen, touched, and handbd
upon earth ; has been an eye-witness o£^
his majesty, has received his message,
and bears his commisaion. Bat
whence had this despised foreigner
received the double knowledge of God
and of the soul, so miserably lost (as
we have seen) to this brilliant Roman
civilization?

*' In the latter years of Augustus,
when the foundations of the imperial
rule had been laid, and the structure
mainly raised by his practical wisdom,
there had dwelt a poor family in a
small town of evil repute, not far from
the lake of the remote province where
this fisherman plied his trade. It con-
sisted of an elderly man, a youthful
wife, and one young child. The man
gained his livelihood as a carpenter,
and the child worked with him. Com-
plete obscurity rested upon this house-
hold till the child grew to the age of
thirty years" (p. 104).

Then follows in few words the his-
tory of his life, death, and resurrec-
tion. These things the fisherman had

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874

The FormaHon of Christendom,

seen, and in this was the power which
was to substitute a new life for the
corrupt civilisation of a world.

The details of the comparison
which follows we maj leave to be con-
sidered when the work is continued.
They are drawn out with great spirit^
thoughtfulness, and artistic beauty.
For the comparison of the two sys-
tems in an individual, Mr. Allies se-
lects on the one side Cicero, on the
other St Augustine. An able review-
er has maintained that ^ Marcus Au-
relius was the person to compare with
St Augustine.** Mr. Allies has given
his reasons for not selecting either
Marcus Aurelius or Epictetus in the
defective reli^ous system of both.
There were, however, other grounds
which seem to us even stronger. To
test what heathenism can do, it was
necessary that the example selected
should, as a chemist would say, pre-
sent not '^a trace" of any other influ-
ence. Now this was impossible in the
days of Epictetus or Aurelius. Chris-
tianity had then been taught and pro-
fessed publicly and without restraint
for many years, with only occasional
bursts of persecution since Nero first
declared war upon it Its theology,
indeed, was fully known only to the
faithful, but its moral code was pub-
licly professed. The Christian teach-
ers came before the people as philos-
ophers. It is absolutely certain that
all the great Stoics, and especially the
emperor, must often and oflen have
heard of the great moral and religious
principles laid down by the Christian
teachers, however imperfect was his
knowledge of their religious practices.
But we have already had occasion to
^remark that men are driven, whether
*they will or no, to approve and admit
these great principles when they are
only publicly stated and maintained,
although certain not to have discover-
ed them by their unassisted reason.
We cannot, therefore, but regard the
religious and moral maxims of the
later Stoics as an imperfect reflection
of the full light of Christianity, like
the moonlight illuminating without

warming, but still taking such hold of
the minds which have once embraced
them, that they could never be forgot*
ten. The life and practice of the
imperial philosopher, we have every
reason to believe, was, for a man
without the faith and the sacraments,
wonderfully hig^. Far be it from us
to depreciate it, for whatever there
was in it that was really good we
know resulted from that grace which
is given even beyond the bounds of
the Church. But our knowledge of
details is most meagre, while Cicero
we know probably more familiarly
than any great man in whose intimacy
we hare not lived. The thoughts
and speculations which approved
themselves to the deliberate judgment
of Marcus Aurelius, these we know,
and in many respects they are won-
derful. Of his life we know little
more than he chose publicly to exhibit
to his subjects. The failings of Cice-
ro were petty and degrading; but if
he had been firmly seated on the
throne of the Ceesars, and if we had
possessed no more exact details of his
life than we do of the life of Marcus
Aurelius, we much doubt whether we
should have been aware of them.
Merivale says: << The high standard
by which we claim to judge him is in
itself the fullest acknowledgment of
his transcendent merits ; for, undoubt-
edly, had he not placed himself on a
higher level than the statesmen and
sages of his day, we should pass over
many of his weaknesses in silence,
and allow his pretensions to our re-
gard to pass almost unchallenged.
But we demand a nearer approach to
the perfection of human wisdom and
virtue in one who sought to approve
himself as the greatest of their teach-
ers." He was condemned indeed by
his heathen countrymen, but their cen-
sure was rather of his greatness than
his goodness, and they would probably
have been even more severe had he
attained what he did not even aim at
— Christian humility.

Considering these things, and espe-
cially that Cicero belong^ almost to

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875

the last generation, which was wholly
oninflaeiiced by the reflected light of
Christiaiiityy and in which, therefore,
we can to a considerable degree meas-
ore the real effects of heathen philos-
ophy, we venture to think that Mr.
Allies has judged well in comparing
him as the model heathen with St. Au-
gustine as the model Christian. The
oompariBim is drawn with a masterly
hMd.

On the whole, however, we incline
to think that the two last lectures are
of the greatest practical value, espe-
cially at the present crisis. The salt
by which Christianity acts upon the
woiid seems to be martyrdom and
holy virginity. Both of them have
been always in operation since the
days of John the Baptist. But there
are periods of comparative stillness in
which martyrdom is hardly seen, or
at least only at the ontposte of the
Christian host At such times, it is
by holy virginity that the Church acts
most directly and most powerfully
upon the world. This was the case
in the Roman empire as soon as per-
seeution relaxed.

Our^ author says :

** A grea^ Christian writer [St. Chry-
sostom], who stood between the old
pagan world and the new society
which was taking* its place, and who
was equally familiar with both, made,
near the end of the fourth century,
the following observation : ' The
Greeks had some few men, though it
was but few, among them, who, by
the force of philosophy, came to de-
spise riches ; and some, too, who
coold control the irascible part of
man ; but the flower of virginity was
nowhere to be found among them.
Here they always gave precedence to
us, confessing that to succeed in such
a thing was to be superior to nature
and more than man. Hence their
profound admiration for the whole
Christian people. The C*hristian host
derived its chief lustre from this por-
tion of its ranks.' And, again, he
notes the existence, in his time, of
three different sentiments respecting

this institution. < The Jews,' he says,
' turn with abhorrence from the beauty
of virginity ; which indeed is no won-
der, since they treated with dishonor
the very Son of the Virgin himself.
The Greeks, however, admire it, and
look np to it with astonishment, but
the Church of Grod alone cultivates
it.' After fifleen hundred yearfa we
find the said sentiments in three great
classes of the world. The pagan na-
tions, among whom Catholic mission-
aries go forth, reproduce the admira-
tion of Greek and Latin pagans;
they reverence that which they have
not strength to follow, and are often
drawn by its exhibition into the fold.
But there are nations who likewise
reproduce the Jewish abhorrence of
the virginal life. And as the Jews
worshipped the unity of the Godhead, •
like the Christians, and so seemed to
be far nearer to them than pagan idol-
aters, and yet turned with loathing
from this product of Christian life,
so those nations might seem, from the
large portions of Christian doctrine
which they still hold, to be nearer to
Christianity than the Hindoo and the
Chinese ; and yet their contempt and
dislike for the virginal life and its
wonderful institutions seems to tell
another tale. But now, as fifteen hun-
dred years ago, whether those outside
admire or abhor, the Church alone
cultivates the virginal life. Now, as
then, it is her glory and her strength,
the mark of her Lonl, and the stand-
ard of his power, the most special
sign of his presence and operation. < If,'
says the same writer, ^ you take away
its seemliness and its continuity of de-
votion, you cut the very sinews of the
virginal estate ; so when it is possess-
ed together with the best conduct of
life, you have in it the root and sup-
port of all good things : just as a most
fruitftil soil nurtures a root, so a good
conduct bears the fruits of virginity.-
Or, to speak with greater truth, the
crucified life is at once both its root
and its fruit' " (p. 382).

We must conclude by expressing
our deliberate conviction that no study-

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can be more important at the present
day than that of the change from hea-
then civilization to Christendom, the
means by which it was brought about,
and the effects which it produced.
For in our day, most eminently, the
Protestant falling away is producing
its fruits in restoring throughout aU
Europe more and more of the special
characteristics of heathen society.
We have not room at present to offer
any proofs of this, but we would beg
every reader to observe for himself,
and we are confident that his experi-
ence will confirm what we say. Nor
is it only Catholics that are aware of
this tendency. A thoughtful writer
in the Saturday RevieWy six months
back, devoted a whole article to trace

the points of resemblance between an
educated English Protestant of our
day and a heathen of cultivated mind.
Those who feel disposed at once to
regard the idea as an insult are proba-
bly judging of heathen civilization
by Nero and Domitian. IVIr. Allies's
book will at least dispel this delusion.
In fact, it is only too obvious that
there is, even in our own day, no want
of plausibility in w^hat is at the bottom
only revived heathenism ; and in con-
sequence of this remarkable resem-
blance, nothing could be more strictly
practical at the present moment than
any studies which show us the old
heathen civilization as it really was,
in its attractive as well as its repul-
sive qualities.

From The Month.

SAINTS OP THE DESERT.

BY THB REV. J. H. NEWMAN, D.D.

1. Abbot Antony said: Without
temptation there is no entrance possi-
ble into the kingdom. Take away
temptations, and no one is in the sav-
ing way*

2. Some one asked blessed Arseni-
us, " How is it that we, with all our
education and accomplishments, are
80 empty, and these Egyptian peas-
imts are so full ?"

He made answer: We have the
world's outward training, from which
nothing is learned ; but theirs is a
personal travail, and virtue is its fruit.

3. It was heard by some that Ab-
bot Agatho possessed the gift of dis-
•crimination. Therefore, to make trial
of his temper, they said to him, " We
are told that you are sensual and
haughty." He answered : That is just it.

They said again, "Are you not
that Agatho who has such a foul
tongue ?" He answered : I am he.

Then they said, "Are you not
Agatho the heretic?" He xnade an-
swer: No.

Then they asked him why he had
been patient of so much, yet would
not put up with this last. He an-
swered: By those I was but casting
on me evil ; but by this I should be
severiag me from God.

4. Holy Epiphftnius was asked
why the commandments are ten, and
the beatitudes nine. He answered:
The commandments are as many as
the plagues of Egypt ; but the beati-
tudes are a triple image of the Holy
Trinity.

5. It was told to Abbot Theodore,
that a certain brother had returned to
the world. He answered:' Marvel
not at this, but marvel rather that any
one comes out of it

6. The Abbot Sisoi said: Seek
God, and not his dwelling-place.

7. It is told of a certain senior^
that he wished to have a cucumber.
When he had got it, he hufig it up in
his sight, and would not touch it, lest
appetite should have the mastery of
him. Thus he did penance for his wish.

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877

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY BOBEBT CURTIS.

CHAPTER XVin.

Nett Year's Day is always a holi-
day. And well it is for the girls and
boys of a parish, of a district, . of a
connty, ay, of all Ireland, if it should
rise upon them in the glowing beauty
of a cloudless sun. Then, indeed, the
girls **are drest in all their best."
Many a new bright ribbon has been
purchased on the previous market-
day, and many a twist and turn the
congregation side of their bonnets has
had. A bow of new ribl^on, blue or
red, according to their complexion —
for these country girls are no more
fools in such a matter than their bet-
ters — ^has been held first to this side
of their bonnet, then to that; then the
long ends have been brought across
the top this way, then that way, tem-
porarily fastened with pins in the first
instance, until it is held at arm's-
length, with the head a little to one
side, to test the fi^al position. Their
petticoats have been swelled out by
numbers, not by crinoline, which as
yet was unknown, even to the higher
orders. But '< be this as it may," the
girls of the townlands of Rathcash,
Rathcashmore, and Shanvilla made no
contemptible turn-out upon the New
Year's day after Tom Murdock had re-
turned from Armagh. The boys, too,
were equally grand, according to
their style of dress. Some lanky, ^
thin-shanked fellows in loose trousers
and high-low boots ; while the well-
formed fellows, with plump calves and
fine ankles, turned out in their new
corderoy breeches, woolen stockings,
and pumps* I have confined myself
to their lower proportions, as in most
cases the coats and rests were much
of the same make, though perhaps dif-

ferent in color and material, while the
well-brushed " GaroUn^ hat was com-
mon to aU.

Conspicuous amongst the girls in
the district in which our story so-
journs, were, as a matter of course,
Winny Cavana and Kate Mulvey,
with some others of their neighbors
who have not been mentioned, and
who need not be.

Winny, since the little episode re-
specting her refusal of Tom Murdock,
and his subsequent departure, had led
a very quiet, meditative life. She
oould not help remarking to herself,
however, that she had somehow or
other become still more intimate with
Kate Mulvey than she had used to
be ; but for ^is she could not account
— though, perhaps, the reader can.
She had always been upon terms of
intimacy with Kate; had frequently
called there, when time would permit,
and sat for half an hour, or sometimes
an hour, chatting, which was always
reciprocated by Kate, whose time was
more on her own hands. In what
then consisted the increase of intimacy
can hardly be said. Perhaps it mere-
ly existed in Winny's own wish that
it should be so, and the fact tliat one
and the other, on such occasions, now
always threw a cloak round her shoul-
ders and accompanied her friend a
piece of the way home. Sometimes,
when the day was tempting, a decided
walk would be proposed, and then the
bonnet was added to the cloak. What
formed the burden of their conversa-
tion in these chats, which to a close
observer might be said latterly to have
assumed a confidential appearance,
must be so evident to the reader's ca-
pacity, that no mystery need be ob-
served on the subject. To say the

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least, Emcm-a-knock came in for a
share of it, and, as a matter of almost
neceisstj, Tom Mordock was not alto-
gether left out.

Kate Mulvey, after the iclaireisse"
meni with Winny, belieyed she could
do her friend some good without doing
herself any harm, a principle on which
alone most people will act. With
this yiew she took an eaily opportu-
nity to hint something to Emon of the
result of the interview between her-
self and Winny, and although she did
it in a very casual, and at the same
time a clever, manner, she began to
fear that so far as her friend's case
was concerned, she had done more
harm than good. The fact of Tom
Murdock's proposal and rejection sub-
sequent to die interview adverted to,
had not become public amongst the
neighbors ; and before Winny had
an opportunity of telling it to Kate,
Emon had left his father's house, to
seek employment in the north. It is
not unlikely that he was tempted to
this step by something which had fall-
en from Kate Mulvey respecting
Winny and Tom Murdock, although
the whole cat had not yet got out of
the bag.

Hitherto poor Emon's heart had
been kept pretty whole, through what
he considered a well-found^ belief
that Winny Cavana, almost as a mat-
ter of course, must prefer her hand-
some, rich neighbor to a struggling la-
boring man like him. Tom, he knew,
she saw almost every day, while at
best she only saw him for a few min-
utes on Sundays after chapel. Emon
knew the meaning of the word propin-
quity very well, and he knew as well
the danger of it. He knew, too, that if
there were no such odds against him,
he could scarcely dare aspire to the
hand of the rich heiress of Rathcash.
He knew the disposition of old Ned
Cavana too well to believe that he
would ever consent to a " poor devil"
like him " coming to coort his daugh-
ter.'* He believed so thoroughly that
all these things were against him, that
he had hitherto successfully crushed

every rising hope within his breast.
He had schooled himself to look upon
a match between Tom Murdock and
Winny Cavana as a matter so natural,
that it would be nothing less than
an act of madness to endeavor to
counteract it What Kate Mulvey,
however, had ^ let slip" had aroused
a slumbering angel in his souL He
was not wrong, then, after all, in a
secret belief that this girl did not like
Tom Murdock over-much. Upon
what he had founded that belief he
could no more have explained— even
to himself — ^than he could have drag-
ged the moon down from heaven;
but he did believe it ; he even combat-
ted it as a fatal delusion, and yet it
was true. But how did this mend the
matter as regarded himself ? Not in
the slightest degree, except so far as
that the man he most dreaded,* and
had most reason to dread, was no
longer an acknowledged rival to bis
heart. Hopes he still had none.

But Emon-a-knock was now in
commotion. The angel was awake^
and his heart trembled at a possibility
which despair had hitherto hidden
from his thoughts.

For some time past he had not
only not avoided a casual meeting
with Winny, but delighted in them
with a safe, if not altogether a happy,
indifTerence. He looked upon her as
almost betrothed to Tom Murdock;
circumstances and reports were so
dovetailed into one another, and so
like the truth.

Although there was really no differ-
ence In rank between him and Winny, ^
except what her father's well-earned
wealth jtistified the assumption of, his
position as a daily laborer kept him
.aloof from an intimacy of which those
in circumstances more like her own
could boast ; and poor Emon felt that
it was a matter for boast. Thus had
he hitherto refrained from attempting
to " woo that bright particular star,"
and his heart was comparatively safe.
But now — ay, now — ^what was he to
do? «Fly, HyV* said he; "Til go
seek for employment in the north.

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To America, India, Australiar— any-
where! Kate Molvey may have
meant it as kindness; but it would
have been more kind to have let me
alone. This horrible knowledge of
that one fact will break my heart"

And Emon-a^knock did fly. But it
was no use. There were many rea*
sons quite unconnected with Winny
Oavana which rendered a more speedy
return than he had intended unavoid-
able. A stranger beyond the pre-
cmcts of his own pariah, he found it
impossible to procure permanent em-
ployment amongst those who were
better known, and who ^ belonged to
the place"— -a great consideration in
die minds of the Irish, high and low.
llie bare necessaries of life, too, were
more erpensive in the north than
about his own home ; and for the few
days' employment which he got, he
could scarcely support himself, while
Ida father and family would feel the
loss of his share of the earnings at
home. No; these two separate es-
tablishments would never do. He
could gain nothing by it but the gnaw-
ing certainty of never seeing, even at
a distance, her in whom he now be-
gan to feel that his heart delighted.
Besides, he could manage to avoid her
altogether by going to his own chapel;
yes, he felt it a duty he owed to his
fiither not to let him fight life's battle
alone, and — ^be returned. We ques-
tion whether this dut^ to his father
was his sole motive; and we shall
see whether he did not subsequently
consider it a duty to prefer the good
preadhing of Father Boche, of Bath-
cash, to the somewhat indifierent dis-
courses of good Father Farrell in his
own chapeL

Emon had not been more than ten
days or a fortnight away, and he was
now following the usual routine, of a
day idle and a day working, which
had marked his life before he went

But we were talking of a New
Year's day, and it will be far spent if
we do not return to it at once, and so
we shall lose the thread of our story.

The day. as we had wished a few

pagea back, had risen in all the beauty
of a cloudless sun. There had been a
slight frost the night before, but as
these slight frosts seldom bring rain
until the third morning, the country
people were quite satisfied that the
promise of a fine day on this occasion
would not be broken. The chapel-
bells of Bathcash and Shanvilla might
be heard sounding their dear and
cheerful call to tlieir respective par-
ishioners that the hour of worship had
drawn near, and the well-dr^ed,
happy congregation might be seen in
strings along the road and across the
pathways through the fields, in their
gayest costume, laughing and chatting
with an unbounded confidence in the
&ithfulness of the sky.

Tom Murdock, the reader knows,
had returned, but he had not as yet
seen Winny Cavana. One Sunday
had intervened ; but upon his father^
advice he had refrained from going
"for that wan Sunda' to chapel.''
Neither, on the same advice, had he
gone near old Ned's bouse. The old
man — ^that is, old Murdock — ^had en-
deavored to spread a report that his
son Tom was engaged to be married
to a very rich girl in Annagh. He
took his own views of all matters,
whether critical or simple, and had his
own way of what he called managing
them. He was not very wrong in
some of his ideas, but he sometimes
endeavored to carry them out too per-
sistently, after anybody else would
have seen their inutility.

On this New Year's day, too, he had
hinted something about his son's not
going to mass, but Tom would not be
controlled, and quickly " shut up'K-
that is the fashionctUe phrase now-a-
days — ^the old man upon the subject
His opinion, and he did not care to
hide it, was, " that he did not see why
he should be made a mope of by Win-
ny Cavana, or any other conceited
piece of goods like her." His father's
pride came to his aid in this instanoe,
and he gave way.

Bath^h chapel was a <[nrowded
place of worship that day. Amongst

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the congregation, as a matter of
coarse, were Winnj Cavana and Kate
Mulvej, both conspicuous by their
beautj and solemnity. Tom Murdock,
too, was there; doubtless he was
handsome, and he was solemn also,
but his solemnity was of a different
description. It was that generated by
disappointment, with a dream of vil-
lany in perspective.

Tom was not a coward, even under
the nervous influence of rejected love.
Physically, he was not one in the mat-
ters of everyd^iy life; and morally,
he wanted rectitude to be one when
he ought He therefore resolved to
meet Winny Cavana, as she came out
of chapel, as much as possible as if
nothing had happened, and to en-
deavor to improve the acquaintance
as opportunity might permit He
purposed to himself to walk home
with her, and determined, if possible,
that at least a friendly intercourse
should not be Interrupted between
them.

Emon-a-knock had steadily kept
his resolution, notwithstanding our
doubts, and had not gone to Rathcash
chapel for the last four or five Sun-
days ; be was even beginning to think
that Father Farrell, after all, was not
quite so much below Father Roche as
a preacher.

At length there was a rustling of
dresses and a shuffling of feet upon
the floor, which proclaimed that divine
worship had ended ; and the congre-
gation began to pour out of Rathcash
chapel — ^men in their dark coats and
Caroline hats, and women in their
best bonnets and cloaks. Tom Mur-
dq^ was out almost one of the first,
and 89>unterod about, greeting some of
the more distant neighbors whom he
had not seen since his return. At
length Winny and Kate made their
appearance. Winny would have hui^
ried on, but Kate " stepped short,**
until Tom had time to observe their
approach. He came forward with
more cowardice in his heart than he
had ever felt before, and Winny's re-
ception of him was not calculated to

reassure him. Kate was next him,
and held out her hand promptly and
warmly. Winny could scarcely re-
fuse to hold out hers ; but there was
neither promptness nor warmth in her
manner. An awkward silence ensued
on both sides, until Kate, with more
anxiety on her own behalf than tact
or consideration on her friend's, broke
in with half a sc^re of inquiries, very
kmdly put, as to his health — ^the very
long time he was away — ^how the
neighbors aU missed him so much^
what he had been doing — ^how he left
his aunt — how he liked Armagh, etc,
ending with a hope that he had come
home to remain*

Winny was glad she had so good a
spokeswoman with her, and did not
offer a single observation in her aid.
To say the truth, there was neither
need nor opportunity ; for Kate seem-
ed perfectly able, and not unwilling,
to monopolize the conversation. Tom
endeavored to be sprightly and at his
ease, but made some observations far
from applicable to the subjects upon
which his loquacious companion had
addressed him. He had hoped that
when they came to the end of the
lane turning up to their houses, that
Kate Mulvey would have gone to-
ward her own home, and that he
must then have had a word with Win-
ny alone ; but the manner in which
she hastened her step past the turn,
saying, " Kate; you know we are en-
gaged to have a walk 'our lone' to-
day," showed him that no ameliora-
tion of her^eelin^ had taken place
toward him; and without sapng
more than "Well, this is my way,"
he turned and left them.

BuUy-dhu was standing near the
end of Winny*s house, looking from
him; and as he recognized his mis-
tress on the road, commenced to wag
his huge tail, as if asking permission
to accompany them. '' Call him, Win-
ny," said Kate ; " he may be of use
to us ; and, at all events, he wiU be
company f* and she laid a strong em-
phasis upon the last word. Winny
complied, and called the dog as loud

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381

as she could. Poor Ballj wanted but
the wind of the word, and tore down
the lane with his mouth wide open,
and his tail describing large circles in
the air. He had well-nigh knocked
down Tom Murdock as he passed, but
he did not mind that; and bounding
oat upon the road, cut such capers
romid Winnj as were seldom seen,
keeping up at the same time a sort of
growling bark, until the enthusiasm of
his joj at the permission had subsided.

CHAPTEB XIX.

WiNWT and Kate had agreed to
take a long walk after mass on the
daj in question. This was not a mere
tridL of Winny's to get rid of Tom
Murdock. Certainlj they had not
i^reed that it should be " their lone;"
this was as chance might have it ; and
it was a gratuitous addition of Win-
ny's, as (»lculated to attain her ob-
jett ; and we have seen how promptly
she succeeded.

The day was fine, and they now
wandered along the road, so engaged
in chat that they scarcely knew how
far they were from home. They had
turned down a cross-road before they
came to Shanvilla, the little village
where £mon-a-knock lived. Kate
would have gone on straight, but Win-
ny could not be induced to do so.
Kate had her own reasons for wishing
to go on, while Winny had hers for
being determined not ; so they turned
down the road to their left, intending,
as they had BuUy-dhu with them, to
come home through the mountain-pass
by Bolier-na-milthiogue. They had
chat enough for the whole road.
Prayers had been over early, although
it was second mass ; and the country
people generally dine later on a holi-
day than usuaL It gives the boys
and girls more time to meet and chat
and part, and in some instances to
make new acquaintances. But wheth-
er it had been agreed upon or not,
Winny and Kate appeared likely to

have their walk alone upon this occa-
sion ; and as neither of them could
choose their company, they were not
sorr}' to find the road they had chosen
less frequented than the one they had
left. BuUy-dhu scampered through
the fields at each side of them, and
sometimes on a long distance in front,
occasionally running back to a turn to
see if they were coming.

They were now beyond two miles
from home, and two-and-a-half more
would have completed the circle they
had intended to take ; but they were
destined to return by the same way
they came, and in no comfortable or
happy plight

They were descending a gentle hill
when, at some distance below them,
they perceived a number of young
men engaged playing at what they
call " long bullets." Tfiey would in-
stinctively have turned back, not
wishing, unattended as they were ex-
cept by Bully-dhu, to run the gauntlet
of so many young men upon the road-
side, most of whom must be strangers ;
but the said Bully-dhu had been
enjoying himself considerably in ad-
vance, and they called and called to
no purpose. They could not whistle ;
and if Bully heard them call, he did
not heed them. He had seen a large
brindled mastiff coming toward him
from the crowd with his back up, and
a growl of defiance which he could
not mistake. Bully was no coward at
any time; but on this occasion his
courage was more than manifest, be-
ing, as he considered, in "sole charge of
his mistress and her friend. He was
pot certain but his antagonist's att^^
might be directed as much against
them as against himself; and he stood
upon the defensive, with his back up
also, the hairs of which, from behind
his ears to the butt of his tail, bristled
"like quills upon the fretful porcu-
pine." An encounter was now inevi-
table. The mastiff had shown a de-
termination that nothing but a death-
struggle should be the result, and
rushed with open mouth and a roar
of confident superiority upon his

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882

M-HaOow Eoe; or^ Th$ Test of Futurity.

weaker riral. It was no even match;
nothing but poor Bullj-dhu's indomita-
ble courage and activity could ena-
ble him to stand a single eooahat with
his antagonist for five minutes. The
first snarling and growling on both
sides had now subsided, and they were
^locked in each other's arms" in a
sOent roUing struggle for life or death.
A dog-fight of even the most minor
description has charms for a crowd of
youngsters; and of course the '^ong
bullets" were left to take care of
themselves, and all the players, as
well as the spectators, now ran up the
road to witness this c<mtest, which
was, indeed, far irom a minor concern.
Poor Winn^ had screamed when
she saw her d(^ first rolled by so
furious and, as she saw at once, so su-
perior a foe. She would have rushed
forward but that Kate restrained her,
as both dangerous and useless^ She
therefore threw herself against the
bank of the ditch by the roadside,
continuing to call out ''for God's
sake for somebody to save her
poor dog. Was there no person
there who knew her, and would save
himT

The crowd had by this time formed
a ring round the infuriated animals.
Some there were who would have
been obedient to Winny's call for
help ; but the case at present admitted
of no relief. Notwithstanding poor
Bully-dhu's pluck and courage, he had
still the worst of it ; in fact, his was
altogether a battle of defence, while
that of the mastiff was one of fero-
cious attack. He had seized Bully in
Ae first instance at an advantage by
the side of the neck under the ear,
meeting his teeth through the skin,
while the blood flowed freely from the
wound, coloring the mud of the road a
dark crimson round where they fought,
and nearly choking the n:iastiff himself,
as he was occasionally rolled under
in the strife. Now they were upon
their hind-legs again, wrestling like
two stout boys for a fall ; now Bully
was down, and the mastiff rolled his
head from side to side, tightening his

grip, while the bloody froth besmeared
himself and his victim, as he might
now almost be called.

Some men at this point, more hu-
mane than the rest, took hold of the
mastiff by the tail, while others struck
him on liie nose with a stick. They
might as well have struck the rocks g£
Slieve-dhu qt Slieve-bawn. The mas-
tiff was determined upon death, and
death he seemed likely to have. His
master was there, and seemed anxious
to separate them. He even permitted
him to' be struck on the nose, claiming
the privilege only of choosing the
thickness of the stick.

" He's loosening, boys !" said one
fellow; "he's tired of that hoult,an'
can do no more with it ; stan' betck,
boys, an' give the black dog fair play,
he's not bet yet ; he never got a grip
iv th' other dog yet; give him fiur
play, boys, an' he'U do good business
yet There ! Tiger's out iv him now,
and the black dog has him ; be gorra,
he's a game dog any way, boys ! I
dunna who owns him." This man
seemed to be an ''expert" in dog-
fighting. Tiger had got tired of the
hold he had had, and, considering a
fresh grip would be better, not by any
means influenced by the blows he had
received on the nose, had given way ;
believing, I do suppose, that he had
already so ipastered his antagonist,
that he coul4 seize him again at plea-
sure. But he had reckoned without
his host BuUy-dhu took advaiitage
of the relief to turn on him, and seiz-
ed him pretty much in the same way
he had been seized himself, and with
quite as much ferocity and determina-
tion. Hie fight did not now seem so
unequal ; they had grip for grip, and
there was a general cry amongst the
crowd to let them^see it out Indeed,
there appeared to be no alternative,
for they had both resisted every exer^
tion to separate them.

" It's no use, boys," said the expert ;
"you might cut them in pieces, an'
they wouldn't quit, except to get a
better hoult ; if you want to part ihem,
hold them by the tails, an' watch for

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383

the loosening of wan or th* other, an'
then drag them away."

«*Stan' back, boys,** said another.
^'The Uack dog's not bet yet; stan'
back, I say !"

Bally-dha had made a great rally
ni it. It was now evident that he
would have made a much better fight
from the first, if he had not been
seijfied at an advantage which prevent-
ed him m>m tnmmg his head to seize
bis foe in letnm. They had been by
this time nearly twenty minutes in
deadly eonfili^; and the mastiff's su-
perior strength and size began now to
tell fearfully against poor BuUy-dhn.
He had shaken himself completely
oat of Bully, and made a fresh grip,
not &r from, the first, but still nearer
the throat The matter seemed now
coming to a close, and the result no
k>nger doubtful. Every one saw that
if 8<miething could not be done to dis-
engage Tiger from that last grip,
the black dog must speedily be kUled.

Here Winny, who heard the verdict
from the crowd, could be restrained no
longer, and rushed forward praying
for some one, for them all, to try and
save her dog. They all declared it
was a pity ; that he was a grand dog,
but no match for the mastiff. Some
recommended one thing, some another.
Tiger was squeezed, and struck on the
nose; a stick was forced into his
mouth, with a hope of opening his
teeth and loosening his hold; but it
was all useless, and poor Winny gave
up all for lost, in a fit of sobbing and
despair.

Here a man, who had not originally
been of the party, was seen running
at fhll speed down the hill. It was
Emon-a-knock, who at this juncture
hild come accidentally upon the top of
the bill immediately above them, and
at once recognizing tome of the party
on the road, rushed forward to the res-
cue. He cast but a glance at the
d<^. He knew* them both^ and how
utterly hopeless a contest it must be
for Bully-dhu. Like an arrow from a
bow, he flew to a cabin hard by, and
seizing a half-lighted sod of turf from

the fire, lie returned to the scene.
"Now, boys," he cried, **hoId them
fast by the tails and hind-legs, and
ril soon separate them." Two men
seized them — ^Tiger's own master was
one. Although there were many
young men there who would have
looked on with savage pleasure at
an even fight between two well-match-
ed dogs, even to the death, there was
not one who could wish to stand by
and see a noble dog killed without
a chance by a superior foe, and tliey
all hailed Emon-a-knock, from his con-
fident and decisive manner, as a time-
ly deliverer. The dogs having been
drawn by two strong men to their full
length, but still fastened by the deadly
grip of the mastiff on Bully-dhu's
throat, Emon blew the coal, and ap-
plied it to Tiger's jaw. This was too
much for him. He could understand
squeezes, and even blows on the nose
and head, or perhaps in the excite-
ment he never felt them; but the
lighted coal he could not stand, and
yieldiDg at once to the pain, he lot go
his hold. The dogs were then dragged
nway to a distance ; Emon-a-knock
carrying poor BuUy-dhu in his arms,
more dead than alive, to where Winny
sat distracted on the roadside.

"O Emon! he's dead or dying P'
she cried, as the exhausted animal lay
gasping by her side.

"He's neither I" almost roared
Emon; "have you a fippenny-bit,
Winny, or Kate ? if I had one myself,
I wouldn't ask you."

"Yes, yes," exclaimed Winny,
taking an old bead-purse from her
pocket, and giving him one. She
knew not what it was for, but her con-
fidence in Emon's judgment was un-
bounded, and her heart felt some re-
lief when it was not a needle and
thread he asked for.

" Here," said Emon to a gossoon,
who stood looking at the dog, " be off
like a hare to Biddy Muldoon's for a
naggin of whiskey, and you may have
the change for yourself, if you're back
in less than no time ; make her put it
in a bottle, not a cup, that you may

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884

M-HaJlow Eve ; or, ITie Test of ftOurity.

run the whole waj without spilling
it."

The boy started off, not very unlike
—either in pace or appearance — ^to
the animal he was desired to resemble,
for he had a cap made of one of their
skins.

Emon-a-knock, although a very
steady, temperate young man, was
not altogether so much above his com-
peers in the district as not to know.
^' where a dhrop was kept," which, to
the uninitiated (English, of course),
moans a sheebeen house. Perhaps,
to them, I am only explaining one
thing by another which equally re-
quires explanation.

During the interval of the boy's ab-
sence, Emon-a-knock was examining
the wounds in poor Bully-dhu's neck
and throat. The dog still lay gasp-
ing, ahd occasionally scrubbling with
his fore-legs, and kicking with his
hind, while Winny reiterated her be-
lief that he was dying. Emon now
contradicted her rather flatly. He
knew she would excuse the rude-
ness from the hope which it held
forth.

" There will be nothing on him to
signify indeed, Winny, after a little,"
he said kindly, feeling that he had
been harsh but a moment before;
" see, he is not even torn ; only cut in
four places."

"In four places! O Emon, in
four?"

" Yes ; but they are only where the
other dog's teeth entered, and came
through ; see, they are only holes ;
the dog is quite exhausted, but will
soon come round. Come here, Win-
ny, and feel him yourself."

Winny stretched over, and Emon
took her hand to guide it to the spots
where her poor dog had been wound-
ed. Poor Bully looked up at her,
and feebly endeavored to wag his
tail, and Winny smiled and wept to-
gether. Emon was a very long time
explaining to hor precisely where the
wounds were, and how they must
have been inflicted ; and he found it
necessary to hold her hand the whole

time. Whether Winny, in the confu-
sion of her grief, knew that he did so,
nobody but herself can tell. Three
or four persons who knew Winny had
kindly come up to see how the dog
was, and the expert amongst them,
with so much confidence that he was
going to set him on his legs at once.
But Emon had taken special charge
of him, and would not suffer so prem-
ature an experiment^ nor the interfer-
ence of any other doctor.

But here comes the gossoon with
the whiskey, like a hare indeed, across
the flelds, and his middle finger stuck
in the neck of the bottle by way of a
cork.

Emon took it from him, and claim-
ing the assistance of the expert, whom
he had just now repudiated, for a few
moments to hold his head, he placed
the neck of the bottle in Bully-dhu's
mouth. He poured <' the least taste
in life" down his throat, and with his
hand washed his jaws and tongue co-
piously with the spirits.

With a sort of yelp poor BuUy
made a struggle and a plunge, and
rose to his feet Winny held out her
hand to him, and he staggered over
toward her, looking up in her face,
and wagging his tail.

" I told you so," said Emon ; " get
me a handful of salt."

The same cabin which had supplied
the " live coal" was applied to by the
gossoon (who kept the change), and
it was quickly brought. «

Emon then rubbed some into the
wounds, in spite of Winny's remon-
strances as to the pain, and the dog's
own unequivocal objections to the
process.

Matters were now really on the
mend. Bully-dhu shook himself,
looking after the crowd with a growl ;
and even Winny had no doubt that
Emon's prescriptions had been neces-
sary and successful.

"The sooner you get home now
with him, Winny, the better," said
Emon.

"You are not going to leave us,
Emon ?" said Winny, doubtingly.

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Tender and Ihte and Tried. 885

" Certainly not," be replied ; ** the The handkerchief, Emon said,

poor dog is stfll veiy weak, and may would both keep the air from the

require rest, if not help, by the way." wounds, and help to sustain the dog on

He then took a red cotton handker- his legs. But he may have had some

chief from his pocket, and tying.it idea in his mind that it would also

loosely round the dog's neck, he held serve as an excuse for his accompany-

the other end of it in his hand, and ing them to the very furthest point

they all set out together for Rathcash. possible on their road home.

TO Bl OONTDTUBD.

From London Society.

TENDER AND TRUE AND TRIED.

Tendeb and true.

You kept faith with me,
As I kept faith with you ;—
Though over us both
Since we plighted troth
Long years have rolled : —
But our love could hold
Through troubles and trials manifold,
My darling tender and true I

Tender and true,

In your eyes I gazed,
And my heart was safe, I knew I
Your trusting smile
Was pure of guile,
And I read in sooth
On your brow's fair youth
The earnest of loyal trust and truth,
My darHng tender and true I

Tender and true.

All my own at last !
My blessing for all life throng—
In death aa life
My one loved wife —
Mine— mine at last,
All troubles past — '•
And the future all happiness, deep and vast.
My darling tender and true !

VOL. n.

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886

A Side Through Oalcui$a and itt Vicinity,

Translated from Etades Bellg^ienseB, HUtorlqnes. et Litt6ralreBf par des Fdres do la Compagnle de

JdSQB;

A RIDE THROUGH CALCUTTA AND ITS VICmiTY.

LETTER FROM A FATHER OF THE PROTINCE OF BELGIUM, MISSIONARY AT

CALCUTTA.

You ask me for a little infonnation
concerning this country and our ordi-
nary life in this climate. I am entire-
ly at your disposal for this whole af-
ternoon, if you will come and join
me at the college of St. Francis
Xavier, No. 10 Park street, Calcutta.

It is warm there. The thermome-
ter I hare just consulted stands
87^ centigrades in the shade. Look
where you may from my windows,
you see nothing but white houses
which, turned toward the four winds
of heaven, have no other shade but
that of their cornice ; and a little
further on, in an old cemetery, some
fifty obelisks lit up on their four faces,
so vertical is our sun ! Hence, though
lightly clad — ^a white calico soutane,
without buttons, a white girdle, white
paiitaloons, and white shoe« — we still
feel enough of the tropical heat of the
dog-star. Happily, we have the
breeze, which, although it does not
lower the thermometer any, refreshes
us considerably. But it does not al-
ways blow; and when it stops, the
floor is watered with drops of perspir-
ation as big as two-franc pieces.
Those who would then make up for
the breeze have themselves ponka-ed.
Ponha-ed f what is that ? To under-
stand it, you will enter Father Stoch-
man's abode. He is seated all in white,
at his desk, in the middle of a large
room ; over his bald head, at a litfle
less than a metre, is hung a large
white triangle, three metres long hor-
izontally, and one metre in height ; a
cord is fastened to it there, passes into
the hollow of a pulley fixed to the
wall, and terminates at a crouching In-

dian, clad in his dusky skin and a strip
of stuff around his loins. This Guman
machine has no other occupation than
to pull the cord which balances con-
tinually over Father Stochman's head
the other rectangular machine that I
have described to you, which is called
a ponkcu Now, do not suppose tliat
Father Stochman is a Sybarite.
There are ponkas here everywhere:
in the parlor, in the refectory, and
many persons have themselves ponka-
ed in their bed the whole night long.
These instruments are not in use in
Catholic churches, but every parish-
ioner, male and female, continually
uses the fan, which by extension is
likewise called SLponkcu Other coun-
tries, other customs ; a ponka is here
more necessary than a coat ; whereas,
on the other hand, there is not a sin-
gle chimney in the whole house. No
chimney, you will say ; do you, then,
eat your rice quite raw? To that
question I have two answers; first,
the kitchen, with us as with our
neighbors, is not in the house, but in
the compound — ^that is to say, in the
vast inclosure that surrounds the dwel-
ling. Then I will furthermore ob-
serve, that even in the kitchen there
is no chimney. These black Indians,
who are our cooks, are accustomed to
make fire without troubling them-
selves about the smoke, which escapes
wherever it can, through the windows,
through the crevices, anywhere and
everywhere. K you were, like me,
philosopher enough to eat whatever
comes before you, I would introduce
you into that kitchen ; but I think you
would not care to enter that dingy

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A Ride Tliraugh CkdcuUa and its Vicinity.

887

hole, lest you should for ever lose jour
appetite. Let us leave the Indiaus in
their den, and go sit down under the
ponka in the refectory. To-daj they
will serve us with mutton and fowl;
to-morrow with fowl and mutton ; now
and then with fowl only. As regards
vegetables, yon 'shall see them succes-
sively of aU kinds ; but, if you take
my advice, you will not touch them ;
they have no other taste than that of
stagnant water. Beside the morning
repast and the dinner, which is at hal&
past three o'clock, we have two other
meals a day. One at noon, under the
name of tiffin^ is composed, in the
maximum, of a glass of beer, st crust of
bread, and some fruit; for some
amongst us, it is reduced to but one of
those three things ; for many others,
and myself in particular, to nothing at
all. The other repast, at eight in the
evening, consbts of a cup of coffee, with
or without bread.

And now let us quit this abode of
misery, no more to return. Come and
see my chamber. It has no panka,
but four windows, open day and
night ; two to the south, where the sun
does not enter, and two to the east,
where the Persians forbid him access
in the morning. My bed is a species
of large sofa, upon which there is a
nondescript article, that is neither a
pattiasa nor a mattrass. It is a flat
sack, eight or nine inches thick, and
stuffed with hair; over it two linen
sheets (a luxury here, where most
people use but one) and a pillow as
hard as the mattrass. But best of all
are the four posts supporting a hori«
zontal rectangle from which is hung
the mosquito net The mosquito net
is used here all the year round. It is
a piece of net fastened below the mat-
trass. Behind, that frail rampart, if
happily there be no rent in it any-
where, you enjoy the pleasure of hear-
ing the mosquitoes buzzing about
powerless and exasperated. Li De-
cember and January, there are clouds
of them ; but, hearing them, you ap-
preciate that verse of TibuUus : Quam
jfwat immites ventos audire cubantem!

Wliat is a mosquito ? It is the cousin-
german of your gnats in Europe, gen-
erally a little smaller, but quite the
same in form ; it sings and stings like
them; only its sting is a little more
painful, and is followed by a larger
and more lasting tumor. Nothing can
secure you against its attacks ; it can
dart its sting even through a double
covering of Imen.

/ These insects are not my only
room-mates. There are now, in ad-
dition thereto, some millions of red
and black ants, hundreds of which I
every day crush, but ail in vain;
there are lizards, which are not dumb
as in Europe, but give utterance, now
and then, to a short song. These
lizards apply themselves to hunt the
insects, so that I am very careful not
to hunt themselves. In my chamber,
moreover, there are horrible beetles —
large insects of a dark brown color,
four or five inches long, which havtt
the privilege of inspiring universal
disgust. To love them, one should be
as poetical as M. Victor Hugo, who
had an affection for "the. toad, poor
meek-eyed monger." There are lit
tie white fishesy insects that do not live
in water, but are particularly abundant
during rainy weather. These fishes,
little as they are, contrive to make
large holes in cloth and in stuffs.
During the night I sometimes hear
rats and mice prowling around ; the
mosquito net protects me from their
assaults. As for bats, owls, and
other such noctumiil visitors, I do not
think they ever come in through our
open windows.

Birds of prey are very numerous
here, and wherever I am in my
chamber, I know not how many are
watching me from the top of the adja-
cent buildings. Crows are another
species of bird as interesting as they
are dreary. They inhabit ^e river-
sides where the Indians throw their
dead; two, three, or more of them
are often seen in the water, looking as
though they were sailing on some in-
visible bark ; that bark is a dead body,
which they slice amongst them as they

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888

A Ride Thrauyh Calcutta and its Vtdnitn.

go. Somedmes the jackals, along the
river, dispute this horrible prey widi
them, and you might see these animals,
at some distance from the city, trotting
along with human limbs across their
mouth. In the city, the crows live
on offal of all kinds ; they are often
found assembled round kitchen doors ;
during our meals there are always
twenty or thirty of them before our
refectory. There they seem to beg
for crusts of bread, bones, etc, and
willingly receive whatever is thrown
to them. The kites, less numerous
and less bdld, but much more vora-
cious, mount guard with them, and
often fly away with what the poor
crows had picked up from the ground.
In revenge, it is really a pleasure to
see a kite gnaw a bone which he has
dius purloined. If he does not take
care to perform that operation high up
in the air, he is invariably flanked by
two crows, one of which keeps con-
stantly pulling him behind to make
him angry, whilst the other avails
himself of this artiflce to peck at the
bone in the very claws of the kite.
After a while, the crQws change parts,
* and each in his turn becomes the as-
sailant. I perceive at this moment in
our court another bird, less common
than the two preceding species, but
still not at all rare. The name it
usually bears here is that of adjutant ;
in other places the much more pictur-
esque name oi philosopher is given to
it. In order to form an idea of it,
give an ordinary lieron the size of a
small ostrich; the bill is ten inches
wide and from fifty to sixty long ; the
claws and the legs, white and thin, are
more than three feet high ; the neck
almost always bent, and forming a
crop, has a development of from sixty
to seventy inches. Between these
two extremities place a big white body
with large wings of a dark-gray color,
and you shall have pretty nearly the
adjutant or phUosopher.

Apropos to the description of my
domicile, I have been led to give you
a course of natural history ; let us go
on to something else. There is no

other curiosity in my chamber, if it be
not the two partitions which, with the
walls of the house, form the indosure.
These partitions are but two yards in
height, whilst the ceiling is more than
five ; they are generally arranged in
this way, so as to give a free passage
to the breeze.

In descending, let us take a look
at the bathing rooms, about a dozen in
number, in which there is not a single
bath, but large vases of baked clay,
always frill of water, and small copper
vases, that contain about a quart Yon
stand on the pavement, and, dipping the
small vase into the larger one, pour
the contents of it fifty times or so on
your head. This is called taking a
bath. It is said to be very wholesome ;
every one in this coimtry takes their
daily bath — except me, who have no
time ; so every one has been more or
less sick, except me, for the same rea-
son.

Before going out, a word on the
pupils of our college. They are two
hundred and twenty, the great major-
ity of whom are Catholics. Most of
the names have an English aspect;
but you will also hear Portuguese,
French, and Armenian names, borne
respectively by white, black, bronze,
and brown skins. English is the
common language ; the French pupils
themselves speak it more fluentiy than
their mother tongue, and most of them
know only as much of Bengalese and
Hindostanese as is necessaiy to make
themselves understood by their Indian
domestics. The costumes are varied
enough ; but as for the Indians, one
may say that white, and especially
white calico, constitutes their ward-
robe, notwithstanding that some dark
or pale colors are seen ftere and there.

Let us set out. Here are our young
people coming in for recreation, and I
would spare your ears one of my
daily torments. It were impossible to
find on the European continent people
more destitute, of all musical judgment
than our pupils. It is not taste they
want, but good taste. Several cnf
them have an instrument like the ac-

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889

oordeoOy which is called the concertina.
Thej have the courage to spend all
their recreations, for three months and
more, plajing always the same air.
I have thus heard ^ God save the
Queen'* thousands of times. Once
would have sufficed to disgust you
with it for ever ; you may just imagine
what liking I have for it. But it is
dme to go for our walk.

The English took a very simple
way of making Calcutta. They
marked out a broad circular road, to
fix its boundary. Three Hindoo vil-
lages, Fort William, and «ome
European factories, were inclosed
within it; time has done the rest.
Within the inclosure, the construction
of the houses is subject to police reg-
ulations ; straw roofs are prohibited,
tUes required, etc ; all that annoys the
Hindoo, who likes better to take up his
quarters on the other side of the cir-
cular road ; and in this way the sub-
urbs are formed. The European city,
on its side, has grown larger every
day. Eive years ago, our college was
at the very extremity of the city ;
now, it is nearly in the centre ; the
new houses have occupied all the free
space, and, in some places even go be-
yond the circular road. A year and
a half since, a group of Hindoo huts,
situate about one hundred paces from
the college, disappeared to make place
for a public tank, which furnishes us
with water. The transformation is
slow, but sure. So much for English
tact ; they have made Calcutta a pal-
Vitial city, and such its name implies
— the city o/paiaces. It is, moreover,
an unmense city ; the streets are of
fabulous length, thanks to the mode of
construction employed here. I believe,
indeed, that if Paris were built on the
same system, it would extend itself as
far as the natural frontiers.

In those long streets circulates a nu-
merous and very mixed population, as
in all great maritime places. If you
please, we will busy ourselves to-day
with the Indians only.

We distinguish them here into two
great classes; the Mohammedanfl and

the Hindoos. They are easily. recog-
nized in the streets. The Mohammed-
ans wear a beard ; they have usually
on their head a cap a little larger
than that of the priests in Belgium,
but which, having only one seam
forming an edge, is a little less spher-
icaL The rich have caps embroider-
ed with gold and silver, often very
costly ; the poor make theirs of two
pieces of grayish-white calico. As
for the women, I know not by what
sign to recognize them, unless, per-
haps, by the seams of a portion of
their garments. For the rest, no In-
dian woman, poor or rich, appears in
the streets. The Hindoos, all idol-
aters, wear no beard on their chin, but
only moustaches and sometimes wh^k-
ers. In case of mourning forTOie
death of a parent, they shave all, and
even the hair from the fore part of the
skull. The rest of the hair is gener-
ally drawn back and gathered in a
knot. The men go almost always
bareheaded ; sometimes they make
themselves a turban of a large piece
of calico gracefully enough wound
around. The rich dress in muslin;
unbelievers wear leather shoes,* the
others wooden sandals. The poor
have a cord around their loins, which
the rich replace by a silver chain, that
they never leave off. One or more
keys are usually attached to it. Be-
tween this cord and the skin they
thrust the edge of a piece of calico as
long and as wide as a bed-sheet, and
which goes first round and half round
the legs ; the men pass between their
lega what remains of the sheet and
fasten the end of it to the cord or to
the silver chain; the women throw
this same remainder of the stuff over
one shoulder and the head, so as to
cover the chest All go barefoot;
many men have necklaces, the women
wear on their ankles two large rings
of copper or silver; they have, be-
side, a profusion of necklaces, brace-
lets, rings in the ears and even in the

* Leather is an abomination to a deTOul Hin-
doo.

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A Rids Tiirough Calcutta and its Vieinity.

noatrils. This costume forms their
essential and ordtnaiy appareL

From the month of November till
the month of March, the Indians
have a season which thej call winter.
At 20° they are cold, at 15* they
shiver, at 12° or 13° they are frozen.
You should see, in the morning, the
masons, carpenter^, and other work-
men, residing usually in the country,
coming into town all muffled up in
one or two extra bed-sheets, their
mouth and nose completely hidden,
and looking so much like being cold,
that after some years the Europeans
themselves (sad effect of bad exam-
ple I) end by persuading themselves
that it is cold here in winter, and even
cat^ a little cold here and there. The
donrastics also try then to obtain some
cast-off garments, in which they wrap
themselves up without any regard for
aesthetics. The porter of the college,
who may be recognized by his red
skull-cap and small white band worn
as a shoulder-belt, characteristic of
the caste of Brahmins, asked Father
Stochman last year for one of his old
soutanes. A little hera (servant)
strutted about the other day in his
master's oldi paletot The master is
thirty-five, the hera seven. The meteurs
(room sweepers, etc) cover them-
selves with everything : packing-linen,
palliasses, etc, etc The hossartchi
(cooks) are the best off in winter;
they keep themselves warm with their
masters' wood.

Now that you have my Indians
more or less dressed, let us see how
they act The best way to do that
will be to go in a palanquin from our
college to the railroad station. If we
arrive in time for the train, we shall
make a lltde excursion as far as Se-
rampore or even to Chandemagor.
Here is the palanquin that is waiting
for us at the door : it is a wooden
box, about four feet long ; two poles
a little bent, and fastened one before,
the other behind, seem to be the con-
tinuation of the axle of the paralleli-
pipede (excuse the word: I teach
geometry). Two individuals, clothed

just so far as it is absolutely necessa-
ry, place themselves under the front
pole, so as to lay it one over his right
shoulder, the other over his left shou}-
der ; they press one against the other,
because union makes strength. Two
other Indians similar to these do as
much for the back pole; the palan-
quin is raised. I slide the doors
sideways, seat myself on the edge,
and with all the elegance given by
gymnastic habit I dart in backwards.
The bottom is a sort of mattrass, on
which one lies down at full length:
the shoulders are then supported by a
back-cushion, the feet are in front;
you cry Djas ! and the four palki-iera
start off. Usually, to mark the way, the
most intelligent of the bearers throws
out phrases of four or six syllables,
in a very monotonous tone quite un-
known in Europe ; the other answers,
repeating the phrase in the same tone.
In town, they go at the rate of at least
six miles an hour ; in longer journeys
they go more slowly.

I have already made a journey of
^ve leagues twice in this kind of box.
The first was poetical enough. It
was more than fifty leagues from Cal-
cutta. We were three Europeans ; a
very light Frenchman (not in body,
but in mind), an Irishman, and myself.
The Frenchman had a considerable
sum about him, and the country being
in his opinion somewhat dangerous,
he bad brought to the starting station
arms of every kind. I had with me
in my palanquin a double-barrelled
carabine, a case of ammunition, and
a large hunting-knife. To prevent
any one from robbing me of aU this,
I partly lay down on the carabine,
made a pillow of the case, and slept
with the sheath of my knife in one
hand and the handle in the other. The
Irishman, travelling on horseback,
with pistols, served us as a scout ; but
his pistols did not prevent him from
being struck on the face and arms
by the greatest brigand in India: I
mean the sun. He had his skin red
for several days. For us, who were
shaded in our palanquins, we had^ of

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391

oonise, no adventure ; were it not that
I dreamed sometimes of brigands and
the Black Forest, crossing a vast des-
ert plain, all white with light. So,
when we came back the same way a
fortnight after, we took with us no
other fire-arms than a box of matches
and cigars. But this is a digression ;
let us continue our joumej.

Dainaperol (turn to the right). It
is not-the ordinary way ; but instead of
passing by the broad European thor-
oughfare, Park street, we shall turn
aside into the dark and winding pas-
sages of an Indian bazaar. A bazaar
is a multitude of lanes, exclusively
composed of miserable huts, and block-
ed np with all sorts of merchandise.
Yoa rarely meet any one there but
men; the shop-girl and the ''young
lady" of the store are equally unknown
here ; but in it is found eve^rj form of
misery.

See there below that beggar of
eighteen or twenty years, scarce half
covered, and without even a rudiment,
a shadow, of an arm. He is long and
thin, but appears to be in good health.
A French physician told me that,
very probably, his parents cut off his
arms when he was a child to secure
htm a livelihood. Whilst we are
looking at him, a gigantic hand is
thrust trough the opposite door of
the palanquin. The fingers are as
big as the arms of a two-year old
child; they are long in proportion.
That hand is soliciting alms. We
raise ourselves up a little to see this
needy giant, and our eyes fall on a
wretched, emaciated Indian; the rest of
his body can weigh but little more than
his two hands, for the lefl is like unto^
the right. This ease of hypertrophy
18, 1 think, isolated here ; but another
very common one, which is met in
every street, is Elephantiasis^ hyper-
trophy of the legs. The unhappy
creatures attacked by this malady
have, from the knee to the end of the
loot) one, or sometimes two, elephant's
l^gBf cylindrical, enormous, and seem-
ing to draw to them the nourishment
of all the rest of the body.

But here we are at the Mndan,
This is the name given to that im-
mense esplanade on which stands
Fort William, and which bounds the
governor's palace, the city hall, the
Protestant cathedral, the prison, the
lunatic asylum, etc* Let us cross it
in our palanquin, coasting along the
river, and we shall soon reach the vi-
cinity of the station. There we find
ourselves besieged by the couli (a
sort of porter) of every age. They
claim the honor of carrying our trav-
elling-bag fifty paces for a pais —
about four centimes. Since we are
there, before going any further, let us
say a word of the cwdi.

Some are in the service of the rich
and of Europeans, others are for.hire
in the streets. The first are always •
men; amongst the second, there are
many children : there are few of them
very strong. Indeed, as a general
rule, one European has the strength
t>f several Bengalese. Both carry
everything on tJieir head, in a great
hemispherical basket ; there it is that
they place the traveller's luggage or
the provisions bought in the bazaar.
A couli brought me one day two little
birds which an Irishman had shot for
me, and sent them to me from his res-
idence, three leagues from Calcutta.
The birds were in the large basket.
On receiving them I wrote a few lines
of thanks; the couli put the note in
his basket Here is another anec-
dote, for the truth of which I can cer-
tify. M, Moyne, a Frenchman set-
tled in Chandemagor, had ordered his
couli to convey some very heavy ma-
terials, of I know not what kind. He
saw the poor devil bent under the bur-
den, and as the journey was to be of
several days' duration, he went to his
carpenter and had him construct a
wheelbarrow. That done, he comes
back quite pleased with his good work,
and, wheeling the barrow himself tc
the couliy gives it to him, shows him
how to use it, and goes his ways sat-
isfied that he has caused that man to
make one step toward civilization.
The pleasure he experiences at this

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892

A Side Tiirough Calcutta ani 'ts Vicinity,

reflection induces him to turn round to
enjoy his work. He turns, therefore,
and sees the couli walking along, the
barrow and the burden all on his head I

We have met by the way a great
number of Mohammedans, carrying on
their back an enormous leather flask,
and dripping wet. These are the
bistki, water-carriers. Every house
has its own ; for people here waste a
great deal of water, and there are
neither wells nor cisterns. The bisthi
go and fill their leather flasks at the
river or at the public reservoirs, which
are to be found in almost all the large
streets, and come and empty it into
pitchers of the dimensions of a hogs-
head. It is filtered for drinking ; for
other«uses it is merely lef^ to settle.

Those other individuals, a little
cleaner, who carry on their head large
bundles of linen, are dobi, or washers.
They wash the linen by soaking it in
water, and then striking it with their
whole strength against a plank or a *
stone. Happily, notwithstanding the
American war, calico is not very dear
here. You understand that in such a
mode of washing it is roughly handled,
and wears out before it is old. But why
not teach the d6hi to wash in another
way? Remember M. Moyne's wheel-
barrow, when you ask that question ! ^

Mercy on us I whilst we are chat-
ting so about the coiUi, the bisthi^ and
the dobi, we are missing the train.
Since it is gone, we shall do as others
do who are left behind : we shall take
a Hinghi, an Lidian bark, long, curv-
ed, and without a keeL We shall
find four or five Mohammedan mendjii
(boatmen), one of whom steers with a
long oar ; the others row with bam-
boos as thick as one's arm, and termi-
nated by small flat boards. Just as
we enter, the crew are finishing theur
common prayer, in which, with many
protestations and gesticulations, they
thank God and the Prophet for having
helped them to speed well heretofore,
and asking them to help them the same
for the future.

AUdk I AUah ! mmdjiiy row strong ;
if we arrive ia time, you shall have

two annas (30 centimes). What is
this floating three paces from here?
The body of a man lying on his back.
And yonder?- A woman's corpse.
And further ofi^? The carcass of a
horse. The crows, the kites, the vul-
tures, are much interested in it. But
we are landing. The passengers on
board the steamboat are not all landed
yet. You see there perhaps forty,
fifty European dresses, and hundreds
of Indian. In the second-class car,
which we enter, we shall see Indians
in muslin, who are named babou
(or townspeople) through politeness.
They are clerks in the Calcutta offi-
ces ; they reside several leagues from
here, come every day to town, and re-
turn home by the railroad. The com-
pact mass of the poor are penned up
in wretched third-class cars. The
bell rings, the whistle blows, we are
off*.

Thirteen miles north of Calcutta in
the third station, the first important
one; we stop two minutes. Let os
go down ; we are at Serampore, an
old Danish colony sold to England.
We shall content ourselves there with
a visit to the Hindoo gods, and we
shall have enough to do if we see
them all. There are, I think, more
than fifty temples. Here is one that
is no larger than one of the little way-
side chapels we often see at home.
At the further end, on a scaffold, is a
god quite black, almost of human
form, holding his two hands as though
he were playing the flute. No flute
is there, however. The god has the
cut of a French conscript ; at his feet
there is a little woman afoot high,
and a little god half a foot, an exact
copy of the large one. The priest
has observed us, and here he comes
to speak to us. He is clad like the
poorest of the Hindoos. What is
your god's name? Answer unintel-
ligible. Who are those two little
personages? His wife and son.
What does that god do? He eais.
Indeed? Oh y«5, sahihy he eats
much. If you will give him some
rice or flour he will be very thankful

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A Bide Through OdeiUta and its Vicinity.

893

to you, and it will be of great spiritual
advantage to you. Oh! oh! but if
we give him rice, will he eat it before
us? Oh! of course not. He does
not eat in company. I place the rice
before him*; I close the door careful-
ly, and go away ; when I come back
some time afler to open the door,
he has it all eaten up. Thereupon we
begin to laugh ; the priest smiles, too,
and we move away.

You meet under almost every large
tree four or five of these gods, or even
a greater number. Over them the
Indians hang cocoa-nuts, full of a
water which escapes drop by drop,
from a little hole bored in the bottom.
It is thus that they keep their gods
cool. You often see a regular series
of little temples, built one after the
other, on the same base. Usually,
there are six on one side, six on
the other. In the centre of each of
them there is a black stone, fairly
representing an anvil covered with
a hat. That stone is a god. A great
number of them are sold in Calcutta
at firom ten to twelve rupees a piece
(twenty-five or thirty francs).

But here is a temple of Kcdi^ the
terrible goddess of destruction, in
honor of whom the sect of Togs has
devoted itself to murder for ages long.
They say there are still Togs who kill
for killing's sake, especially in Bengal.
The goddess is standing; she is al-
most black ; has four arms armed
with daggers and death's-heads;
around her neck is a double necklace,
which hangs to the ground, composed
of hundreds of little figures also rep-
resenting death's-heads. The best of
it is that her tongue hangs down mid-
way on her chest. To pull the tongue
is a sign of astonishment in Bcn;:^al.
Now Kali, returning one day from
the war, with her chaplet of skulls
round her neck, met a man, whom she
naturally killed first and foremost.
That is the dead body that lies under
her feet. She asked the name of the
individual, and was much surprised to
find that she had killed her husband.
Then she pulled her tongue, the best

thing she could do. Having no other
husband to kill, and even deprived re-
cently of human sacrifices by the
English^ government. Kali has enor-
mous quantities of black kids sacrificed
to her. I often see flocks of several
hundreds of them coming into town ;
the votaries of Kali have their heads
cut off at a celebrated temple we have
here in Calcutta. For you must
know, Calcutta signifies temple of
Kcdi! I went one day to see these
sacrifices. The temple is a sofiall
affair ; but all around a great number
of other gods, attracted, doubtless, by
the scent of blood, oome to establish
their dwelling.

Let us go on. That great straw
shed which you see yonder covers an
enormous car, having a great number
of very heavy wheels. Many a man
those wheels have crushed. It is the
car of Juggernaut, that devil to whose
festivals the English government sent
European soldiers only a few years
since ; not to maintain order, but to
take part in the procession. Djagher-
natt (the Indian name of this idol)
remains with Bolaraham and Soit-
bddhra, his brother and sister, in a
temple opposite the straw shed. A
great number of the Indian gods have
a taste for moving about ; hence those
kiosks that you see everywhere, and
which serve them as resting-places.
The prettiest is the shade of a ban-
yanrtree, with about a hundred stems,
a whole wood in itself.

But we must leave the Hindoo
gods ; we have barely time to pay a
short visit to Chandemagor. Let us
take the railroad again, and go on
some minutes' ride further. Another
time we shall, if you choose, come by
water, ascending the Hoogly to twen-
ty-one miles north of Calcutta. There,
on the right bank of the broad river,
is a strip of land two miles in length
by one in breadth, where some sixty
persons live in European style, with
some thousands of Bengalese, who
live in Indian fashion; it is the
French colony.
The Indian emphyis cry with all

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A Ride JTirough Calcutta and its Vicinity,

their might " Chan'nagore ! Chan'na-
gorel" Let us get down, and out
of the terminus, and when we have
crossed that ditch, ten paces before
us, we shall be in France. As the
centre of the European habitations is
a quarter of an hour's walk from this
point, we throw ourselves here into
a four-seated carriage, and thread our
way through roads wretchedly out of
repair, at the risk of upsetting an hun-
dred times, or of getting sea-sick by
the way. I have often passed that
place in company with Frenchmen ;
we endeavored to feel an impression,
by humming

" Vera lee rives de France," etc. •

One day when I was making ready
to brave those perilous roads in com-
pany with two Irishmen, there came
mto our carriage a large gentleman,
whose weight would have been formi-
dable to us, had I not managed to bal-
ance his pounds by my kilogrammes.f
By his appearance I took him for a
Briton, and, therefore, took no pains
to enter into conversation. But after
a little, one of my Irishmen, annoyed
by the jolting of the carriage, said to
me in English : " Faith ! these French-
men needn't boast of the way. they
keep -these roads of theirs.** At this
remark, you should have seen my
stout gentleman leap, and with a
menacing air reply to my interlocu-
tor : "I warn you to say nothing here
jigainst the French. I am a French-
man."

This was said in English. I had
not yet opened my mouth. I thought
I would appease my irascible fat man
by speaking to him in his own tongue.
" Come, come," said I, " no one here
has any intention of laughing at the
French." My man instantly drew in
his horns, stammering three or four
syllables which I could not understand.
" Magical effect of the mother tongue !"
thought I ; and ten yards further on,
in order to perfect a good understand-

* " Toward the shores of France," etc.
t A kilogramme is eqoal to S lb. 8 02. and 4
drma.

ing between us, I began again to
address him in French on any subject
that presented itself. He looked at
me with mouth and eyes open.
Supposing that he had not heard what
I said, I repeated it. He was then
forced to confess that he did not know
a word of French ; that he was an
Irishman, an old soldier. In short,
he was an original, well known in tlie
country by his eccentricity, and styling
himself the hero q/* 132 fyhis. Now
retired from the service, he is writing
his exploits in a little diary full of fun
and humor. He detests England
loves France in general, and attacks
all Frenchmen in particular. Once
at his ease, after his candid confession,
he took to chatting, and talked so
much and so well that we forgot the
jolting of the carriage, and even the
lofty and magnificent trees that, fringe
the road.

Aft;er some winding about, and after
passing a great number ©f Indian
huts, and meeting hundreds of Hin-
doos loaded each with a great pitcher
of water, here we are at last in a
street. Rue de Paris, if you please :
long and dirty, and ill aired ; nothing
remarkable; let us pass on. Rue
Neuvcy in ruins. Rue des Grand* Es-
caliers, so narrow that the slightest
staircase before a door would block
it up completely. Let us go on, turn
to the left, and here we are at the
river side. Here all is large and
wide— quay, river, houses, gardens.
Without stopping now, let us go on
immediately to the end of the quay,
where we shall rest and refresh our-
selves in a friendly house. It deserves
that name in three ways, for, Ist, il
was formerly the house of God, an
ancient chapel of the Franciscans.
An old plank yet to be seen there still
bears the following inscription in
French, nowise remarkable for good
orthography : " TTiis church is dedi-
cated to St. Francis of AssissiumJ*
2nd, It belongs to the venerable pas-
tor, Father Ch^routre, who is now our
neighbor at Bailloul. And, Si-d, It is
occupied by M. Moyne of Lyons, one

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A Bide Through Caictttta and %U Vicinity.

895

of our old pupils, of whom I have al-
ready spoken to 70a. He stands on
the threshold, and receives us with
open arms.

The Franciscans were formerly
pastors at Chandemagor ; this chapel
served as parish church; their con-
vent is now converted into a hoteL
From one of its windows there is a
magnificent and extensive view, thanks
to the river and the level character of
the ground. That square tower to
the left is the guard-house ; for there
is here a French army, composed of
thirty Indians, commanded by a Euro-
pean lieutenant They pretend, but
erroneously, that these thirty soldiers
have but twenty uniforms amongst
them, and that oflen, when the guard
is relieved, the new comers enter, nj>t
only into the functions, but also into
the clothes, of their comrades. It is
a caluiQuy of "perfidious Albion;"
my information is certain. I have it
from the general-in-chief. Close by
is the police station. With their white
tonics, their red pantaloons, these In-
dian policemen have very much the
look of altar-boys. Tliis fine house
to the lefl is the house of the adminis-
trator, or, as he is styled by courtesy,
the governor. Let us go in. We
shall see this governor, a fat little
man, born in the colonies. He will
speak a Httle on everything, but
especially on honor and the happiness,
to him so rare, of receiving 2$ visit
from a man* of learning. It is very
unlucky that his lady has the influenza
at this moment; for she is an astrono-
mer, and had ever so many questions
to ask me whatever day I should have
accepted their invitation. Another
time will do as well. The governor
himself is a horticulturist ; he has his
garden kept in perfect order by Indian
convicts, who drag the cannon ball
along his walks.*

The sun is setting ; let us go home.
We shall see in the streets of Calcut-
ta what is seen there every evening ;
do^, fireworks, and marriages.

* A militarj pixiiislioieiit«— Tbaits.

The Bengal dog is a wretched
and cowardly animal, long muzzled,
red-haired ; he barks little, but howls
incessantly. Be very sure that
he will assail us persistently in the
lanes, as we pass now in the evening,
distance being our only securitv
against him. There are also in tha
country, and even in the city, a grea:
number of paria dogs, that prowl
around, especially by night ; a species
of wild beasts ; not very dangerous,
however, because of their cowardice.
It is said that dogs of European race
gradually degenerate here.

Those rockets that you see going
up from all pomts of the horizon are
a daily amusement in which the Ben-
galese take much delight There is
scarcely ever a fire-work worth see-
ing; but there is fire, smoke, and
crackers, and that suffices. Some-
times they send up little paper bal-
loons, with a ball of lighted camphor,
which burns a good quarter of an
hour.

But look yonder : is not that a fire ?
A bright light flashes on the tree-tops
and on the European houses. No, it
is not a fire ; it is a marriage. ' The
procession is turning the comer of
the street; a score of Indians carry
each on his head a plank, on which
some fifty candles are burning ; others
carry resinous wood burning on the
top of a long pole ; in the centre of
the procession trumpets, drums, large
and small, pots and saucepans, produce
a frightful din, each musician having
no other rule than that of making the
greatest possible noise. Behind the
orchestra come one or two open palan-
quins containing the brides, around
whom "blue lights" are lit from time
to time. I defy you to form any cor-
rect idea of this cortige, and especially
of the music They go about thus
from street to street for several hours ;
then they will eat rice to satiety,
gorge themselves with Indian pastry,
and to-morrow will not have a single
sou. We see that from our terrace
several times in the week, and, at cer-
tain seasons, every day.

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396

The Round of the Waters.

If I am not mistaken, I have said
nothing yet of the character of these
poor Indiana. In this respect some
reserve is necessary. I hear it said
that there is very little resemblance
between Bengal, Maduras, the Bom-
bay territory, the Funjaub, etc As
for the Bengalese, all agree in regard-
ing them as the most degraded ; they
are effeminate, idle, and cowardly by
temperament; liars and thieves by
education. They often dispute
amongst ^emselves, but never %ht.
That cowardice enconrages many
Englishmen, who beat them at ran-
dom when they have nothing else to
do. My idea is that, miloss miracles
of grace be wrought for them, it is
scarcely possible to make true Chris-
tians of tiiese poor people. The only
means of establishing Christianity
amongst the race would be to buy
their children, and bring them up,
away from all contact with the others.

There are Christians amongst them,
who are oflenest found as cooks or
kansama amongst the Europeans ; but
they know not the first rudiments of
their religion, go to church only on
Good Friday and All Souls' Day, and
are generally admitted to be worse
than the pagan servants.

Our day is now ended. J£ you are
fatigued, come and rest yourself on
the college roof, constructed as a plat-
form, like those of all the other houses
in the country. There, evening and
morning, but only then, the heat is
bearable. I sometimes go and sit
there to think of my friends. I look
back into the past, forget the present,
and, as I do everywhere else, laugh at
what worldlings call the fiUure. The
future is heaven. It seems to me that
I am nearer to it here than in Europe.
May Grod grant us grace to gain it
one day or another I ,

T. Cabbomkelle,

THE ROUND OF THE WATERS.

BY BOBT. W. WEHU

*' All thy works praise thee, O Lord."

Up, up on the mountains, high up near the sky.
Where the earth gathers moisture from clouds passing by ;
Where the first drops of rain patter down full of glee,
As they join hand in hand on ^eir way to the sea ;

There the rills, like young children, go prattling along.
Full of life, full of joy, foil of motion and song ;
And, swelling the brooks, with glad voices they raise,
To him who made all things, their tribute of praise.

Then, as they dance onward, half hidden in spray,
Like bands of young nymphs dress'd in bridal array,
With shouts of wild laughter they leap the deep linn.
Where the broad flowmg river at once takes them in.

Now calm their rude mirth as they matronly glide,
Bearing onward rich freight to the blue briny tide.
Where the mist of the mountains once more joins the sea
With its incensei O Lord, ever heaving to thee.

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2^ Bible; or, Cknttmcu Eve,

897

TrAMlated from the Qenium.

THE BIBLE; OR, CHRISTMAS EVE,

Chbistmas Eve bad come. The
bells of the bigb towers in m^gestic
aad solemn tones were reminding the
faithful that the advent of the Lord
was near. Here and there through
the gatbering darkness already glim-
mered a solitary taper, casting a fee-
ble light upon the streets, where a
throng of people, large and small,
young and old, were moving to and fro
wiA joyful activity, impatiently await-
ing tbe honr when the treasures and
splendor of the Christmas market
should be opened to them. Grood
mothers were engaged in quietly and
secretly baking the cakes and adorning
the Christmas-tree for the children, and
shared beforehand in the delights and
surprises of the little ones, while
.others, who had perhaps chosen the
best part, were preparing themselves
in still devotion and pious meditation
for the great festival.

The young student of theology,
Ernest Kuhn, was sitting in his little
upper chamber, watching, with eyes
full of deep affection and sympathy, his
dear mother, who, afler a confinement
to her bed of several weeks, bad been
refreshed for tbe first time by a peace-
ful sleep. His countenance was light-
ed up with an expression of great in-
terior joy, for on this day the physi-
ciau had announced to him that his
mother had safely passed through a
perilous crisis, and that, with care, a
speedy recovery might be expected.

But he turned his eyes from his
dear mother and looked upon the bare
walls, which gave a speaking proof of
the poverty of tbe inmates, then a
cloud of sadness passed over his
oountenanoe, his young breast heaved

heavily, as if oppressed by a weight
of sorrow. The house-rent was due,
the fire-wood was reduced to a few
sticks, hardly enough to last two days,
his little sister needed a new dress, his
mother good strengthening nourish-
ment, the apothecary's bill was to be
paid, and where were the means to
be found ?

Heavily and slowly he rose from
his seat, as if standing would lighten
his burdens, and cast his eyes thought-
fully around the apartment. " The ta-
bles and chairs," he said to himself in
an under-tone, " are gone not to come
back, the pictures too are sold, and the
clock also; and now it is your turn,
O my books I It cannot be helped ; I
have spared you for a long, long
time." At these words he stood be-
fore the book-case and gazed on the
few but good books by which he had
so often been instructed and counselled,
and which had remained with him in
joy and in sorrow. Each of them
was dear to him, associated with
some dear remembrance either of joy
or sorrow. Sad and wavering, be
looked at them again and again, as if
he could never part from them. At
last, after long hesitation, he took
down from the shelf a large bound
volume ; it was a Bible adorned with
beautiful copper-plate engravings. " I
can best spare you," he said sadly,
**for I have two more in Greek and in
Latin; I shall meet with the most
ready sale and get the most money for
you. My grandfather who is in heav-
en will forgive me this ; I have other
remembrances of him; Agnes will
grieve and weep greatly for the beau-
tiful Bible, but I think I can easily
quiet her, and I can also give my
mother a satis&ctory explanation."

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398

TTie Bible; or, Ckristmas Eve.

He cast a sorrowful glance at the
beautiful book which had afTorded him
so much enjoyment in his boyhood, and
which was so much dearer to him as
a memorial of his pious grandfather,
long since dead, whom he held in
great veneration. Then he thought
of earlier and better times, of the pres-
ent, so full of trouble, and of the blessed
future, and his heart was heavy and
his youthful breast heaved painfully.

Then his eye fell as if by chance
upon the open Bible, and he read:
" Blessed are they that mourn, for they
shall be comforted."

And he humbly kissed the consol-
ing words, and a tear of sorrow but
also of the firmest trust flowed down
his cheek, and ho turned his true and
weeping eyes to heaven as if he
would ask pardon of his Father for
his faint-heartedness. He remember-
ed how Grod had heard his earnest
prayer, and restored his dear mother,
how oflen he had helped him, and his
heart became lighter, and hope once
more began to dawn upon him.

Suddenly the door opened, and his
little sister Agnes, a child seven
years old, ran in, joyfully holding up
her little writing-book. ^ Look here,
dear Ernest," she eagerly exclaimed,
'^only see how beautifully I have
written to-day ! That great A is very
nice." " Soffly, soMy, you noisy little
^rl," said her brother, putting his
hand over her mouth ; << you will wake
up mother !" Agnes hastened on tip-
toe to her mother's bedside, soflly
kissed her white hand, and said be-
seechingly, as she watched her slumber,
" Do not scold, dear brother, mother
is sleeping so good!"

Ernest smiled and told her that while
he attended to some necessary busi-
ness she must stay with their mother,
and be very quiet and silent that she
might not wake her; but that if she
did awake she was to give her the
warm broth upon the stove, and that

the bread and butter for herself waa
on the window ledge. "Now be very
quiet," he added, " for you know what
the doctor said."

The little girl assured him that he
might trust her, but, added she, coax-
iDgly> " When you come back, may I
not go with dame Margaret to the
Christmas market?" "That you
shall," pi«omised her brother. But
Agnes dung to hun, and full of pious
simplicity, whispered in his ear : " If
you meet the Christ-child in the street,
tell him he must not forget me, but
must look in here."

The brother embraced the little
girl with a sad smile, and casting an
affectionate glance upon his mother,
left the room.

ni.

Ernest had only to turn the comer
of the little street to find the shop of
Hoss, the antiquary, who had before
bought many a book of him, and to
whom he intended to offer the Bible.
With a beating heart (for Hoss was a
rough, purse-proud man) Ernest en-
tered the shop, which was crowded
with books, maps, and pictures. He
greeted the antiquary, who was busy '
writing, in a friendlv manner, but
there was a pretty long pause before
he took any notice of him.

" Ah ! it is you, Master Studious,"
he exclaimed, raising his cap in a
stately manner, "what good thing
brings you to me?"

" Something beautiful and good in-
deed," replied Ernest "See here,
you must buy this of me."

"Always buying," said the antiqua-
ry ; " when will you begin to buy of
me ? I don't like to deal with you.
Look at your pictures, that I bought
of you thjnee weeks ago, and for which
I paid more than they were worth on
account of your destitute condition ;
no one will buy them of me ; my good
nature played me a trick that time.
It shall not happen again, Master
Studious"

" How can you soy this, Mr. H5s3 ?"

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77ie Bible; or, Christmas Eve.

399

replied Ernest, greatlj disgusted ; ^ did
yoa not have them for a trifle, and was
not I present eight dajs since when
70U refused double of what jou gare
for them, when it was offered you ?"

" You heard wrong," replied the an-
tiquary, displeased and ashamed, ^^ let
me see your articles."

With evident pleasure he turned
over the leaves of the book, and look-
ed at the beautiful and delicately ex-
ecuted engravings,

« Not so bad," thought he. « It is a
pi^ that I have already more than
enough of such trash, as you can see
for yourself if vou will look at those
shelves* I will take it, however, on
account of my regard for you and
your mother, if you don't set your
mark too high."

"Only give me," begged Ernest,
^ the fourth part of what it first cost."

" And what was that?"

« Six florins, Mr. Hoss."

** You are sharp indeed, young mas-
ter 1 Six florins in these hard times I
Such are our young people now-a-
days," grumbled the old man.

^ Only look at the beautiful pictures,
so skilfully and clearly engraved ; I
am sure it would bring you double
and treble the price you give for iL"

*<What do you know of all this,
Master Studious? I will give you
three florins and not a penny more,
and this only out of pure kindness."

" If you have that, give me more,"
earnestly pleaded the young man;
*^ think of my mother's sickness and
our poverty."

^Is it mj, fault that your mother is
poor and sick?" sneered the miser;
"why have yoa not made yourself
rich if poverty is so disagreeable to
you ? Take your book, or the three
florins, whichever you please. Master
Studious ; only be quick, for I have
something else to do beside listening
to your whining."

It was as if a two-edged sword had
pie/oed the heart of the deeply dis-
tressed young man. He suddenly
seized the book; then he thought of
his sick mother, and their extreme

need at home, and he strongly check-
ed the rismg words of his just anger.
" Take the book, then," he said, with
a look and tone in which the indigna-
tion of his deeply wounded spirit
spoke forth — ^^ take it, but you have not
dealt with me as a Christian should
deal with a Christian; may God be
more merciful to you in your dying
hour than you are now to me." And
with these words he hastened from
the shop, and he heard a scornful
laugh bdiind him.

IV.

He went forth into the street with
burning sorrow rankling in his wound-
ed breast. The December air blew
sharp and cold over his glowing
cheeks — ^he felt it not People were
talking loud and merrily as they mov-
ed up and down the lighted streets,
but he heard them not Sunk in de-
spondency, he stood motionless in the
night air, leaning against the corner
of a house. Never before had he
been so wretched. His spirit was
stirred by an indescribable feeling of
bitterness, which threatened to destroy
the happiness of his life.

In mild solemn tones the bells
sounded anew, and awakened in his
soul the remembrance of him who
brought, and is ever bringing to us all,
redemption, help, and consolation ; he
called to mind the woi^s of Christ
^vhich he a short time before had read,
and which had so wonderfully cheered
him ; he thought of the resolution he
had this day formed, of his dear
mother, of whose entire recovery he
had now so lively a hope. Then he
took courage, walked down the street,
and went to the shop of the apothecary
Ejremer.

Thb apothecary, a kind, cordial-
hearted man, greeted Efnest in a
friendly way as he entered with a
" God be with you. Master Theologus.
You want the medicine for your

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400

Hke Bible; or, ChriUmas Ef>e.

mother ? Here it is ; and how is the
good woman?"

" Thanks be to God," replied Ernest
joyfiiUy, " she is out of danger ; but
dear Herr Kremer," added he in an
under-tone, '* I cannot paj jou this
. time ; oh ! be so good as to bear with
me a little longer."

^' Have I ever asked anjthing of
jou ?" said the apothecary ; ^ do not
trouble yourself. I am right glad that
your mother is better; I knew she
would recover. But you yourself look
so pale and weak ! what has happened
to you?"

Then Ernest, encouraged by the
kindness of the cordial-hearted man,
related to him- how scornfully and
hardly the antiquary had dealt with
him.

" Yes, yes," said the apothecary an-
grily, " that is the way with tliis covet-
ous man ; I have known him from his
youth ; it was his pleasure as a school-
boy to torment us, and, whenever he
could, to cheat us. But do not let
this disturb you ; sit down at the table
out yonder near the stove," he contin-
ued kindly; ^^ after this vexation a
drop of wine will not harm you." Say-
ing this he opened a cupboard, took
down a bottle of wine and a tart, and
with good-natured haste filled the
glass.

Ernest hardly knew what all this
meant ^ Oh, sir," he exclaimed,
greatly surprised, " how have I mer-
ited such great kindness ?"

^ Tou are a brave son, and have
acted honorably toward your mother,
and for that I esteem you highly ; so
drink, drink!" insisted the kind old
loan.

" I wish my mother was here in my
place," said the good son ; " the wine
would do her good."

" Do not let that trouble you," an-
swered the apothecary, deeply moved ;
" your mother shall not be forgotten,
and your little sister shall not go with-
out her share ; and now eat and drink
to your heart's desire."

The kindness of the cordial-hearted
old man made Ernest's meal a happy

one ; new life flamed through his veins
with the wine, his cares began to less-
en, and he felt himself wonderfully
refreshed. For along time he had
not been so light-hearted.

Meanwhile the old man, whose joy
was heartfelt at seeing how much the
young student relished his little re-
past, had taken down a second bottle
of wine from the cupboard, and had
made up a parcel of bonbons and can-
dy for his little sister.

" The wine," said he to Ernest, " is
for your mother, and this parcel for
your little sister."

" How can I repay you for all your
kindness to us ?" asked Ernest^ ov»^
powered with joy and gratitude.

^ Oh ! that is of no importance,"
answered the apothecary laughing ; "' it
Ib Christmas eve, when the Lord visits
all his children, and you have been a
very good child."

" May Grod reward you for the love
you have shown us," said Ernest with
emotion; '^my mother and I have
nothing but thanks and prayers to re-
turn you."

<^ Give me the last, dear young
man," answered tbe apothecary, « and
invite me to your first Remember
me to your mother, and freely ask me
for whatever you need. FarewelL"

With a heart full of gratitude Er-
nest pressed die offered hand of the old
man to his heart, took the presents and
hastened home.

Gheerbd ' and warmed, refreshed
in body and spirit, he entirely forgot
the hard-hearted antiquaiy. He en-
tertained hunself as he went along
with the pleasing surprise he should
give his mother and sister, when they
saw the good things he brought them,
and raising his eyes to heaven in grat-
itude he exclaimed, ^ Father, Siere
are some good men still I" When he
reached home he found his mother *Btill
asleep, his little sister trying to darn
his old socks, but, as yet wholly un-
practised in the art of patching, she

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Tke Bible; or^ Christmas Eve.

401

more than once pricked her little fin-
gers till they bled.

'< Is it you, dear brother ?" she asked
affectionalely. ^^ Mother has not
waked yet; I have been very good and
stilL"

«* For this the little Christ-child has
given me something for you," said her
brother, as he came toward her smil-
ing ; ^ he sends you his kind greeting,
and tells you to study ^weU, never for-
get to pray, and love him always !"

Agnes quickly opened the parcel,
and, surprised and delighted, beheld
the .bonbons, the sugared almonds, and
the gingerbread. A flush of j<^
lighted up her pretty features, and for
some time she could not find words to
speak.

" Oh, brother, only see how good
the Christ-child is ! Yes, yes, I will in-
deed love him, and study and pray
hard, that our Heavenly Father and
the good infant Jesus may be pleased
with me."

Her brother smiled, moved by her
pious joy, but just at this moment
dame Margaret, their good old neigh-
bor, came in, who had shown every
kindness and attention to Ernest's
mother during her illness. With joy
he told her the happy news of her re-
covery; the delighted little Agnes
spread out her sugar-plums and gin-
gerbread, and cordially invited her to
take some. But Margaret thought
her teeth were not good enough. ** But
come," said she, " when you are ready
we will go to the Christmas market."

" May I go, brother ?" asked Agnes.
" Yes, indeed you may, onlj come
home in time," said he ; '^ and be so
good, dame Margaret, as to keep
watch upon the little girl."

"Have no fear, Master Ernest,"
she replied, " for you know I love her
as if she were my own child."

vn.

Daice MiLRGABET took her way

along the street leading to the Christ^

mas market — ^holding Uttle Agnes- by

the hand, who every now and then

VOL. n. 26

urged her to make greater haste.
From the deep blue sky the stars
poured down their pale silver light
upon the dazzling fresh-fallen snow.
Crowds of people were hurrying up
and down, talking merrily, or, divided
into groups, stood gazing eagerly and
curiously upon the bright display of
the fair. Bright lights were burning
in the stands and shops of the trades-
men, displaying all their treasures to
the astonished eye. Here peeped out
the pleasant, friendly faces of dolls
with waxen heads, dressed after the
newest fashion in little hoods or Flor-
ence hats, while others stood more re-
tired, like ladies and gentlemen, splen-
didly wrapped in cloaks and furs, as
if they feared the cold- A varied
medley of hussars in rich embroidered
uniform hung there; huntt^men with,
rifle and pouch, chimney-sweeps and
Tyrolese, hermits and friars, Greeks
near their mortal enemies the Turks,
and Moors, standing peacefully side
by side. The plashing fish swam
round in a glass panel, whilst close by
stood a dark oak-wood case, in which
leaden bears and stags were seized by
hounds and hunters of the same metal.
Elsewhere was a whole regiment of
bearded grenadiers, arranged in stiff
array, with Turkish music. A fright-
ful fortress, with paper walls and
wooden cannon, frowned next a kitch-
en where was to be seen the pretty
sight of cook, hearth, pans, spits,
plates, etc. Here sweetmeats, choice
pastry, tarts, chocolate, almonds, gin-
gerbread, etc., excited in many a dainty
palate loiig desire and hard tempta-
tion. Golden apples gleamed forth
from dark leaves, nuts rattled in
silver bowk, while in another place
low cribs, with water, mountam, and
valley, herds and herdsmen, with
angels in the air and on the earth,
sweetly represented the new-born
child lying in the cradle, carefully
watched by Mary and Joseph.

Little Agnes gazed with delighted
eyes upon all this splendor, and often
laid her tender hand upon her youth-
ful breast, as if to repress its longings

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402

Tke Bible; or, Christmas JEve.

and sounds escaped her lips ^^ich
only too plainly expressed the joy of
her heart.

But at length dame Margaret
thought it was time to go home. '^ Do
let ud first go to find Herr Hoss/'
begged Agnes, " his crib is always the
prettiest,** and laughing good-natured-
ly she drew the obligmg Margaret
along with her to the antiquary. They
found him occupied in attending upon
an elderly lady. Did Agnes see
aright j Did her eyes deceive her ?
" Yes, yes," she suddenly exclaimed in
great distress, " it is my Bible, my dear
picture-book!" and in a moment she
released herself fix)m Margaret and
ran up to the lady.

" Oh, dear lady," cried she, eagerly,
** do not buy it ; you cannot, you must
not buy it ; that book belongs to me !**
The lady looked at the little girl in
great astonishment

"What are you dreaming of, you
silly little thing ?" grumbled the anti-
quar}"-, vexed at the unwelcome inter-
ruption. '< It is mine ; I bought it, and
at a high price."

" That cannot be, dear sir," earnest-
ly protested the little girl. " I beg you
give me back my picture-book ; I will
give you all the money I have," and
saying this she drew out her little
purse, which contained, alas ! only four
pennies, her little savings. '' Take
it," said she, ** only give me my pic-
ture-book."

" Oh ! you little sharper," said the
antiquary jeeringly, " that would be a
great profit ; I have paid more florins
for it than you have pennies."

"I beg you, for heaven's sake,"
sobbed Agnes, with folded hands and
tears streaming from her blue eyes. "I
tell you, upon my honor, it belongs to
me; only see, there is my name on
the title-page, which my brother wrote
there in Latin letters."

The lady turned the leaf over and
read aloud, " Frederic Schein !"

" Frederic Schein ?" exclaimed sud-
denly a loud voice, with evident emo-
tion, and a slender, manly figure
wrapped in a cloak, from beneath

which glistened a richly embroidered
huntsman's uniform, .pressed through
the circle which curiosity had formed
around Agnes and the antiquary.
" Frederic Schein ?' again he exclaim-
ed, and looked greatly agitated upon
the book. '* Permit me, noble lady ?*
he asked, and hastily seized the offer-
ed Bible. " Grood heavens ! my suspi-
cions were right, it is my father's Bi-
ble I" and suddenly turning to the lit-
tle girl : ** What is thy family and bap-
tismal name ?"

"Agnes Kuhn," answered Agnes,
greatly terrified.

4ff " Is your mother's name Sophia ?^
he asked urgently and eagerly.

"Yes," answered the child, "my
mother's name is Sophia, and my
brother's Ernest"

"Thanks be to God, a thousand
, thanks I" fervently exclaimed the tall
man, with deep emotion, and ardently
pressed Agnes to his heart " Agnes,'-'
lie cried, "I am your uncle; your
mother is my sister. Oh ! take me to ^
her."

Agnes, looking at him wiUi astonish-
ment, asked: "Are you my unde
Frank, of whom my mother has so
often told me ? Oh ! if you are my
uncle Frank," said she coaxingly, " do
buy the Bible for me 1 and then I will
take you to my mother." Her uncle
kissed the little girl, and gave her the
book. " I will take the book, sir,"
said he, " at any price ;" and the an-
tiquary made him a very low bow.

When the bargain was concluded,
the tall huntsman moved quickly
through the circle of astonished spec-
tators, leading the little Agues, who
joyfully pressed the precious picture-
book to her heart Margaret follow-
ed, lost ID astonishment

VIII.

While these things were taking
place at the fair, and Agnea unex-
pectedly had found the Bible and her
node, Ernest sat by the bedside of
his. mother, enjoying her slumber,
which was to him the sweet pledge of

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The Bible; or, Christmas Eve.

403

ber reooTeiy. Before him lay open
the histories of Holy Writ, and with
deep emotion he was reading what
the Lord in his infinite love and mercy
liad done for sinful men, and how
he had sent them his only begotten
Son to redeem and console them,
whose hirth-day was now to be joy-
fully celebrated throughout Christen-
dom.

He had just looked at the fire in
the stove, and poured fresh oil into
the expiring lamp, when his mother
awoke, and cast a kind, affectionate
glance upon her good son.

"Oh, mother," cried he joyfully,
'^what a good sleep you have had;
yoa have been asleep seven whole
hours !*'

"Yes, I have slept soundly," an-
swered she, ^ and find myself greatly
strengthened. But what has become
of Agnes T*

'^ I let her go with dame Margaret
to the Christmas fair; it is almost
time for her to come back."

^ Ah! it grieves me to the heart,"
sighed his mother, << that I cannot give
yoa both a little Christmas gift, as I
used to do."

"Don't be distressed on that ac-
count, dear mother," said Ernest,
soothingly ; " you are out of danger,
and that is the most beautiful and best
Christmas gift that could be bestowed
on us. But the Christ-child has not
forgotten us," and he handed his
mother the bottle of wine and the
biscuit.

"Where in all the world did this
eome from?" asked his astonished
mother.

Ernest now related how he had
sold the Bible to the antiquary (whose
unkind treatment he concealed from
his mother lest it should disturb her)
for three florins, and how he had call-
ed on the apothecary, who had so hos-
pitably received him, so kindly remem-
bered his mother and little sister, and
bad promised not only a larger credit,
but every kind of aid.

His mother could not find words to
pnuse ajQd thank their benefactor.

When Ernest wrapped up the bis-
cuit again as his mother directed,
he remarked upon the cover the hand-
writing and name of the apothecary,
and had the curiosity to open the
whole paper.

Who can describe his surprise and
emotion when he found the wrapper
was a receipt in full, signed by the
apothecary, for the eight florins and
thirty pence due to him for medicines
delivered.

" God bless our noble benefactor I"
prayed his mother with folded hands*

But Ernest shouted, "Mother, we
are now relieved of a great care !"

IX.

Dame Margaret just then entered
with an unusually quick «tep, and
with a countenance evidently announc-
,ing good tidings, but without little
Agnes.

** Where have you left my Agnes ?"
inquired the mother anxiously.

"Do not trouble yourself about
her; she will soon come, and not
alone either. She is bringing an old
acquaintance of yours with her I"

" An old, dear acquaintance ?"

" Tes, and from your native place,
too."

"From my native place?" asked
the mother eagerly.

" He declares that he is very nearly
related to you ; and he does look very
much like you."

"How does he look?" asked the
mother urgently.

" He is tall and slender, with black
eyes and black hair, and a scar
over his brow; he looks to me like
a huntsman."

" Great Gt>d ! is it possible ? can it
be my brother?"

" Yes, it is he," cried the huntsman,
as he entered and offered his hand
to his astonished sister. From the
arms of his sister he hastened to
embrace his manly nephew, while the
joyful Agnes, with the Bible in her
arms, now ran up to her mother, now

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404

The Bible; or, Christmas Eve.

to her uncle, and then to her brother,
who beheld the book with astonish-
ment, and began faintly to suspect
what happened.

When the first tempest of delight
had subsided, and given place to a
more quiet though not less deep joy,
question crowded upon question, and
answer upon answer.

The uncle first related how after
the marriage of his sister he had
entered into the service of the Count
of Maxenstein as upper game-keeper ;
how he had often tried to obtain intel-
ligence of his dear sister ; twice had
taken a journey himself to their na-
tive place, and could learn nothing of
her ; how he had searched all the
newspapers ; and at length, when all
means and efforts had failed, how
be sorrowfuDy gave up the hope of
ever seeing her again. Then he told
her how he had come to this place on
business for the count, his master;,
had visited the Christmas fair and the
stall of the antiquary, and had there
unexpectedly found his father's Bible
and Agnes, and through them his
sister and nephew.

Then affectionately clasping Ernest
by the hand he begged his sister to re-
late her history,

"My history," she replied, "is
short, and yet varied with many sor-
rows that the Lord has laid upon
me. You knew that my husband left
his native place to seek a better living
in Eichstadt But in this he was de-
ceived. Then, in spite of my entrea-
ties, he entered the French service as
surgeon, and came to Siiarlouis, where
his regiment lay in garrison. Soon
after his arrival a malignant fever
broke out among the soldiers, which
carried away great numbers, and
among them my husband. God give
him his kingdom," said she drying her
tears. " His death was the more dread-
ful for me, because I was alone in
a foreign land without friends or help,
and had but just risen from my bed
after the birth of Agnes. In my need
I wrote several letters to you and
to our relatives at Settcnberg, but

received no answer. At first T
thought this was caused by irregulari-
ties of the post-route, which was eveiy-
where embarrassed by the disturbances
of the war ; but I soon learned, to my
great sorrow, that our Settenberg had
been sacked and burned by the French.
Imagine, my dear brother, my condi-
tion ! What a ha[yiness for me that,
some months after the death of my
husband, an old aunt of his made me
the offer to go to her, and she would
support me as well as she was
able. I was not terrified by the
length of the way, and received from
her a cordial welcome. But, alas!
this happiness was not long to last.
My good aunt died, leaving me her
heir, but she had other relations who
disputed the will, and, after a law-suit
of three years* continuance, an agree-
ment was made by which most of the
property fell into the hands of the
judges and lawyers. Hardly a fourth
part of it remained after the costs
were paid. I had nothing now but
care and trouble ; but I ever found a
firm support in my dear Ernest. May
God reward him! But now, dear
brother, now, if I only have you,
again all care will be over." And the
good woman, deeply affected, pressed
his hand.

" Oh, my dear ones !" cried he, af-
ter listening to his sister's narrative
with lively sympathy, "let us aU
thank our Heavenly Father that he
has to-day brought us all together
again, in so wonderful a manner, by
means of this book ; for I had already
determined to leave this place in
the morning."

Ernest related how hard it had been
for him to part with the precious book,
how he had been encouraged by the
passage in Matthew, what mean treat-
ment he had met with from the an-
tiquary, and how he had almost made
up his mind to take back the book
with him.

Little Agnes, on her side, thought
it had been no very easy matter to
bring dame Margaret to the antiquary,
and she had gone through trouble and

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405

terror enoagh "until the Christ-child
sent my uncle." *

He pressed the little one to his
heart, but she seized him fast by
the hand, and coaxinglj begging him,
said : " Now uncle, you never will go
away ; you ¥nll stay with us ?"

" How could I leave you so soon,
my dear ones, jus^as I have found
you again? No, no, we will never
separate; we will always remain to-
gether," cried the uncle. " You must go
with me to Peinegg, sister, where I
am head-forester; it is a beautiful
and splendid place there, and I have
everything in abundance."

" With you and my children I
would go to the ends of the earth,"
said she cheerfully.

Then £mest, upon a hint from his
mother, brought out the bottle of wine
and the biscuit, and offered them to
his uncle. A slight meal, prepared
in haste by dame Margaret, seasoned
with cheeiful conversation, enlivened
the evening, to which Ernest and
his mother had looked forward only a
few hours before with such pain
and anxiety. Joy and deep satisfac-
tion lighted every countenance, but

the mother said with deep feeling:
"Blessed are they that mourn, for
they shall be comforted."

" Amen," responded the uncle, de-
voutly raising his eyes to heaven.
Ernest and Agnes wept tears of joy
and gratitude.

It was not long before their mother
was entirely recovered and accompa-
nied her beloved brother to Pein^g,
where he arranged everything in a
manner to make her life agreeable.
It may easily be imagined that the
Bible was not forgotten. Every
Christmas evening was passed with
far moro festivity and joy than the
evening which united again the long
separated. At the end of two years
Ernest celebrated his first mass at
Peinegg. The good apothecary was
invited to be present, and esteemed
this day as the happiest of his life.
Sixteen years after, Ernest was estab-
lished as parish priest at Peinegg,
where he still exercises his holy office
^ith extraordinary zeal.

From The Month.

THOUGHTS ON ST. GERTRUDE.

BY AUBREY DE VERB.

When a voice from the thirteenth
century comes to us amid the din of the
nineteenth, it is difficult for those in-
terested in the cause of human prog-
ress not to feel their attention strongly
challenged. Such a voice appeals to
us in a work which has now first ap-
peared in an English version.* We
owe it to a religious of the order of
Poor Clares ; a daughter of St Frau-
ds thus paying to St. Benedict a por-

• " The L!fe and Revelations of St. Gertrude,
Virgin and Abbetfl." By a Religions of the Order

of ^r Clares.

tion of that debt which all the relig-
ious orders of the West owe to their
great patriarch. The book possesses
a profound interest, and that of a
character wholly apart from polemics.
The thirteenth century, the noblest of
those included in the " ages of faith,"
was a troubled time ; but high as the
contentions of rival princes and feudal
chiefs swelled, we have here a proof
that

*' Birds of calm sat brooding on the charmdd
wave."

Not less quieting is the influence of

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406

Th(mghts an St. Gertrude.

such records in our own time. Thej
make their way — ^music being more
penetrating than mere sound — amid
the storm of industrialism and its mil-
lion wheels. Controversialists may
here forget their strifes, and listen to
the s^nnals of that interior and spirit^
ual life which is built up in peace and
without the sound of the builder's
hammer, mpch less of sword or axe.
There is here no necessary or direct
contest between rival forms of belief.
Monasteries have been pulled down
and sold in Catholic as well as in
Protestant countries ; and in the latter
also are to be found men whose highest
aspiration is to rebuild them, and re-
store the calm strength and sacred la-
bors which they once protected. Such
books are not so much a protest
against any age as the assertion of
those great and universal principles of
truth and peace which can alone ena-
ble each successive age to correct its
errors, supply its defects, and turn its
special opportunities to account. It is
not in a literary point of view that thej
interest us chiefly, although they in-
clude not a little which reminds us of
Dante, and reveal to us one of th^
chief sources from which the great
Christian poet drew his inspiration.
Their interest is mainly human. They
show us what the human being can
reach, and by what personal influences,
never more potent than when their
touch is softest, society, in its rougher
no less than in its milder periods, is
capable of being moulded.

The « Revelations of St Gertrude"
were first translated into Latin, as is
affirmed, by Lamberto Luscorino in
1390. This work was, however, ap-
parently never published; and the
first Latin version by which they be-
came generally known was that put
forth under the name of ^' Insinuaiiones
DivincB Pietatis^ by Lanspergius,
who wrote at the dose of the fifteenth
and the beginning of the sixteenth
century. The work has appeared in
several of the modem languages ; but
the French translation, by which it
has hitherto been chiefly known among

us, has many inaccuracies. The pres-
ent English translatioft has been care- .
iully made from the Latin of Lans-
pergius and the original is frequently
quoted in the foot-notes. The " Bigin-
ttaiianes" consist of five books. Of these
the second only came from the hand
of the saint, the rest being compiled
by a religious of ^r monastery, part-
ly fi^m personal knowledge and part-
ly from the papers of St. Gertrude.
Two works by the saint, her " Pray-
ers" and her " Exercises," have late-
ly appeared in an English version.

St. Gertrude was bom at Elsleben,
in the county of Mansfield, on the 6th
of January, 1263, just sixty-nine
years after the birth of St. Clare, the
great Italian saint from whose con-
vent at Assisi so many others had al-
ready sprung in aU parts of Europe,
and whose name had already become
a living power in Germany and Po-
land, as well as in the sunny south.*
St. Grertrude was descended from an
illustrious house, that of the Counts of
Lackenbom. When but five years
old she exchanged her paternal home
for the Benedictine Abbey of Roders-
dorf, where she was soon after joined
by her sister, afterward the far-famed
St. Mechtilde. When about twenty-
six she first began to be visited by
those visions which never afterward
ceased for any considerable time. At
thirty she was chosen abbess ; and for
forty years she ruled a sisterhood
whom she loved as her children. The
year after she became abbess she re-
moved with lier charge to another but
neighboring convent, that of Heldelfs.
No other change took place in her out-
ward lot^ Her life lay witJiin. As
her present biographer remarks, " she
lived at home with her Spouse."

The visions of St. Gertrade are an
endless parable of spintual troths, as
well as a record of wonderful graces.
From the days when our divine Lord
himself taught from the hillside and

* An interesting life of thSe saint and of her
earlier companions has latelv been pablishod
in English : '' 8t. Clare, St Colette, and the Poor
Clares : by a Religions of the Order of Poor
Clares/^ J. F. Fowler, Dublin.

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407

the anchored ship, it haa been largely
throngh parables that divine lore has
been communicated to man. Religious
and symbolic art is a parable of truths
that can onlj be expressed in types.
The legends through which the earlier
ages continue to swell the feebler
veins of later times with the pure
freshness of the Church's youth are
for the most part' facts which buried
themselves deep in human sympathies
and recollections, because in them the
particular shadowed forth the univer-
saL It is the same thing in philoso-
phy itself; and that Phthsopkia Pri-
ma which, as Bacon tells us, discerns
a common law in things as remote as
sounds are from colors, and thus traces
the '^ same footsteps of nature" in the
most widely separated regions of her
domain^ finds constantly in the visible
and familiar a parable of the invisible
and unknown. The very essence of po-
etry also consists in this, that not only
in its metaphors and figures, but in its
whole spirit, it is a parable, imparting
to material objects at once their most
beautiful expression and that one
which reveals their spuitual meaning.
So long as the imagination is a part
of human intellect, it must have a
place in all that interprets between
the natural and the spiritual worlds.

The following characteristic pass-
age, while it shows that St. Gertrude
made no confusion between allegory
and vision, yet suggests to us that so
poetical a mind might, under peculiar
circumstances, be more easily favored
with visions than another :

" Whilst thou didst act so lovingly
toward me, and didst not cease to
draw my soul from vanity to thyself,
it happened on a certain day, between
the festival of the resurrection and
the ascension, that I went into court
before prime, and seated myself near
the fountain ; and I began to consider
the beauty of the place, which charm-
ed me on account of the clear and
flowing stream, the verdure of the
trees which surrounded it, and the
flights of the birds, and particularly of
the doves-^above all, the sweet calm

— apart from all, considering within
myself what would make tMs place
most useful to me, I thought it would,
be the friendship of a wise and inti-
mate companion, who would sweeten
my solitude or render it useful to
others ; when thou, my Lord aud my
God, who art a torrent of inestimable
pleasures, after having inspired me
with the first impulse of this desire,
thou didst will also to be the end of it ;
inspiring me with the thought that if
by my continual gratitude I return thy
graces to thee, as a stream returns to
its source; if, increasing in the love
of virtue, I put forth, like the trees,
the flowers of good works ; further-
more, if, despising the things of earth,
I fly upward, fireely, like the birds,
and thus free my senses from the dis-
traction of exterior things, my soul
would then be empty, and my heart
would be an agreeable abode for
thee" (p. 76).

If in this passage we see how the na-
tural yearning for sympathy and com-
panionship may rise into the heavenly
aspirations from which mere nature
would divert the heart, we find in the
following one a type of that compen-
sation which is made to unreserved
loyalty. The religion of the incarna-
tion gives back, in a human as well as
a divine form, all that human instincts
had renounced. "It was on that
most sacred night in which the sweet
dew of divine grace fell on all the
world, and the heavens dropped sweet-
ness, that my soul, exposed like a
mystic fleece in the court of the sanc-
tuary, having received in meditation
this celestial rain, was prepared to as-
sist at this divine bitth, in which a
Virgin brought forth a Son, true God
and man, even as a star produces its
ray. In this night, I say, my soul
beheld before it suddenly a delicate
child, but just bom, in whom were
concealed the greatest gifks of perfec-
tion. I imagined that I received this
precious deposit in my bosom" (p. 85).
One of the chief tests as to the di-
vine origin of visions consists in their
tending toward humility; for those

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408

Thoughts on St. Gertrude,

which oome from a human or worse
than human source tend to pride.
The humility of St. Grertrude was pro-
found as the purity of which humility
is the guardian was spotless. '^ One
day, after I had washed my hands,
and was standing at the tahle with the
community, perplexed in mind, con-
sidering the brightness of the sun,
which was in its iiill strength, I said
within myself, * If the Loi*d who has
created thc^ sun, and whose beauty is
said to be the admiration of the sun
and moon ; if he who is a consuming
fire is as truly in me as he shows him-
self frequently before me, how is it
possible that my heart continues like
ice, and that I lead so evil a life P "
(p. 106).

There can be no stronger argument
in favor of the supernatural origin of
St. Gertrude's visions than their sub-
jects. The highest of her flights, far
from carrying her beyond the limits of
sound belief, or substituting the fanci-
ful for the fruitful, but bears her
deeper into the heart of the great
Christian verities. She soars to heav-
en to find there, in a resplendent
form, the simplest of those truths
which are our food upon earth. As
the gloi-ified bodies of the blessed will
be the same bodies which they wore
during their earthly pilgrimage, so the
doctrines, " sun-clad," in her " Reve-
lations" are still but the primary arti-
cles of the Creed. Her special gift
was that of realization: what others
admitted, she believed; what others
believed, she saw. It was thus that
she felt the co-presence of the super-
natural with the natural, the kingdom
•of spirit not to her being a future
world, but a wider circle clasping a
smaller one. From this feeling fol-
lowed' her intense appreciation of the
fact that all earthly things have im-
mediate effect on high. If a prayer
is said on earth, she sees the scepter
in the hand of the heavenly' King
blossom with another flower; if a
sacrament is worthily received, the
glory on his face flashes lightning
round all the armies of the blessed.

That such things should be seen by us
may well seem wonderful ; that they
should exist can appear strange to no
one who realizes the statement, that
when a sinner repents there is joy
among the angels in heaven.

A vision, from which we learn the
belief of obe of Grod's humblest crea-
tures that something was lost to his
honor by her compuboiy absence from
choir, but that he was more than
compensated for the loss by the holy
patience with which she submitted to
illness (p. 180), is not more wonderful
than the fact that God*s glory should
be our constant aim, or that God
should have joy in those that love
him. The marvel is, that the saint
was always believing what we profess
to believe. She lived in an ever-
lasting jubilee of divine and human
love: it was always to her what a
beaming firmament might be to one
who for the first time had walked up
out of a cave. She was ever seeing
in visible types the tokens of a tran-
scendent union between God and man
— a deification, so to speak, of man in
heaven. Is this more wonderful than
the words that bow the foreheads and
bend the knees of the faithful, " He
was made man ?" If such things be
true, the wonder is, not that a few
saints realize them, living accordingly
in contemplation and in acts of love,
but that a whole world should stand
upon such truths as its sole ground of
hope, and yet practically ignore them.

Neither in ordinary Christian liter-
ature nor in the ordinary Christian life
do we find what might have been an-
ticipated eighteen centuries ago by
those who then first received the doc-
trines of the incarnation and the com-
munion of saints. How many have
written as if Christianity were merely
a regulative principle, introduced to
correct the aberrations of natural in-
stincts ! Tet even under the old dis-
pensation the sacred thirst of the
creature for the Creator was confessed :
" As longeth the hart for the water-
springs, so longeth my soul afber
thee, O Lord." The royal son of the

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409

great Psalmist had sang in the Book
of Canticles the loye of the Creator
for the creature. What might not
have been expected from Christian
times !

How much is not actually found in
all those Christian writings the in-
spiration of which, in the highest sense
of the word, is de fde ! How super-
natural at once and familiar is that
dirine and human relationship set
forth bj our Lord in his parables!
What closeness of union! what om-
nipotence of prayer! Some perhaps
might say, " If our Lord were visibly
on eailhy as he was during the thirty-
three years, then indeed the closeness
of intercourse between him and his
own would be transcendent" But
the exact contrary is the fact. The
closest intercourse is in the spirit, and
apart from all that is sensual; the
sense is a hindrance to it So long as
he was visibly with them, the affection
of the apostles themselves for their
Lord was too material to be capable
of its utmost closeness. Even earthly
affections are perfected by absence,
and crowned by death. Till they are
pnrified by the immortalizing fire of
soffering, sense clings to the best of
them more than we know; not by
necessity corrupting them, but limit-
ing, dulling, depressing, and depriving
them of penetration and buoyancy.
While he was with them, the apostles
sometimes could not understand their
Master's teaching — ^where to the Chris-
tian now it seems plain — and replied
to it by the words, " Be it far from
thee!" When the feast of Pentecost
was come, they loved him so that they
did not fear to die for him ; but they
no longer so loved him as to see in
him but the restorer of a visible
Israel, and to lament his death. But
this Pentecost has continued ever since
in the Christian Church ! What, then,
was to be expected except Sk fulfil-
ment of the earlier promises : ^ I will
pour out my spirit upon aU fiesh;" and
as a natural consequence of perfected
love, the development of the spiritual
sight : *^ Your sons and your daughters

shall prophesy; yotir old men shall
dream dreams, and your young men
shaU see visions " (Joel ii. 28) ? Such
was the condition of that renewed
world for which the apostles wrote,
and to which they promised the spirit^
ual gift and the hidden life. More
plainly than the Jewish king they
proclumed that the union between the
Creator and the creature was no
dream, but that the servants of sense
»and pride were dreamers; and, in
words like a musical echo from the
canticle of Canticles, they affirmed
that between Christ and his Church
there exists a union, the nearest type
of which is to be found in the bridal
bond. This was the doctrine that
made the world in which St. Grertrude
lived. The clear-sighted will see that
the charges brought against her and
her Church are charges brought
against the Bible no less.

But all is not said when it is
affirmed that the ascetics, like the
apostles, enjoyed a closer union with
their Lord in his spirit because he had
withdrawn his visible presence from
the earth. Sense may separate those
whom it seems to unite; but there
is a nearness notwithstanding, which
has no such paradoxical effect. No
one can even approach the subject of
the visions of the saints unless he
duly appreciates the real presence, not
only as a doctrine, but in its practical
effects. The saints had a closeness to
their Lord denied to the Jewish
prophets. He was absent as regards
visibility ; but he was present in the
blessed eucharist If the absence
made the love more reverential, the
presence made it more vivid. A
large proportion of the visions of the
saints were connected witii the blessed
sacrament In it the veil was not
lifled ; but the veiled nearness quick-
ened that love which perfects faith.
To sense all remained dark ; but the
spirit was no longer enthralled by
sense, and it conversed with its de-
liverer.

There are those who could not be
happy if they did not believe that the

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410

ThaughU on St. Gertrude.

worid abounds in persona nobler than
themselves. There are others who
are affluent but in cavils. The visions
of saints must, according to them, be
illusory, because thej are not demon-
strably divine I But are the ordinary
graces of Christians distinguish^
from illusions by demonstration? Is
penitence, or hnmility, or simplicity
demonstrable? Do we believe that
nothing is an object of prayer, or an
- occasion for thanksgiving, till it is
proved to be such ? Those who know
that religion has its vast theological
region of certainty know abo that
there exists an outward region in
which, though credulity is an evil, yet
needless contentiousness is the note of
a petty mind. Or the visions must be
&bulou8, because the caviller does not
understand the mode of spiritual oper-
ation to which they are referable!
But how much do we know as to the
separata or joint action of our bodily,
intellectual, and moral powers ? We
believe in results ; but we understand
little of processes.

The only visions received as dejide
are those recorded in the Holy Scrip-
tures. Do we know by what process
even these came to exist? Were
they external manifestations, such as,
if shown to two persons, must have
worn for both the same semblance ; or
may they have had an existence only
within the mind of the seer ? Is not
the real question this — ^whether or
not they had a divine origin; not
whether he who sent them worked on
the mind from without, or stimulated
its action from within ? In this case
the visions of some event — such as
the crucifixion — possessed by two
di£ferent saints, might not have been
the less authentic although different
from each other in some particulars.
Who can say to what extent habitual
grace may not determine the action of
2ie imaginative faculty, as of other
faculties, so as to produce vision in
one man while it produces prudence
or wisdom in another? That grace
acts on the mind as well as on the
h^art no one will deny, since some of

the gifts of the Holy txhost are of an
intellectual order, and it is through
spiritual discernment that we under-
' stand religious truth. It seems, in-
deed, but natural to suppose that grace
should operate on the imagination, and
thus counterwork the ^eductions by
which an evil power assails that facul-
ty — ^a form of temptation oflen, but
not consistently, insisted on by those
who scoff at visions. If this be
granted, then, as we can neither
measure the different degrees in which
grace is granted, and increased by
co-operation, nor ascertain the intel-
lectual shape and proportions of those
to whom it is accorded, who can affect
to determine to what extent that grace
may not suffice, in some cases, to
produce vision, even when accorded
mainly for other purposes ?

But this is not aU. The imagina-
tion does not act by itself; the other
faculties work along with it ; by them
also the vision is shaped in part ; and
as they are developed, directed, and
harmonized in a large measure by
gp-ace, in the same degree the vision
must, even when not miraculous, be
affected by a supernatural influence.
Once more: Grod works upon us
through his providence as well as
through his grace; and the color of
our thoughts is constantly the result of
some external trifle, apparently acci-
dental. A dream is modified by a
momentary sound; and a conclusion
may be shaped not without aid from a
flying gleam or the shadow of a cloud.
Our thoughts are " fearfully and won-
derfully made," partly for us and
partly by us, and through influences
internal and external, which we trace
but in part. We can draw a line be-
tween the visions which command our
acceptance and those which only in-
vite it ; but in dealing with the latter
class, it seems impossible to determine
a priori how far they may or may not
be accounted supernatural. It will
depend upon their evidence, their
consequences, their character, and the
character of those to whom they be-
longed.

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411

"But," the caviller will object,
** onassisted genius has visions of its
own." What then? Does that cir-
cumstance discredit all visions that
claim to be supernatural ? Far from
it; the visions of genius are elevated
by virtue. They are not only purified
thus, but edged with insight and en-
riched with wisdom. Has virtue,
then, nothing of the supernatural ? or
would Dante have "seen" as much
if, instead of following her voice, he
had followed that of the siren?
Again, simplicity of character, and
what Holy Scripture calls "the single
eye," have a close affinity with genius ;
for which reason the poor possess
many characteristics of it denied to
the rich — ^its honest apprehension of
great ideas, for instance, and the in-
spiration of good sense ; its power of
realizing the essential and of ignoring
the accidental; its freshness in im-
pressions and loyalty in sentiment
But simplicity is a divine gift. Above
all, faith communicates often what re-
sembles genius to persons who would
otherwise, perhaps, have narrow
minds and wavering hearts. It ap-
pears, then, that the whole of our
moral and spiritual being — ^which is of
course under supernatural influence —
admits of such a development as is
&vorable to genius, and may eminent-
ly promote that natural "vision"
which belongs to it. Education and
life may do the same. What dis-
perses the faculties over a vast field
of heterogeneous knowledge saps
genius ; what gives unity to Uie bemg
strengthens it. It evaporates in van-
ity ; it is deepened by humiUty. So-
ciety dissipates its energies and chills
th^m ; solitude concentrates and heats
them. Indulgence relaxes it ; sever-
ity invigorates it It is dazzled by
the importunate sunshine of the
present; its eyes grow wider in the
twilight of the past and the future.
All the circumstances, exterior and
interior, that favor genius are thus in-
directly connected with grace or with
providence. What, then, is not to be
thought in a case like that of St Grer-

trude, in which we find, not genius
trained on toward sanctity, but sanc-
tity enriched with genius ?

It is, however, to be remembered
that we in no degree disparage the
claim to a divine character possessed
by St Grertrude's visions in admitting
that some of them may not claim that
character. In one favored with such
high gifls, it iS not unphilosophical to
suppose that the natural qualities, as
well as supernatural graces, which
lend themselves to visions would prob-
ably exist in a marked decree. We
have no reason, indeed, to conclude
that the Hebrew prophets, to whom
visions were sent by God, never pos-
sessed, when not thus honored, any-
thing that resembled them — anything
beyond what belongs to ordinary men.
They, too, may have had unrecorded
visions of a lower type, in which the
loftiest of their thoughts and deepest
of their experiences became visible to
them ; and if so, they had probably
something ancillary to vision in their
natural faculties and habits, independ-
ently of their supernatural gifts.
Among the peculiar natural character-
istics of St. Gertrude may be reckon-
ed an extraordinary /»Vera/7»e«j of mind,
strangely ignited with a generalizing
power. She had a value for every-
thing as it was, as well as for the idea
it iucluded. There was a minuteness
as well as a largeness about her.
These qualities probably belonged to
that pellucid simplicity which kept her
all her life like a child. This child-
like instinct would of itself have con-
stantly stimulated her colloquies with
him who was the end of all her
thoughts. In the spiritual as in the
intellectual life, the powers seem aug-
mented through this dramatic process,
as though fidcundated from sources
not their own. The thoughts thus
originated seem to come half from the
mind with which the colloquy is held,
and half from native resources.

Let us now pass to another cavil.
Devotions such as those of St Ger-
trude have sometimes been censured
because they are fuU of love. There

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412

Thoughts an St. Gertrude.

is here a strange confusion. Most
justly might dislike be felt for devo-
tions in which love is not supplement-
ed by a proportionate veneration.
Among the dissenting bodies devotions
of this sort are to be found, though we
should be sorry rudely to criticise
what implies religious affection, and is
a recoil from coldness. The fault is
not wholly theirs. An age may be so
characterized that it cannot be fer-
vent, even in its prayers, without be-
ing earthly ; but such an age is not
religious, and may not judge those that
were. In them reverence and love
are inseparable. Grod reigns in man's
heart through love and fear. True
devotion must, therefore, have at once
its fervid affection and its holy awe.
Thus much will be conceded. It does
not require much penetration to per-
ceive also that the more it habitually
possesses of awe, the more it admits
of love. If the expression of divine
resembles that of human affection,
this results by necessity from the pov-
erty of language. Those who object
to the use of the word " worship" in
connection with God's saints as well
as with God (though of course used in
a different sense) see nothing to sur-
prise them in the circumstance that
the terms '* love" and " honor*' possess
equally this double application. Yet
when expressions of real and zealous
love are addressed to Almighty God,
they are sometimes no less scandal-
ized than when worship (that is, honor
and veneration) is addressed in a sub-
ordinate sense to the saints ! In both
cases alike they labor under miscon-
ceptions which may easily be re-
moved.

To abolish the resemblance between
the expression of divine and human
affections, it would be necessary to
break down the whole of that glorious
constitution of life by which human
ties, far from being either arbitrary
things or but animal relations im-
proved upon, are types of divine ties.
The fatherhood in heaven is admitted
to be the antetype of human parent-
age; and the adoptive brotherhood

with Christ, the second Adam, to be the
antetype of the natural brotherhood.
Can any other principle prevail in the
case of that tie wliich is the fountain
whence the other domestic charities
flow ? Not in the judgment of those
who believe, with Sl Paul, that mar-
riage is a type of that union which
subsists between him and his Church.
If there be an analogy between divine
and human ties, so there must be be-
tween the love that goes along with
them and the blessedness that is in-
separable from love.

In such cavils as we have referred
to there is a latent error that belonged
to the earliest times. The caviller as-
sumes that an element of corruption
must needs exist in religious affections
•which betray any analogy to human
affections, whereas it is but a Mani-
chean philosophy which affirms the ne-
cessary existence of corruption in the
human relations themselves. Human
relations are not corrupt in themselves
either before or since the fall; but
human beings are corrupt and weak,
and do but little justice to those rela-
tions. Praise, both in heaven and on
earth, is held out to us in Holy Scrip-
ture as one of the rewards of virtue.
It may not be the less true, on that ac-
count, that few orators have listened
to the acclamations that follow a suc-
cessful speech without some alloy
of self-love. Possessions are allowa-
ble ; it may be, notwithstanding, that
few have had '^ all things" as though
they ^' had nothing." It is not in the
human relations that the evil exists
(for they retain the brightness left on
them by the hand tliat created them),
but in those who abuse them by ex-
cessive dependence on them, or by
disproportion. It is mainly a question
of due subordination. Where the
higher part of our being is ruled by the
lower, or where the lower works
apart from and in contempt of the
higher, there evil exists. Where the
opposite tfikes place — where a flame
enkindled in heaven feeds first upon
the spiritual heights of our being and
descends by due degrees through the

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413

imagination and the affections — ^there
the whole of our being works in a re-
stored unity, and there proportionate-
ly the senses are glorified bj the soul.
This has ever been the teaching of
that Church which encircles the whole
of human life with its girdle of sacra-
ments. It has naturally come to be
forgotten in those communities which
admit the legal substitution of divorce ,
and polygamy for the sanctity and in-
violability of Christian marriage.

That those who do not understand
the relation of human to divine ties
should not understand the devotions of
saints is far from strange. The ex-
pressions of the saints are bold be-
cause they are innocent. They have
no part in tiiat association of ideas
which takes refuge in prudery. The
language of St. Grertrnde is that of
one on whose brow the fillet had drop-
ped when she was a child, and who
had neither had any experience of
earthly love nor wished for any. It
is indeed the excellence of the domes-
tic ties that they are indirect channels
of conununication with heaven. But
in her case the communication was di-
rect and immediate — ^a clear flame ris-
ing straight from the altar of perpetual
sacrifice. The beautiful ascent of af-
fections from grade to grade along the
scale of life had in her been supersed-
ed by a yet diviner self-devotion. She
had ttot built upon the things that are
lawfiily within due measure, but upon
those counsels the rewards of which
are immeasurable. She had reaped
immortal love in the fields of mortifi-
cation. She had begun where others
end. She had found the union of
peace with joy. Had there been add-
ed to this whatever is best in the do-
mestic ties, it could to her have been
bot a rehearsal, in a lower though
blameless form, of affections which
she had already known in that highest
form in which alone they are capable
of being realized in heaven.

Expressions associated with human
affections are to be found in St. Ger-
tmde's devotions, because she had hu-
man affections. In the monastic re-

nunciation the inmost essence of them
is retained; for that essence, apart
from its outward accidents, is spirituaL
What is the meaning of the incarna-
tion, if Gk>d is not to be loved as man ?
To what purpose, without this, the
helpless childhood, the fields through
which he moved, the parables so home-
ly^ the miracles of healing, the access
given to sinners, the tears by the
grave of him whom he was about to
restore to life, the hunger and the
weariness, the reproach for sympathy"
withheld ? These domestic memories
of the Church are intended to give the
higher direction to human affections
before they have strayed into the low-
er, in order that the lower may receive
their interpretation from the higher.
Nothing is more wonderful than to see
the natuml passing into the supernat-
ural in actual Ufe ; nothing more in-
structive than to see this in devotions.
It is not the presence of a human ele-
ment in them, but the absence of a
divine element, that should be deplor-
ed. The natural may be shunned
where the supernatural is not realized.
It can only be realized through love ;
and love is perfected through self-sacri-
fiee, the strength and science of the
saints.

It is easy to distinguish between
devotions that are really too familiar
and those of the saints. The latter,
as has been remarked, are as full of
awe as of love. Their familiarity im-
plies the absence of a servile fear;
but everywhere that filial fear, the
seat of which is in the conscience, re-
veals itself. Again, if they regard our
Lord in his character of lover of souls,
they regard him proportionately in his
other characters, as brother and as
friend, as master and as Lord, as
creator and as judge. The manhood
in Christ is ever leading the heart on
to his divinity; and the incarnation,
as a picture of the divine character, is
the strongest preacher of Theism.
Again, the love that reveals itself in
them has no pettiness, no narrowness ;
it exults in the thought of that great
army of the elect, each member of

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414

Thoughts an &. Gertrude.

which is equally the object of the div-
ine love, as a single drop reflects the
finnament no less than the ocean of
which it is a part. Once more: in
such devotions the thirst after the div-
ine purity is as strongly mark^ as
that for the divine tenderness ; and
death is ever welcome, that God may
be seen in the spirit.

^ Bat in these devotions," it is said,
** we trace the yearnings of a woman's
heart." And why not ? With what
'else is woman to love God ? May not
the devotion of a child be childlike,
and of a tnan be manly ? Why are
female affections alone to strain them-
selves into the unnatural, instead of
advancing to the supernatural? In
such sneers there is as little philosophy
as charity. The whole structure of
our being — ^together not only with all
its experiences, but with all its capac-
ities — is that which, yielding to divine
grace, constitutes the mould in which
our devotion is cast. It is not religion
alone, but everything — ^art, science,
whatever we take in — ^that is colored
by whatever is special to the faculties
or the dispositions of the recipient. Re-
ligion is the only thing that holds its
own in spite of such modification. It
does so on account of its absolute sim-
pleness. But it does much more than
hold its own. It is enriched. Relig-
ion is as manifold as it is simple.
The faculties and instincts of the mere
isolated individual are too narrow to
allow of his fully accepting the gifts
wMch it extends to us. But fortu-
nately our incapacities balance each
other ; the characteristics of religion
least appreciated by one being often
those which will most come home to
another. Not only individuals but
nations and ages, both by what they
have in common and by what they
have of unlike, unconsciously help to
make up the general store. Christi-
anity has become in one sense to each
of us what it was to an k Kempis as
well as what it was to an Aquinas ;
and why not also to what it was to a
Grertrude or a Theresa ? All things
subserve this vdst scheme. How

much we are enriched by those differ-
. ent aspects of religion presented to us
by the chief authentic architectures !
In the Gothic, which is mystic, sugges-
tive^ infinite, it is chiefly the spiritual-
ity of religion that is affirmed. In
the Roman basilica, orderly and mas-
sive, it is the " law'' that is insisted on.
In the Byzantine style, precious mar-
ble and beaming gold, and every de-
vice of rich color and fair form, preach
the inexhaustibility of Christian char-
' ity and the beauty of the Eden it re-
stores. These aspects of religion are
all in harmony with each other. The
mind that embraces them is not en-
deavoring to blend contradictions into
a common confusion, but to reunite
great ideas in the unity from which
Uiey started^ Still more is the mani-
fold vastness of religion illustrated by
those diversities of the religious sen-
timerU which result from diversities in
the human character.

All modem civilization rests on
reverence for woman, both in her vir-
ginal and maternal character; the
Mother of God, from whom that rev-
erence sprang, being in both these re-
lations alike its great type. In the
restored, as in the first humanity,
there is an Eve as well as an Adam ;
and it has been well remarked, that
among the indirect benefits derived
from this provision is the circumstance
that there thus exists a double cord,
by which the two great divisions of
the human family are drawn to the
contemplation of that true humanity.
From file beginning woman found her-
self at home in Christianity ; it was to
her a native country, in which she ful-
filled her happiest destinies, as pagan-
ism had been a foreign land, where
she lived in bondage and degradation.
In the days of martyrdom the virgins
took their place beside the youths
amid the wild beasts at the Coliseum.
In the days of contemplative monasti-
cism the convents of the nuns, no leas
than those of the monks, lifted their
snowy standards on high, and, by the
image of purity which they had there
exalted, rendered intel%ible the

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Thoughts on St, Gertrude.

415

Christian idea of marriage — ^thus re-
freshing with ethereal breath those
charities of hat and hearth which
flourished in the vallejs far down. In
those convents, too, the scholastic
Yolnme, and the psalm sustained by
daj and night, proved that the serious
belonged to woman as well as the sofl
and bright. Since the devastations
of later times womanhood has won
a yet more conspicuous crown.
Through the active orders religion has
measured her strength with a world
which boasts that at last it is alive
and stirring. Bj nuns the sick have
been nursed, the aged tended, the
orphan reared, the rude instructed, the
savage I'eclaimed, the revolutionary
leader withstood, the revolutionary
mob reduced to a sane mind. There
are no better priests than those of
France ; yet they tell us that it has
been in no small part through the
Sisters of Charity that religion has
been restored in their land. In how
many an English alley is not the con-
vent the last hope of purity and faith?
On how many an Irish waste does not
the last crust come from it ?

The part of woman in Christianity
might have been anticipated. For
it she is strengthened even by all that
makes her weak elsewhere. In the
Christian scheme the law of/ strength
is found in the words, " When I am
weak, then I am strong." It is a
creaturely, not self-asserting strength ;
it is not godlike, but consists in de-
pendence on God. <^ In proportion as
self is obliterated, a Divine Presence
takes its place, which could otherwise
no more inhabit there than the music
which belongs to the hollow shell
could proceed from the solid rock. To
woman, who in all the conditions of
life occupies the place of the second-
ary or satellite, the attainment of
this selflessness is perhaps more easy
than to man. Obedience is the natu-
ral precursor of faith ; and to those
whose hands are clean the clearer
vision is granted. Moreover, religion
is mainly of the heart ; and in woman
the heart occupies a larger relative

place than in man. Paganism, with
the instinct of a clown, addressed but
what was superficial in womanhood,
and elicited but what was alluring
and ignoble. Christianity addressed
it at its depths, and elicited the true,
the tender, and the spiritual. The
one flattered, but with a coarse caress ;
the other controlled, but with a touch
of air-like sofbiess. In pagan times
woman was a chaplet of faded flow-
ers on a festive board; in Christian,
it became a ^sealed fountain," by
which every flower, from the violet to
the amaranth, might grow. Even the
chosen people had forgotten her
claims; — ^but "from the beginning it
was not so." Christianity reaffirmed
them ; it could do no less. It ad-
dresses distinctively what is feminine
in man, as well as what is manly. It
challenges, at its flrst* entrance, the
passive, the susceptive, the recipient
in our nature; and it ignores, as it
is ignored by, the self-asserting and
the self-included.

That which Christianity claims for
woman is but the readjustment of a
balance which, when all merit was
measured by the test of bodily or
intellectual strength, had no longer
preserved its impartiahty. Milton's
line,

" He for Qod only : she for God In him,"

is more in harmony with the Moham-
medan, or at least the Ox*iental, than
with the Christian scheme of thought.
It is as represented both by its strong-
er and its gefltler half, that man's race
pays its true tribute to the great Crea-
tor. The modem poet gives us his
ideal of man in the form of a pro-
phecy :

*' Yet in the long years llkor must they grow :
The man he more of woman— she of man.***

Singularly enough, this ideal of hu-
manity was fulfilled long since in
the conventual life. The true nun
has left behind the weakness of her

♦ Tennyson^B "Princess.**

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416

noughU on St. Gertrude.

sex. The acceptance of her vocation,
implying the renunciation of the tried
for the untried, the seen for the un-
seen, is the highest known form of
courage —

^* A soft and tender heroine
Vowed to severer discipline."*

Her vow is irrevocable; and thus
free-will, the infinite in our nature,
stands finally pledged to the ** better
part" In her life of mortification,
and her indifference to worldly opinion,
she reaches the utmost to which forti-
tude may aspire ; yet she perfects
in herself also the characteristic vir-
tues of woman — ^love, humility, obedi-
ence.

The true monk also, while more
of a man than other men, includes
more of the virtues that belong least
often to man. It is pre-eminently the
soul within him that has received its
utmost development, and become the
expression of his being. The highest
ideal of the antique world, mens sana
in corpore sano, implied, not the
subordination of the body to the mind,
and of both to the soul, but the equal
development of the former two, the
soul being left wholly out of account
Such a formula, it is true, rises above
that of the mere Epicurean, who
' subordinates the mind to the body,
and makes pleasure the chief good.
It leaves, however, no place for the
spiritiJaL By the change which Chris-
tianity introduced, virtues which pa-
ganism overlooked or despised became
the predominant elements in man's be-
ing. Purity, patience, and humility
bear to Christian morals a relation
analogous to tliat which faith, hope,
and charity bear to theology. The
former, like the latter, triad of virtues
will ever present to the rationalist the
character of mysticism, because they
rest upon mysteries — ^that is, upon
realities out of our sight, and hidden
in the divine character. The earthly
basis upon which they are sometimes
placed by defenders that belong to the

♦ Wordsworth's " Ode to Enterprise/*

Utilitarian school is as incapable of
supporting them as the film of ice
that covers a lake would be of sup-
porting the mountains close by. These
are Christian virtues exclusively, and
it was to perfect them that the con-
vents which nurtured saints were call-
ed into existence.

We know the hideous picture of
monastic life with which a morbid
imagination sometimes amuses or
frightens itself. Let us frankly con-
trast with it the true ideal of a mo-
nastic saint. No ideal, of course, is
fully realized; but still it is only
when the ideal is understood that
the actual character is appreciated.
The monastic life is founded on the
evangelical counsels, the portion of
practical Christianity most plainly pe-
cvliar to the Christian system. It
is obedience, but the obedience of love-
It is fear, but the fear of offending,
far more than the fear of the penalty.
It is dependence glorified. It is based
on what is feminine as well as on
what is masculine in our nature ; on a
being which has become recipient in a
sacred passiveness. It lives by faith,
which " comes by hearing ;" and its
attitude of mind is like that indicated
by the sweet and serious, but sub-
mitted, face of one who listens to far-
off musio or a whisper close by. In
the stillness of devout contemplation
the soul, unhardened and unwrlnkled,
spreads itself forth like a vine-leaf to
the beam ' of truth and the dews of
grace. In this perfected Christian
character we find, together with the
strength of the stem, the flexibility of
the tendril and the freshness of the
shoot For the same reason we
find the consummate flower of sanctity
— a Bernard or a Francis — and with
the flower the fruit, and the seed
which has sown Christianity in all
lands ; for monks have ever been the
great missionaries. The soul of the
monk who has done most for man has
thus most included the womanly as
well as the manly type of excellence.
It has unity and devotedness. It has
that purity which is not only consis*

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ThaughU on Sk. Gertrude.

417

tent witih fervor, but in part proceeds
from it. It shrinks not only from the
forbidden, but from the disproportion-
ate, the startling, and the abrupt It
18 humble, and does not stray as far as
its limit It regards sin, not as a wild
beast chained, but as a plague, and
thinks that it cannot escape too far
beyond the infection. It has a
modesty whicli modulates every move-
ment of the being. It has spontanei-
ty, and finds itself at home among
little things. It is cheerful and genial,
with a momentary birth of good
thoughts, wishes, and deeds, that as-
cend like angels to God, and are only
visible to angels.

Nor is this alL It is in the con-
ventual life that the third type of hu-,
man character — ^that of the child — ^is
found in conjunction with the other
two. In the world even the partial
preservation of the child in the man
is one of the rare marks of genius.
In the cloister the union is common.
Where the character is thus trUe^cUed
by harmoniously blending the three
human types — viz., man, woman,
and child — then man has reached his
best, and done most to reverse the
fall. It is among those who have
moet bravely taken the second Adam
for their example that this primal im-
age is most nearly restored. We see
it in such books as the "Imitation,**
and the ^ Confessions" of St. Augus-
tine. We see it in the old pictures of
the saints, where the venerable and
the strong, the gracious and the lovely,
the meek and the winning, are so
subtly blended by the pencil of an
Angelico or a Perugino. We see it
within many a modem cloister. It
has its place, to the discerning eye,
among the evidences of religion.

In the north tfate world now finds it
more difficult than in the south to ap-
preciate such a character as St. Ger-
trude. If it is sceptical as to visions
and raptures, still more is it scandal-
ised by austerities and mortification.
The temperament of the south tends too
generally to pleasure; but the great
natures of the south, perhaps for that
VOL. II, 27

reason, renounce the senses with a
loftier strength. They throw them-
selves frankly on asceticism, leaving
beneath them all that is soft, like the
Italian mountains which frown from
their marble ridges over the valleys
of oranges and lemons. The same
ardor which so often leads astray, min-
isters, when it chooses the soul for its
residence, to great deeds, as fire does
to the labors of material sdenoe. In
the north, including the land of St
Grertrude, many of the virtues are
themselves out of sympathy with the
highest virtue. Men can there admire
strength and industry; but they too
often believe in no strength that is not
visible, no industry that is not mate-
rial. Mortification is to them unin-
telligible. Action they can admire;
in sufiering they see but a sad ne-
cessity, like the old Greeks, to whom
all pain was an intrusion and a
scandal.

Christianity first revealed the might
of endurance. It was not the triumph
over Satan at the temptation that re-
stored man's race ; though Milton, not
without a deep, unintended signifi-
cance, selected that victory as the sub-
ject of his " Paradise Regained." It
was not preaching, nor miracle, but
Calvary. Externally, endurance is
passive; internally, it is the highest
form of action — ^the action in which
there is no self-will, the energy that is
one with humility. The moment the
Church began to live she began to en-
dure. The apostles became ascetics,
"keeping the body under," and pro-
claiming that between spirit and flesh,
between watching and sloth, between
fast and feast, there was not peace
but war. While tiie fiery penance of
persecution lasted, it was easy to
^ have all things as though one had
nothing." There then was always a bar-
rier against which virtue might push
in its ceaseless desire to advance, and
to discipline her strength by trial.
When the three centuries of trial were
over, monasticism rose. In it again
was found a place for mortification —
for that detachment which is at-

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418

Thoughts an St. Gertrude,

tachment to God, and that exercise
which makes Christians athletes..
There silence matured divine love,
and stillness generated strength.
There was found the might of a spirit-
ual motive ; and a fulcrum was thus
supplied like that by which Archime-
des boasted that his lever could move
the world.

It is difficult to contemplate such a
character as that of St. Gertrude
without straying from her to a kin-
dred subject — that wonderful monastic
life, with its rapturous visions and its
as constant mortiBcations, to which
we owe such characters. Without the
cloister we should have had no Ger-
trudes ; and without the mortification
of the cloister the ceaseless chant
and the incense would have degener-
ated into spiritual luxuries. It is time
for us to return, and ask a practical
question: What was this St. Gertrude,
who found so fair a place among the
wonders of the thirteenth century, and
whom in the nineteenth so few hear
of or understand? What was she
even at the lowest, and such as the
uninitiated might recognize? She
was a being for whom nature had
done all nature could do. She was a
noble-minded woman, pure at once
and passionate, more queenly and
more truly at home in the poverty of
her convent than she could have been
in her father's palace. Secondly, she
was a woman of extraordinary genius
and force of character. Thirdly, she
was one who, the child of an age when
the dialectics of old Greece were laid
on the altar of revealed truth, dwelt
habitually in that region of thought
which, in the days of antiquity, was
inhabited by none, and occasionally
approached but by the most aspiring
votaries of the Platonic philosophy.
This was the human instrumentality
which sovereign grace took to itself,
as the musician selects some fair-
grained tree out of which to shape his
Ijrre. There was in her no contradic-
tory past to retrieve. Without a jar^

and almost without consciousness, she
passed with a movement of swanlike
softness out of innocence into holiness.
Some have fought their way to good-
ness, as others have to earthly great-
ness, and won the crown, though not
without many a sqar. But she was
"bom in the purple," and all her
thoughts and feelings had ever walk-
ed with princely dignity and vestal
grace, s& in the court of the great
King. Her path was arduous ; but it
stretched from good to better, not from
bad to good. She did not graduate in
the garden of Epicurus, nor amid the
groves of Academus, nor amid the
revel of that Greek society in which
the glitter of the highest intelligence
^played above the rottenness of tlie
most corrupt life. She had always
lived by faith. The spiritual world
had been hers before the natural one,
and had interpreted it. Man's super-
natural end had ever for her present-
ed the clue to his destinies, and re-
vealed the meaning of his earthly af-
fections. Among these last she had
made no sojourn. She had prolonged
not the time, but done on earth what
all aspire to do in heaven: she had
risen above human ties, in order to
possess them in their largest manifes-
tations. The faith affirmed that we
are to have all things in God, and in
God she resolved to have them. Her
heart rose as by a heavenward gravi-
tation to the centre of all love. A
creature, and knowing herself to be
no more, her aspiration was to belong
wholly to her Creator. To her the
incarnation meant the union of the
human race, and of the human soul,
with God. Her devotions are the
endless love-songs of this high bridal.
They passed from her heart spontane-
ously, like the song of the bird ; and
they remain for ever the triumphant
Jiymeneal chant of a clear, loving, in-
telligential spirit, which had renounc-
ed all things for him, and had found
all things in him for whom all spirits
are made.

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A Gkristmas Card. 419

From The Lamp.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

BT BESSIE BATNEB PABKES.

Chbistbias comes, Christmas oomes.
Blessing wfaeresoe'er he roams ;
And he calls the little children
Clu8ter*d in a thousand homes.

^ Stand 70U still, mj little children,

For a moment while I sing,

Wreath'd together in a ring,

With your tiny hands embracing

In a snowy interlacing.

And your rich curls dropping down-^

Grolden, black, and aubum-brown—-

Over bluest little eyes ;

Toss them back in sweet surpnse

While my pretty song I sing.

I have apples, T have cakes,
Icicles, and snowy flakes.

Hanging on each naked bough ;
Sugar strawberries and cherries,
Mistletoe and holly-berries,

Nail'd above the glorious show.

I have presents rich and rare.
Beauties which I do not spare,

For my Kttle children dear ;
At my steps the casements lighten,
Sourest human faces brighten.
And the carols — ^music strange-—
Float in their melodious change

On the night-wind cold and drear.

. Listen now, my little children :
All these things I give to you,
And you love me, dearly love me
(Witness'd in your welcome true).
Why do I thus yearly scatter.
With retreating of the sun.
Sweetmeats, holiday, and fun ?
There must be something much the matter
Where my wine-streams do not run.

Once I was no more than might be
Any season of the year ;
J^o kind tapers shone to light me
On my way advancing here ;

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420 Epidemics^ Paat and Present.

No small children rash'd to meet me»
Happj human smiles to greet me.
Trae, it was a while ago ;
But I mind me it was so^
Then believe me, children dear.

Till one foggy cold December,
Eighteen hoaiy centuries past
(Thereabouts as I remember).
Game a voice upon the blast.
And a strange star in the heaven ;
One said that unto us was given
. A Saviour and a Brother kind ;
The star upon my head shed down
Of golden beams this living crown.
The birthday gift of Jesus Christy
Whereby my glory might be known*

You all keep your little birthdays ;
Keep likewise your fathers', mothers*,
Little sisters', little brothers' ;
To commemorate this birth,
Sings aloud the exulting earth I
Every age and all professions.
In all distance — ^parted nations.
Meet together at this time
In spirit, while the church-bells chime*
Little children, dance and play, —
We will join,— *ut likewise pray
At morning, thinking of the day
I have told you I remember
In a bleak and cold December,
Long ago and &r away."

From The Popular Sdenoe Benew.

EPIDEMICS, PAST AND ]?RESENT— THEIR ORIGIN AND
DISTRIBUTION.

Epidsuics, derived from the two may not, under favorable drcum*

Greek words M, among, and dnfUK, stances, ^ke on the epidemic form.

peapUy are those diseases which for a For example, diseases of the organs of

time prevail widely among the people respiration are very apt to become

of any country or locality, and then, epidemic in seasons characterized by

for a longer or shorter period, either extreme coldness or dampness of the

entirely, or for the most part, disap- atmosphere, or by great and sudden

pear. There are few diseases to alternffions of temperature. In a

which the human race is liable that strict sense, however, the term epidem-

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JSpidenUcSj Pa$t and Present

421

ks IB not osually employed in refer-
ence to the diseases of individual or*
gans of the body, but is restricted to
those derangements of the entire sys-
tem depending upon the absorption of
some poison, or the action of some
^influence," from without In the
latter class of maladies the individual
organs may become diseased, and the
derangement of their functions may
modify the symptoms resulting from
the primary poison or ^influence;"
but then the local diseases are the sec-
ondary result of the general disorder
of the constitution, and not the source
aai origin of all the mischief.

Some epidemic diseases possess the
power of self-propagation ; that is to
say, the poison or influence may be
CQmmunicated by infected persons to
persons in healdi, and the disease is
then said to be contagious,* whOe
others are entirely destitute of any
such property. Scarlet-fever and
small-pox are familiar examples of the
former dass; ague and influenza of
the latter.

It is still a vexed question whether
a disease that is capable of self-prop-
agation can ever be generated de
novo. It is maintained, on the one
hand, that such an occurrence is as
impossible as the spontaneous genera-
tion of plants or animals ; while, on
the other hand, it is argued that the
poison of certain diseases capable of
self-propagation may, under certain
favorable conditions, be produced in-
dependently of any pre-existing cases
of the disease. The comparison of a
fever-poison with a spore or ovum is
an ingenious, but a most delusive, ar-
gument An epidemic disease spring-
ing up in a locality where it was be-
fore unknown, and where it is impos-
sible to trace its introduction from
without, is said to be not more extra-
ordinary than the development of
Ibngi in a putrid fluid. The argu-
ment, however, is founded on a pure

* The terms "contagion" and "contagious"
«re here nsed in their widest siznlflcation, and
Are applied in this essay to all diseases capable
of propagation by infected individoals to per-
•oiw in health.

assumption, for there is not a tittle of
evidence to show that a fever-poison
is of the nature of a spore or ovum.
Air saturated with the poisons of vari-
ous contagious diseases has been oon*-
densed and submitted to the highest
powers of the microscope, but nothing
approaching to a small-pox spore, or a
typhus ovum, has yet been discovered.
It is true that certain contagious dis-
eases, such as scarietF-tever and small-
pox, can in most instances be traced
to contagion ; but, with . regard to
others, such as typhoid or enteric
fever, it is in most instances utterly
impossible to account for the Jirst
eases in any outbreak on the theory of
contagion, while, at the same time,
there is direct evidence that the conta-
gious power of the disease is extreme-
\j low. The question is no doubt be-
set with many difficulties, and consti-
tutes one of the most intricate prob-
lems in medical science. It is one,
however, which can never be solved
by entering on the discussion with a
preconceived theory as to the close
analogy, if not identity, of a fever-
poison with an animal or vegetable
ovum, nor by assuming that the laws
which regulate the propagation of one
contagious disease are equally applica-
ble to alL Nature's facts are too often
interpreted by human laws, rather
than by the laws of nature. In the
case before us, the natural history of
each disease must be studied independ-
ently, and our ideas as to its origin
and mode of propagation must be
founded on the evidence furnished by
that study alone, and irrespective of
the laws which seem to regulate the
origin and propagation of other dis-
eases with which it has no connection
whatever, except in the human mind.
At the present moment, when the
subject of epidemics is attracting so
much attention, it may be interesting
to call attention to the more important
diseases comprised under that head,
and to point out some of the main
£eu:ts connected with their origin and
distribution. The principal epidemic
diseases, then, are : small-pox, scarlet-

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422

Epidemicsy Past and Present.

fever, measles, typhus, relapsing ferer,
Oriental plague, yellow feyer,diarrhoBa,
typhoid or enteric fever, cholera, dys-
entery, ague and remittent fevers, in-
fluenza, the sweating sickness, and the
dancing mania.

1. SmcdlrpoXf the most loathsome
of all diseases, is believed to have
prevailed in India and China from
time immemorial. About the middle
of the sixth century it is supposed to
have been conveyed by trading vessels
from India to Arabia, and the Arabi-
an army at the siege of Mecca, in the
year 569, was the first victim of its
fury. From Arabia it was imported
into Europe by the Saracens, and
there is evidence of its existence in
Britain before the ninth century. Be-
fore the introduction of vaccination,
small-pox was one of the chief causes
of mortality in all the countries where
it prevailed, and even now it occupies
a prominent place in our mortuary re-
turns. During the twenty-four years
1838-61, 125,352 of the population of
England and Wales, and 21,369 of
the population of London, died of
small-pox ; or, in other words, one in
seventy-five of the total deaths in
England and Wales, and one in sixty-
three of the total deaths in London,
were due to this disease* Small-pox
is not confined to any race or quarter
of the globe. At the present day its
appearance can, in the great majority
of instances, be traced to contagion.
It is evident, however, that it must at
one lime have had an origin, and it is
reasonable to infer that what happen-
ed once may happen again. Small-
pox is known to attack many of tlie
lower animals as well as man, and
there are grounds for believing that it
originated among the former, and by
them was communicated to the human
species. A careful study of epizootics
— our ignorance of which has been
disclosed by the present cattle plague
— may ultimately reveal the mo^e of
origin of the poison of small-pox.
The disease varies greatly in its pre-
valence at different times. In other
words, it is sometimes epidemic, at

others not Some of these epidemics
are local ; others are i^dely extend-
ed. All exhibit a gradual rise, culmi-
nation, and decline, the decline being .
always less rapid than the advance.
It is difficult to account for the occur-
rence of these epidemics. They are
independent of hygienic defects, sea^
son, temperature, or any meteorologi-
cal conditions of which we are cogni-
zant. They are probably due to
causes tending to depress the general
health of the population, and so to
predispose it to the action of the
poison. For nearly two centuries it
has been a common observatioiL that
epidemics of small- pox have co-exist-
ed with epidemics of other contagious
diseases. The gradual accumulation
also in a district of unprotected per-
sons, owing to the neglect of vaccina-
tion, will also predispose to the occur-
rence of an epidemic, after the intro-
duction of the poison. In fact, to the
neglect, or careless performance, of
vaccination, is entirely due the occur-
rence of epidemics of small-pox at the
present day.

2. Scarlet Fever, — ^The early his-
tory of scarlet fever is obscure, for the
disease was long confounded with
measles and small-pox, but it is gen-
erally supposed that, like small-pox, it
came originally from Africa, and was
imported into Europe by the Saracens.
It has been known to prevail in Brit-
ain for the last two centuries ; but al-
though it is only of late years, from
the reports of the Hegistrar-Greneral,
that we have been able. to form an ac-
curate idea of the extent of its preva-
lence, tliere can be no doubt that it
has increased greatly during the pres-
ent century, and that it now occupies
that pre-eminence among the causes of
mortality in childhood which was for-
merly held by small-pox. During
twenty-four years (1838 to 1861 in-
clusive) 375,009 of the population of
England and Wales, and 58,663 of
the inhabitants of London, died of
scarlet fever, or about one in every
twenty-four deaths that occurred in
England during the period in question

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UptdemicSy Past and Present,

423

was due to this disease. The mortal-
ity from scarlet fever, in fact, exceeds
the mortality from small-pox and
jzieasles taken together. Scarlet fever
18 known to prevail over the whole of
the continents of Europe and America,
but it is nowhere so common as in
Britain. In France it is a rarer dis-
ease than either measles or smaU-pox.
In India it is said never to occur. In
most instances it is not difficult to
trace the occurrence of scarlet fever to
contagion ; and from the remarkable
indestructibility of the poison and its
tendency to adhere to clothes, furni-
ture, and even to the walls of houses,
there can be little doubt that the dis-
ease has a similar origin in many in-
stances, where the mode of transmis-
sion of the poison cannot be traced.
How the poison first originated is yet
a mystery ; but there is some proba-
bility in the view, which has many
able advocates, that it originated in
horses or cattle, and by Siem was
communicated to man. If this be so,
it is reasonable to hope that investiga-
tions as to the occurrence of the dis-
ease in the lower animals may lead to
a discovery productive of as great
benefits to the human race as vaccina-
tion. At intervals of a few years
scarlet fever spreads as an epidemic :
but its ordinary prevalence, in this
country is greater than is generally
imagined. The causes of these epi-
demic outbursts are unknown. Many
circumscribed outbreaks can no doubt
be traced to the importation of the
poison into a pppulation of persons
unprotected by a previous attack ; but
why the poison should be introduced
into numerous localities at one time,
and not at others, is difficult to deter-
mine. It is tolerably certain, however,
that at all times the prevalence of the
disease is independent of overcrowd-
ing, bad drainage, or of any apprecia-
ble hygienic or meteorological condi-
tions.

3. Measles was long confounded
with scarlet fever, and, like it, is
supposed to have been originally im-
ported firom the East. During twenty-

four years (1838-1861) this difr-
ease destroyed 31,595 of the popula-
tion of London, and 181,868 persons
in England and Wales. It is known
to occur in all parts of the world, and
is highly contagious. There is no evi-
dence that any hygienic defects or me-
teorological conditions can generate
the poison of measles. Hildenbrand,
a great authority, thought it might
arise where numbers of men and cat-
tle were confined together in close, un-
ventilated buildings; and in later
times American and Irish physicians
have described a disease corresponding
in every respect with the measles,
which appeared to arise from sleeping
on old musty straw, or from the inoc-
ulation of the fungi of wheat straw.
Measles in England is much less of
an epidemic disease than either small-
pox or scarlet fever. The number of
deaths which it causes in years when
it is most prevalent, is rarely much
more than double what it causes in
years when it is at least prevalent.
Although often most fatal in winter,
there is no proof that its prevalence is
influenced by season.

4. TyphtLS Fever has been well
known for upward of three centuries,
and there are grounds for believing
that from remote ages it has prevailed
in most parts of thfi world under favor-
able conditions. It is impossible to
estimate the precise extent of its pre-
va\ence, inasmuch as many other dis-
eases are included under the designa-
tion " typhus," in the reports of the
Registrar-General; but it is the ac-
knowledged scourge of the poor inhab-
itants of our large towns. There is
no evidence that typhus, such as wc
see it in this country, has as yet been ob-
served in Australia, New Zealand,
Asia, Africa, or the tropical parts of
America. Even in Britain it is con-
fined, for the most part, to the large
towns, and to the poorest and most
densely crowded parts of them. It is
a disease almost unknown among the
better classes, except in the case of
clergymen and doctors who visit the
infected poor. It is undoubtedly con-

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424

Epideme$^ Past and PretenL

tagious ; but in a spacious dwelling
with a free ventilation, it almost ceases
to be so. There is also ample evi-
dence that the poison may be gener-
ated de novo ; and the circumstances
under which this occurs are over-
crowding, with defective ventilation
and destitution. Hence it is that the
disease was formerlj so apt to show
itself in prisons and ships, and that,
even at the present day, it is so com-
mon an attendant on warfare and so
prevalent in the wretched hovels of
the poor. This was the disease that
before the days of Howard was never
absent from our prisons and hospitals,
and that decimated the armies of the
first Napoleon and of the allies in the
Crimea. " If," says an able writer on
fever in the last century, " any person
wUl take the trouble to stand in the
sun, and look at his own shadow on a
white plastered wall, he will easily
perceive that his whole body is a
smoking dunghill, with a vapor exhal-
ing from every part of it This vapor
is subtle, acrid, and offensive to the
smell ; if retained in the body, it be-
comes morbid; but if re-absorbed,
highly deleterious. If a number of
persons, therefore, are long confined in
any close place not properly ventil-
ated, so as to inspire and swallow with
their spittle the vapors of each other,
they must soon feel its bad effects.
Bad provisions and gloomy thoughts
will add to their misery, and soon
breed the seminium of a pestilential
fever, dangerous not only to them-
selves, but also to every person who
visits them or even communicates with
them at second-hand. Hence it is so
frequently bred in gaols, hospitals,
ships, camps, and besieged towns. A
seminium once produced is easily
spread by contagion." But if over-
crowding produces typhus, why is it
that the disease prevalb in the epidemic
form, and then in a great measure dis-
appears ? The explanation is in this
way. All the great epidemics of
typhus have occurred during seasons
of famine or of unusual destitution.
One of the most conunon consequences

of general destitution is the congrega-
tion of several families in one house,
in consequence of tiieir inabiH^ to pay
their rents, and of the concentration ia
the large towns of many of the inhabit-
ants of country districts. Famine pre-
disposes to typhus by weakening the
constitution ; and it aJso tends to pro-
duce it, in so far as it causes an un-
usual degree of overcrowding. It has
been the custom with many writers to
refer epidemics of typhus to same
subtle ^' epidemic influence ;" and thus,
where a &ilure of the crops has been
followed by typhus, both of these dis-
asters have been ascribed to a com-
mon atmospheric cause. But of such
atmospheric iofluences, capable of pro-
ducing typhus, we know nothing;
their very existence is doubtful, and
the employment of the term has too
often had the effect of cloaking human
ignorance, or of sdfiing the search after
truth. If typhus be due to any " epi-
demic influence," why does this in-
fluence select large towns and spare
the country districts ? why does it fall
upon large towns in exact proportion
to the degree of privation and ovcr^
crowding among the poor? in large
towns, why does it indict the crowded
dwellings of the poor and spare the
habitations of the rich ? and why did
the varying prevalence of typhus
among the French and English troops
in the Crimea correspond, exactly to
the varying degree of overcrowding in
either army ? Moreover, &mine carti"
ficiaUy induced by war&re, by com-
mercial failures, by strikes, or by any
cause that throws large bodies of men
out of employment, is equally effica*
clous in originating epidemics of ty-
phus, as famine from fitilure oi the
crops.

5. Relapsing Fever is so called firom
the fact that after a week's illness
there is an interval of good health for
a week, followed by a second attack.
It is contagious, and is epidemic in
a stricter sense than even typhus.
Although sometimes more prevalent
in this country than any other fever, it
may disappear for so many years that

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Epidemidy Pott and PreienL

425

on Us retam it has more than once
beea thought to be a new malady. For
upwards ^ ten years not a case of it
has been observed in Britain, but it has
coDStitated the chief component of
many of the greatest epidemics of
fever which has devastated this conn-
try and Ireland, and it was one of
the diseases composing the '^Russian
Plagne," which in the spring of the
present year caused such unnecessary
alarm in this country. It usually pre-
vails in the epidemic form in conjunc-
tioD with typhus, and it is connected in
its origin more directly with protract-
ed starvation and ^the use of unwhole-
some food than even the latter disease.
Hence, in this country, it is familiarly
known as ^Famine Fever," and in
Germany as ^ MimgerpestJ^

6. Orienial Plague is still met with
in £gyptandin other eastern coun-
tries ; but in the middle ages it fre-
quently overran the whole of Europe
and invaded England, and, from the
extent of its ravages, it was known as
the « Black Deaths" and the " Great
Mortality/' The Great Plague of
London, of 1665, is a familiar fact in
history. Since then the disease has
not been met with in this country. But
Britbh typhus is merely a modified
form of Oriental plague, or, in other
words, plague is merely typhus com-
plicated with numerous abscesses be-
neath the skin. Cases of typhus are
occasionaUy met with in this country,
corresponding in every respect with
tme plague. Both diseases appear
under similar circumstances, but those
which generate plague are of a more
aggravated character than those which
suffice to produce typhus. The disap-
pearance of plagne from London, not-
withstanding our vastly increased com-
mlmications with Egypt, has been
chiefly due to the better constructicm
of our dweUings since the <^ Great
Fire" of 1666. ^ It is probable," says
an able writer on the plague, ^ Chat if
this coontiy has been so long forsaken
l^ the plague as almost ta have for-
gotten, or at least to be unwilling to
own^its natural o£&pring,it has been be-

cause the parent has be^i disgusted
with the circumstances under which
that hateful birth was brought to light,
has removed the filth from her doors
in which it was matured, and has
adopted a system of cleanliness fatal to
its nourishment at home. But if evei
this favored country, now grown-wise
by experience, should relapse into for-
mer errors, and recur to her odious
habits, as in past ages, it is not to be
doubted tiiat a mutual recognition wiU
take place, and she will again be visit-
ed by her abandoned child, who has
been wandering a ftigitive among kin-
dred associates, sometimes in the mud
cots of Egypt, sometimes in the crowd-
ed tents of Barbary, and sometimes in
the filthy kaisarias of Aleppo."

7. Yellow Fever is a contagious
fever with a limited geographical range.
Its geographical limits, as regards the
new world, are from about 43° N.
lat. to 35"" S. lat ; and m the old
world from 44° N. to 8° or 9° S. lat.
It is a common disease on board our
ships stationed in the West Indies and
off the west coast of Africa. As in the
case of typhus, overcrowded and defec-
tive ventilation are the main causes
which favor its origin and propaga-
tion, and, indeed, it is still a subject
for investigation whether yellow fever
may not be typhus modified by climate
and other circumstances. One of the
most recent and best authorities* on
the disease thus writes: ^Over-
crowding in the between-decks of
steamships seems to be the principal j
cause of the extreme fatality of the
disease in the navy. What in this
respect is true of typhus may with
equal force be said of yellow fever.
There is no such powerfhl adjuvant to
the virulence of Use poison, and to its
power of propagation, as an unrenew-
ed atmosphere, loaded with human
exhalations,"

8. IHarrhcea is always more or less
prevalent in this country during the
summer and autumn. There is no

« Dr. Gtvln Mllroy, PreBident of the Epldemi-
olojsical Societj.

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426

JEpidemicSf Peat and Present.

reason to believe that epidemic diar-
rhosa is contagious, but there is a di-
rect ratio between its .prevalence and
the temperature of the atmosphere and
the absence of ozone. As the temper-
ature rises the cases increase in num-
ber, and as it falls they diminish, and
the disease is alwajs most prevalent
in very hot seasons. Diarrhoea maj
be due to many different causes, but
its epidemic prevalence in autumn is
chiefly accounted for by the absorp-
tion into the system of the products of
putre&ction of oi^anic matter, either
in the form of gaseous effluvia or
through the vehicle of drinking-water.
9. Ti/phoid or Enteric Fever is very
commonly confounded with typhus,
with which, however, so far as • its
origin is concerned, it has nothing in
common. It is not, like typhus, con-
fined to the poor, but it prevails
among rich and poor alike ; and, in-
deed, there are some reasons for be-
lieving that the rich and well-fed are
more prone to be attacked by it than
the destitute. It is the fever by which
Count Cavonr, several members of the
royal family of Portugal, and our own
Prince Ck)nsort, came to their untimely
end. It differs also from typhus in
tlie circumstances that its origin and
propagation are quite independent
of overcrowding with defective ventil-
ation, and are so intimately connected
with bad drainage that by some phy-
sicians the fever is now designated
pythogenic, or fever born (rf putridity.
It is asserted by some writers that
the poison of enteric fever is never
generated in obstructed drains, but that
the drains are merely the vehicle of
transmission of the poison from an in-
fected person. But if this were so,
entehc fever must needs be a most '
contagious disease, whereas all expe-
rience goes to show that it rarely
spreads, even under the most favor-
able circumstances. The disease, in
fact, is so slightly contagious that many
excellent observers have doubted if it
be so at alL It is probable that cer-
tain meteorological conditions, such as
a high temperature a defective supply

of ozone^ or a peculiar electrical state,
may be necessary for the production
of the poison of enteric fever; and
thus, nuisances which are offensive to
the senses may exist for a long time
without producing the disease. The
necessity of a high temperature is
undoubted, and is itself a strong align-
ment against the view which makes
drains merely the vehicle of trans-
mission oi the poison. It is well known
that enteric fever, like ordinary diar-
rhoea, becomes epidemic in this country
every autumn, and almost disappears
in spring, while the autumnal epidem-
ics are always greatest in seasons
remarkable for their high temperature.
Enteric fever is much later in com*
mencing and in attaining the acme of
its autumnal prevalence than diarrhcea,
showing that a longer duration of hot
weather is necessary for its produc-
tion ; but, when once produced, a more
protracted duration of cold weather
seems necessary for its destruction.

10. (JhoUra. — Epidemic cholera is
generally de3cribed as having origina-
ted at Jessore, in the delta of the
Ganges, in the year 1817, and as hav-
ing spread thence over Hindostan,
and ultunately to Europe. Since
1817 Europe has been visited by
three great epidemics of cholera, viz.:
in 1832, in 1848-9, and in 1854 ; and
at the present moment' it is threatened
with a fourth. During the past au-
tumn the disease has appeared at
Ancona and Marseilles, and at many
other places in the basin of the Medi-
terranean. In England and Wales
cholera destroyed 53,273 lives in
1849, and 20,097 in 1854. Although
the great epidemics of cholera have
appeared to take their origin in India,
and gradually to have spread to
Europe, following oflen the lines of
human intercourse, the evidence in fa-
vor of its being a very contagious
malady is small. The attendants on
the sick are rarely attacked ; and, on
the other hand, the disease has often
appeared in isolated localities, where
it was impossible to believe that it
was imported. It is a remarkable

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Bpidsmies, Faa and Ftesent

427

circumstance, also, that some of the
greatest epidemics which have occur-
red in India, as that of 1861, have
shown no tendency to travel to Europe,
notwithstanding the constant communi-
cation that exists. Even on the sup-
position, then, that cholera is of neces-
sity imported from India, there must
he something as jet unknown to us
that favors its transmission at one
time and not at another. But it is
very doubtful if the disease is import-
ed in the manner generally believed.
Unequivocal cases of '* Asiatic chol-
era'' have been met with almost
every year in the intervals of the
great epidemics; and, as Dr. Farr
has observed, it is highly probable
that true cholera has always existed
in England. The researches of the
late Dr. Snow render it highly proba-
ble that the disease oflen arises
from drinking water impregnated with
the fermenting excreta of persons
suffering from the disease ; and if this
be 80, from what we know of other
diseases, it is not unreasonable to infer
that, in certain conditions of the at-
mosphere, the poison of cholera may
be generated during the fermentation
of the excreta of healthy persons. It
can readily be conceived how the
necessary meteorological conditions
might originate in the East and grad-
ually extend to this country, and thus
lead to the supposition that ths disease
has been propagated by a specific
poison.

11. Dysentery. — Epidemics of dys-
entery are confined to tropical coun-
tries, and need not occupy much at-
tention at present Atmospheric states
which unduly or suddenly depress the
temperature of the surface of the
body are the most common exciting
causes. They are most apt to take
effect in the case of persons whose
constitutions have been weakened by
long exposure to extreme heat, to
malaria, or to other debilitatijig causesi
There is no positive evidence that
dysentery is contagious.

12. Agues and Remittent Fevers
are now but Httle known, and scarcely

ever fatal, in this country. Many
years ago, however, they were among
the most common and the most fa^
tal diseases of Britain. James I. and
Oliver Cromwell both died of ague in
London. . The disappearance of ague
has been in direct relation to the
drainage and cultivation of the soil,
and this remark applies not only to
England, but to all parts of the globe.
The fens of Lincolnshire and Cam-
bridge are almost the only parts of
England where agues arc now known ;
but in many countries, and particular^
ly in the tropics, where the vegetation
is very rank, they are still th6 most
common of all diseases. Agues are
not contagious, but result from the
malaria given off during the evapora-
tion from marshy uncultivated land.
These malaria may be wafted to a
considerable distance by the wind. A
high temperature and rank vegetation
seem to favor their production and to
increase their virulence.

13. Influenza, — Severe and wide-
spread epidemics of infiuenza have
been observed in various parts of the
world, from time immemorial. In the
present century the disease has been
epidemic in this country in 1803,
1831, 1833, 1837, and 1847. On each
occasion it has been particularly fatal
in aged and debilitated persons, and it
has often been followed by an increas-
ed prevalence of other epidemic dis-
eases. Influenza is not contagious,
but depends on some unknown condi-
tion of the atmosphere. Sudden al-
ternations of temperature have been
thought to favor its origin.

14. The Sweeping Sickness. — This
remarkable and very fatal disease is
happily now unknown in this country ;
but in the middle ages many great epi-
demics of it were observed, and no-
where were they more common than in
England. Many of the epidemics were
in fact confined to England. There
are records of five distinct visitations
of the disease during the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries, viz., in 1485,
1506, 1517, 1529, and 1551. The
disease attacked all classes alike, and

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428

Epidemies^ Past and Present

was often fatal within a few hours.
From the accounts handed down to us
it is ini|>os3ible to form any accurate
idea as to the causes of its origin and
extension; but the prevalent opinion
at the time seems to have been that
it was due in the first instance to at-
mospheric influences.

15. The Dancing Mania. — ^The
present brief summary of the princi^
pal epidemic diseases would not be
complete without alluding ^ to the
dancing mania of the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries. The effects of the
Black Death of the fourteenth century
had not yet subsided, and the graves
of millions of its victims were scarce-
ly closed, when we are told by Hecker
a strange delusion arose in Grermany,
which took possession of the minds of
men, and, in spite of the divinity of
our nature, hurried away body and
soul into the magic circle of the wildest
superstition. It was a convulsion
which in the most extraordinary man-
ner inforiated the human frame, and
excited the astonishment of contem-
poraries for more than two centuries,
since which time it has never reap-
peared. It was called the dance of
St John or of St. Vitus, on account of
the Bacchantac leaps by which it was
characterized, and which gave to
those affected, whibt performing their
wild dance, and screaming and foam-
ing with ^ry, all the appearance of
persons possessed. It was propagat-
ed by the sight of the sufferers, like a
demoniacal epidemic, over the whole of
Germany and the neighboring ooun-

- tries. WhUe dancing, the infected
persons were insensible to external
impressions, but were haunted by vis-
ions, their fkncies conjuring up spirits
whose names they shrieked out.

Some asserted that they felt as if im-
mersed in a stream of blood, which
obliged them to leap so high ; while
others saw the heavens open, and the
Saviour enthroned with the Virgin
Mary. The accounts of the dancing
mania collected by Hecker at first
sight seem almost fabulous, but cease
to be so when we recoUect the prac-
tices of certain modem religious sects
and the accounts of the so-called ^ re-
vivals'' in the middle of the nineteenth
century.

From the preceding summary, it is
obvious that epidemic diseases vary
greatly in their nature.

1. First we have diseases, such as
small-pox, scarlet fever, and measles,
which at the present day can only be
traced to contagion, and some of which
probably took their origin in the lower
animals.

2. There are diseases, such as ty-
phus, relapsing fever, enteric fev^,
and probably also plague, yellow fever,
and cholera, which are capable of pro-
pagation by contagion in varying de-
grees, but which may also originate
from the neglect of sanitary laws,
aided by certain meteorological con-
ditions.

3. A third class, including agues,
remittent fevers, and diarrhoea are not
at all contagious, but arise from mala-
rious exhalations.

4. A fourth class, including influ-
enza, dysentery, and, perhaps, the
swea^g sickness, are also not conta-
gious, and", arise from certain atmos-
pheric conditions.

5. The dancing mania differed from
all other epidemic diseases in being
purely mental, and in depending on
the mere sight of a disagreeable nerv-
ous malady.

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Anglicanum and the Greek Sckitm,

429

Tnndated ftom Etudes BellgienseB, HUtoriqiies. et Lltt^nirei, par des Pdres de U Oompagnie do
ANGLICANISM AND THE GREEK SCHISM.

Lf a previous number we made
oar readers acquunted with a certain
project of union between the Anglican
and the Russo-Greek Churches.* The
Russian as well as the English jour-
nals haye since spoken much of this
project, and seemed to think that it
was on the eve of ending. There is
one difference, however, to be observ-
ed in the language held bj the oi^ans
of the two countries. The Russian
journals gave us to understand that the
Anglicans would renounce the Protest-
ant doctrines which form a prominent
portion of their belief, to adopt purely
and simply the orthodox faith such as
it is expressed in the symbolical books
of the Eastern Church. The Angli-
cans did not place themselves in the
same point of view. They would not
change belief; they admitted that
both sides should remain as they now
are, but that there would be intercom-'
municn between the two Churches;
that is to say, that the Anglicans should
be allowed to participate in the sacra-
ments of the Greek Church, and re-
ciprocally.

A certain Mr. Denton, rector of one
of tJie largest 'Anglican parishes in
Xiondon, was especially animated by
these thoughts. He went to Servia
and asked Mgr. Michael, metropolitan
of Belgrave, to admit him to commu*
nion in his quality of priest of the
Oinrch of England. Mgr. Michael
refused ; but M&. Denton, nowise dis-
couraged, betook himself to travelling
all over Servia, and at last found an
archimandrite who appeared to be
more accommodating than the metro-
politan. After having communicated

• »'i»tttf«." May, 1886. Vide "Cathouo
WOBLO/* Vol. I., No. 7, October, 1885.

in this way in the Servian Church, the
Rev. Mr. Denton returns to England
triumphantly announcing that the in-
tercommuni&n was an accomplished
fact. Great rejoicings there were, to
be sure, in the little coterie. There
could be no doubt, whatever, that all
was happily arranged.

But behold, Mgr. Michael, informed
of what had taken place, removed the
archimandrite and struck him with
ecclesiastical censures. The joy that
had prevailed in Mr. Denton's camp
was changed to mourning. On the
other hand, the Anglicans who form
no part of the coterie, enjoy exceed-
ingly the reverend gentleman's dis-
comfiture.

As for us, we are well pleased to
see that Mgr. Michael does not seem
disposed to follow the footsteps of Cy-
ril Lucar.

But another check was reserved for
the famous project The archpriest
Joseph Wassilief, chaplain to the Rus-
sian embassy in Paris, after having
shown himself rather favorable to the
contemplated union, has just laid
down, with as much wisdom as firm-
ness, the conditions of the proposed
treaty. "However much explana-
tions may be avoided, they will forci-
bly recur, sooner or later," he justly
observes in the GkrisHan Uniony 24th
September, 1865. And, resting on
this principle, he passes in review the •
three questions of the procession of
the Holy Ghost, the invocation of
saints, and prayer* for the dead ; ho
then shows that it is not possible to
establish intercommunion between the
two Churches until they have oome
to an agreement on all these points;
Among other things, he shows that
the Church has always, been careful

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4d0

New PitbUcatums.

to preserve the entire deposit of doc-
trine, and that she has not permitted
herself to establish a difference be-
tween what is fundamental and what
is secondary. He concludes with
these wise words : ^ Charitable in our
explanations, we are bound to be -very
candid one with the other. If rigor-
ous discussions on all points of divert
gence appear to retard the final agree-
ment, they secure its solidity and du-
ration; whilst reservations, though
accelerating the agreement^ would
leave therein a germ of weakness and
instability."

We attach the more importance to
this declaration because the authority
of the archpriest Joseph Wassilief is
enhanced by the consideration shown
him by the synod. Latterly there
was a vacancy in the ranks of that as-
sembly, which forms the supreme
council of the Russian Church. There
was question of replacing the'chaplain-
general of the armies by land and sea-
Three names were proposed to the
sovereign's choice : that of M. Wassi-
lief was one of the three. He has not
been appointed; but, in proposing
him, the synod sufficiently testified
that it would have wished to see him

seated in its midst, raised to the high-
est dignity to which, in Russia, a mem-
ber of the secular clergy can pretend.

After the energetic act of the met^
ropolitan of Belgrade and the words
of the archpriest Wassilief, it remains
for us to quote the Levant HercMy an
English and Protestant journal pub-
lished at CoDStantinople. In its num-
ber of the 20th September, 1865^ that
paper endeavors to make the Angh'can
clergy understand that they flatter
themselves with a delusive hope if
they believe in the possibility of a
union, or even of an alliance, between
the two communions.

It results from all we have just
said that if the Anglo-Americans have
entertained the project of Protestant-
izing the Greek Church, they must
perceive that the enterprise is more
arduous than they had supposed. The
Russians, on their side, must see that
it is not so easy to make the Anglican
Church enter into the bosom of theirs.
As to establishing the intercommunion
between the two churches without
having come to an agreement on
questions of faith, it is a dream which
the archpriest Wassilief must have
dispelled once and for ever.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Reason in Religion. By Frederic
Henry Hedge. Boston : Walker, Ful-
ler & Company, 245 Washington St.
1863. Pp. 458.

The author of this work, who is a
professor in Harvard University, en-
joys a deservedly high reputation as an
accomplished scholar and writer, and
is looked upon bv numbers of intelli-
gent and thoughtra persons, especially
m Massachusetts, as their most revered
and trusted guide in religious matters.
On that account whatever he writes is
worthy of consideration. In the work
before us he has not attempted a syste-
matic treatise on the topic indicated in
his title, but has thrown together a

series of essays touching on it and its
kindred topics, indicating difficulties
more than aiming at solving them,
and suggesting a method by which
anxious minds may separate a certain
modicum of belief which is practically
certain and safe from that which is
doubtful, and wait patiently until they
can ^et more truth by the slow progress
of science.

Any one who looks in this work for
metaphysical solutions which are satis-
factory or plausible of the great theo-
logical problems will be disappointed.
The author sees too clearly the want of
sufficient data, and the want of a suffi-
cient criterion in his system, to attemi>t
to dogmatize much. We think tma

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Nw> Publtcaiions.

431

course more sensible and honest than
the opposite. At the same time, it lays
open the defects of his system ; but so
much the better, and so much the
more hope of getting at the truth. He
cannot satisfy, however, either the con-
sistent rationalist or the consistent be-
liever in revelation. On the ration-
alistic side he has received a severe
criticism from the Christian Examiner,
To a Catholic the positively theological
part of His work has but little interest.
Some incidental topics are handled
with considerable acuteness and abil-
ity, as, for instance, the quality of sin
and evil, the relation between spirit
and matter, the compensations of prov-
idence, etc. The impartial testimony
of such a bold and subtle critic as the
author in favor of certain facts and doc-
trines — e, g., miracles, the resurrection,
future punishment, etc., is of value.'
There are half truths, incidental
thoughts, scintillations of light, through
the book, which sho^ how much the
author^s merits arc his own, and his de-
fects those of the system he was trained
in. The style in which he writes has
many most admirable and peculiar
qualities, fitting it to be the vehicle of
the highest kind of thought. Never-
theless, although we do not question
the author's scholarship in his own
proper field of study, what he says of
specially Catholic questions and matters
appears to us commonplace, superfi-
cial, and sometimes quite gratuitously
introduced. Through a want of care
in studying up the Catholic question,
he has made one or two quite remark-
able mistakes. One of these is in
speaking of the synod of Valentia as if
it were a general council. Another is
the statement that Pope Hild^brand
(St. Gregory VII.) has not been can-
onized. These remarks are by the
way, for we are not attempting to
follow Dr. Hedge over the area covered
by his essays for the purpose of contro-
verting his positions.

The real point of interest it a work
like this is the author's thesis respect-
ing the source and criterion of Religious
truth. If we differ here, there is very
little use in discussing the particular
conclusions or inferences we draw re-
specting doctrine. While the differ-
ence continues, it is better to ke^pp the
discussion upon it ; if we ever come to
an agreement, it. will be comparatively
easy to proceed with the discussion of
specific doctrines.

Although Dr. Hedge does not proceed
by a formal analytic method, yet he has
a thesis, and states it intelligibly in his
chapter on " The Cause of Reason the
Cause of Faith." In philosophy he is a
Kantian, and in theology he adopts the
system condemned in the late encyclical
of Pius IX. under the name of " moder-
ate rationalism." According to him,
we cannot get the idea of God, or of
spiritual truths, from pure reason. All
we know of these truths comes from
revelation, and the truths of revelation
are subject to the critical judgment of
reason, which cannot originate, but can
approve or reject, conceptions of spirit-
ual truth.

There are two rather serious ob-
jections to this theory. The first is,
that it destroys reason by denying to it
either the original intuition of God,
or the capacity of acquiring the idea of
God by reflection; without which it
has no capacity of apprehending or
judging of the conception of God pro-
posed to it by revelation. The second
is, that it destroys revelation, making
it identical with the conscience or
moral sense ; that is, individual and sub-
jective. What is this revelation or in-
spiration in the spiritual nature of an
individual? Is it his reason or intelli-
gence elevated and illuminated ? That
cannot be ; for then reason and rejcla-
tion are identical, and the proposition
that* we know nothing of spiritual
truths by reason would be subverted.
What then is it ? We can conceive of
nothing in the spiritual nature of man
which IS not reducible to intelligence or
will. It must be will, then. But will is a
blind faculty. It is a maxim of philos
ophy, "Nil volitum, nisi prius cog-
nitum." The will cannot choose the
supreme good unless the intelligence
furnishes it the idea of the supreme
good. Y6u cannot have a revelation
without first establishing sound ration-
alism as a basis. Reason may be in-
debted for distinct conceptions even of
those truths which it is able to demon-
strate to an exterior instruction given
immediately by Almighty God throujsrh
inspiratioiL But it must have the orig-
inal idea or intuition in itself which is
explicated by this instruction and is its
ultimate criterion of tnith. If by rev-
elation is understood merely the out-
ward assistance given to the mind to
develop its own idea and attain the full
perfection of reason, there is no sense
in distinguishing revelation from phil-

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482

New PuhUccOiom.

osophy, science, or the light of reason
itself, since all alike come from God.
A revelation, properly so called, is a
manifestation of truths above the
sphere of reason — truths which reason
cannot demonstrate from their intrinsic
contents. In this case, reason can only
apprehend the evidence of the fact that
they are revealed, that they are not con-
trary to any truths already known, and
that they have certain analogies with
truths perceived by reason. But they
must be accepted as positively and
absolutely true only on the author-
ity of revelation. You must therefore
be a pure rationalist, and maintain that
we )iave no knowledge of any truth be-
yond that which the educated intelli-
gence of man evolves from its own
primitive and ultimate idea; or you
must accept revelation in the Catholic
sense, as proposed by an extrinsic au*
thority. Dr. Hedge eives us no basis
for either science or faith. There can-
not be a basis for faith without one for
science ; and give us a basis sufficient for
science, we will demonstrate from it
the truth of revelation.

We conclude by quoting one or two
remarkable passages, which show that
the author instinctively thinks more
soundly and justly than his theory will
logically sustain him in doing :

'^The mass of mankind must re-
ceive their rcUgion at second-hand, and
receive it on historical authority, as
they receive the greater part of all
their knowledge.^*

'^We want a teacher conscious of
God^s inpresence, claiming attention as
a voice out of the heavens. We want
a doctrine which shall announce itself
with divine authority; moi a system of
moral philosophy, but the word and
kingdom of God. Without this stamp
of divine legitimacy, without the wit-
ness and signature of the Eternal,
Chiistianity would want that which
alone gives it -weight with the mass of
mankind, and the place it now holds in
human things'* (pp. 64, 242.)

Well spoken I spoken like a philoso-
pher, like a Christian, like a Catholic I
Apply now Kant's and Dr. Hedge's
principle of practical reason. They
say, Mankind feel the need of a God,
therefore there is and has alwap been
a God. So we say, Mankind feel and
always did feel the necessity of an in-

fallible church, of a distinct, positive,
dogmatic faith. Therefore they exist,
and always did exist. Only in the
Catholic Church are these wants real-
ized; therefore the Catholic Church is
the true Church of God.

Tqb Comflstb Works of St. Joket
OF THE Cboss, etc. Edited by the
Oblate Fathers of St. Charles. Lon-
don: Longmans & Company. 1864.

This is the most su}>erb work on
spiritual subjects in our English Catho-
lic literature. Mr. Lewis has made his
translation in such a manner as to merit
the highest encomium from the late
Cardinal Wiseman, who has written the
preface to the edition. The paper, ty-
pography, and mechanical execution are
m the highest style of English typo-
graphical art. The fathers of St.
Charles deserve the thanks of the entire
English-speaking Catholic and literary
world for this costly and noble enter-
prise which they have achieved.

It is needless to say that the works of
St. John of the Cross are among the

Shest specimens of genius and spirit-
wisdom to be found in the Spanisli
language or any other. St. John was a
poet of the first order, and an equally
great philosopher. In this view alone
his works are worthy of profound
study. The base of his doctrine is the
deepest philosophy, and its summit is
ever varied and enlightened by the
glow of poetic fervor. It is philoso-
phy and poetry, however, elevated, pu-
rified, and hallowed by sacred inspira-
tion, and derived' not merely from
human but from divine contemplation.
As a book for spiritual readmg and
direction, it is most proper for a certain
class of minds only, who have difficul-
ties and inward necessities for which
they cannot find the requisite aid in the
ordinary books of instruction. It is
also the best guide for those who
have the direction of persons of this
character.*

Wb learn that the Messrs.^ Apple ton
have in press, and will soon publish
'' The Temporal Mission of the Holy
Ghost," by the Most Rev. H. £. Man-
ning, Archbishop of Westminster, which
has just been issued by the Loogmans^
of London,

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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. n., NO. lO—JANUART, 1866.

Pranslated flrom Le Ck>rro8poiidant

LEIBNITZ AND BOSSUET.*

Etert friend of letters must greet
with sincere pleasure the literary en-
terprise of M. dc Careil in undertak-
ing a complete edition of the writings
of Leibnitz, a large part of which
has hitherto remained unpublished
and even unknown, and especially to
make that great genius live anew for
us in all bis fulness and integrity. No
greater literary undertaking ever se-
duced the imagination of a young eru-
dite, is better fitted to attract the sym-
pathy of the European republic, or
more difficult of execution. For it
was precisely the peculiarity of Leib-
nitz that, while he labored to embrace
with a firmness of grasp never equal-
led the whole of moral and physical
nature, all things real, ideal, or possi-
ble, in one and the same system, he
uniformly abstained from giving, in
his writings, to that system its full
and entire development. Possessing
the amplest and most complete mind
that ever lived, he took no care to
give 'to any of his works the seal of
completeness and perfection. The in-

• *' aSuvns de Leibftitz, pvUiees pofjr la pre-
mihrtf[A*€raprU U$ ManuncriU, avec des notes
et wta kUroduction,^^^ I>ar A. Fuacher de CarcU.
PUrU: Firmin-Dldot. Tomeal. etIL

▼01. II. 28

yentor of so many methods, mathe-
matical and metaphysical, he never
arranged his ideas in a methodical or-
der. He leads his readers, with a rap-
id and firm step, through a labyrinth
of abstract conceptions and boundless
erudition, but he suffers no hand but
his own to hold the guiding thread.
He has lef\ us numerous tracts and
fragments of great value indeed, but
no work that reveals the unity of his
system, and gives us a summary of his
doctrines. There is no summa of the
Leibnitzian science and philosophy.
We might say that, by a sort of co-
quetry, while he sought to know and
explain everything in nature, he took
care that the secret of his own heart
should not for a moment escape him.

Hence it becomes important to
bring together and arrange in their
natural order his scattered members>
so as to give them the cohesion
they lack, to combine his several per-
sonages, the philosopher, the moralist,
the geometrician, the naturalist, the
erudite, the diplomatist, and the
courtier, in one living being, and pre-
sent the giant armed at all points as
he came forth from the hands of
his Maker. Hence also tlie difficulty

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434

Leibnitz and Bossuet.

of the task. It requires to accomplish
it the universalitj of tastes, if not of
faculties, possessed bj the model to be
reconstructed. It presents one of
those cases in which to reproduce na-
ture it is almost necessary to equal
nature, and to resuscitate is hardlj
less difficult than to create. Only a
Cnvier is able to collect and put in
their place the gigantic bones and
powerful fins of Leviathan.

Ab Jove principium, M. de Careil
begins with theology. These two vol-
umes placed at the head of his edition
are taken up with writings some of
which had already been printed, oth-
ers had remained in manuscript, but
all subjected to a careM revis^n and
enriched by learned notes, which
pertain exclusively to matters of relig-
ion. If the ancient classification,
which gave to theology tiie precedence
of all other matters, had not every
claim to our respect, we might, per-
haps, permit ourselves to find fault
with this arrangement of the works of
Leibnitz, which will cause, I am sure,
some surprise to the learned public
His theological writings wei*e his first
neither in the order of time nor in the
order of merit. He did not open his
brilliant career with religious discus-
sions, nor was it by them that he was
chiefiy distinguished, or lefl his deep-
est trace. He made in theology, no
discoveries as fruitful as the infinitesi-
mal calculus, and gave it no prob-
lems that have fetched so many and
so distant echoes as his theories of op-
timism and monadology. Why, then,
open the series with those writings
which did not begin it, and whidi
do not give us its summary, and give
the precedence to works, merely acces-
sory and of doubtful value, over so
many others which earlier, more con-
stantly, and more gloriously occupied
his laborious life?

There is still another objection to
this distribution of matters which M.
de Careil has made. The theo-
logical writings of Leibnitz consist
almost exclusively in his correspond-
ence, and are parts of the negotia-

tion for the reunion of the differ-
ent Christian communions of which,
for a brief time, he was the medium.
Correspondences are admirable means
of gaining an insight into the private
and personal character of men whose
public life and works are already
known, but taken by themselves they
are always obscure and difficult to be
understood. The reason is, that peo-
ple who correspond are usually mu-
tual acquaintances, and understand
each other by a hint or half a word.
They are familiar with contempora-
ry events, and waste no time in nar-
rating them, or in explaining what
each already knows. Facts and ideas
are treated by simple allusions, intelli-
gible enough to the correspondents,
but unintelligible to a posterity that
lacks their information. The corre-
spondence of Leibnitz, which M. de
Careil publishes, is far from being free
from this grave inconvenience. Leib-
nitz appears in it in the maturity of
his age, and the full splendor ^of his
renown. He speaks with the authori-
ty of a philosopher in full credit, and
of a counsellor enjoying the confi-
dence of an important Gk'rman court
His correspondents treat him witli
the respect due to an acknowledged
celebrity, and even a power. In the
course of the discussion he is carry-
ing on he introduces many of his
well known metaphysical principles,
but briefly, as ideas familiar to those
whom he addresses, and less for the
purpose of teaching th^n of recalling
them to the memory.

His manner of writing, of rush-
ing, so to speak, in medictt rec,
takes the inexperienced reader by
surprise, and appears to conform to
the adventurous habits of dramatic
art much more than to the sound rules
of erudition, which proceeds slowly,
with measured step, marking in ad-
vance the place where it is to -plant
its foot Few among us are sufficient-
ly acquainted with the facts in detail
of the life of Leibnitz, or know well
enough the secret of his opinions, to
be able to render an account to our-

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Lgibnitz and Bouuet

4d5

selves of the part we see him — a lay-
citiaseD — playing among emperors,
kings, princes, and prelates, or the re-
lation that subsists between his sys-
tem of monads and scholastic theolo-
gy. Hence it often happens that we
neither know who is speaking,
nor of what he is speaking. This
frequently causes us an embanass-
ment to which M. de Careil is him-
self too much a stranger to be able
sufficiently to compassionate it He
has lived ten years with Leibnitz in
the Library of Hanover, his habitual
residence, and he knows every linea-
ment of the face of his hero, and —
not the least of his merits — deciphers
at a glance his formless and most
illegible scrawL We are not, there-
fore, astonished that in his learned in-
troductions and his notes, full of mat-
ter, he makes no account of difficulties
which we in our ignorance are utterly
unable to overcome.

But we are convinced that the
knowledge the editor has acquired by
his invaluable labors would have been
fiur more available to his readers if he
had condensed it into a detailed biogra-
phy, such as he only could write, than
as he gives it, scattered at the begin-
ning of each volume, or in a note at
the foot of each page. An historical
notice, comprising &e history of the
intellect as well as of the life of Leib-
nitz, an exposition of ideas as well as
of facts, and the arrangement of the
didactic works according to the order
of their subjects and their importance,
foUowed by the fragments and corre-
spcmdence, the order adopted by
nearly aU collectors of great poly-
graphs, would, it seems to us, have
been much better, and simply the dic-
tate of reason and experience. Introduc-
ed by M. de Gareil into the monument
he erects not by the front, through the
peiistyle, but by a low, side door, we
run at least great risk of not seizing
the whole in its proportioas.

I confess that I have also a person-
al reason for regretting the arrange-
ment adopted by M. de Careil. I had
oocasion formerly, among the sins of

my youth, to examine, with very little
preparatory study I admit, and in docur
ments by no means so abundant and so
exact OS those which are now placed
within our reach, the negotiations pur-
sued by Leibnitz for the union of
Christian communions, which take u)
the whole of these two volumes. Fron
that examination, along with that of a.
small tract naturally attached to it,
I came, on the religious opinions of
the great philosopher, to certain con-
clusions which I set forth in the d2d
number of the first series of this peri-
odical, which M. de Careil, even then
deeply engaged in this study of Leib-
nitz, has ^It it his duty, in a discus-
sion marked hy great urbanity, to
combat. It is my misfortune to pe]>
sist in those conclusions, and more
strenuously than ever in consequence
of the new light which seems to me to
be furnished by this publication, and to
which I cannot dispense myself from
briefly recurring. In so dping I fear
that I shall appear to some readers to
have sought or to have accepted too
readily an occasion for resuming a
discussion of little importance, and
which probably few except myself re-
member. M. de Careil, I hope, will
do me the justice to acquit me of a
thought so puerile. Nobody would
have been more eager than myself to
admire, in the picture he presents us,
the figures which naturally occupy the
foreground ; but if the eye is forced
to pause at first on some insignificant
detail, it perhaps is not a defect of
taste in the spectator ; may it not be
a defect of skill in the artist ?

Thbsb reserves made, we proceed
to examine, with some care, the
changes rendered necessary, by this
new and complete edition, in the opin-
ion previously adopted by the biogra-
phers of Leibnitz in regard to the
religious negotiation of which he was
for a moment the accredited medium,
and in which we find mingled the great
name of Bossuet Several important

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436

Leibnitz and Boisuet.

points are mach modified by the doo-
mnents now brought to l^ht for the
first time.

We learn, in the outset, that the ne-
gotiation for the union of the Protest-
ant communions Mrith the H0I7 See
was far more important than is com*
monly thought, and was continued for
a much longer time. The earliest
documents in relation to it published
by M. de Careil date from 1671,
whilst the previous editors of Leib-
nitz and Bossuet suppose that the
first overtures were made onlj in the
year 1690, a difference of twenty
years ; and it appears from these docu-
ments, hitherto perfectly unknown,
that it was precisely- during those
twenty years that success came the
nearest being obtained, and that the
highest influences were employed to
obtain it.

During this period, from 1670 to
1690, the Catholic revival of the
seventeenth century was at its apogee,
and nearly all the Grerman sovereigns
were animated by a strong desire to
effect thfi religious pacification of
their subjects. The wounds caused
by the Thirty Years* War were hardly
dosed by the peace of Westphalia, and
every one felt the mortal blow which
religious dissension had struck to the
Germanic power by breaking the old
unity of the empire. Beside, all eyes
were turned toward France, where
religion and royalty seemed to move
on together in perfect harmony, and
displayed an unequalled splendor.
France, under her young monarch,
Louis XIV., was at once the object of
envy and of dread ; and the re-estab-
lishment of religious unity in Ger-
many, torn by mutually hostile com-
munions, seemed to the sovereign
princes the only means of resembling
France, and at the same time of re-
sisting her twwer.

When, therefore, Rogas Spinola,
confessor to the empress, the wife of
Leopold L, at firat Bishop of Tina, af-
terward of Neustadt, a man of mild
temperament and sound sense, be-
came the intermediary agent of the

general desire fi)r peace, and after
having sounded the leading Protest-
ant theologians, went to Bcwne to as-
certain the extent of the concessions
to which the maternal authority of the
Church could consent, he was warmly
supported not only by his own sover-
eign, the emperor, but also by fourteen
other reigning sovereigns of Ger-
many, some of them Catholic and
others Protestant. Such waa the
strange religious confusion in the
German States that in more than one
the sovereign was Catholic and the
nation Protestant, or the sovereign
was Protestant and the nation Catlio-
lie. In the former ccmdition was the
Elector of Hanover, John Frederic of
Brunswick, of whom Leibnitz was
librarian and private secretary. This
prince could not fail to enter with
zeal into a plan which promise i to fill
up the gulf between him and his
Protestant subjects.'

If the propositions of which Spinola
was the bearer were warmly supported
in Grermany, they were no less warmly
supported at Rome. The interest
which the chief of the Church could
not fail to take in the re-establishment
of Catholic unity, was greatly en-
hanced at the time by the special
need which that wise and prudent
pontiff. Innocent XL, felt of creating
in Europe allies for the Holy See
against the offensive pretensions of
France. At Rome as in Germany
Louis XIV. was the target and the
bugbear. Tttat most Christian king,
who consented to protect the faith in
his own kingdom on the condition of
tacitly subjecting it to his royal will,
took strange liberties, as everybody
knows, with the common Father of the
faithful. Innocent XI., almost be-
sieged in his palace by the arms of
France, and seeing his buUs handed
over, by magistrates sitting on JUur$
de lis, to the common hangman to foe
publicly burned, was strongly tempted
to seek in convened schismatics, and
in prodigal sons returning to the fold,
a support against the arrogant preten-
sions of the elder son of the Chordi.

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Leibnitz and JBomui.

437

Splnola, therefore, was everywhere
weU received. Rome listened to him,
entered into his views, even annotated
the bases of the negotiation he was
charged to transmit, and for several
jeara the winds on both sides of the
Alps blew in favor of peace.

Leibnitz, holding relations with
both Spinolaand the principal Protest-
ant doctors, serving as the medium
of intercommunication between them,
and frequently taking his pen to give
precision to their respective views,
was already the king-bolt of the ne-
gotiation, and very early in its prose-
cation Bossuet's name began to be
mentioned. The controversies of this
great prelate with the French Protest-
ants, his writings, strongly marked by a
doctrine at once so firm and enlight-
ened, and which placed Catholic truth
on so broad and so solid a foundation,
were more than once used to smooth
the way to reunion, either by solving
difficulties or by reconciling differen-
ces. Twice he was even directly so-
licited to give his advice, and to put
his own hand to the work; but he
gave vague and embarrassed answers,
and refused to accept the overtures
made to him. WherdTore ? Is it neces-
sary to think, as M. Foucher de Ca-
reil leaves it to be understood, that
the ffing of France viewed with an evil
eye a reunion not likely to turn to his
profit, or to strengthen his influence,
and that as on other occasions the
submission, a little blind, of the sub-
ject to his sovereign, arrested with
Bossuet the accomplishment, I will
not say of the duty, but of the desire
of the Catholic bishop ?

Such was the first phase of this re-
markable negotiation, related, or more
properly exhumed, with details very
curious and perfectly new. The char-
acters, the parts, the motives, of the
various actors in the scene are fairly
set forth and analyzed by M. de Careil,
and we congratulate hun on having
added a new and piquant page to the
diplomatic history of the seventeenth
centaiy. A single gap, however,
very unportant and very easy to fill

he has left, which renders his exposi-
tion a little obscure and uncertain*
We nowhere find the text of the
propositions, the instruments, to speak
the language of cabinets, which made
during twenty years the bases of the
negotiation. They were in great
number, M. de Careil informs us,
drawn up under dilTerent circumstan-
ces, and by difierent authors. The
Protestant theologians assembled at
Hanover, and especially the most
illustrious of them, Gerard Molanus,
abbot of Lockum, drew up, collects
ively or individually, complete plans
or methods, as they called them, of re-
union, in which they expressed at the
same time their views and t^eir
wishes, the sacrifices which they be-
lieved their communions would con-
sent to make, and those which
they expected from Rome in re-
turn for the re-establishment of uni-
ty. The Bishop of Neustadt, on his
part, produced several compositions
of the same kind, the titles of which|
as given by M. de Careil, are, RegtUa
circa Christianorum ommum^cdesiaS"
ticcanreunionem — Media canciliatoria
incitantia, priBstanda ad concUiaHon^
em. And, in fine, undez the name of
PraposiHones noveUarum discretiorum
et prtedpuarum^ he himself made a
methodical abstract, in twenty-five
propositions, or heads of chapters, of
the views and wishes of Protestants,
a capital document, which was dis-
cussed and corrected at Rome in a
congregation of cardinals, and sent
back to Germany with an approbatory
brief of His Holiness. Leibnitz had it
under his eye, and copied it with his
own hand at Vienna, carefully mark-
ing the corrections and additions made
by the Sacred College, and we under-
stand M. Foucher de Careil to have
had personal knowledge of the copy
taken by Leibnitz.

It is difficult, therefore, to explain
why M. de Careil has thought it ne-
cessary to subject our curiosity to the
veritable punishment of Tantalus by
simply mentioning the existence of a
document of such great importanca

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438

Leibnitz and Bosstiet.

without reproducing it That he
should believe it his duty not to swell
his volume — though the previous edi-
tors of Leibnitz and Bossuet did it —
bj inserting the private lucubrations
of Protestant theologians, we can, in
rigor, comprehend, but not approve.
As in almost all the letters he has
published, especially those of Molanus,
these writings are discussed and com-
mented on, it would, we think, have
much facilitated the clear understand-
ing of the subject, to have given at
least the more important of them in
extenso. But a^r all, the reformed
doctors the most accredited spoke only
in their own private names, for them-
selves alone, without any authority to
bind their contemporary co-religion-
ists, and a fortiori without any author-
ity to bind their Protestant posterity.
Little imports it to know what Mola-
nus or any other Protestant in 1680
thought of the points in controversy
between the Church and the Refor-
mation. But an act of the Court of
Rome, discussed in a congregation,
and dot])ed with the pontifical sign-
manual — an official decision defining
the maximum of concessions either as
to language or practice which the
Church could make to her separated
children in order to bring them back
to her bosom, Protestant propositions
in their origin, indeed, but, as says M.
de Careil — ^in a note written, I know
not wherefore, in Italian— occomoe^o^^
secundo il guMo di Roma (modified to
suit the taste of Rome), is a document
of a value very different, and yields
in historical interest only to its dog-
matic importance. It would be a doc-
ument to place by the side of the
most celebrated Professions of faith,
and even above them, and to present,
along with the excellent Exposition by
Bossuet, to all those troubled souls,
so numerous in Protestant commu-
nions, who discern the truth only
through the mists of prejudice, or mis-
conceive it when stated to them in
terms the real sense of which has for
them been distorted or perverted from
their childhood.

What Leibnitz in various places,
and M. de Careil after him, show us of
the propositions submitted to Rome,
increases not a little our desire to
know precisely what she repL'ed to
them. It seems from all that is told
us, that the process or method of af-
fecting reunion uniformly, or very
nearly so, indicated by the Protestant
doctors, was to place in two distinct
categories the several points of differ-
ence which separate the Protestant
communions from the Catholic
Church ; then place in the first cate-
gory all the questions on which agree-
ment may be hoped either by way of
accommodation, if matters of simple
disciplinary usage, if susceptible of
modification ; or by way of explana-
tion, if points of dogmatic dispute
turning on words rather than on
ideas. On all these, agreement being
easy, it should be immediately effect-
ed and proclaimed. In the second
category must be placed all disputed
questions too important, or on which
minds are too embittered, to admit of
their settlement by previous explana-
tion. These must not be treated im-
mediately, but be lefl in suspense, and
reserved for discussion and final set-
tlement in a future coundL Mean-
while the Protestant doctors, pastors,
ministers, and their flocks must be re-
ceived into the Roman communion on
the simple declaration that they ac-
knowledge the mfallibility of the Church
in matters of dogma, and the
promise, beforehand, that when she
has freely decided with certainty,
clearness, precision, and without am-
biguity or equivocation, the several
points reserved for adjudication, they
will accept her decisions and oflfer no
resistance to her decrees.

Such was the method proposed,
which Leibnitz caUs by turns the
method of mutucd toleraneej abttractionj
suspension, and to which he reverts
so frequently, and on which he insists
with so much complaisance, under so
many forms, and in so many different
writings, that it is hardly possible not
to regard him as its inventor. In his

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Leibnitz and Bos9uet.

489

view, this method has the merit of
catting off with a single stroke the
interminable debates in which the six-
teenth centurj was consumed, and of
making the peace of nations no longer
depend on the qoibbling spirit of theo-
logians. We shall soon briefly examine
whether this abridgment of controver-
sies might not hare the inconvenience
of leaving out the truth, or of spum-
ing it aside ; but for the moment we
would sunplj remark that the method
suggested or eagerly adopted by Leib-
nitz involved, with him, a grave conse-
quence, so obvious that nobody can
mistake it.

The questions proposed to be placed
in the second category, or the points
of controversy too important to be
treated in advance, and to be reserved
for discussion and settlement in a
council to be convoked and held
after reunion, had every one of
them already been examined, one by
one, discussed, and determined without
ap|)eal, in the celebrated assembly
whose fame still filled all Europe, and
whose decrees were read from the
pulpits of more than half of Chris-
tendom. During twenty-five years,
athwart the intrigues of courts, the
ravages of war, and even the unchain-
ed pkgues of heaven, three times in-
terrupted, but as often resumed, the
whole cause of the Reformation, dog-
mas and discipline, had been present-
ed and argued at Trent Judgment
was there rendered on all the counts
in the indictment, and the Reformation
was henceforth res judicata. Conse-
quently, to propose to reserve and
open anew for discussion, were it only
the least point of doctrine, was to for-
feit the whole work of Trent, and to
declare that great assembly illegal and
all its decrees vacated. The Protest-
ant proposition amounted, then, simply
to this : Annul the Council of Trent,
and convoke a new council in which
Protestants en masse will have the
right to sit !

Under what form was such a prop-
osition presented to Rome ? What im-
pression on Rome did it make ? Was

there really found a Catholic bishop
to support it ? Was it really discuss-
ed in a Congregation of Cardinals ?
Was it really included in the list of
propositions admitted to discussion by
the Papal brief whose existence is
enigmatically revealed to us ? If wer
understand certain phrases of M. de
Careil, all these questions must be
answered in the affirmative. He him-
self firmly beUeves that this project'
was accepted by the Bishop of Neu-
stadt; he even believes tb^t it was
not discouraged at ^ Rome; and that,
the suspension of the Council of Trent
was counted among the concessions
which the bishop returned from Rome
authorized to lead the Protestants, who
had charged him with their interests,
to hope would be granted.

It is certainly very embarrassmg for
us to question an assertion by M. d&
Careil, who seems to speak with the
do<iuments before him, while we, in
the darkness in which he leaves us,
can reason only from conjecture. We
can only express our deep surprise,
and ask him, if he is quite sure of
having carefully read what he relates,
or duly reflected on what he asserts f
What, the Court of Rome authorized a
bishop to promise Protestants, in its
name, the suspension of the Council of
Trent I Rome, witii a stroke of the
pen, pledged herself to permit the de-
struction of the work to which she had,
during four glorious pontificates, de-
voted the persistent perseverance
which she owed to the Holy Ghost,
and all the traditional resources of her
policy — ^the work which, in reaffirming
the immovable foundations of the
Christian faith, had at the same time
drawn tighter, to the profit of the
Holy See, the loosened bonds of the
hierarchy I Rome exposed herself to
see efiaced, on the one hand, those
dogmatic decrees in which the magni-
ficence of the language rivals the-
depth of the ideas, and which have
taken rank in the admiration of the
world by the side of the Nicsean symbol,
and on the other, those canons of
discipline for which she had main-^

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440

Leihuiz and Battuet.

tamed with the great Catholic powers
a persistent straggle from which soth-
ing could divert her, no, not even the
fear of seeing France follow in the
footsteps of England I And for what
this condescension? For a negotia-
tion of doubtiul success, and the sue*
cess of which, were it certain, would
have restored to her communion only
Germany, leaving outside of Catho-
Dc unity the Protestant centres of
London, Geneva, and Amsterdam!
Moreover, under what form would
such a concession be made ? By a
Confidential act, by a secret power
given to an obscure agent! The
Council of Trent would have been thus
disavowed in the shade by one Congre-
/ gation of Cardinals, whilst another, in-
stituted expressly to give it vigor,
oonlanued, as it does still at Rome it-
self, to comment and develop it in pub-
fic, and while at the foot of all altars
the decisions of that great council re-
ceived the solemn a^esion of all
those whom the episcopal investiture
raised to the rank of judges of the
faith!

M. de Careil must not think us too
difficult, if we hesitate to admit on his
bare word, or even on that of Leib-
nitz, the reality of so strange a fact.
Leibnitz was a party interested, and
very deeply interested, in the success
of a project for which he had a pa-
ternal affection, and his testimony is
here too open to suspicion of at least in-
voluntary illusion for us to receive it
as conclusive proof. Le^^nitz, beside,
whatever was his intimacy with the
Bishop of Neustadt, doubtless did not
know tlioroughly the confidential in-
structions of the plenipotentiary with
whom he negotiated. The slightest
affirmation of the bishop himself would
have incomparably mm^ weight with
us, but that prelate, from whom M. de
Careil publishes several documents,
00 far from ever mentioning any such
engagement, takes special care, on the
contrary, to avoid giving any personal
opinion of his own on any of the plans
presented to him. He takes care to
vemark to Leibnitz, in a special letter^

that in the whole matter he acts only
as a simple reporter, guards himself
from supporting any proposition made
to him, and simply promises the Prot-
estant theologians to labor to secure a
favorable reception to any overtures
they might make consistent with
Catholic pnnciples. JEgo, says he,
miUibi causa suicepUs agam doctarem^
sed nmplicem apud lUramque partem
solicitatorum. . • Nihil aliud pollicear
quam quod . . ego tJieobgicam et tamja'
vorabilem ac prindpia nostra patian--
tur, approbaiianem procurare laborabo.
Such a promise, which lends itself in-
deed to everything, engager assuredly
to nothing, and if it in some measure
explains the hopes which Leibnitz
cherished, it is far from sufficing to
remove our doubts.

Till a contraiy proof — and I mean
by a contrary proof an authentic and
official document, not such or such an
allusion, or it is said, collected at ran-
dom from a private correspondence —
I shall continue to believe tliat the
suspension of the Council of Trent, aU
thouoch making an essential part, and
constituting, as it wem, the keystone
of the Protestant plan of pacification,
was never conceded in principle at
Rome, probably was never entertain-
ed ; that Bishop Spinola was never
authorized to treat on tliat basis, and
tJiat if he did not wholly refuse ta
converse on that point, it was in order
nol to discourage benevolent dis^)osi-
tions which he judged it wise to manr
age. He also may have hoped that
when the Protestants had taken the
great step of admitting the infalli-
bility of Catholic auiliority, they
would be led easily, by means of some
historical explanations, to agree that
the aid of the Holy Ghost did not fail
the sessions of Trent, any more than any
of the grand assizes of tlie Christian
Church. If I am deceived in this
negative conclusion, nothing would
have been more easy for M. de Careil
than to prevent my error by a more
complete publication.

The sequel of events will show why
I attach so much importance to the

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441

establishment of the trath on this
point Let us resume, therefore, with
M. de Careil the thread of the narra-
tive. In spite of the general desire
in 1670 to effect an understanding
between Protestants and Catholics,
and perhaps because of the ardor of
that desire, all parties avoided ex-
plaining themselves fully on delicate
points, and the negotiation and the
irenique, as M. de Careil calls it,
dragged itself along and reached no
result. Twenty years after it contin-
ued still, languishing, indeed, but not
abandoned. The Bishop of Neustadt
was still living, hoping, laboring, and
travelling constantly, intent on effect-
ing peace ; the Protestant doctors con-
tinued to pile up notes upon notes,
and blackened any quantity of paper ;
but if in the theological world the af-
fair remained on foot, though not ad-
vancing, in the political world the
&vor which had sustained it was sin-
gularly cooled. The spirit of resist-
ance to the preponderating influence
of Louis Xl v., more determined than
ever, had suddenly changed its course,
and sought no longer its support in
Catholicity, but, on the contrary, in
the most advanced party of the Re-
formation, which suddenly raised up
a champion of European independ-
ence. The Protestant chief of a petty
maritime republic, elevated by a dar-
ing movement to the throne of a great
monarchy — ^the grandson of William
the Taciturn, became master of the
heritage of the Stuarts, rallied around
his standard all the hopes of national
freedom and all the animosities caused
by oppression. Beside, from the fatal
edict of 1685, which brutally thrust
out of France a whole peaceable peo-
ple, brought up under the shelter of
the laws in the ignorance of an hered-
itary ^rror, the armies, the councils,
and the large industrial towns of all
Curope became gorged with French
exiles, who united in the same execra-
tion Louis XIV. and the Church in
which they saw only the bloody image
of her implacable minister. On this
stormy sea of excited passion and in-

tense hatred the humble project of
union, which Spinola and Leibnitz had
so much difficulty in keeping afloat in
calm weather, had little chance of sur-
viving.

The princes abandoned it as no
longer serving their political interests.
But other auxiliaries, however, offered
themselves, endowed with less power
indeed, but hardly less brilliancy.
These were no other than great la-
dies, delighting in the commerce of
the learned, and retaining in their con-
vents or the interior paths of piety the
habits of a cultivated education, and
sometimes pretensions to political
ability. In the seventeenth century,
especially in France after the Fronde,
it is well known that theology often
became the refuge of those high-bom
beauties whom scruples or repentance
kept aloof from the pleasures of the
court, whilst the jealous despotism of
the sovereign would no longer permit
them to make a figure on the theatre
of public affiurs. Several of these ele-
gant, noble, and even royal lady-theolo-
gians were attracted by the report of
the negotiation in which Leibnitz took
part, and perhaps by the renown of
that negotiator himself, and in the
hope either of aiding in dressing the
wounds of Europe, or at least of se-
curing so precious a conquest in the
net of faith, opened communications
and displayed in their correspondence
with him those severe graces of which
their piety had not despoiled them.
The Abbess of Maubuisson ; Louise
Hollandine, sister of the palatiness,
Anne of Gonzaga; that celebrated
princess herself; the sprightly Ma-
dame de Brinon, for a long time the
confidant of Madame de Maintenon at
Satnt-Cyr, but whose enterprising
spirit could not be anywhere content-
ed with a subordinate part ; in fine, the
queen of the Preci&uses, Mademoi-
selle Scud^ry, who neglected no op-
portunity of shining in an epistolary
correspondence, and who was by no ,
means sorry to show that her merit
could surpass the limits of the Carte
de Tendre, such are the unexpect-

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LMnitz and Boisuel.

ed figures which M. de Careil makes
pass before us, and in painting them
he borrows some colors from the pal-
ette of the great philosopher of oar
days, M. Cousin, who has devoted
himself to the good fame of the ladies
of the seventeenth century. In the
train of the ladies appear the literary
gentlemen of their society, accustomed
to make with them, in courteous jousts,
the assaults of wit. As the friend of
Madame de Brinon, for instance, we
see intervene the historian of the
French Academy, the best pen of the
royal cabinet, the celebrated Pellisson.
AU these epistles, very numerous, in
which the variety of tone relieves the
monotony of subject, form the most
agreeable part of the new publication
— ^too agreeable, indeed, for seriousness
is sadly wanting, and more still in
Leibnitz himself than in his graceitd
correspondents. A tone of subtle
badinage, a mistimed display of litera-
ry and philosophical erudition, the
pleasure of discussing without care
to conclude, are, unhappily, but too
apparent in everything that emanates
from his pen during this second pe-
riod. We might say that he took
pleasure in prolonging a situation
which procured him advances so flat-
tering, and in which, without pledg-
ing himself to any one, he could let
himself be lulled by sweet compli-
ments from the most beautiful mouths
in the world.

However that might be, this slum-
ber, sustained by such sweet words,
was all at once rudely broken. Ma-
dame de Brinon, the most active
brain of the feminine congress, seeing
that after all they talked much and
said nothing, and that, by a supple
and undulating argumentation, Leib-
nits always escaped at the decisive
moment, and retarded more than he
advanced a solution, formed the pro-
ject of calling to her aid a more vig-
orous athlete, who could grapple
with him body to body. She ad-
dressed herself to Bossuet, and this
time the Bishop of Meaux found
more leisure and more freedom of

action. The political situation had
changed. Ck>ming out from that cold
distrust in which he intrenched him-
self in the beginning, he requested
to have conmiunicated to hun the
documents of the negotiation, espe-
cially the writings of Molanus, and
made it his duty to give his own views
of the matter. The entrance of this
great man upon the scene, a long
time announced, a long time expect-
ed, and who appeared, as in certain
tragedies, as the hero of the third
act, has, in M. de CareU's publica-
tion, all the effect of a theatrical sur-
prise.

No sooner, in fact, has he opened
his mouth, than a puff of his stiff,
strong speech tumbles down the frail
scaffolding on which Leibnitz had
placed his hopes of the peace of
Christendom. Placing his finger at
once on the weak spot ia the system,
he has no difficulty in showing that,
however disguised, the real proposi-
tion returns always to the demand
that the Church shall suffer to be called
in question points already adjudicated,
and tolerate doubt where she has al-
ready defined the faith. Now, if such
condescension is possible in the order
of human decrees, which, providing
for local and transitory interests, may
and ought to yield to differences of
time and place, it would be absurd to
suppose it possible in the order of
eternal truths, proclaimed by an au-
thority conceded to be in&Uible. In-
fallibility carries with it immutability
as a necessary consequence. The
mirror of an unalterable truth can re-
flect only a single image; the echo
can repeat only a single sound. Com-
ment, explain, as much as you please,
clothe the old faith with new fonns if
you will, smooth the paths which con-
duct to it by removing all ofiensive
terms which are a stumbling-block to
the weak, save self-love the hnmih'a-
tion of a position disavowed by treat-
ing error as a misunderstanding which
is now enlightened, even charity ex-
acts in this respect all that dignity per-
mits ; but to alter, attenuate, or mere-

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44S

fy to debate the troth transmitted can
in no sense be permitted without kill-
ing with the same blow both the Church
and the truth, without either denying
the truth or that the Church has al-
ways been its interpreter.

Such was the reasoning, perfectly
simple, and the principle of the infal-
libility of the Church once admitted,
unanswerable, which Bossuet with his
well known majesty, and from the
height of his episcopal dignity, urged
in reply to the method supported by
Leibnitz. Was Leibnitz taken by
surprise? Had he seriously thought
of becoming a Cadiolic wi'tbout sub-
mitting in the process to this conse-
quence ? Such a defect of logic in a
rival of Newton is not supposable.
But he was neither accustomed to be
treated so loftily, nor in a humor to
march so directly to the point. A cry
of astonishment and despite involun-
tarily escaped him, sharp complaints
of ^ haughtiness of M,de Meaufc^ of
the tone of superiority which eloquence
and authority give to great men, and
bitter denunciations of the exclusive
spirit and obstinacy of theologians, be-
tray this sentiment, very natural, and
as it would seem even in some meas-
ure contagious, for M. de Careil,
now and then making himself one
with his hero, suffers himself to be
gained by it. All good Catholic as
he would be, he himself also in his
two introductions regrets that the con-
ciliating spirit and eclectic methods of
Leibnitz were not accepted. Concili-
ation is an excellent thing, and pleases
me much, some say, pleases me too
much, and I have been more than
once accused of carrying in religious
matters my love for it alittle too far ;
bat there are limits fixed in the very
nature of things, and which a little
common sense will always, I hope,
prevent me from transgressing. Who
says Churchy says permanence in the
truths of faith; and who says OalholicSy
says a union of men who think alike
of those truths* Now what, stripped
of all ambiguity of language, would
have been the practical effect of the

proposition of Leilmitz, if it had been
carried into execution ? The points
of doctrine (and what points! the most
important not only for faith but also
for reason, affecting the basis as the
supreme destiny of the soul) touch-
ing the accord of grace and free
will, the conditions of eternal salva-
tion, the mysterious operations of the
sacraments, taught in the Christian
pulpit from the veiy cradle of Chris-
tian antiquity, and for more than a
hundred years clothed in new and more
precise forms, would have been at a
single dash erased from the catechism
and suspended in doubt till the uncer-
tain action of a future council ! The
Church would have suffered an inter-
rogation point to be placed indefinite-
ly before affirmations which she had
only the day before imposed on the
faithful under sanction of an anathe-
ma I Meanwhile, the faithful, divided
on the very foundations of their belief,
would have met before the same altar
to repeat the same prayers while un-
derstanding them in contradictory
senses, and to receive the same sacra-
ments while holding entirely different
views of theff value and efficacy!
What in this strange interim would
have become of the dignity and stabil-
ity of Catholic doctrine ? And what
were the utility of an external and
nominal union which could only cover
a real internal difference ?

To sustain himself, if not his firm
and piercing genius, in an illusion
which held him captive and would not
relax its grasp, Leibnitz had two,
only two, arguments in his repertory ;
but he had the art to make them take
so many different forms, and to make
with these two arms so many passes
and counter-passes of logic and erudi-
tion, that more than an entire volume
is taken up by M. de Careil with the
writings which contain them, and
which may be read even now without
other fatigue than that produced by
their continual dazzle. Faithful to
our task of reporter, we must strip
these two arguments of the brilliant
garments wiUi which his luxurious

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LeibniUz and Bassuet

eloqneoce adorns them. Divested of
their flesh, so to speak, stripped naked,
and subjected to the treatment to
which the scholastics subject all argu-
ments to ascertain their value, these
two arguments are very simple and
easily compreliended. In the first
place, they consist in denying the anti-
quity, and therefore the authority, of the
Council of Trent. Leibnitz in this re-
spect only repeats the allegations of
ail Protestant doctors, and which
were old even in his time. The num-
ber of prelates present at that assem-
bly was relatively small, and were
taken almost exclusively from the
churches of Spain and Italy, and as
several Catholic sovereigns refused to
publish the council in their respective
states, because some of its disciplin-
ary canons appeared to strike at their
temporal rights, there had been no
opportunity to heal its original defect
by the assent of the Church dis-
persed.

In the second place, granting that
the Council of Trent had the character
and authority which are questioned, it
was in good faith and in the sincerity
of their hearts that Protestants refused
to acknowledge them. They in whose
names Leibnitz was charged to nego-
tiate gave manifest proofs of that
good faith in adhering beforehand to
the decision of a future council, and
consequently in rendering full hom-
age to the principle of ecclesiastical
authority. Now error, if sincere, is
not heresy, and has only its appear-
ance. It is only voluntary, deliberate,
and obstinate rebelKon that makes the
heretic A man who submits in ad-
vance to the authority of truth, and
waits only a knowledge of it to ar-
range himself under its banner, counts
from tliat moment among those to
whom the Church may open her ma-
ternal bosom.

These few sentences embrace—
every attentive reader will be convinc-
ed of it — the substance of the whole
alimentation, extended by Leibnitz,
enriched and enlivened by a thou-
sandpiquant expressions, through many

years, in a series of more than a
hundred letters. It needs fewer words
still, after Bossaet, to expose in ita
poverty and nakedness the ground-
work concealed by the richness and
splendor of the ornaments.

What mattered it, in reality, to ex-
amme whether the Council of Trent
in its origin or at any moment of its
duration had united a full represen-
tation of the universal Church ? To
what good to seek if it had received
in its text and in every part official
promulgation by the political power
in each sovereign state? One fact
was certain, and that was enough. At
the time when Leibnitz was writin(^
the doctrine defined by the Fathers of
Trent on all the points controverted
between Catholics and Protestants
was, without a single exception, the
law in all the churohes of the Catho-
lic world. From the basilica of
Michael Angelo to the humblest vil-
lage church, under the purple as
under the serge soutane, every pon-
tiff, every cardinal, every bishop,
every parish priest, in the confession-
al as in the pulpit, scrupulously con-
formed to its language. If the con-
sent of the Church is not recogniz-
able by such signs, by what signs
could it be recognized? Only they
whom Ti'ent condemned peraisted in
withliolding their adhesion to its de-
crees. But Arius protested also
against Nicaea, and it has never de-
pended on a few voices raised by spite
or chagrin to disturb the harmony of
symbols with which the concert of na-
tions makes resound the vaults of the
universal Church.

What, again, avails it to allege the
good faith, th# involuntary ignorance,
of Protestants in resisting the Coun-
cJ of Trent? That good faith, if
real, may excuse them in the eyes
of God, who reads the heart ; it opens
not the doors of the visible Churoh,
which can admit to her external
communion only those who make an
explicit profession of her doctrine.
Whero, in fact, should we be, what
chimera would be the authority of the

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445

CSrarch, and m what smoke would
vaQish the obedience of the faithful, if
every man couid at pleasure retrench
this or that article from the OredOj
under the pretext that he could not in
hjB conscience recognize in it the
marks of dtyine revelation ? Certain-
ly it is obstinacy in error that makes
the heretic, for a just God can punbh
only the sidhesion of the will to er-
ror. So in that terrible and solemn
day which will rend the veil which
covers the inmost human conscience,
not only of those in separated Chris-
tian communions, but even those in
the darkness of paganism and idolatry,
many souls may be discovered who
for Uieir constant fidelity to the feeble
gleams of light vouchsafed them, will
have deserved to have applied to them
the merits of the sacrifice of the Son of
God. More than one Queen of Saba
will come up from the desert to accuse
the children of Abraham of a want of
faith, and in that supreme moment
the Church will recognize more than
one

**BnfA]it qa*en sol seln elle n*a point portd/*
(Child which she has not brought forth.)

But it is given to no one to antici-
pate that hour of mystery and revela-
tion, and so long as here below, and
knowing one another only by words
and external acts, it is , by our beliefs
that we must, at least externally, as
to the body, if not to the soul, sepa-
rate ourselves. Sole certain guide to
salvation, sole confidant of the mys-
teries of grace, the Church damns not
in advance all those whom she ex-
cludes, any more than she saves all
those whom she admits ; but she can
relinquish to nobody a sin<]:le one of
the articles of faith, nor knowingly al-
low a single farthing to be subtracted
from the deposit confided to her keep-
ing.

Against these two fixed points, im-
perturbably sustained by the hand of
Bossuet, the inexhaustible dialectics of
Leibnitz, always repulsed, ever return-
ing anew to the charge, beats and
breaks, without relaxation, precisely as

the waves of the ocean against the
rock. The contrast between the flexi-
bUity of one of the adversaries and the
immobility of the other is about all the
interest that, in the midst of continual
repetitions, is offered by this intermin-
able debate. We subjoin, however, to
conclude our analysis, the recital of
two inventions of doubtAil loyalty im-
agined by Leibnitz to give the change
to his adversary, and which out of re-
spect for the memory of so great a
man we will call not artifices, but
with M. Foucher de Careil simply ex-
pedients.

The first consisted in passing over
the head of Bossuet, in order to crush
him with the heavy hand of his sov-
ereign, Louis XIV.

Europe knew, or at least believed
that it knew, both Bossuet and Louis
XIV. It knew that the one suffered
from temperament, and the other from
principle, hardly any limit to the roy-
al authority. The susceptibility of
the monarch and the conscience of the
subject being of one accord, Leibnitz
thought that by disquieting the mon-
arch he could easily bring the subject
to reason. So in a note, ably and
skilfully drawn up, addressed to the
Duke of Brunswick, who was to send
it to the French king, he represented
that the work of peace at the point
reached was arrested by an obstacle in
reality more political than religious ;
that the Council of Trent, which was
the real stumbling-block, interested
Rome in her struggle with the tempo-
ral powers far more than in her con-
troversies with heresy. Hence an
intervention of tha royal authority to
remove that obstacle, so far from be-
ing an invasion of the domain of faith,
would be on]y a very proper act
defensive of the legitimate attributes
of the temporal authority, only a con-
tinuation and a consequence of the
struggle against ultramontane preten-
sions instituted and sustained by all
the parliaments of France, and for the
clergy something like a supplementary
article to the declaration of 1682. Let
the king make felt in this languishing

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446

Leibnitz and Bostuet.

negotiation that hand which nothing in
Europe can resist Let him pronounce
one of those sovereign words which
have so oflen fetched an echo even in
the sanctuarj, or let him simply join
to the theologians and bishops, too sub-
missive by their quality to the spirit-
ual authority, an ordinary represent-
ative of the regalian rights — a lawyer,
a statesman, or a magistrate, and all
will speedily return • to order, and
march rapidly toward a solution.
Numerous adulations of the wisdom
of the king, and even of his theological
knowledge, followed by honeyed in-
sinuations against the Bishop of
Meaux, terminate this singular appeal
to the secular arm, the discovery of
which will hardly count among the
titles to glory of philosophy, and which,
moreover, was no more successful than
estimable.

The king, old, weary of those reli-
gious discussions which were the
plague of his reign, and even to his
last days the chastisement of his in-
tolerable despotism, communicated the
note to Bossuet without comment,
perhaps even without having paid it
the least attention. Bossuet, strong in
the solidity of his arguments, declared
himself perfectly willing to receive
such lay associate as should be chosen,
and Leibnitz, having no reason after
that to desire what Bossuet so little
dreaded, the proposition fell through,
and lefl no trace.

The other snare was not less adroit,
but more innocent. In his attach-
ment to his favorite plan, Leibnitz
could not persuade himse^ that it
could possibly be resisted by any rea-
sons drawn from conscience alone.
The party taken, the point of honor,
scholastic obstinacy, were, it seemed to
him, the priacipal reasons for reject>-
ing his plan. It was with Catholics
a matter of vanity not to yield to de-
mands made by Protestants. But
what they refused from ihe hand of a
stranger, they would, perhaps, accept
more willingly from the hand of a
friend^ a member of their own commu-
nion. A pious fraud would relieve

the plan of all suspicion of heresy.
A consultation, for example, of a sup-
posed Catholic doctor, who should
show himself favorable to it, would,
perhaps, be all that was required to
disarm prejudice, and the flag would
pass the merchandise. The great
philosopher, therefore, set himself at
work. Assuming the paternal tone and
authoritative air of a Catholic priest,
taking care that no expression smack-
ing of heresy should escape his lips,
playing a part, so to say, with all the
gravity in the world, and, without a
single smile, produced m eight or ten
{Mkges that little document which he
entitled Jttdicium Doctoris CathoUeij
and which, proceeding from prlnciplea
in appearance the most Catholic, and
advancing in ways the most orthodox,
arrived at the foot of the Council of
Trent itself, to mine in silence its
very foundation. If M. de Careil
had not this time conscientiously
printed the entire text of this discov-
ery, we should find it very hard to
believe that a miad so great could de-
scend to such a puerile game, and of
which we seek in vain the fruit he
evidently hoped. With whom, then,
did Leibnitz imagine he had to do?
Do people disguise their ideas, as they
counterieit their voices? Is the
Church a citadel so poorly guarded
that one can enter it by stratagem, by
simply turning his cockade or dissem-
bling his uniform ? Took he Bossuet
for an imbecile sentinel who could be
imposed upon by passports so evident-
ly forged ?

For the honor of Leibnitz and of
philosophy we would pass over in si-
lence this crotchet of misplaced gaie-
ty, if M. de Careil did not force us
to pause on it for a mcmient longer
before including, by attaching to it
an undue importance, by pretending
to see in it the solution of a literary
problem, which we formerly made a
subject (jf some observations. A few
words will dispose of this incident,
which beside is not wholly foreign to
the principal object of our present re-
flections.

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447

B^jond the controversy with Bos-
aoet, which, during the lifetime of
Leibnitz, made, in fact, very little
noise, and the partial publication of
which was alreswiy ancient, there ex-
ists, as is known, wholly in the hand-
writing of that great man, a small
work on religious questions, which re-
mained unknown up to his death and
even for a long time after, and which
was discovered and published only at
the beginning of the present century.
When this little work, baptized, I know
not by whom, Systema H^eologicum, for
the first time saw the light, it was per-
ceived, not without surprise, that on
all the points, even those on which in
his known writings Leibnitz was the
^rthest removed from the doctrines
of the Church, his conclusions con-
formed to the purest Catholic teach-
ing. From that arose a great discus-
sion among the learned, all astonished,
some agreeably, some disagreeably,
to find in Leibnitz this posthumous
and unexpected evidence of ortho-
doxy. Commentaries, conjectures, ex-
planations, were called forth in abund-
ance, oflen ingenious, but rarely im-
partial, each writer interpreting the
tract after his own manner — ^Protest-
ants anxious to keep Leibnitz in
their ranks, and Catholics intent on
conquering him for theirs. I myself
hazarded some conjectures on the sub-
ject, but timidly, as was proper on such
a matter, and without much expecta-
tion of making them prevail, the first
to acknowledge their insufficiency,
and persuaded that the existence of
the S^stema Theohgtcttm, like the
btrth-piace of Homer, and the name
of the author of the Imitaiiane OhrisH,
would remain a sort of biblical quad-
rature of the circle, destined to supply
for ever to the learned a subject of
discussion, and to students a thesis.

If we believe M. de Careil, the
mystery is now unveiled; the new
discovery explains the old ; the Jtidi-
ctum DocUnis CatkoUci is the key
to the Syttema Theohgicumy of which
it is substantially only a rough
sketch, and the first edition* Li the

one as in the other, Cathoiicity is only
a borrowed vestment, momentarily
worn by Leibnitz to disguise his uni-
form of a negotiator. It was a ruse
not of war but of diplomacy. On the
plan of pacification the success of
which he was bent on securing, Leib-
nitz, in order to beguile the malevo
lent, by a premeditated design im
pressed on it the Catholic seal instead
of the Protestant stamp. He was
no more a Catholic when he wrote
the Systema Hieologicum than he was
when he prepared, to deceive the vigi-
lant eye of Bossuet, the Judicium
Doctoris CathoUd ; he only wished to
appear one in order to secure a full
hearing for the conditions on which he
could become a Catholic*

The natural consequence of such a
supposition has been for M. de Careil
to make the Systema Theologicum
figure by the side of the Judicium
Doctorisy at such a date as he judged
the most convenient, for example,
among the documents of the negotia-
tion of which he was drawing up a
statement (proch verbal). But since
one of these documents was, in his
view, only the detailed reproduction of
the other, it seems to us he should have
placed them in face of each other, so
as to facilitate their comparison. We
regret that he has not so placed them,
for we are convinced that even he
himself, in re-reading them in connec-
tion for the press, would have had no
difficulty in perceiving that the assim-
ilation imagined has not the least
foundation in fact. Although signed
by the same hand, the two documents,
which he would confound, do not in any
manner whatever bear witness to the
same state of mind, or to having
been both designed to aid a common
object. Everything in them differs,
not merely in tone, which in one is

* A similar view, in some respects, to this is
taken and arged with mach plausibility by Dr.
Onhraaer In his Oerman work which formed
the basis of J. M. Mackle^s ''Life of Godfrey
William YOQ Leibnitz," publiohed at Boston by
Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, 1845; and the refuta-
tion of it. Indirectly given by the Prince de
Broglie in the text, is by no means nnwelcome.
—Tbm TaAirsLATOB.

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448

Leibnitz and BossueU

grave and full of emotion, subtle and
light in the other, but, above all, in
the plan and very substance of the
argument The Judicium is a series
of arguments, veiy brief, which tend
directly to a foregone conclusion,
namely, the pacification of the schism,
and as the means of effecting it, the
suspension of the Council of Trent.
Not an idea, not a word, that does not
tend directly to this conclusion, nor
the slightest effort to dissemble it. It
is a skiliiil, but adroit pleading against
the Council of Trent The Systemct,
on the contrary, is a detailed exposi-
tion, often eloquent, of the .entire
Catholic faith, point by point, dogma
after dogma, of those which Protest-
ants reject as well as of those which
they admit with the Church. And
what authority does this dogmatic ex-
position appeal to as its support?
The oftenest is to the Council of Trent
itself, openly invoked, on the ground
that the voice of the universal Church
is the invariable rule of faith. The
Council of Trent in every line is call-
ed holy, venerable, and sometimes even
the Council, by way of eminence. After
this, what place would M. de Careil
give to this writing in a negotiation,
the precise object of which was to efface
that council from the memory of the
faithful, and the annals of the Church ?
A singular pleasure assuredly Leibnitz
must have found in belying himself,
in playing a ridiculous ^rce, and of
doubtful morality, only to end in
yielding to his opponent the ground
disputed between them !

Till M. de Careil responds to this
difficulty, to which we had previously
invited his attention, we must con-
tinue to guard ourselves against
confounding works so dissimilar in
their tone, design, and substance as
the Judicium and the Systema, and
continue also to see in the one only a
pastime without value, which ought
not to have occupied even the waste
moments of a great man, and still less
cause the loi^ of that time so well
filled by his editor ; and in the other,
on the contrary, the expression of a

sincere conviction, very proper to
throw light on the nature of the be-
liefs of the soul that conceived it It
is of the state of that soul, and of
those beliefs, that it remains for us to
say a few words, by attempting to
enlighten the conftised impressions
produced by the voluminous papers of
which we have just finished the an-
alysis.

Thbeb things, I think, mnst have
struck those who have had the pa-
tience to follow me in this long expo-
sition : 1. The singularly narrow
ground on which Leibnitz consented to
place the negotiation ; 2. This perse-
verance in pursuing it; 8. This re-
sistance to bringing it to a conclusion.
Cantoned in very narrow quarters,
he maintained himself there with ob-
stinacy, reanimating the combat when-
ever it slackened, but escaping from
every solution whenever it approach-
ed.

They, for example, who, attracted
by the antithesis of the two great
names, should imagine that they were
about to hear debated between the
last of the Fathers and the ancestor
of modem philosophy the great ques-
tion everywhere agitated in the six-
teenth century, and on which the future
of society depends — they who should
expect to see a mortal struggle in the
listed field between a champion of free
inquiry and a representative of author-
ity, would, I fear, be greatly disappoint-
ed. Not a word of the mutual relations
of faith and reason, of the rights of
private judgment, or of the principle
of authority, is, I think, met with
in the whole twelve hundred pages
comprised in these two volumes ; and
for the very simple reason, that the
terms to which the discussion was re-
stricted raised no queiition of the
sort between the two opponents.
Faithful to the constant traditions of
the Church, and imbued with the rules
of the Cartesian method, Bossuet con-
tested none of the prerogatives of rea-

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LeilmUz and BassueL

449

son in the order of our natural pow-
ers ; ChristlaQ bj profession, Leibnitz
recognized in faith the right to reveal
and to impose on man knowledge supe-
rior to nature — pretending to become
and even to be a Catholic in potentia
and tn voto, Leibnitz declared himself
readj to seek the rule of fiuth, not in
the mute text of a book, but in the
living voice of an organized Church,
and this Church he distinctly acknow-
ledged to be in the hierarchy of pas-
tors whose head is the Roman Pontiff.
Consequently there was and could be no
debate either on the existence or the
composition, the mode of action or the
seat, of the ecclesiastical authority.
There was between them only a sim-
ple and humble question of fact— of
history. Certainly the Church haa
the plenary right to be heard and
obeyed when she speaks ; but did she
speak in the Council of Trent ? The
contest Leibnitz sustained went no
further than this, and rose no higher.
Persons in our day, curious in the-
ology and metaphysics, those who
take an interest in reconciling free
will with grace, or the foreknowledge
of God, those who like to carry
either the torch of dogma or the scal-
pel of analysis into the very depths
of the soul, will find very litde satis-
B^tion in reading them. None of
the psychological or moral problems
raised by the Reformation, and with
which it had troubled men's minds,
and filled the schools with the serf-will
of Luther, nor the foreordination of
Calvin, nor the subtle distinctions in
regard to the intrinsic nature of moral
evil and the effects of original sin^ ob-
tained from Leibnitz, from first to last,
even so much as a simple allusion.
On the concurrence of the divine ac-
tion and that of the human will in the
work of moral progress and the hope
of eternal salvation, he thought and
spoke as the Church. His criticisms
affect the form of the Council of Trent
rather tiian the substance of its decis-
ions. It is the competency of the
court to which he pleads, rather than
its decrees. Aside from the canon
> VOL. n. 29

of the Scriptures, which, for the Old
Testament, he would restrict to the
Hebrew books properly so-called, and
exclude therefrom the books in Greek
transmitted only by the Septuagint,
I am aware of no dogmatic point, de-
fined at Trent, which creates with him
any serious difficulty. And even on
this subject of the canonicity of the
sacred books, he has nothing that resem-
bles that audacious criticism to which
Richard Simon, in the seventeenth
century, opened the way, and which, a
very few years after, all Germany was
to rush into and level and broaden.
It was not the criticism of our days,
which pretends to an imprescriptible
right over the entire text of the Scrip-
tures, and to serve as the ground of
all certainty, moral and philosophicaL
The criticism of Leibnitz takes not
such lofty airs. It is restricted to some
accessory parts of the Old Testament,
and presumes not to go beyond. Ana
when Bossuet, adopting a method fa-
miliar to logicians (though not always
prudently employed), would push it to
the extreme, to absurdity even, and
prove that its principles logically car-
ried out would ruin entirely the Holy
Scriptures, Leibnitz recoils, frighten-
ed at the last word of his own logic.

Leibnitz, having never been accus-
ed of a narrow or timid mind, of any
lack of boldness in his principles or of
force in deducing from them their log-
ical consequences, it is necessary to
believe that if he avoided the debate
between the Reformation and the
Church under its grander aspects,
it was solely because he was separat-
ed from Catholic beliefs only by the
narrow trench which he himself has
traced, and because his own Protest-
antism, so to speak, was neither long-
er nor broader. Certainly he can be
very little of a Protestant who ac-
knowledges all the councils less one
alone, and even all the decrees of that
one save a single oxception — who
speaks as a Catholic of the Church,
of tradition, of the priesthood, and of
the sacraments. That to these senti-
ments, so near to those of a Catholic,

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450

Leibnitz and BoisueL

Leibnitz joined the sincere desire to
take the final step ; that, having reach-
ed the threshold, he was strongly
pressed to cross it, we must believe,
in order not only not to throw doubt
on his oflen repeated protestations,
which have every appearance of being
made in good faith, but to account for
his perseverance, meritoriously display-
ed on more than one occasion to sus-
tain or revive, against all hope, the
flickering flame of the languishing
negotiation. Neither the growing
coldness of the powers of the earth,
who afler having started it abandoned
it midway, nor the haughtiness of
Bossuet, a little contemptuous, which
exposed without any mercy the van-
ity of his projects, succeeded in dis-
couraging him. He was proof against
all disgusts ; he knocked at every
door, and the crooked methods he
adopted to open or turn them,
not according to the rules of loyal
warfare, attest at least an ardent de-
sire to enter the place. Yet, in spite of
this agreement on principles, this
heartfelt desire for union, and the fee-
ble distance which remained for him
to traverse to become a Catholic,
Leibnitz never in his lifb traversed it
The end of the discussion found him
just where he was at its beginning,
always debating, never advancing.
When the reasoning of Bossuet be-
came urgent and victorious (and it
will be admitted that with the choice
of ground, and the advantages con-
ceded him, one needs not to be a Bos-
suet to conquer) — ^whenever it took a
turn ad hominem, and passed from the
general interests of Protestantism to
the particular duties of individual
conscience — ^whenever the question
was no longer of concluding a treaty
of peace between two hostile powers,
but of articulating the submission of a
believer, Leibnitz drew back, and es-
caped. The tone becomes sharp and
sour, recriminations are mingled with
reasoning, subterfuges retract the con-
cessions. Broad and easy in regard
lo principles, he ha^les at consequen-
ces. "What are we to think of that

alternation, of those constant advan-
ces followed by as constant retreats ?
What was the after-thought back of
the exterior motives of that intennit-
tent resistance ? For no one can be
persuaded that a man of a seriouA
character, and a mind which stops not
at trifles, admitting in the outset the
necessity and the right of an infalli-
ble authority in matters of faith, could
remain a Protestant, that is, a rebel to
that acknowledged authority, because
the bishops, united at Trent, admitt^
EccleaiaMicus and Macchahees into the
canon of the Scriptures.

The moral problem being curious
and complex, every one has a right to
offer his own solution. I formerly, in
this periodical, offered mine, and I
shall hold to it till a better and a more
satisfactory solution is discovered. In
my judgment, all is explained, if we
suppose that Leibnitz became a Cath-
olic in intellect and by study, yet re-
mained a Protestant by force of habit,
interest, and self-love. The first part
b not even a supposition, but a fact.
For, waiving the disputed value of the
Sysiema Theologicum^ the documents
which we have before us contain
alone avowals amply sufficient to
prove it. When one admits the con-
currence of free will and the divine
will in the work of salvation, the mys-
terious virtue and efficacy of the sac-
raments, the transubstantiation of the
elements in the eucharist — when one
recognizes the sacred character of the
priesthood, the Primacy by divine right
of the bishops of Rome, and, above all,
the infallibility of the Church (and
Leibnitz accords all this to Bossuet,
always by implication, and often under
the form of explicit concession), one
is willingly or unwillingly a Catholic,
or at least has lost all right not to be
one. In such a case the defect is in the
will, not the intellect. Let nothing be
said here of invincible ignorance, for
never was there ignorance more vind-
ble, more completely conquered, sub-
jected, drowned in floods of light, than
in the case of Leibnitz.

Remains, then, only the seeood

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Leibnitz and Bossuet,

451

part of the hypothesis, which I con-
fess is less dearlj demonstrated, as
well as less charitable; but it per-
fectly meets the facts in the case, and
perhaps, when the first part is once
conceded, it, better than any other ex-
planation, saves the dignity and loyal-
ty of Leibnitz.

If it was true, as we hold, that
Leibnitz, agreeing with the Church in
aU the fundamental principles of the
Catholic faith, was retained outside of
her communion by the fear of losing
the high position which he had gained
in the rani^ of Protestants and with
their princes, nothing more simple
than that, to satisfy at the same time
his conscience and his interests, he
should labor earnestly andpersevering-
ly to effect a reconciliation of his party
and his protectors with the Church.
If it was true that he felt himself bound
by strong and respectable ties which
attach men to the monuments, and to
the forms of worship, which received
their first vows and dictated their first
prayers, it is very natural that he
should hesitate to go alone, to take
his seat in churches unknown to his
childhood, and that he should, instead,
seek at first to reconstruct the broken
down altars of the temples of the middle
ages which had seen his birth. If finally
\^e proud weakness attached to the roy-
alty of science as to every other roy-
alty, made him dread to change the
part of an accredited doctor of one
party for that of a penitent and ne-
ophyte of another, who can be as-
tonished that, to spare himself the
painM transition, he should wish to
pass out with arms, baggage, and all
the honors of war, instead of submit-
ting to conditions, and enter into the
Church with head erect, followed by
a retinue of nations, and have there-
fore a right to as much gratitude as
he gave of submission ?

The persistence of Leibnitz in a
forlorn negotiation finds in this at
least a probable explanation. His
insistance on points t>f little import-
ance is less easy to understand. These
pomts, of which he knew well what to

think, are those without which, accoid-
ing to his knowledge of the Protestant
courts and schools, no peace was possible
either to.be concluded or even proposed.
He knew how completely and irrevoca-
bly Protestant princes and doctors were
pledged by their word and their self-
love (amour-propre) against the Coun-
cil of Trent, from which they fancied
they had been ui\]ustly excluded.
Many of them were on the point of
reaching by their own reason and
study dogmatic conclusions analogous
to those of Trent ; but the date and
seal of that council aflixed to any for-
mulary presented for their signature
made them instinctively recoil. It
was in their name much more than in
liis own, or rather to manage their
pretensions much more than to tran-
quillize his own conscience, as he al-
lows us in more than one place to
perceive, that he insisted with invin-
cible obstinacy that this obstacle to
peace must be removed. He acted as
a negotiator who follows his instruo-
tions and speaks for others, much
more than as a doctor who decides, or
a philosopher who discusses, on his
own account In the new councU
whose convocation he called for, he
thought all low in himself, the dogmas
of Trent, after €ui apparent discussion,
would be re-established on the more
solid basis of a more general agreement,
and not having that quick sense of the
dignity of the Church which belongs
only to her children, he felt no repug-
nance to the adoption of expedients
borrowed from political prudence, and
wholly out of place in the Church of
God.

Thus may be resolved, it seems to
me, in the most simple manner in the
world, the apparent contradictions in
the conduct of Leibnitz, and be dis-
covered the secret of his obstinacy in
protracting a fruitless discussion, in-
stead of either candidly breaking it
off or boldly bringing it to its logical
conclusion. He had postponed the
day of his personal conversion to the
day constantiy hoped, constantly an-
nounced as near, of a general reooncil-

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452

Leibnitz and Bosiuet,

iation. It would have coBt him too
much to move before that day came ;
but it ooet him hardlj less to own
to himself that come it would not.
Hence, with him, a prolonged state of
indecision, which, as human life is
short, and death always takes us by
surprise, had naturally no termination
but that of his life itself. We in this
have, I think, explained that other
problem presented bj the Syttema The-
dogicwn. K we have rightly seized
his state of mind, nothing was more
natural than that we should find
among the papers of Leibnitz a pro*
fession of Catholic faith, and there can
be nothing astonishing in the fact that
it remain^ unSinished knd unpublish-
ed. From the moment in which the
doctrines contained in that tract became
his real belief, it was very natural that
he should reduce them to writing, and,
from the moment when he had sub-
jected the publication of his conver-
sion to a condition always hoped for,
but never realized, it was more natu-
ral still that he should keep the writ-
ing by him as the witness of the fact
of his conversion. At what point
of his life, therefore, did he confide to
paper the interior state of his mind ?
It is impossible, but at the same time
wholly unimportant, to determine.
Probably it was in one of those mo-
ments of sincerity and recollection in
which the soul, detaching herself from
all worldly considerations, places her-
self face to face with the problems
of her eternal destiny ; or, indeed, may
have been at a time when, in the vein
of hope, and believing that he was on
tlie eve of concluding ecclesiastical
peace, he wished to £aw up before-
hand, in readiness for the event, its
manifesto and programme. Little
imports it. As soon as he thought as
a Catholic, there were a thousand cir-
cumstances in his life in which he must
have spoken and written as he thought
The moment in which he would have
expressed himself with the least frank-
ness wasmost hkely that in which, beuig
made the plenipotentiary of the Prot-
estants, and charged to treat for tiiem,

he felt it his duty to put forth in their
name pretensions to which in his own
heart he attached no importance.
Leibnitz the negotiator must necessa-
rily have been more difficult, and set
a higher price on his submission, than
Leibnitz the philosopher, so that, in
opposition to the assertion of M. de
Careil, his sincere work would be the
Systema Theologicum : his diplomatic
work would be the correspondence of
which we have made the analysis.

The advantage of Bossuet in the
debate is that in his case no such
questions can be raised, and no such
subde distinctions be called for. Bos-
suet the bishop and Bossuet the diplo-
matist are one and the same person,
and speak one and the same language.
Knowing perfectly whence he starts,
whither he can go, what he is permit-
ted to abandon, and what he must hold
fast ; very liberal in the part which he
gives to reason, very precise in what
he asserts in the name of authority ;
marking with a steady hand the limits
of what can be changed in the Church,
and what is as immutable as she her-
self, he has no occasion, when he has
once laid down his principles, to with-
draw any concession, or to shrink
from any logical consequence ; possess-
ing an erudition less varied, an argu-
mentative abQity less flexible than that
of Leibnitz, Bossuet, in his letters,
carries the day by liis rectitude and
precision. We say, however, and
without vrrong to the great prelate,
that his cause was too nearly gained
in advance. All the principles are
conceded him in the outset, and the
slightest logical pressure suffices to
farce out the necessary conclusions.
Leibnitz found at times his hand
heavy, and complained of it; but
he himself armed that powerful hand
with the' instrument which it set at
work, without management indeed, but
also without forcing its action.

This privileged situation, which
gives to Bossuet his prepDnderance in
the struggle, takes, however, from that
struggle a large part of the interest
which otherwise it might have had for

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ScdfUs of the DeserL

453

VBy and deprives us of the instruction
that might have been derived from it
We assuredlj have little chance of
seeing pitted against each other com-
batants of their stature, and less still,
if it be possible, of seeing a debate
carried on under - like conditions.
There is no longer a Bossuet in the
Chorch ; bat still less, perhaps, are
there Protestants and philosophers who,
like Leibnitz, recognize infallibility
in principle, and the inspiration of
three-fourths of the canon of Scrip-
ture. That kind of enemies is gone,
and left no heirs. Those whom we
now encounter make to our forces
a less stiff resistance. The very im-
age and shadow of authority have
disappeared from the Protestantism of
our age, each day more and more dissi-
pated in the thousand shades of pri-
vate judgment. With unbounded free
inquiry and unbridled criticism, contro-
versy can no longer find a starting-
point in any dogma or in any texl.

and, in fact, has ceased to be possible.
The enemy escapes by the want of
a body to be grappled with. Hap-
pily, another sort of combat can be
waged, another sort of victory be
hoped for. Doctrines, remote from
one another, to be disputed in their
principles, may stiU be compared in
their effects. It is henceforth by their
respective fruits, rather than by argu-
ments, by their respective action on
society and on souls, • that, before an
uncertain public, must be judged the
principle of authority in matters of
faith and that of private judgment.
On this new soil, as on thatofpuie
intelligence, God permits the efforts of
man to concur in the triumph of his
cause. If he wills, then, for the honor
of his Church, to raise up Bossuets to
take his cause in hand, there ought
to be, for the honor of her nature,
Leibnitzes to meet them, and measure
themselves with them.

Prikoe Albsbt ds BaoaLiB.

From The Month.

SAINTS OF THE DESERT.

BY THE REV. J. H. NEWMAN, D.D.

1. Abbot Antony said: I saw the
nets of the enemy lying spread out
over the earth; and I cried out,
^ Alas, who shall escape these 7"

And a voice answered, ^ Humility."

2. It is told of Blessed Arsenius,
that on Saturday evening he turned
his back on the setting sun, and,
stretching out his arms toward heaven,
did not cease to pray till the sun rose
before his face in the morning.

8. Abbot Agatho was zealous to
fulfil every duty.

If he crossed a ferry, he was the
first to take an oar.

If he had a visit from his brethren,
his hand was first, after prayer, to set
oat the table.

For he was ftiU of divine love.

4. The novice of Abbot Sisoi often
had to say to him, << Rise, father ; let
us eat" He used to make answer,
^ Are you sure we did not eat just now,
my son P*

The novice replied, ^ Quite sure,
my father." Then the old man said,
" Well, if we did not eat, come* let us
eat."

5. A president came to see Abbot
Simon ; and some clerks, who got to
him first, said to him, << Now, father,
get ready I Here comes the president
for your blessing; he has heard a
great deal about you."

** / will get ready," said the abbot.
So he took some bread and cheese, and
began munching at the door of his cell.

" So this is your solitary !" sidd the
president, and went away again.

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454 Better Late than Sever.

From St Junes^s Magasine.

TIS BETTER LATE THAN NEVEE.

Hab sorrow cast thj spirit down,

And omsh'd thy hopes Elysian ?
Be not disheartened by her frown.

Nor heedless of thy mission.
But go forth gaily on thy way —

The bonds of care dissever,
And plack the roses while you may ;

lis better late than never I

Doth love consume with pensive woe

Thy heart whence hope has fleeted-*-
As sunbeams melt away the snow

They never could have heated ?
Come, wreathe thy brow with laurel-leaf**

Be wise as well as clever,
And learn a nobler lore than grief;

'TIS better late than never I

For life's a stand-up fight, I ween.

With poverty and labor,
And many a hero there has been

Who never drew a sabre.
So buckle bravely to the strife.

How perilous soever.
And win some glory for thy life ;

'TIS better late than never I

Or hast thou, worn in folly's wars,

Forgot the land that bloometh
B eyon d the cedars and the stars.

Where sorrow never cometh ?
Oh, do not for a phantom fly

From Paradise for ever,
But turn thy trusting eyes on high ;

Tis better late than never !

Great Lord of heaven! creation's Emal

Whose vineyard open lies,
Thou deemest not a worthless thing

Man's tardy sacrifice ;
Still sanctify the work we've wrought,

And every fond endeavor.
This blessed creed thyself hast taught—

Tis better late than neves F

Digitized by Google / J

Canttanee ShenooodL

455

From Tbe Month.

CX)NSTANCE SHERWOOD:

JkN AirrOBIOGBAPHY OV THB SIXTEENTH OBNTUBXp
BT LADY GEOROIANA FULLBRTON.

O^^APTEB XIX.

My first thought) when Muriel had
announced to me the coming of the
pursuivants in search of Mistress
Ward, was to thank God she was be-
yond their reach, and with so much
prud^ice had left us in ignorance of
her abode. Then making haste to
dress — for I apprehended these offi-
cers should visit eveiy chamber in the
house — ^I quickly repaired to my aunt's
room, who was persuaded by Mariel
that they had sent for to take an in-
ventory of the furniture, which she
said was a very commendable thing
to do, but she wished they had waited
until such time as she had had her
breakfast. By an especial mercy, it
so happened that these officers— or,
leastways, two out of three of them-*
were quiet, well-disposed men, who
exercised tiieir office with as much
mildness as could be hoped for, and
rather diminished by their behavior
than in any way increased the hard-
ships of this invasion of domestic
privacy. We were all in turns ques-
tioned touching Mistress Ward's
abode except my aunt, whose mental
infirmity was pleaded for to exempt
her from this ordeal. The one offi-
cer who was churlish said, ^ If the
lady's mind be unsound, 'tis most
like she will let the cat out of the bag,"
and. would have forced questions on
her ; but the others forcibly restrained
Idm fix>m it, and likewise ^m openly
insulting us, when we denied all
knowledge of the place she had re-
sorted to. Howsoever, he vented his
displeasure in scornful looks and cut-
ting speeches. They carried away
sundry prayer-books, and notably the

"Spiritual Combat," which Mrs.
Engerfield had gifted me with, when I
slept at her house at Northampton,
the loss of which grieved me not a
little, but yet not so much as it would
have done at another time, for my
thoughts were then wholly set on dis-
covering who had betrayed Mistress
Ward's intervention, and what had been
Mr. Watson's fate, and if Basil also
had been implicated. I addressed
myself to the most seemly of the three
men, and asked him what her offence
had been.

" She assisted," he answered, " m
the escape of a prisoner from Bride-
welL"

" In what manner ?" I said, with so
much of indifierency as I could as-
sume.

^ By the smuggling of a rope into his
cell," he answered, " which was found
yet hanging unto his window, and
which none other than that pestilent
woman could have furnished him with."

Alas ! this was what I feared would
happen, when she first formed this
project ; but she had assured us Mr.
Watson would let himself down, hold-
ing the two ends of the cord in his
hands, and so would be enabled to
carry it away with him after he had
got down, and so it would never be
discovered by what means he had made
his escape.

" And this prisoner hath then es-
caped ?" I said, in a careless manner.

" Many, out of one cage," he an-
swered ; " but Fll warrant you he is
by this time lodged in a more safe
dungeon, «and widi such bracelets on
his hands and feet as shall not suffer
him again to cheat the gallows."

I dared not question him fiirther ;

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Oonstanee SherwoocL

and finding notlung more to their pur-
pose, the pursuivants retired.

When Mr. Congleton, Muriel, and
I afterward met in the parlor, none
of us seemed disposed to speak.
There be times when grief is loqua-
cious, but others when the weight of
apprehension doth check speech. At
last I broke this silence by such words
as " What should now be done ?" and
'^ How can we learn what hath occur-
red?"

Then Mr. Congleton turned toward
me, and with much gravity and unu-
sual vehemency,

" Constance," quoth he, "when
Margaret Ward resolved on this bold
action, which in the eyes of some
savored of rashness, I warned her to
count the cost before undertaking it,
for that it was replete with many dan-
gers, and none should embark in it
which was not prepared to meet with
a terrible death. She told me there-
upon that for many past years her
chief desire had been to end her life
by such a death, if it should be for the
sake of religion, and that the day she
should be sentenced to it would prove
the joyfullest she had ydt known.
This she said in an inflamed manner,
and I question not but it was her true
thinking. I do not gainsay the merit
of this pining, though I could wish her
virtue had been of a commoner sort.
But such being her aim, her choice,
and desire, I am not of opinion that I
should now disturb the peace of my
wife's helpless days or mine own either
(who have not, I cry God mercy for
it, the same wish to suffer the pains
reserved to recusants, albeit I hope
in him he would give me strength, to
do so if conscience required it), not
to speak of you and Muriel and my
other daughters, for the sake of una-
vailing efforts in her so desperate case,
who hath made her own bed (and I
deny it not to be a glorious one) and,
as she hath made it, must lie on it So
I will betake myself to prayej: for her,
which she said was the whole scope of
the &vor she desired from her friends,
if she fell into trouble, and dreaded

nothing so much as any other dealings
in her behalf; and if Mr. Roper, or
Brian Lacy, or young Rookwood, have
any means by which to send her
money for her convenience in prison, I
will give it; but other measures I
win not take, nor by any open show
of interest in her fate draw down sus-
picions on us as parties and abettors
in her so-called treason."

Neither of us replied ^ this speech ;
and after that our short meal was
ended, Muriel went to her mother's
chamber, and I set myself to consider
what I should do ; for to sit and wait
in this terrible ignorance of what had
happened seemed an impossible thing*
So taking my maid with me, albeit it
rained a little, I walked to Kate's house,
and found she and her husband lu&d
left it an hour before for to return to
Mr. Benham's seat. Polly and Sir
Ralph, who slept there also, were yet
abed, and had given orders, the ser-
vant said, not to be disturbed. So I
turned sorrowftilly. from tlie door,
doubting whither to apply myself ; for
Mr. Roper lived at Richmond, and
Mr. and Mrs. Wells were abroad. I
thought to go to Mr. Hodgson, whose
boatman had drawn Basil into this
enterprise, and was standing forecast-
ing which way to turn, when aU of a
sudden who should I see but Basil
himself coming down the lane toward
me I I tried to go for to meet him,
but my legs failed me, and I was
forced to lean against my maid till he
came up to us aiid drew my
arm in his. Then I felt strong
agam, and bidding her to go home,
walked a little way with him. The
first words he said were :

" Mr. Watson is safe, but hath broke
his leg and his arm. Know you
aught of Mistress Ward ?"

"There is a warrant out against
her," I answered, and told him of the
pursuivants coming to seek for her at
our house.

" God shield," he said, '^ she be not
apprehended! for sentence of death
would then be certainly passed upon
her."

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Oonttanoe Sherwood*

457

«Oh, Basil," I exdaimed, "why
the cord left?*

** Ah, the devil woald have it," he be-
gan ; but chiding himself, lifted cS his
hat, and said, ^Almighty God did so
permit it to happen that this mishap
occarred. But I see," he subjoined,
'^jou are not fit to walk or stand,
sweetheart Gome into Mr. Wells's
house* Albeit they are not at home,
we may go and sit in the parlor ; and
it may be more prudent I should not
be ^een abroad to-day. . I pray God
Mr, Watson and I will sail to-night
for Calais."

So we rang the bell at the door of
Mr. Wells's house; and his house-
keeper, who opened it, smiled when
she saw Basil, for he was a great fa-
vorite with her, as, indeed, methinks
he always was with all kinds of people.
She showed us into Mr. Wells's study,
which she said was the most comfort-
able room and best aired in the house,
for that, for the sake of the books, she
did often light a fire in it ; and nothing
would serve her but she must do so
now. And then she asked if we had
breakfasted, and Basil said i' faith he
had not, and should be very glad of
somewhat to eat, if she would fetch it
for him. So when the fire was kindled
^-and methought it never would bum,
the wood was so damp— <he went
away for a little while, and he then
told me the haps of the past night.

** Tom Price (Hodgson's boatman)
and I," he said, << rowed his boat close
onto the shore, near to the prison, and
laid there under the cover of some
penthouses which stood betwixt the
riTer and the prison's walL When
the clock struck twelve, I promise you
my heart b^an to beat as any girl's,
I was so frightened lest Mr. Watson
should not have received the cord, or
that his courage should faiL Howso-
erer, in less than one minute I thought
I perceived something moving about
one of the windows, and then a body
appeared sitting at first on the ledge,
bot afterward it turned itself round,
and, facing the wall, sank down slowly,
hanging <ni by a cord."

<*0h, Basil!" I exclaimed, « could
you keep on looking?"

" Yea," he answered ; " as if mine
eyes should start out of my head. He
came down slowly, helping himself, I
ween, with his feet against the wall ; but
whenhe got to about twen^ or thirty feet,
I guess it to have been, from the roof
of the shed, he stopped of a sudden,
and hung motionless. ^ He is out of
breath,' I said to Tom. < Or the rope
proves too short,' quoth he. We
watched him for a moment He
swung to and fro, then rested again,
his feet against the wall. 'Beshrew
me, but I will climb on to that roof my-
self, and get nigh to him,' I whispered
to Tom, and was springing out of the
boat, when we heard a noise more
loud than can be thought of. ^I'll
warrant you he hath fallen on the
planks,' quoth Tom. < Marry, but we
will pick him up then,' quoth I ; and
found myself soon on the edge of the
roof, which was broken in at one
place, and, looking down, I thought I
saw him lying on the ground. I cried
as loud as I durst, < Mr. Watson, be
you there? Hist! Are you hurt?
Speak if you can.' Methinks he was
stunned by the fall, for he did not an-
swer ; so there remained nothing left
to do but to leap myself through the
opening into the shed, where I found
him with his eyes shut^ and moanhig.
But when I spake to him he came to
himself, -and tried to rise, but could not
stand, one of his legs being much hurt.
* Climb on to my back, reverend sir,' I
said ' and with Grod's help we shall
get out' Howsoever, the way out did
not appear manifest, and mostly with
another beside one's self to carry.
But glancing round the inside of the
shed, I perceived a door, the fastening
of which, when I shook it, roughly
enough I promise you, gave way;
and the boat lay, Grod be praised,
close to it outside. I gave one look
up to the prison, and saw lights flash-
ing in some of the windows. ^ They
be astir,' I said to Tom. ^ Hist I lend
a hand, man, and take the reverend
gentlemaa tsom off my back and into

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458

Oontianee Sk&twood,

the boat' Mr. Watson ntterod a
groan. He most have suffered cruel
pain ; for, as we since found, his leg
and also his arm were broken, and he
looked more dead than aUve.

^ We began to row as fast as we
oonld ; bat now he, coming to himself,
feels in his coat, and cries out :

<^ < Oh, kind sirs— the cord, the cord!
Stop, I pray jou ; stop, torn back.'

« ' Not for the world,' I cried, < rev-
erend sir.'

*^ Then he, in a lamentable voice :

^ ^ Oh, if you turn not back and
bring away die cord, the poor gentle-
woman which did give it unto me must
needs £Eili into sore trouble. Oh, for
God's sake, turn back I'

^ I gave a hasty glance at the prison,
where increasing stir of lights was
visible, and resolved that to return
should be certain ruin to ourselves
and to him for whom Mistress Ward
had risked her life, and little or no
hope in it for her, as it was not possi-
ble there should be time to get the
cord and then escape, which with
best speed now could with difficulty
be effected. So I turned a deaf ear
to Mr. Watson's pleadings, with an
assured cousdence she should have
wished no otherwise herself; and by
Grod's mercy we made such way be-
fore they could put out a boat, landmg
unseen beyond the next bridge, that
we could secretly convey him to the
house of a Catholic not far from the
river on the other side, where he doth
lie concealed. I promise you, sweet-
heart, we did row hard. Albeit I
strove very much last year when I
won the boat-match at Richmond, by
my troth it was but child's play to
last night's racing. Poor Mr. Watson
tinted before we landed, and neither
of us dared venture to stop from pull-
ing for to assist him. But, Grod be
praised, he is now in a good bed ; and
I fetched for him at daybreak a leech
I know in the Borough, who hath set
his broken limbs ; and to-night if the
weather be not foul, when it gets dark,
we will ccmvey him in aboat to a ves-
sel at the rivei^s month, which I have

retamed for to take us to Calais. But
I would Mistress Ward was on board
of it also."

''Oh, Basil," I exclaimed, ''if we
can discover where she doth lodge, it
would not then be impossible. If we
had forecasted this yesterday, she
would be saved. Yet she had perhaps
refused to tell us."

" Most like she would," he answer-
ed ; " but if yon do hit by any means
upon her abode to-day, forthwith de-
spatch a trusty messenger unto me at
Mr. Hodgson's, and I promise you,
sweetheart, she shall, will she nill she,
if I have to use force for it, be carried
away to France, and stowed with a
good madame I know at Calais."

The housekeeper then came in with
bread and meat and beer, which my
dear Basil did very gladly partake of,
for he had eat nothing since the day
before, and was greatly in want of
food. I watted on him, forestalliog
housewifely duties, with so great a
contentment in this quiet hour spent
in his company that nothing could sur-
pass it. The fire now burned bright-'
ly ; and whilst he ate, we talked of
the time when we should be married
and live at Euston, so retired firom
the busy world without as should be
most safe and peaceful in these troub-
lesome tunes, even as in that silent
house we were for a short time shut
out from the noisy city, the sounds of
which reached without disturbing us.
Oh how welcome was that little inter-
val of peace which we then enjoyed I
I ween we were both very tired ; and
when the good housekeeper came in
for to fetch away his plate he had
fallen asleep, with his head resting on
his hands ; and I was likewise doeing
in a high-backed diair opposite to him.
The noise she made awoke me, but
not him, who slept most soundly. She
snuled, and in a motherly manner
moved him to a more comfortable po-
sition, and said she would lay a wager
on it he had not been abed at all that
night.

" Well, ni warpint you to be a
good guesser, Mistress Mason," I an*

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OonsUmce SherwoodL

459

Bwered* ^ And if yoa did but know
wiiat a hard and a good work he hath
been engaged in, methinks jou would
never tarry in his praise."

*^Ah^ Mistress Sherwood," she re-
plied, ^ I have known Master Basil
these many years ; and a more noble,
kindly, generous heart never, I ween,
did beat in a man's bosom. He very
often came here with his fscther and
his brother when both were striplings ;
and Master Habert was the sharpest
and some said the most well-behaved
of the twain. But beshrew me if I
Hked not better Master Basil, albeit
he was sometimes very troublesome,
bat not teehey or rude as some boys
be. I remember it well how I laugh-
ed one day when these young masters
— methinks this one was no more than
five years and the other four — ^were at
1^7 together in this room, and Basil
had a new jerkin on, and colored hose
for the first time. Hubert wore a kirtle,
which displeasured him, for he said
folks should take him to be a wench. So
he comes to me, half-crying, and says,
'Why hath Baz that fine new suit
and me not the sameP 'Because,
little sir, he is the eldest,' I said. ' Ah,'
quoth the shrewd imp, ' the next time
I be bom methinketh I will push Baz
aside and be the eldest' If I should
live one hundred years I shall never
forget it, the little urchin looked so re-
solved and spiteful."

I smiled somewhat sadly, I ween,
bat with better cheer when she relat-
ed how tender a heart Basil had from
his infant years toward the poor, tak-
ing off his clothes for to give them to
the beggars he met, and one day, she
said, praying very hard Mrs. Wells
for to harbor a strolling man which
had complaiaed he had no lodging.

<** Mistress,' quoth he, 'you have
noumy chambers in your house, and he
hath not so much as a bed to lie in to-
ni^t;* and would not be contented
till she had charged a servant to get
the fellow a lodging. And me he cmoe
abased very roundly in his older years
for the same cause. There was one
Jack Morris, an old man which work«

ed sometimes in Mr. Wells's stable^
but did lie at a cottage out of the
town. And <me day in winter,
when it snowed. Master Basil would
have me make Uiis fellow sleep in the
house, because he was sick, he said,
and he would give him his own bed
and lie himself on straw in the stable;
and went into so great a passion when
I said he should not do so, for that he
was a mean person and could not lie
in a gentleman's chamber, that my
young master cries out, ' Have a care.
Mistress Mason, I do not come in the
ni^t and shake you out of your own
bed, for to give you a taste of the
cold floor, which yet is not, I promise
you, so cold as the street into which
you would turn this poor diseased
man.' And then he fell to coaxing of
me till I consented for to send a mat-
tress and a warm rng to the stable for
this pestilent old man, who I warrant
you was not so sick as he did assume
to be, but had sufficient cunning for to
cozen Master Basil out of his money.
Lord bless the lad! I have seen
him run out with his dinner in his
hand, if he did but see a ragged ur-
chin in the streets, and gift him with it ;
and then would slug lustily about the
hoose-nmethinks I do hear him
now —

*■ Dinner, O dlnner*ft a rare good thing
Alike for a beggar, alike for a king.' ^

Basil opened then his eyes and
stared about him.

^ Why, Mistress Mason," he cried,
''beshrew me if you are not rehears-
ing a rare piece of poesy ! — ^the only
one I ever did indite." At the which
speech we all laughed ; but our mer-
riment was short ; for tioae had sped
faster than we thought, and Basil said
he must needs return to the Borough
to forecast with Mr. Hodgson and
Tom Price means to convey Mr.
Watson to the ship, which was out at
sea nigh unto the shore, and a boat
must be had to carry them there, and
withal such appliances procured as
shoold ease his broken limbs.

" Is there not danger" I asked, ^ in
moving him so soon ?"

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460

OontUmee Sherwood,

<< Yea," he said, « bat a less fearfiil
danger than in bng tarrjing in this
country."

This was too trae to be gainsajed^
and so thanking the good housekeeper
we left the house, which had seemed
for those few hours like onto a har-
bor from a stormy sea, wherein both
our barks, shattered by the waves, had
refitted in peace.

^Farewell, Basil," I mournfully
said ; ^ Gkxi knoweth for how long."

^ Not for very long," he answered.
" In three months I shall have crept
out of my wardship. Then, if it
please God, I will return, and so deal
with your good uncle that we shall
soon after that be married."

" Yea," I answered, ** if so be that
my father is then in safety."

He said he meant not otherwise,
but that he had great confidence it
should then be so. When at last we
parted he went down Holbom Hill
very fast, and I slowly to Ely Place,
many times stopping for to catch one
more sight of him in the crowd, which
howsoever soon hid him from me.

When I arrived at home I found
Muriel in great affliction, for news had
reached her that Mistress Ward had
been apprehended and thrown into
prison. Methinks we had both looked
for no other issue than this, which she
had herself most desired ; but never-
theless, when the certainty thereof
was confirmed to us, it should almost
have seemed as if we were but iU-pre-
pared for it. The hope I had con-
ceived a short time before that she
should escape in the same vessel with
Basil and Mr. Watson, made me less
resigned to this mishap than I should
have been had no means of safety
been at hand, and the sword, as it
were, lianging over her head from day
to day. The messenger which had
brought this evil news being warrant-
ed reliable by a letter from Mr. Hodg-
son, I intrusted him with a few lines
to Basil, in which I informed him not
to stay his departure on her account,
who was now within the walls of the
prison which Mr. Watson had escaped

from, and lliat her best comfort now
should be to know he was beyond
reach of his pursuets. The rest of the
day was spent in great heaviness of
spirit. Mr. Gongleton sent a servant
to Mr. Roper for to request him to
come to London, and wrote likewise
to Mr. Lacy for to return to his house
in town, and confer with some Gatho-
lics touching Mistress Ward's imprin-
omnent Muriel's eyes thanked him,
but I ween she had no hope therein
and did resign herself to await the
worst tidings. Her mother's unceas-
ing asking for her, whose plight she
ditfed not so much as hint at in her
presence, did greatly aggravate her
sufferings. I have often Uiought Mu-
riel did then undergo a mar^rrdom of
the heart as sharp in its kind as that
which Mistress Ward endured in prison,
if the reports which did reach us were
true. But more of that anon. The
eventful day, which had opened with
so much of fear and sorrow, had yet
in store other haps, which I must now
relate.

About four of the clock Hubert
came to Ely Place, and found me
aJone in the parlor, my fingers busied
with some stitching, my thoughts hav-
ing wandered far away, where I pic-
tiired to myself the mouth of the
river, the receding tide, the little ves-
sel which was to carry Basil away
once more to a foreign land, with its
sails flapping in the wind ; and boats
passing to and fro, plying on the &ir
bosom of the broad river, and not
leaving so much as a trace of their
passage. And his boat with its frdghi
more precious than gold — ^the rescued
life bought at a great price-*me*
thought I saw it gHde in the dark
amidst those hundred other boats un*
observed (so I hoped), unstayed on
its course. Methought that so little
bark should be a type of some lives
which carry with them, unwatched,
undiscerned, a purpose, which doth
freight them on their way to eternity
— somewhat hidden, somewhat close
to their hearts, somewhat engaging
their whole strength; and Sn the

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Qmsiance Sherwood.

461

while ihej seem to be doing the like
of what others do; and God onfy
knoweth how different shall be the
end!

^Ah, Hubert," I exclaimed when
the door opened, ^is it yon? Me-
thinks in Ihese days I see no one
oome into this house but a fear or a
hope doth seize me. Whatbringeth
you ? or hath nothing occurred ?"

'< Something may occur this day,*^
he answered, *• if you do but will it to
be so, Ckmstance."

*< Whatr I asked eagerly; "what
may occur 7*

'•Your father^s deliTerance," he
sud.

«0h, Hubert," I cried, «it is not
possible r

^ Go to I" he said in a resolved
manner. *' Don your most becoming
suit, and follow my directions in afl
ways. Lady Ingoldsby, I thank God,
hath not lefl London, and will be here
anon to carry you to Sir Francis Wal-
singham's house, where her familiar
friend, Lady Sydney, doth now abide
during Sir Philip's absence. You
shall thus get speech with Sir Fran-
cis ; and if you do behave with diffi-
dency, and beware of the violence of
your nature and exorbitancy of your
tongue, checking needless speeches,
and answering bis questions with as
many words as courtesy doth com-
mand, and as few as civility doth per-
mit, I doubt not but you may obtain
your father's release in the form of a
sentence of banishment ; for he is not
ill-disposed thereunto, having received
notice that his health is sinking under
the hardships of his confinement, and
his strength so impaired that, cHice be-
yond seas, he is not like to adventure
himself again in this country."

"Alas!" I cried, "mine eyes had
discerned in his shrunken form and
hollow cheeks tokens of such a decay
ae you speak of; and I pray God
Mr. Secretary may deal mercifully
with him before it shall be too late."

^TIl warrant you," he replied,
" that if you do rightly deal with him,
be win sign an order which shall re-

lease this very night your father from
prison, and send him safe beyond seas
before t]^e week is ended."

" Think you so ?* I said, my heart
beatmg with an uncertain kind of hope
mixed with doubting.

« I am assured of it," Hubert con
fidently replied.

^ I must ask my nnde's advice,"
doubtfully said, <' before I go with
Polly."

A contemptuous smile curled his lip.
** Yea," he said, « Be directed in these
weighty matters, I do advise you, by
your aunt also, and the saintly Muriel,
and twenty hundred others beside, if
you list; and the while this last
chance shall escape, and your father
be 'doomed to death. I have done my
part, God knoweth. If he perish, Im
blood will not be on my head; but
mark my words, if he be not presently
released, he will appear before the
council in two days, and the oath be
tendered to him, which you best
know if he will take, and his refusal
without fail will send him to the scaf-
fold."

" God defend," I exclaimed, greatly
moved, "I should delay to do that
which may yet save him. I will go,
Hubert. But I pray you, who are
familial* with Sir Francis, what means
should be best for to move him to
compassion ? Is there a soft comer in
his heart which a woman's tears can
touch ? I will kneel to him if needful,
yea, kiss his feet — ^mind him of his
own fair daughter. Lady Sydney,
which, if he was in prison, and my fa-
ther held his fate in his hands, would
doubtless sue to him with the like ar-
dor, yea, the like agony of spirit, for
mercy. Oh, tell me, Hubert, what to
say which shall drive the edge of pity
into his soul."

" Silence will take effect in this case
sooner than the most moving speeches,"
he answered. " Steel your soul to it,
whatever he may say. Your tears, your
eyes, wfll, I warrant you, plead more
mightfuUy than yonr words. He is
as obliging to the softer but predomi-
nant parts of the world as he is serv-

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(kmstanee l^ervfood.

iceable to the more severe. To him
men's faces speak as much as their
tongues, and their countenances are
indexes of their hearts. Judge if
yours, the liveliest piece of eloquence
which ever displayed itself in a fair
visage, shall fail to express that which
passionate words, missing their aim,
would of a surety ill convey. And
mind you, Mistress Ck>nstance, this
man is of extreme ability in the school
of policy, and albeit inclined to recu-
sants with the vievf of winning them
over by means of kindness, yet an ex-
treme hater of the Pope and Church
of Rome, and moreover very jealous to
be considered as such ; so If he do in-
tend to show you favor in this matter,
make your reckoning that he will urge
you to conformity with many strenu-
ous exhortations, which, if you remain
silent, no harm shall ensue to your-
self or others.**

'^And not to mine own soul, Hu-
bert P' I moumfoUy cried. " Me-
thinks my father and Basil would not
counsel silence in such a case.**

" Grod in heaven give me patience T*
he exclaimed. '^ Is it a woman's call-
ing, I pray you, to preach ? When
the apostles were ^missed by the
judges, and charged no longer to teach
the Christian faith, went they not forth
in silence, restraining their tongues
then, albeit not their actions when
once at liberty? Methinks modesty
alone should forbid one of your years
from dangerous retorts, which, like a
two-edged sword, wound alike Mend
and foe."

I had no courage left to withstand
the promptings of mine own heart and
his urgency.

" Gt)d forgive me,** I cried, " if I
fail in aught wherein truth or honesty
are concerned. He knoweth I would
do right, and yet save my father's
life."

Then falling on my knees, unmind-
ful of his presence, I prayed with an
intense vehemency, whidi overcame
all restraint, that my tongue might be
guided aright when I shoold be in his
presence who under Gk>d did hold mj

fiitheT*8 life in his hands. But hear-
ing Polly's voice in the hall, I started
up, and noticed Hubert leaning his
head on his hand, seemingly more
pitifully moved than was las wont
When she came in, he met her, and
said:

'^ Lady Ingoldsby, I pray you see
that Mistress Constance doth so attire
herself as shall heighten her natural
attractions ; for, beshrew me, if grave
Mr. Secretary hath not, as well as
other men, more pity for a fiur
face than a plain one ; and al-
beit hers is always fair, nature doth
nevertheless borrow additional charms
fipom art*'

« Tut, tut r* quoth Polly. « She is
a perfect fright in that hat, and her
ruff hideth dll her neck, than which
no swan hadi a whiter; and I pray
you what a farthingale is that ! Me-
thinks it savors of the feshions of the
late queen*s reign. Come, Con, cheer
up, and let us to thy chamber* I'll
warrant you, Master Bookwood, she
will be twice as winsome when I have
exercised my skill on her attire."

So she led me away, and I sofiered
her to dress mine luiu: herself and
choose such ornaments as she did
deem most becoming. Albeit she
laughed and jested aU the while, me-
thinks the kindness of her heart show-
ed through this apparent gaiety ; and
when her task was done, and she kiss-
ed my forehead, I threw my anob
round her neck and wept

" Nay, nay !'* she cried ; " no tears,
C02 — ^they do serve but to swell the
eyelids and paint the nose of a reddish
hue ;** and shaping her own visage in-
to a counterfeit ci mine, she set me
lauding against my will, and drew
me by the hand down the stairs and
into the parlor.

" How now, sir ?" she cried to Hu-
bert ^ Think you I have indifferent-
ly well performed the task yoa set
me?"

*^ Most excellently well," he answer-
ed, and handed us to her coach, which
was to carry us to Seething Lane.
When we were seated in it^ she told

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463

me Hubert had disclosed to her the
secret of my father's plight, and that
she was more concerned than she
could well express at so great a mis-
hap, but nevertheless entertained a
comfortable hope this day should pres-
ently see the end of our troubles.
Howsoever, she did know but half of
the trouble I was in, weighty as was the
part she was privy ta Hubert, she
told me, had dealt with a marvellous
great zeal and ability in this mat-
ter, and proved himself so good a
negotiator that she doubted not Sir
Francis himself must needs have ap-
preciated his ingenuity.

" That young gentleman," she add-
ed, ^ will never spoil his own market
by lack of timely boldness or oppor-
tune bashfulness. ,My Lady Arun-
del related to me last night at Mrs.
Yates's what passed on Monday at the
banquet-hall at WhitehalL Hath he
told you his hap on that occasion ?''

** No," I answered. " I pray you,
Polly, what befel him there ?'

^ Well, her majesty was at dinner,
and Master Hubert comes there to
see the fashion of the court His
handsome features and well-set shape
attract the queen*s notice. With a
kind of an affected frown she asks
Lady Arundel what he is. She an-
swers she knows him not. Howso-
ever, an inquiry is made from one to
another who the youth should be, till
at length it is told the queen he is
young Rookwood of Euston, in Suffolk,
and a ward of Sir Henry Stafford's."

^ Mistaking him then for Basil ?" I
said.

Then she : '^ I think so ; but how-
soever this inquisition with the eye of
her majesty fixed upon him (as she is
wont to fix it, and thereby to daunt
sach as she doth make the mark of
her gazing), stirred the blood of our
young gentleman, Lady Anmdel said,
insomuch that a deep color rose in his
pale cheek and straightway left it
again; which the queen observing,
she called him unto her, and gave him
her hand to kiss, encouraging him
^ with gracious words and looikai ftud

then diverting her speedti to the lords
and ladies, said that she no sooner
observed him than she did note there
was in him good blood, and she ven-
tured to affirm good brains also ; and
then said to him, ^ Fail not to come to
court, sir, and I will bethbk myself to'
do you good.' Now I warrant you,
coz, this piece of a scholar lacked not
the wit to use this his hap in the fur-
therance of his and your suit to Sir
Francis, whom he adores as his saint,
and courts as his Maseenas."

This recital of Polly's worked a tu-
multuous conflict in my soul ; for veri-
ly it strengthened hope touching my
father's release; but methinks any
other channel of such hope should have
been more welcome. A jealousy, an
unsubstantial fear, an uneasy misdoubt
oppressed this rising hope. I feared
for Hubert the dawn of such favor as
was shown to him by her whose regal
hand doth hold a magnet which hath
oflentimes caused Catholics to make
shipwreck of their souls. And then
truth doth compel me to confess my
weakness. Albeit God knoweth I de-
sired not for my true and noble sweet-
heart her majesty's gracious smiles, or
a higher fortune than Providence hath
by inheritance bestowed on him, a
vain humane feeUng worked in me
some sort of displeasure that his
younger brother should stand in the
queen's presence as the supposed head
of the house of Rookwood, and no
more mention made of him dian if he
had been outlawed or dead. Not that
I had then reason to lay this error to
Hubert's door, for verily naught in
Polly's words did warrant such a sus-
picion ; but my heart was sore, and
my spirits chafed with apprehensions.
God forgive me if I then did unjustly
accuse ^m, and, in the retrospect of
this passage in his life, do suffer sub-
sequent events to cast backward shad-
ows on it, whereby I may wrong him
who did render to me (I write it with
a softened^— yea, God is my witness —
a truly loving, albeit sorrowing, heart)
a great service in a needful time. Oh,
Huberty Hubert I my heart acheth for

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464

Oonitanee Sherwood,

thee. Metliinks God will show tihee
great mercj yet, but, I fear me, by
such means only as I do tremble to
think of.

CHAFTEBXZ.

When we reached Seething Lane,
Polly bade me be of good heart, for
that Lady Sydney waa a very affable
and debonnaire lady, and Sir Francis
a person of toward and gentle manners,
and exceedingly polite to women. We
were conducted to a neat parlor,
where my Lady Sydney was awaiting
us. A more fair and accomplished
lady is not, I ween, to be found in
England or any other country, than
this daughter of a great statesman,
and wife at that time of Sir Philip
Sydney, as she hath since been of my
Lords Essex and St. Albans. Me-
thinks the matchless gentleman, noble
knight, and sweet writer, her first hus-
band, who did marry her portionless,
not like as is the fashion with so many
in our days carrying his love in his
purse, must have needs drawn from
the fair model in his own house the
lovely pictures of beauteous women
he did portray in his " Arcadia." She
greeted us with so much heartfelt po-
liteness, and so tempered gay dis-
coursing with sundry marks of deli-
cate feeling, indicative, albeit not ex-
pressive, of a sense of my then trou-
ble, that, albeit a stranger, methinks
her reserved compassion and ingeni-
ous encouragements served to tran-
quillize my discomposed mind more
than Polly's efforts toward the same
end. She told us Lord Arundel had
died that morning; which tidings
turned my thoughts awhile to Lady
Surrey, with many cogitations as to
the issue of this event in her regard.

After a short space of time, a step
neared the door, and Lady Sydney
smiled and sud, " Here is my father."
I had two or three times seen Sir
Francis Walsmgham in public assem-
blies, but Ids features were neverthe-

less not familiar to me. Now, after
he had saluted Polly and me, and
made inquiry touching our relatives,
while he conversed with her on indif-
ferent topics, I scanned his face with
such careful industry as if in it I
should read the issue of my dear &-
ther's fate. Methinks I never beheld
so unreadable a countenance, or one
which bore the impress of so refined
a penetration, so piercing an inquisi-
tiveness, so keen a research into
otiiers' thoughts, with so close a con-
cealment of his own. I have since
heard what his son-in-law did write of
him, that he impoverished himself by
the purchase of dear intelligence ;
that, as if master of some invisible
spring, all the secrets of Christendom
met in his closet, and he had even a
key to unlock the Pope's cabinet.
His mottoes are said to be video et ta^
ceo, and that knowledge can never be
bought at too high a price. And veri-
ly methinks they were writ in his face,
in his quick-turning eyes, his thin,
compressed lips, and his soft but re-
solved accents, minding one o{ steel
cased in velvet. Tis reported he can
read any letter without breaking the
seal. For mine own part, I am of
opinion he can see through parch-
ment, yea, peradventure, through
stone walls, when bent on some dis-
covery. After a few minutes he turn-
ed to me with a gracious smile, and
said he was very glad to hear that I
was a young gentlewoman of great
prudence, and well disposed in all re-
spects, and that he doubted not that,
if her majesty should by his means
show me any favor, I should requite it
with such gratitude as should appear
in all my future conduct.

" Grod knoweth," I stammered, mine
eyes filling with tears, "I would be
grateful to you, sir, if it should please
you to move her majesty to grant my
prayer, and to her highness for the
doing of it"

''And how would you show such
gratitude, fair Mistress Constance?"
he said, smiling in an encouragizig
manner.

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Constance Sherwood.

4e5

** Bj such humble duty," I answer-
ed, ^ as a poor obscure creature can
pay to her betters."

<< And I hope, also," he said, ^ that
such dutifulness will involve no un-
pleasing effort, no painful constraint
on your inclinations ; for I am assur-
ed her majesty will never desire from
you anything but what will well ac-
cord with your advantage in this world
and in the next."

These words caused me some kind
of uneasiness ; but as they called for
no answer, I took refuge in silence ;
only methlnks my face, which he did
seem carefully to study, betrayed
anxie^.

"Providence," Sir Francis then
said, "doth o^ntimes marvellously
dispose eyents. What a rare instance
of its gracious workings should be
seen in your case, Mistress Constance,
if what your heart doth secretly in-
cline to should become a part of that
dutifulness which you do intend to
practice in future I"

Before I had clearly apprehended
the sense of his words, Lady Sydney
said to PoUy :

" My father hath greatly commend-
ed to Sir Philip and- me a young gen-
tleman which I understand. Lady In-
goldsby, to be a friend of yours, Mr.
Hubert Rookwood, of Euston. He
says the gracefulness of his person, his
excellent parts, his strong and subtle
capacity, do excellently fit him to
learn the discipline and garb of the
times and court."

" Ay," then quoth Sir Francis, " he
hath as large a portion of gifts and en-
dowments as I have ever noticed in
one of his age, and Fll warrant he
proves no mere vegetable of die court,
springing up at night and sinking at
noon."

Polly did warmly assent to these
praises of Hubert, for whom she had
always entertained a great liking;
but she merrily said he was not gay
enough for her, which abhorred mel-
ancholy as cats do water.

" Oh, fair lady," quoth Sir Francis,

" Grod defend we should be melan-

VOL. n. 80

choiy ; but verily 'tis fitting we should
be sometimes serious, for while we
laugh all things are serious round
about us. The whole creation is
serious in serving God and us. The
holy Scriptures bring to our ears the
most serious things in the world. All
that are in heaven and hell are serious.
Then how should we be always gay ?"

PoUy s^ — ^for when had she not, I
pray you, somewhat to say? — ^that cer-
tain things in nature had a propensity
to gaiety which naught could queU,
and instanced birds and streamlets,
which never cease to sing and babble as
long as they do live or flow. And to
be serious, she thought, would kill her.
The while this talk was ministered be-
tween them, my Lady Sydney, on a
sign from her father, I ween, took my
hand in hers, and offered to show me
the garden ; for the heat of the room,
she said, was like to give me the head-
ache. Upon which I rose, and follow-
ed her into a court planted with trees,
and then on to an alley of planes
strewed with gravel As we entered
it I perceived several persons walking
toward us. When the first thought
came into my mind who should be the
tall personage in the centre, of hair
and complexion fair, and of so stately
and majestic deportment, I marvel my
limbs gave not way, but my head
swam and a raist obscured mine eyes.
Methlnks, as one dreaming, I heard
Lady Sydney say, "The queen. Mis-
tress Sherwood ; kneel down, and kiss
her majesty's hand." Oh, in the brief
moment of time when my lips pressed
that thin, white, jewelled hand, what
multiplied thoughts, resentful memo-
ries, trembling awe, and instinctive,
homage to royal greatness, met in my
soul, and worked confusion in my
brain!

"Ah, mine own good Sydney,"!
heard her majesty exclaim ; " is this
the young gentlewoman your wise fa-
ther did speak of at Greenwich yester-
day ? The daughter of one Sherwood
now in prison for popish contu-
macy ?" /

"Even BO," said Lady Sydney;

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466

Oonstanoe Sherwood*

** and yoar sacred majesty hath it now
in her power to show

* The qoallty of mercy is not Btndn«d— * "

^' * But droppeth as the gentle rain firom heaven
Upon the place beneath/ "

interropted the queen^ taking the
words out of her mouth. "• We be not
ignorant of those lines. Will Shake-
spearo hath it, «

* ^a mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown/ ^

And i' &ith we differ not from him,
for verilj mercy is our habit and the
propension of our soul ; but, by God,
the malice and ingratitude of recusant
traitors doth so increase, with manifold
dangers to our person and state, that
mercy to them doth turn into treason
against ourselves, injury to religion,
and an offence to Grod. Rise,'* her
majesty then said to me; and as I
stood before her, the color, I ween,
deepening in my cheeks, ^ Thou hast a
fair face, wench," she cried ; ^ and if I
remember aright good Mr. Secretary's
words, hast used it to such purpose
that a young gentleman we have of
late taken into our favor is somewhat
excessive in his dotmg on it. 60 to,
go to ; thou couldst go further and fare
worse. We ourselves are averse to
marriage ; but if a woman must needs
have a husband (and that deep blush-
ing betokeneth methinks thy bent
thereon), she should set her heart
wisely, and govern it discreetly."

<^ Alas, madam !" I cried, '* 'tis not
of marriage I now do think ; but, on
my knees" (and falling again at her
feet, I clasped them, with tears), ^ of
my father's release ; I do crave your
miyesty's mercy."

'^Content thee, wench; content
thee. Mr. Secretary hath obtained
from us the order for that foolish
man's banishment from our realm."

« Oh, madam 1" I cried, " God bless
yon!"

Then my heart did smite me I
should with so great vehemency bless
her who, albeit in this nearest instance
pitiful to me, did so relentlessly deal

with others ; and I bethought me of
Mistress Ward, and the ill-usage she
was like to meet with. And her
words touching Hubert, and silence
concerning Basil, weighed like lead
on my soul ; yet I taxed myself with
foUy therein, for verily at this time
the less he was thought of the greater
should be his safety. Sir Francis
had now approached the queen, and I
did hear her commend to him his gar-
den, which she said was very neat
and trim, and the pattern of it most
quaint and fanciful. Polly did also
kiss her hand, and Sir Walter Raleigh
and Sir Christopher Hatton, which
accompanied her majesty, whilst she
talked with Sir Francis, conversed
with Lady Sydney. I ween my Lord
Leicester and many other noblemen
and gentlemen were also in her train,
but mine eyes took scant note of what
passed before them ; the queen herself
was the only object I could contem-
plate, so marvellous did it seem I
should thus have approached her, and
had so much of her notice as she did
bestow on me that day. And here I
cannot choose but marvel how strange-
ly our hearts are made. How favors
to ourselves do alter the current of
our feelings ; how a near approach to
those which at a distance we do think
of with unmitigated enmity, doth soft-
en even just resentments ; and what
a singular fascination doth Ue in royal-
ty for to win unto itself a reverence
which doth obliterate memories which
in common instances should never lose
their sting.

The queen's barge, which had moor*
ed at the river-side of Sir Francis's
garden, was soon filled again with the
goodly party it had set down ; and as
it went up the stream, and I stood gaz-
ing on it, methought the whole scene
had been a dream.

Lady Sydney and Polly moved Sir
Francis to repeat the assurance her
majesty had given me touching the
commutation of my father's imprison-
ment into an order of banishment. He
satisfied me thereon, and did promise
to procure for me permission to sec

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QmstancB Sherwood.

467

bim once more before bis departure ;
wbicb interview did take place on the
next daj; and when I obserred the
increased paleness of his face and fee-
bleness of his gait, the pain of bidding
that dear parent farewell equalled not
the joj I felt in the hope that liberty
and the care of those good Mends to
whose society he would now return,
should prolong and cheer the remain-
ing days of his life. Methinks there
was some sadness in him that the
issue he had so resolutely prepared
for, and confidently looked to, should
be changed to one so different, and
that only by means of death would he
have desired to leave the English mis-
sion ; but he meekly bowed Jb's will to
that of Grod, and said in an humble
manner he was not worthy of so ex-
alted an end as he had hoped for, and
be refused not to live if so be he
might yet serve God in obscure and
onnoticed ways*

When I returned home after this
comfortable, albeit very sad, parting,
I was too weary in body and in mind
for to do aught but lie down for a
while on a settle, and revolve in my
mind the changes which had taken
place around me. Hubert came for
a brief time that evening; and me-
thinks he had heard from Polly the
haps at Seething Lane. He strove
for to move me to speak of the queen,
and to tell him the very words she
had uttered. The eager sparkling of his
eyes, the ill-repressed smUingness of his
countenance, the maimer of his ques-
tioning, worked in me a secret anger,
which caused the thanks I gave him
for his successful dealings in my fa-
ther's behalf to come more coldly from
mine heart than they should otherwise
have done, albeit I strove to frame
them in such kind terms as were be-
fitting the great service he had ren-
dered us. But to disguise my
thoughts my tongue at last refused,
and I burst forth :

** But, for all that I do thank you,
Habert, yea, and am for ever indebted
to you, which you will never have
reason, from my conduct and exceed-

ingly kind sisterly love, to doubt : bear
with me, I pray you, when I say (al-
beit you may think me a very fbohsh
creature) that I wish you not joy, but
rather for your sake do lament, the
new favor you do stand in with the
queen. O Hubert, bethink you, ere
you set your foot on the first step of
that slippery ladder, court favor, that
no man can serve two masters."

<' Marry," he answered in a light
manner, ^ by that same token or text,
pc^ists can then not serve the queen
and also the Pope I"

There be nothing which so chilleth
or else cutteth the heart as a jesting
retort to a fervent speech.

I hid my face on my arm%to hide
some tears.

"• Constance," he softly said, seeing
me moved, " do you weep for me ?"

" Yea," I murmured ; " Grod know-
eth what these new friendships and
this dangerous favor shall work in
fOM contrary to conscience, truth, and
virtue. Oh! heaven shield Basil's
brother should be a favorite of the
queen I"

'<Talk not of Basil," he fiercely cried,
"I warrant you the day may be
at hand when his fate shall hang
on my favor with those who can make
and mar a man, or ruin and mend his
fortunes, as they will, by one stroke of
a pen!"

« Yea," I replied ; « I doubt not his
fortune is at dieir mercy. His soul,
God be praised, their arts cannot
reach."

'< Constance," he then said, fixedly
gazing on me, ^ if you only love me,
there is no ambition too noble, no
heights of virtue too exalted, no sac-
rifices too entire, but I will aim at, as-
pire to, resolve on, at your bidding."

"Love your I said, raising mine
eyes to his, somewhat scornfully I
fear, albeit not meaning it, if I judge
by his sudden passion.

" God defend," he cried, « I do not
arrive at hating you with as great
fervency as I have, yea, as even yet I
do love you I O Constance, if I should
one day bQ what I do yet abhor to think

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(hnsUmce Sherwood.

of, the guilt thereof shall lie with jou
if there be justice on eaiih or in
heaven !"

I shook mj head^ and laying my
hand on his, sadly answered :

^I choose not to bandy words with
you, Hubert, or charge you with what,
if I spoke the truth, would be too
keen and resentful reproaches for
your unbrotherly manner of dealing
with Basil and me ; for it would ill
become the close of this day, on
which I do owe you, under God, my
dear father's life, to upbraid where I
would fain only from my heart yield
thanks. I pray you, let us part in
peace. My strength is well-nigh
spent smd my head acheth sorely.'^

He Knelt down by my side, and
whispered, " One word more before I
go. You do hold in your keeping
Basil's fate and mine. I will not for-
sake the hope that alone keepeth me
from desperation. Hush I say not the
word which would change me from a
friend to a foe, from a Catholic to an
apostate, from a man to a fiend. I
have gone well-nigh into the gate of
hell; a slender thread yet holds me
back ; snap it not in twain."

I spoke not, for verily my tongue
clove to the roof of my mouUi, and a
fainting sensation of a sudden came
over me. I felt his lips pressed on
my hand, and then he left me ; and
that night I felt very ill, and for nigh
unto a fortnight could by no means
leave my bed.

One morning, being somewhat
easier, I sat up in a high-backed chair,
in what had once been our school-
room; and when Muriel, who had
been a most diligent nurse to me in
that sickness, came to visit me, I
pressed her for to tell me truly if she
had heard aught of Basil or of Mis-
tress Ward; for eveiy day when I
had questioned her thereon she had
denied all knowledge of their haps,
which now began to work in me a
suspicion she did conceal from me
some misfortune, which doubt, I told
her, was more grievous to me than to
be informed wlmt had befallen them ;

and so constrained her to admit that,
albeit of Basil she had in truth no
tidings, which she judged to be favor-
able to our hopes, of Mistress Ward
she had heard, in the first instance, a
report, eight or ten days before, that
she had been hung up by the hands
and cruelly scourged; which torments
she was said by &e jailors, which Mr.
Lacy had spoken with, to have borne
with exceeding great courage, saying
they were the preludes of m a r tyrd om,
with which, by the grace of God, she
hoped she should be honored. Then
Mr. Roper and Mr. Wells, who was
now returned to London, had brought
tidings the evening before that on the
preceding day she had been brought
to the bar, where, being asked by the
judges if she was guilty of tiiat
treachery to the queen and to the laws
of the realm of furnishing the means
by which a traitor of a priest had es-
caped from justice, she answered with
a cheerful countenance in the affirma-
tive ; and that she never in her life
had done anything of which she less
repented than of the delivering that
innocent lamb from the wolves whidi
should have devoured him.

" Oh, Muriel," 1 cried, " cannot you
see her dear resolved fisuse and the
lighting up of her eyes, and the quick
fashion of her speech, when she said
this?"

" I do picture her to myself," Muriel
answered in a low voice, ^' at all hours
of the day, and marvel at mine own
quietness therein. But I doubt not
her prayers do win for me tiie grace
of resignation. They sought to ol>]ige
her to confess where Mr. Watson was,
but in vain ; and therefore they pro-
ceeded to pronounce sentence upon
her. But withal telling her that the
queen was merciful, and that if she
would ask pardon of her nugesty, and
would promise to go to church, she
should be set at Uberty; otherwise
that she must look for nothing but
certain death."

I drew a deep breath then, and said,
^ The issue is, then, not doubtfuL**

^ She answered," Muriel 8aid,<*tfi«t

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469

as to the queen^ she had never offended
her majesty; that as to what she had
done in fitvoring Mr. Watson's escape,
she believed the queen herself, if she
had the bowels <^* a woman, would
hi^re done as mach if she had known
the ill-treatment he underwent; and
as to going to church, she had for
many years been convinced that it
was not lawful for her so to do, and
that she found no reason now for to
diange her mind, and would not act
against her conscience ; and therefore
diey might proceed to the exeoo-
tioQ of the sentence pronounced
against her; for that death for such a
cause would be very welcome, and
tiiat she was willing to lay down not
one life only, but many, if she had
them, rather than act against her re-

^And she is then condemned to
death without any hope H^ I said.

Muriel remained silent.

« Oh, Muriel I" I cried ; " it is not
done ? it is not over P'
' She wiped one tear that trickled
down her cheek, and said, ^ Yesterday
she suffered at Tyburn with a wonder-
ful constancy and alacrity.''

I bid my face in my hands ; for the
sight of the familiar room, of the chair
in which she was sitting what time she
took leave of us, of a little picture
jnnned to the wall, which she had
gifted me with, moved me too much.
But when I closed mine eyes, there
arose remembrances of my journeying
with her; of my foolish speeches
touching robbers ; of her motherly re-
proofs of my so great confidence, and
oomlbrt in her guidance ; and I was
fain to seek comfort from her who
should have needed it rather than me,
but who indeed had it straight from
heaven, and thereby could impart some
share of it to others.

" Muriel," I said, resting my tired
head on her bosom, ^ the day you say
she suffered, I now mind me, I was
most ill, and you tended me as cheer-
fblly as if you had no grief."

^0\if 'tis no common grief," she
aaswei«dy ^no casting-down sorrow,

her end doth cause me ; rather some
kind of holy jealousy, some over-eager
pining to follow her."

A waidng-wbman then came in, and
I saw her give a letter to Muriel, who
I noticed did strive to hide it from me.
But I detected it in her hand, and
cried, ^ *Tis from Basil ; how hath it
come?" and took it from her; but
trembling so much, my fingers could
scarce untie the strings, for I was yet
veiy unwell from my sickness.

^ Mr. Hodgson hath sent it," quoth
Muriel ; ^ G<^ yield it be good news P*

Then my eyes fell on the loved
writing, and read what doth follow :

" Dear Heart and sweet Wipe
soon to be — Gkxi be praised^ we are
now safe in port at Calais, but have
not lacked dangers in our voyage.
But all is well, I ween, that doth end
well ; and I do begin my letter with
the tokens of that good ending that
mine own sweet love should have no
fears, only much thankfulness to God,
whilst she doth read of the perils we
have escaped. We carried Mr. Wat*
son — ^Tom and I and two others-^into
the boat, on the evening of the day
when I last saw you, and made for the
Dutch vessel out at sea near the river^s
mouth. The light was waning, but
not yet so far gone but that objects
were discernible; and we had not
rowed a very long time before we
heard a splashing of oars behind us,
and turning roun^ what should we see
but one of the Queen'i^ harges, and by
the floating pennon at the stem discern-
ed her majesty to be on board I We
hastily turned our boat, and I my back
toward the bank ; threw a dosJk over
Mr. Watson, who, by reason of his
broken limbs, was lying on a mattress
aXthe bottom of it ; and Tom and the
others feigned to be fishing. When
the royal baige passed by, some one
did shout, railing at us for that we did
fbh in the dark, and a stonn coming up
the river ; and verily it did of a sudden
begin to blow very strong. Sundiy
small craft were coming from the sea
into the river for shelter ; and as thej
did meet as, eipressed marvel wa

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470

O&nttanee Sherwood.

shonld adventare forth, jeering ub for
our thinking to catch fish and a Btonn
menacing. None of us, albeit good
rowers, were much skilled in the mari-
ner's art; but we commended ourselves
to God and went onward all the
night; and when the morning was
breaking, to our unspeakable comfort,
we discovered die Dutch vessel but a
few strokes distant at anchor, when, as
we bethought ourselves nearlj in
safety, a huge rolling wave (for now
the weather had waxed exceedingly
rough) upset oar boaf

«0 Muriel," I exclaimed, «that
night I tossed about in a high fever,
and saw Basil come dripping wet at
the foot of my bed : I warrant you
'twas second sight"

<'Bead on, read on," Muriel said;
"nor delude yourself touching vis-
ions."

"Tom, the other boatman, and I,
bemg good swimmers, soon regained
the boat, the which floated keel up-
wards, whereon we climbed, but well-
nigh demented were we to find Mr.
Watson could nowhere be seen. In
desperation I plunged again into the
sea, swimming at hazard, with diffi-
culty buffeting the waves ; when nearly
spent I descried the good priest, and
seized him in a most unmannerly
fashion by the collar, and dragging him
along, made shift to regain the floating
keel; and Tom, climbing to the top,
waved high his kerchief, hoping to be
seen by the Dti^hman, who by good
hap did espy our signal Soon had
we the joy to see a boat lowered and
advance toward us. With much dif-
ficulty it neared us, by reason of the
fury of the waves ; but, God be thank-
ed, it did at last reach us ; and Mr.
Watson, infusible and motionless,
was hoisted therein, and soon in safety
conveyed on board the vesseL I much
feared for his life ; for, I pray you,
was such a cold, long bath, succeeding
to a painful exposed night, meet medi-
cine for broken limbs, and the fever
which doth accompany such hurts ? I
wot not ; but yet, God be praised, he
Is now in the hospital of a monastery

in this town, well tended and cared
for, and the leeches do assure me like
to do well. Thou mayest think, sweet-
heart, that after seeing him safely
stowed in that good lodgment, I waited
not for to change my clothes or break
my fast, before I went to the church ;
and on my knees blessed the Almighty
for his protection, and hung a thank-
offering on to our Lady's image ; for I
warrant you, when I was fishing for
Mr. Watson in that n^ng sea, I miss-
ed not to put up Hail Marys as
fast as I could think them, for be-
shrew me if I had breath to spare for
to utter. I do now pen this letter at
my good friend Mr. Wells's brother^,
and Tom will take it with him to Lon-
don, and Mr. Hodgson convey it to
ihee. Thy affectionate and humble
obedient (albeit intending to lord it
over thee some coming day) servant
and lover, Basil Rookwood.

" Oh, how the days do creep till I
be out of my wardship! Methinks I
do feel somewhat like Mrs. Helen Li-
goldsby, who doth hate patience, she
saith, by reason that it doth always
keep her waiting. I would not be
patient, sweet one, I fear, if impatience
would carry me quicker to tliy dear
side."

« Well," said Muriel, sweetly smil-
ing when I had finished reading this
comfortable letter, "the twain which
we have accompanied this past fort-
night with our thoughts and prayers
have both, God be praised, escaped
from a raging sea into a safe harbor,
albeit not of the same sort — ^the one
earthly, the other heavenly. Oh, but
I am very glad, dear Constance, Ihoa
art spared a greater trial than hath
yet touched thee !" and so pure a joy
beamed in her eyes, that methought no
one more truly fulfilled that bidding,
"to rejoice with such as rejoice, as
well as to weep with such as weep "

This letter of my dear Basil hasten-
'ed my recovery ; and three days later,
having received an invitation thereun-
to, I went to visit the Countess of Sor*
rey, now also of Arundel, at Arundel
House. The trouble she was in by

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471

reason of her grandfather's death, and
ci my Ladj Lumley's, who had preced-
ed her father to the grave, exceeded
anything she had jet endured. The
earl her hushand continued the same
hard usage toward her, and never so
much as came to visit her at that time
of her affliction, but remained in Nor-
folk, attending to his sports of hunting
and the like. Howsoever, as he had
satisfied her uncles, Mr. Francis and
Mr. Leonard Dacre,Mr. James La-
bourn, and also Lord Montague, and
his own sister Lady Margaret Sack-
ville, and likewise Lord Thomas and
Lord William Howard, his brothers,
that he put not in any doubt, albeit
words to that effect had once escaped
him, the validity of his marriage, she,
with great wisdom and patience, and
prudence very commendable in one of
her years, being destitute of any fitting
place to dwell in, 'resolved to return to
his house in London. At the which
at first he seemed not a little displeas-
ed, but yet took no measures for to
drive her from it. And in the order-
ing of the household and care of his
property manifested the same zeal,
and obtained the same good results, as
she had procured whilst she lived at
Kenninghall. Methought she^had
waxed older by some years, not weeks,
since I had seen her, so staid and com-
posed had become the fashion of her
speech and of her carriage. She con-
versed with me on mine own troubles
and comforts, and the various and op-
posite haps which had befallen me ;
which I told her served to strengthen
in me my early thinking, that sorrows
are oftentimes so intermixed with joys
that our lives do more resemble varia-
ble April days than the cloudless skies
of June, or the dark climate of win-
ter.

Whilst we did thus discourse, mine
eyes fell on a quaint piece of work in
silk and silver, which was lying on a
table, as if lately unfolded. Lady
Arundel smiled in a somewhat said
'&shion, and said :

'^I warrant thou art carious, Con-
fttancei to examine that piecaof em-

broidery ; , and verily as regards the
hands which hath worked it, and the
kind intent with which it was wrought,
a more notable one should not easily
be found. Look at it, and see if thou
canst read the ingenious meaning of
it"

This was the design therein ex-
ecuted with exceeding great neatness
and beauty : there was a tree framed,
whereon two turtle-doves sat, on either
side one, with this difference, that by
that on the right hand there were two
or three green leaves remaining, by
the other none at all — the tree on that
side being wholly bare. Over the top
of the tree were these words, wrought
in silver : '^ Amoris sorte pares." At
the bottom of the tree, on the side
where the first turtle-dove did sit by
the green leaves, these words were
also embroidered : ^ Hsbc ademptum,"
with an anchor under them. On the
other side, under the other dove, were
these words, in like manner wrought :
"lUa peremptum," with pieces of
broken board underneath.

" See you what this doth mean ?*
the countess asked. '

"Nay," I answered; "my wit is
herein at fault."

"You will," she said, "when you
know whence this gift comes to me*
Methought, save by a few near to me
in blood, or by marriage connected,
and one or two friends — thou, my
Constance, being the chiefest — I was
unknown to all the world ; but a sad
royal heart having had notice, in the
midst of its own sore grie&, how the
earl my husband doth, through evil
counsel, absent and estrange himself
from me, partly to comfort, and partly
to show her love to one she once
thought should be her daughter-in-
law, for a token thereof she sent me
this gift, contrived by her own think-
ing, and wrought with her own hands.
Those two doves do represent heraelf
and me. On my side an anchor and
a few green leaves (symbols of hope),
show I may yet flourish, because my
lord is alive ; though, by reason of his
absence and unkindnessi I mourn aa a

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472

Ckm$UmcB SkerwoocL

lone tiirtl6<loTe. Bat the bare bougha
and broken boards on her side signify
that her hopes are wholly wrecked hj
the death of the duke, for whom she
doth mourn without hope of comfort
or redress.^

The pathetic manner in which Lady
Arundel made this speech moved me
almost to tears.

« If Philip," she sud, <* doth visit me
again at any time, I will hang up this
ingenious conceit where he should see
it Methinks it will recall to him the
past, and move him to show me kind-
ness. Help me, Constance," she said
after a pause, ^^ for to compose such an
answer as mj needle can express,
which shall convey to this royal pris-
oner both thanks, and somewhat of
hope also, albeit not of the sort she
doth disclaim.'*

I mused for a while, and then with
a pencil drew a pattern of a like tree
to that of the Scottish queen's design ;
and the dove which did typify the
Countess of Arundel I did represent
fastened to the branch, whereon she
sat and mourned, by many strings
wound round her heart, and tied to the
anchor of an earthly hope, whereas
the one which was the symbol of the
forlorn royal captive did spread her
wings toward the sky, unfettered by
the shattered relics strewn at her feet
Lady Arundel put her arm round my
neck, and said she liked well this de-
sign ; and bade me for to pray for her,
that the invisible strings, which verily
did restrun in her heavenward mo-
tions, should not always keep her
from soaring thither where only true
joys are to be found.

During some succeeding weeks I
often visited her, and we wrought to-
gether at the same ft^me in the work-
ing of this design, which she had set
on hand by a cunning artificer £rom
the rough pattern I had drawn. Much
talk the while was ministered between
us touching religion, which did more
and more engage her thoughts ; Mr.
Bay ley, a CaSiolic gentleman who be-
longed to the earl her husband, and
whom she did at that time employ to

carry relief to sick and poor persons,
helping her greatly thereui, being weU
instructed himself, and haunting such
priests as did reside secretly in Lon-
don at that time.

About the period when Basil was
expected to return, my health was
again much affected, not so sharp-
ly as before, but a weakness and fad-
ing of strength did show the effects of
such sufferings as I had endured.
Hubert's behavior did tend at that
time for to keep me in great uneasi-
ness. When he came to the house,
albeit he spake but seldom to me, if
we ever were alone he gave sundry
hints of a persistent hope and a pos-
sible desperation, mingled with vague
threats, which disturbed me more than
can be thought c^. Methinks Eate,
Polly, and Muriel held council touch-
ing my health; and thence arose a
very welcome proposal, from my Lady
Tregony, that I should visit her at
her seat in Norfolk, close on the bor-
ders of Suffolk, whither she had re-
tired since Thomas Sherwood's death.
Polly, who had a good head and a
good heart albeit too light a mind,
ft>recasted the comfort it should be to
Basil and me, when he returned, to be
so ntar neighbors until we were mar-
ried (which could not be before some
months after he came of age), that we
could meet every day; Lady Tre-
gony's seat being only three miles dis-
tant from Euston. They wrote to
him thereon; and when his answer
came, the joy he expressed was such
that nothing could be greater. And
on a fair day in the spring, when tbe
blossoms of the pear and apple^reea
were showing on the bare branches,
even as my hopes of coming joys did
bud afresh after long pangs of separa-
tion, I rode from London, by slow
journeys, to Banham Hall, and amidst
the sweet silence of rural scenes, quiet
fields, and a small but convenient
house, where I was greeted with ma-
ternal kindness by one in whom age ,
retained the warmth of heart of yoath,
I did regain so much strength and
good looks, that when, one day, a

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0(mttane9 Sherwood,

478

honeman, whea I least thought of it,
rode to the door, and I tamed white
and red in turns, speechless with de*
light, perceiving it to be Basil, he took
me by both hands, looked into my face
and cried :

*'Hang the leeches! Suffolk air
was all thou didst need, for all they did
so fright me/'

** Norfolk ab:, I pray you/' quoth
my Lady Tregony, smiling.

«Nay, nay,** quoth Basil. «It
doth blow over the bqpder from Suf-
folk.*'

^ Happiness, leastways, bloweth
thence," I whispered.

"Yea," he answered; for he was
not one for to make long speeches.

But, ah me ! the sight of him was a
core to aU mine ailments.

CHAPTER XXI.

It is not to be credited with how
great an ^mixture of pleasure and
pain I do set myself to my daily
task of writing, for the thought
of those spring and summer months
spent in Lady Tregony's house doth
stir up old feelings, the sweetness
of which hath jet some bitterness in
it, which T would fain separate from
the memories of that happy time.

Basil had taken up his abode at
Euston, whither I so often went and
whence he so often came, that me-
thinks we could both have told (for
mine own part I can yet do it, even
after the lapse of so many years) the
shape of each tree, the rising of each
bank, the every winding of the ftur
river Ouse'betwixt one house and the
other. Yea, when I now sit down on the
shore, gazing on the far-off sea, be-
thinking myself it doth break on the
coast of England, I sometimes newly
draw on memoirs tablet that old
large house, the biggest in all Suffolk,
albeit homely in its exterior and inte-
rior plainness, which sitteth in a green
hollow between two graceftd swelling
hills* Its opposite meadows starred

in the spring-tide with so many dai-
sies and buttercups that the grass
scantily showeth amidst these gay in-
truders; the ascending walk, a mile
in lengdi, with four rows of ash-trees
on each side, the tender green of
which in those early April days mocked
the sober tints of the darksome tufts of
fir; and the noble deer underneath
the old oaks, carrying in a stately
manner their horned heads, and dart-
ing along the glades with so swift a
course that the eye could scarce fol-
low them. But mostly the littie wood-
en bridge where, when Basil did fish,
I was wont to sit and watch the sport,
I said, but verily him, of whose sight
I was somewhat covetous after his
long absence. And I mind me that
one day when we were thus seated, he
on the margin of the stream and I
leaning against the bridge, we held an
argument touching country diversions,
which began in this wise :

« Methinks," I said, « of aU dis-
ports fishing hath this advantage, that
if one faileth in the success he looketh
for, he hath at least a wholesome
walk, a sweet air, a fragrant savor of
the mead fiowers. He seeth the
young swans, herons, ducks, and many
other fowls with their broods, which is
surely better than the noise of hounds,
the blast of horns, and the cries the
hunters make. A^d if it be in part
used for the increasing of the body's
health and the solace o£ the mmd, it
can also be advantageously employed
for the health of the soul, for it is not
needftd in this diversion to have a
great many persons with you, and this
solitude doth favor thought and the
servmg of Grod by sometimes repeat^
ing devout prayers."

To this Basil replied: »That as
there be many men, there be also
many minds ; and, for his part, when
the woods and fields and skies seemed
in all one loud cry and conBision with
the earning of the hounds, the gallop*
ping of the horses, the hallowing of the
huntsmen, and the excellent echo re«
sounding ftom the hills and valleys,
he did not think there could be a

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474

Oonttanee J^encoad,

mote delectable pastime or a more
taneable sound by anj degree thaa
this, and speciallj in that place which
is formed so meet for the purpose.
And if he should wish anything, it
would be that it had been the time of
year for it, and for me to ride by his
side on a sweet misty mornings to hear
this goodly music and to be recreated
with this excellent diversion. And
for the matter of prayers," he added,
smiling, ^I warrant thee, sweet
preacher, that as wholesome cogita-
tions touching Almighty God and his
goodness, and brief inward thanking
of him for good limbs and an easy
heart, have come into my mind on a
horse's back with a brave westerly
wind blowing about my head, as in
the quiet sitting by a stream listing to
the fowls singing."

«' Oh, but Basil,* I rejoined, « there
are more virtues to be practised by
an angler than by a hunter."

" How prove you that, sweetheart?"
he asked.

Then I: << Well, he must be of a
well-settled and constant belief to en-
joy the benefit of his expectation. He
must be full of love to his neighbor,
that he neither give offence in any
particular, nor be guilty of any gener-
al destruction; then he must be ex-
ceeding patient, not chafing in losing
the prey when it is almost in hand, or
in breaking his tools, but with pleased
sufferance, as I have witnessed in thy-
self, amend errors and think mis-
chances instructions to better careful-
ness. He must be also full of humble
thoughts, not disdaining to kneel, lie
down, or wet his fingers when occa-
sion commands. Then must he be
prudent, apprehending the reasons
why the fish will not bite ; and of a
ihankful nature, showing a large
gratefulness for the least satisfaction."

« Tut, tut," Basil replied, laughing ;
^ thinkest thou no patience be needful
when the dogs do lose the scent, or
your horse refuseth to take a gate ;
no prudence to forecast which way to
turn when the issue be doubtful ; no
humility to brook a fall with twenty

fellows passing by a-jeering of you ;
no thankfiilness your head be not
broken ; no love of your neighbor for
to abstain in the heat of the chase
from treading down his com, or for to
make amends when it be done ? Gro
to, go to, sweetheart ; thou art a dex-
trous pleader, but hast failed to prove
thy point Methinks there doth ex-
ist greater temptations for to swear or
to quarrel in hunting than in fishing,
and, if resisted, more excellent virtues
then observed. One day last year,
when I was m Cheshire, Sir Peter
Lee of Lime did invite me to hunt the
stag, and there being a great stag in
chase and many gentlemen hot in the
pursuit, the stag took soil, and divers,
whereof I was one, alighted and
stood with sword drawn to have a cut
at him."

« Oh, the poor stag !" I cried ; «I
do always sorely grieve for him."

« Well," he continued, " the stags
there be wonderfully fierce and dan-
gerous, which made us youths more
eager to be at h'un. But he escaped
us all ; and it was my misfortune to be
hindered in my coming near him,
the way being slippery, by a fall
which gave occasion to some which
did not know me to speak as if I had
failed for fear ; which being told me,
I followed the gentleman who first
spoke it, intending for to pick a quarrel
with him, and, peradventure, measure
my sword with his, so be his denial
and repentance did not appear. But,
I thank Grod, afore I reached him my
purpose had changed, and in its slead
I turned back to pursue the stag, and
happened to be the only horseman in
when the dogs set him up at bay ; and
approaching near him, he broke
through the dogs and ran at me, and
took my horse*s side with his horns.
Then I quitted my horse, and of a
sudden getting behind him, got on his
back and cut his throat with mj
sword."

^'Alackr I cried, ^1 do mislike
these bloody pastimes, and love not
to think of the violent death of any
living creature."

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Oomtanee Sherwood.

475

" Well, dear heart,*' he answered,
^ I will not make thee sad again bj
the mention of the killing of so macL
as a rat, if it displeaseth thee. Bat
truly I mislike not to think of that
day, for I warrant thee, in turning
back from the pursuit of that injuri-
ous gentleman, somewhat more of vir-
tue did exist than it hath been my
hap often to practice. For, look yon,
sweet one, to some it doth cause no
pain to forgive an injury which touch*
eth not their honor, or to plunge into
the sea to fish out a drowning man ;
but to be styled a coward, and yet to
act as a Christian man should do, not
seeking for to be revenged, why, me-
thinks, there should be a litUe merit in
it.'*

"Yea," I said, "much in every
way ; but truly, sir, if your thinking
is just that easy virtue is little or no
virtue, I shall be the least virtuous
wife in the world."

Upon this he laughed so loud that
I told him he would fright all the
fishes awav.

« r faith, let them go if they list," te
cried, and cast away his rod. Then
coming to where I was sitting, he invit-
ed me to walk with him alongside the
stream, and then asked me for to ex-
plain my last speech.

" Why, Basil," I said, « what, I
pray you, should be the duty of a vir-
tuous wife but to love her husband ?"

So then he, catching my meaning,
smiled and replied,

" If that duty shall prove easy to
thy affectionate heart, I doubt not but
others will arise which shall call for
the exercise of more difficult virtue."

When we' came to a sweet nook,
where the shade made it too dark for
grass to grow, and only moss yielded
a soil carpet for the feet, we sat down
on a shelving slope of broken stones,
and I exclaimed,

"Oh, Basil, methinks we shall be
• too happy in this fair place ; and I do
tax myself presently with hardness of
heart, that in thy compa&y, and the
forecasting of a blissful time to come,
I lose the sense of recent sorrows "

« God doth yield thee this comfort,"
he answered, " for to refresh thy body
and strengthen thy soul, wliick have
both been verily sorely afflicted of
late. I ween he doth send us breath-
ing-tunes with this merciful intent."

By such discourses as these we en-
tertained ourselves at sundry times;
but some of the sweetest hours we
spent were occupied in planning the fu-
ture manner of our lives, the good we
should strive to do amongst our poor
neighbors, and the sweet exercise of *
Catholic religion we should observe*

Foreseeing the firequent concealing
of priests in his house, Basil sent one
day for a young carpenter, one Mas-
ter Owen, who hath since been so
noted for the contriving of hiding-
places in all the recusants' houses in
England; and verily what I noticed
in him during the days he was at work
at Euston did agree with the great re-
pute of sanctity he hath since obtain-
ed. His so small stature, his trick of
'Silence, his exceeding recollected and
composed manner filled me with ad-
miration ; and Basil told me nothing
would serve him, the morning he ar-
rived, when he found a priest was in
the house, but to go to shrift and holy
communion, which was lus practice,
before ever he set to work at his good
business. I took much pleasure in
watching his progress. He scooped
out a cell in the walls of the gallery,
contriving a door such as I remember-
ed at Sherwood Hall, which none could
see to open unless they <did know of
the spring. All the time he was la-
boring thereat, I could discern him to
be praying ; and when he wot not any
to be near him, sang hymns in a loud
and exceeding sweet voice. I have
never observed in any one a more re-
ligious behavior than in this youth,
who, by his subtle and ingenious art,
hath saved the lives of many priests,
and procured mass to be said in houses
where none should have durst for to
say or hear it if a refuge. of this kind
did not exist, wherein a man may lie
ensconced for years, and none can find
him, if he come not forth himselfl

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476

Omsianee SkenaoocL

When he was gone, other sort of
workmen were called in, for to make
more habitable and convenient a portion
of this lai^ house. For in tiiis the
entire consenting of our minds did ap-
pear, that neither of ns desired for to
spend money on showy improvements,
or to inhabit ten chambers when five
should suffice. What one proposed,
the other always liked well ; and if in
tastes we did sometimes differ, yet no
disagreement ensued* For, albeit Ba-
sil cared not as much as I did for the
good ordering of the Ubrary, his indul-
gent kindness did nevertheless incline
him to favor me with a promise that
One hundred fair, commendable books
should be added to those his good
father had collected. He said thai
Hubert should aid us to choose these
goodly volumes, holy treatises, and
histories in French and Engtish, if it
Uked me, and poetry also. One pleas-
ant chamber he did laughingly appoint
for to be the scholar's room, in the which
he should never so much as show his *
face, but Hubert and I read and write,
if we listed, our very heads off. The
ancient chapel was now a hall ; and,
save some carving on the walls which
could not be recovered, no traces did
remain of its old use* But at the top-
most part of the house, at the head of
a narrow staircase, was a chamber
wherein mass was sometimes said ; and
since Basil's return, he had procured that
each Saturday a priest should come and
spend the nisht with him, for the con-
venience of all the neighboring Catho-
lics who resorted there for to go to their
duty. Lady Tregony and her house-
hold — ^which were mostly Catholic, but
had not the same commodities in her
house, where to conceal any one was
more hard, for that it stood almost in
the village of Fakenham, and all
comers and goers proved visible to the
inhabitants— did repair on Sundays,
at break of day, to Euston. How
sweet were those rides in the fair
morning light, the dew bespangling
every herb and tree, and the wild
flowers filling the air with their fresh
fragrance! The pale primroses, the

azure harebeD, the wood-*anemone, and
the dark-blue hyacinth — what dainty
nosegays they fiimished us with for
our Blessed Lady's altar! of which
the fairest image I ever beheld stood
in the little secret chapel at EustOD.
Basil did much afifection this image of
Blessed Maiy ; for as ^ back as he
could remember he had been used to
say his prayers before it; and when hia
mother died, he being only seven years
of age, he knelt before this so Uvdij
representation of God's Mother, be-
seeching of her to be a mother to him
also; which prayer methinks verily
did take effect, his life having been
marked by singular tokens of her ma^
temal care.

In the Holy Week, which fell that
year in the second week of April, he
procured the aid of three prieste, and
had all Hie ceremonies performed
which do appertain to that sacred sea-
son. On Wednesday, toward evening
began TenehnBy widi the mysterious
candlestick of fifleen lights, fourteen of
them representing, by the extinguishing
of them, the, disciples which forsook
Christ ; the fifteenth on the top, which
was not put out, his dear Mother, who
from the crib to the cross, was not
severed frt>m him. On Thursday we
decked the sepulchre wherein the
Blessed Sacramei|t reposed with flow-
ers and all such jewels as we possessed,
and namely wiUi a very fair diamond
cross which Basil had gifted me with,
and reverently attended it day and
night ^ God defend," I said to Baml,
when the sepulchre was re^ioved) ^ I
should retain for vain uses what was
lent to our Lord yester eve!" and
straightway hung on the cross to our
Lad/s neSk, 0^ Friday we all crept
to the crucifix, and kissing, bathed it
with our tears. On Saturday every
fire was extinguished in the house* and
kindled again with hallowed fire.
Then ensued the benediction of the
paschal candle, and the rest of the*
divine oeremWes, till mass. At
mass, as soon as the priest {ifo-
noonoed << Grloria in expekis," a clothe
contrived by Lady Tregony and ib%

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OontkBnee Sherwood.

477

aDd whieh veiled the altar, made re-
splendent with lights and flowen, was
suddenlj snatched away, and manj
little bells we had prepared for that
purpose rung, in imitation of what
was done in England in Catholic times,
and now in foreign countries. On
Easter Sunday, after mass, a benedic-
tion was given to divers sorts of meat,
and, in remembrance of the Lamb
sacrificed two days bef<»et a great pro-
portion of lamb. Nigh one hundred re-
cusants had repaired to Euston that
day for their paschal comimunion.
Basil did invite them aU to break
Lenf s neck with us, in honor of Christ's
joyful resurrection ; and many bless-
ings were showered that day, I ween,
on Master Kookwood, and for his sake, ,
I ween,' on Mistress Sherwood also*
The sun did shine that Easter morning
with more than usual brightness. The
eommon people do say it danceth for
joy at this glorious tide. For my
part, methought it had a rare youthfiil
brilliancy, more cheering than hot,
more lightsome than dazzling. All
nature seemed to rejoice that Christ
was risen ; and pastoral art had
devised arches of flowers and gay
wreaths hanging from pole to pole and
gladdening every thicket.

Verily, if the sun danced in the
sky, my poor heai*t danced in my
bosom. At Basil's wishing, anticipat-
ing future duties, I went to the kitchen
for to order the tansy-cakes which
were to be prizes at the hand-ball
playing on the next day. Like a fool-
ish creature, I was ready to smile at
every jest, howsoever trifling; and
when^Basil put in his head at the
door and cried, << Prithee, let each one
that eateth of tansy-cake to-morrow,
which signifieth bitter herbs, take also
of bacon, to show he is no Jew," the
wenches and I did laugh till the tears
ran down our cheeks. Ah me I when
the heart doth overflow with joy 'tis
marvellous how the least word maketh
merriment

One day late in April I rode with
Basil for to see some hawking, which
verily is a pleasure for h^h and

mounting spirits; howsoever, I wore
not the dress which the ladies in this
country do use on such occasions, for I
have fidways thought it an unbecoming
thing for women to array themselves
in male attire, or ride in fashion like a
man, and Basil is of my thinking
thereon. It was a dear, calm, sun-
shiny evening, about an hour before
the sun doth usufSUy mask himself,
that we went to the river. There we
dismounted and, for .the first time, I
did behold this noble pastime. For is
it not rare to consider how a wild bird
should be so brought to hand and so
well managed as to make us such
pleasure in the air; but most of all to
forego her native liberty and feeding,
and return to her servitude and diet?
And what a lesson do they read to us
when our wanton wills and thoughts
take no heed of reason and conscience's
voices luring us back to duty's periA.

When we had stood a bnef time
watching for a mallard, Basil perceiv-
ed one and whistled off his falcon.
She flew from him as if she would
never have turned her head again, yet
upon a shout came in. Then by de-
grees, little by little, flying about and
about, she mounted so high as if she
had made the moon the place of her
flight, but presently came down like a
stone at the sound of his lure. I wax-
ed very eager in the noticing of these
haps, and was well content to be an
eye-witness of this sport. Methought
it should be a very pleasant thing to
be Basil's companion in it, and wear '
a dainty glove and a gentle tasel on
my fist which should never cast off
but at my bidding, and when I let it
fly would return at my call. And this
thought minded me of a faithlul love
never diverted from its resting-place
save by heavenward aspirations al-
ternating betwixt earthly duties and
ghostly soarings. But oh, what a
tragedy was enacted in the air when
Basil, having detected by a little white
feather in its tail a cock in a brake,
cast off a tasel gentle, who never
ceased his drcular motion till he had
recovered his place. Then saddenly

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478

ChmUmee Sherwood,

upon the flushing of the cock he came
down, and missing of it in that down-
oome, lo what working there was on
both sides ! The cock mounting as if
he would have pierced the skies ; the
hawk fljing a contrarj way until he
hkd made the wind his friend ; what
speed the cock made to save himself !
What hasty pursmt the hawk made of
the fugitiye ! after long flying killing
of it, but alack in killmg of it killing
himself!

*'Ah, a fatal ending to a fatal
strife!'' exclaimed a known voice
close unto mine ear, a melodious one,
albeit now harsh to my hearing.
Mine eyes were dazzled with gazing
upward, and I confusedly discerned
two gentlemen standing near me, one
of which I knew to be Hubert I
gave him my hand, and then Basil
turning round and beholding him and
his companion, came up to them with
a joyful greeting :

"Oh, Sir Henry,*' he exclaimed, « I
be truly glad to see you ; and you,
Hubert, what a welcome surprise is
this!"

Then he introduced me to Sir Hen-
ry Jemingham; for he it was who,
bowing in a courteous fashion, ad-
dressed to me such compliments as
gentlemen are wont to pay to ladies at
the outset of their acquaintanceship.

These visitors had lefl their horses
a few paces off, and then Sir Henry
explained that Hubert had been abid-
ing with him at his seat for a few
days, and that certain law-business in
which Basil was concerned as well as
his brother, and hunself also, as hav-
ing been for one year his guardian, did
necessitate a meeting wherein these
matters should be brought to a close.

" So," quoth he then, " Master Ba^il,
I proposed we should invade your
solitude in place of withdrawing you
from it, which methought of the two
evils should be the least, seeing what
attractions do detain you at Euston
at this time,"

I foolishly dared not look at Hubert
when Sir Henry made this speech,
and Basil with hearty cheer thanked

him for his obligmg ccHiduct and the
great honor he did him for to visit him
in this amicable manner. Then he
craved his permission ibr to accompa-
ny me to l4idy Tregony's house, trust-
ing, he said, to Hubert to condu<^ him
to Euston, and to perform there all
hospitable duties during the short time
he should be absent himself.

" Nay, nay," quoth Sir Henry, « but,
with your Ucense, Master Basil, we
will ride with you and this lady to
Banham HalL Methinks, seeing you
are such near neighbors, that Mistress
Sherwood lacketh not opportunities to
enjoy your coiipany, and that you
should not deprive me of the pleasure
of a short conversation with her
whilst Hubert and you entertain your-
selves for the nonce in the best way you
can."

Basil smiled, and 8»d it contented
him very much that Sir Henry should
enjoy my conversation, which he
hoped in future should make amends
to his friends for his own deficiencies. .
So we all mounted our horses, and
Sir Henry rode alongside of me, and
Basil and Hubert behind us ; for only
two could hold abreast in the narrow
lane which led to Fakenham. A chill
had fallen on my heart since Hubert's
arrival, wluch I can only liken to the
sudden overcasting of a bright sun-
shiny day by a dark, cold cloud.

^ first Sir Henry entered into dis-
course with me touching hawking,
which he talked of in a merry fashion,
drawing many similitudes betwixt fiil-
coners and lovers, which he said were
the likest people in the world.

" For, I pray you," said h^ "are
not hawks to the one what his mistress
is to the other? the objects of his care,
admiration, labor, and alL They be
indeed his idols. To them he cod*
secrates his amorous ditties, and
courts each one in a peculiar diialect.
Oh, believe me, Misti'ess Sherwood,
that lady may style herself fortunate
in love who shall meet with so much
thought, affection, and solidtude from
a lover or a husband as his birds do
from a good ostringen"

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Chnstanee SherwoocL

479

Then dirertiiig bis speech to other
topics, he told me it was bruited that
the queen did intend to make a pro-
gress in the eastern counties that sum-
mer, and that her majesty should be
entertained in a verj splendid manner
at Kenninghall by my Lord Arundel
and also at his house in Norwich.

^ It doth much grieve me to hear it,**
I answered.

Then he: "Whereforts Mistress
Sherwood?^

"Becaase,"! said, << Lord Arundel
Lath already greatly impaired his for-
tune and spent larger sums than can
be thought of in tl4^1ike prodigal
courtly expenses, and also lost a good
f>art of the lands which his grand-
fikther and my Lady Lumley would
have bequeathed to him if he had not
tarbed spendthrift and so greatly dis-
pleased them/'

''But and if it be so," quoth he
again, ^ wherefore doth this young no-
bleman's imprudence displeasure you,
Mistress Sherwood P*

I answered, " By reason of the pain
which his follies do cause to his sweet
lady, which for many years hath been
more of a friend to my poor self, than
unequal rank and, if possible, still
more unequal merit should warrant."

**Then I marvel not," replied Sir
Henry, **at your resentment of her
husband's folly, for by all I have ever
seen or heard of this lady she doth
show herself to be the pattern of a
wife, the model of high-bom ladies ;
and 'tis said that albeit so young, there
doth exist in her so mudi merit and
dignity that some noblemen confess
that when they come iuto her presence
they dare not swear, -as at other times
they are wont to do before the best of
the kingdom. But I have heard, and
am verily inclined to believe it, that he
is much changed in his dispositions to-
ward his lady ; though pride, it mav
be, or shame at his ill-usage of her,
or fear that it should seem that, now
his fiivor with the queen doth visibly
decline, he should turn to her whom,
when fortune smiled upon him, he did
keep aloof from, seeking her only

when donds gather round him, do hin-*
der him irom showing these new in-
clinations."

" How much he would err," I ex-
claimed, ^ and wrong his noble wife if
he misdoubted her heart in such a
case! Methtnks most women would
be ready to forgive one they loved
when misfortune threatened them, but
she beyond all others, who never at
. any time allowed jealousy or natural
resentments to draw away her love
from him to whom she hath vowed it
But is Lord Arundel then indeed in
less favor with her miyesty ? And
how doth this surmise agree with the
report of her visit to Kenninghall ?" ^

** Ah, Mistress Sherwood," he an-
swered, ^ declines in the human body
often do call for desperate remedies,
and the like are often required when
they occur in court favor. *Tia a dan-
gerous expedient to spend two or three
thousands of pounds in one or two
days for the entertainment of the
queen and the court ; but if, on the
report of her intended progress, one
of such high rank as Lord Anmdel
had failed to place his house at her
disposal, his own disgrace and his en-
emies' triumph should have speedily
ensued. I pray God my Lord Bur-
leigh do not think on Gottessy ! Egad,
I would as lief pay down at once one
yearns income as to be so uncertainly
mulcted. I warrant you Lord Arun-
del shall have need to sell an estate
to pay for the honor her majesty will
do him. He hath a spirit will not
stop half-way in anything he doth
pursue."

"Then think you, sir," I said, « he
will be one day ea noted for his vir-
tues as now for his faults ?"

Sir Henry smiled as he answered,
<<If Philip Howard doth set himself
one day to serve God, I promise yon
his zeeA therein wiU far exceed what
he hath shown in the devil's service."

** I pray you prove a true prophet,
sir," I said; and, as we now had
reached the door of Lady Tregony's
house, I took leave g£ this courteous
gentkanan, and hastily turned toward

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480

Conakmce Sherwood.

Basil — with an uneasy desire to set
him on his gaard to use some reserve
in his speeches with Hubert, but with-
al at a loss how to frame a brief warn-
ing, or to speak without being over-
heard. Howsoever, I drew him a
' little aside, and whispered, ^ Prithee,
be silent touclung Owen's work, even
toHuberL"

He looked at me so much astonish-
ed, and methought with so great a
look of pain, that mj heart smoto me.
We exchanged a brief farewell ; and
when thej had all ridden away, I felt
sad. Our partings were wont to be
more protracted; for he would most
^ times ask me to walk back with him
to the gate, and then made it an ex-
cuse that it should be unmannerly not
to see me home, aud so tiiree or four
times we used to walk to and fto, till
at last I did laughingly shut the door
on him, and refused to open it again.
But, ah me ! that evening the chill I
spoke of had fallen on otr simple joys
like a blight on a fair landscape.

On the next day two missives came
to me from Euston, sent by private
hand, but not by the same messenger.
I leave the reader to judge what I felt
in reading these proofs of the disposi-
tions of two brothers, so alike in fea-
tures, so different in soul. This was
Basil's letter :

''Mine own dbab Heabt — ^The
business which hath brought Sir Hen-
ry and Hubert here will, I be fright-
ened, hold me engaged all to-morrow.
But, before I sleep, I must needs write
thee (poor penman as I be) how much
it misliketh me to see in thee an iU
opinion of mme only and dear brother,
and such suspicion as verily no one
should entertain of a friend, but much
less of one so near in blood. I do
yield thee that he is not as zealous as I
could wish in devout practices^ and
something too fond of worldly pleas-
ures ; but God is my witness, I should
as soon think of doubting mine own
existence as his fidelity to his religion,
or his kindness to myselC So, prithee,
dear love, pain me not again by the
utterance of such injurious words to

' Hubert as that I should not trust him
with any secrets howsoever weighty,
or should observe any manner of re-
straint in conmiunicating with him
touching common dangers and inter-
ests. Methinks he is veiy sad at this
time, and that the sight of his pateiv
nal home hath made him melancholy.
Verily, his lot hath in it none of the
brightness which doth attend mine,
and I would we could anyways
make him a partaker in the happiness
we do enjoy. I pray €rod he may
help me to effect this, by the forward-
ing of any wish he hath at heart; but
he was alwa^ of a very reserved
habit of mind, and not prone to speak
of his own concernments. Forgive,
sweetheart, this loving reproof, firom
thy most loving friend and servant,
« Basil Rookwood."
Hubert's was as foUoweth:
" Madam — ^My presumption to-
ward you hath doubtless been a sin
calling for severe punishment ; but I
pray you leave not the cause of it idH
remembered. The doubtful mind you
once showed in my regard, and of
which the last time I saw you some
marks methought did yet appear,
should be my excuse if I have erred
in a persistency of love, which most
women would less deserve indeed, but
would more appreciate than you have
done. If this day no token doth
reach me of your changed mind, be it
so. I depart hence as changed as you
do remain unchanged. It may be for
mine own weal, albeit passion deems
of it otherwise, if you finally r^ect
me whom once you did look upon
with so great favor, that the very
thought of it works in me a revived
tenderness as should be mine own un-
doing if it prevailed, for this country
hath laws which are not broken in
vain, and faithful loyal service is differ-
ently requited than traitorous and ob-
stinate malignity. I shall be the greater
for lacking your love, proud lady ; but
to have it I would forego all a sovor-
eign can bestow — all that ambition
can desire. These, then, are my last
words. If we meet not to-day, God

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Chntianee Sherw>od.

481

knoweth wkh what sentimente we
shall one daj meet, when justice hath
overtaken you, and love in me hath
turned to hatred I

" Hubert Rookwood.**

" Ay," I bitterly exclaimed, laying
the two letters side by side before me,
^ one endeth with love, the other with
hate. The one showeth the noble
fruits of true affecticNi, the other the
bitter end of selfish passion." Then
I mused if I should send Basil, or
show him later Hubert's letter, clear-
ing myself of any injustice toward
him, but destroying likewise for ever
his virtuous confidenoMn his brother's
honor. A short stru||io with myself
ensued, but I soon resolved, for the
present at least, on silence. If danger
did seem to threaten Basil, which hia
knowledge of his brother's baseness
could avert, then I must needs speak ;
but God defend I should without con-
straint pour a poisoned drop into the
dear fount of his undoubting souL
Passion may die away, hatred may
cease, repentance arise ; but the evil
done by the revealing of another's sin
worketh endless wrong to the doer
and the hearer.

The day on which I received these
»two letters did seem the longest I had
ever known. On the next Basil came
to Banham Hall, and told me his
guests were gone. A load seemed
lifled from my heart But, albeit we
resumed our wonted manner of life,
and the same mutual kindness and ac-
customed duties and pleasures filled
our days, I felt less secure in my hap-
piness, less thoughtless of the world
without, more subject to sudden sink-
ings of heart in the midst of greatest
merriment, than before Hubert's visit

In the early part of June, Mr. Con-
gleton wrote in answer to Basil's ea-
ger pressings that he would fix the
day of our marriage, that he was of
opinion a better one could not be found
than that of our Lady's Visitation, on
the 2d of July, and that, if it pleased .
God, he should then take the first
journey he had made for five-and-
twenty years ; for nothing would serve

VOL. IL 81

Lady Tregony but that the wedding
shoidd take place in her house, where
a priest would marry us in secret at
break of day, and then we should
ride to the parish church at Euston for
the public ceremony. He should, he
added, carry Muriel with him, howso-
ever reluctant she should be to leave
London; but he promised us this
shquld be a welcome piece of con-
straint, for that she longed to see me
again more than can be told.

Verily, pleasant letters reach-
ed me that week ; for my father wrote
he was in better hcudth, and in
great peace and contentment of mind
at Rheims, albeit somewhat sad, wheA
he saw younger and more fortunate
men (for so he styled them) depart for
the £nglish»mission ; and by a cypher
we had agreed on he gave me to un-
derstand Edmund Gienings was of
that number. And Lady Arundel, to
whom I had reported the conversation
I had yr\i\ Sir Henry Jeminghami
sent me an answer which I will here
transcribe :

"My wbll-beloyed Constancb
— ^You do rightly read my heart, and
the hope you express in my regard,
with so tender a friendship and solici-
tous desire for my happiness, hath in-
deed a better foundation than idle
surmises. It hath truly pleased God
that Philip's disposition toward me
should change ; and albeit this change
is not as yet openly manifested, he
nevertheless doth oftentimes visit me,
and testifies much regret for his past
neglect of one whom he doth now
confess to be his truest friend, his
greatest lover, and best comfort O
mine own dear friend 1 my life haa
known many strange accidents, but
none greater or more strange than this,
that my so bng indifferent husband
should turn into a secret lover who
doth haunt me by stealth, and looking
on me with new eyes, appears to con-
ceive so much admiration for my
worthless beauty, and to find such
pleasure in my poor company, that it
would seem as if a new face and per-
son had been given to me wherewith

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482

Constance Sherwood,

to inspire him with this lore for her to
whom he doth owe it. Oh, I promise
thee this husbandly wooin;;^ liketh me
well, and methiuks I would not at
once disclose to the world this new
kindness he doth show me and revival
of conjugal affection, but rather hug it
and cherish it like a secret treasure
until it doth take such deep root that
nothing can again separate his heart
from me. His fears touching the
queen's ill-conception of him increase,
and his enemies do wax more power-
ful each day. The world hath become
full of uneasiness #to him. Methinks
he would gladly break with it; but
4ike to one who walketh on a narrow
plank, with a precipice on each side
of him, his safety lieth only in advanc-
ing. The report is tme*-I would it
were false-— of the queen's progress,
and her intended visit to Kenninghall.
I fear another fair estate in the north
must needs pay the cost (hereof; but
avoidance is impossible. , I am about
to remove from London to Arundel
Castle, where my lord doth will me
for the present to reside. The sea-
breezes on that coast, and the mild air
of Sussex, he thinks should improve
my health, which doth at this time re-
quire care. Touching religion, I
have two or three times let fall words
which implied an increased inclination
to Catholic religion. Each time his
countenance did very much alter, and
assumed a painful expression. I fear
he is as greatly opposed to it as here-
tofore. But if once resolved on what
conscience doth prescribe, with Grod's
help, I hope that neither new-found
joys nor future fears shall stay me
from obeying its voice.

*^ And so thou art to be married
come the early days of July ! V faith -
tby Basil and thou have, like a paur of
doves, cooed long enough, I ween,
amidst the tall trees of Euston ; which,
if you are to be believed, should be
the most delectable place in the whole
world. And yet some ha7e told me
it is but a huge plain building, and
the country about it, except for its
luxuriant trees, of no notable beauty.

The sunshine of thine own heart shed*
deth, I ween, a radiancy on the plain
walls and the unadorned gardens
greater than nature or art can bestow.
1 cry thee mercy for this malicious
surmise, and give thee license, when I
shall write in the same strain touching
my lord's castle at Arundel to float
me in a like manner. Some do dis-
dainfully style it a huge old fortress ;
others a very grand and noble pile. If
that good befalleth me that he doth
visit me there, then I doubt not but it
will be to me the cheerfiillest place in
existence. Thy loving servant to
command, ^

*' Ann Ar^del and Sorbbt."
This letter came to my hand at
Whitsuntide, when the village folks
were enacting a pastoral, the only
merit of which did lie in the innocent
glee of the performers. Tne sheep-
shearing feast, a very pretty festival,
ensued a few days later. A fat lamb
was provided, and the maidens of the
town permitted to run after it, and she
which took hold of it declared the lady
of the Iambi 'Tis then the custom to
kill and carry it on a long pole before
the lady and her companions to the
green, attended with music and nioris-
co dances. But this year I ransomed
the lamb, and had it crowned with
blue corn-flowers and poppies, and
led to a small paddock, where for
some time I visited and fed it ev^
day. Poor little iamb! like me, it
had one short happy tune that flimi-
mer.

In the evening I went with the
lasses to the banks of the Onse, and
scattered on the dimpling stream, as is
their wont at the lamb-ale, a thousand
odorous flowers — new-born roses, the
fleur-de-luce, sweet-williams, and yel-
low coxcombs, the small-flowered
lad/s-slipper, the prince*s-feather and
the clustered bell-flower, the sweet-
basil (the saucy wenches smiled when
they furnished me with a bunch
thereof), and a great store of midsum-
mer daisies. When, with due observ-
ance, I threw on the water a handful
of these golden^ufled and silver-

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The Si^ of Malta.

crowned flowerets, I thougbt of Mas-
ter Chauoer's lines :

** Above all the flowers in the mead

These love I znoBt~the»e flowers white and red.

And In Pronch called ia Mle MarffuerUt,
O commendable flower, and most in mind t
O flower and gracioos excellence !

O amiable ilargaerite."

The great stove of winsome and gra-
jdoosly-named flowers used that day
set me to plan a fair garden, wherein

each month should yield in its torn to
the altar of our secret chapel a pure
incense of nature's own furnishing
Basil was helping me thereto, and my
Lady Tregony smiling at my quain|
devices, when Mr. Gobham, a cousin
of her ladyship, arrived, bringing with
him tiews of the queen's progress,
which quickly diverted us from other
thoughts, and caused my pencil to
stand idle in mine hand.

TO MM OONTZHUBD.

From The SIxpennjr Magarine.

THE SIEGE OF MALTA.

Whun Solymon, sultan of Turkey,
had resolved to extirpate the Knights
of Malta, pursuant to his ultimate de-
sign of taking vengeance on Philip
IL of Spain for the loss which he had
suffered in the reduction of the (as
he supposed) impregnable Penon de
Valez, and for the hostility which the
Spaniards had visited upon the Mo-
rescoes, to which may be added the in-
centive of radical religious differences,
for the depredations which those fa-
mous warriors had visited upon his
commerce, he gave the command of
his fleet to Piali, and that of his land
forces to Mustapha. Having equipped
all of the ships in his empire, to which
were united the corsairs of Hascem
and Dragut, viceroys of Algiers and
Tripoli, he ordered them to repair to
the siege of Malta.

The Christian powers on the Med-
iterranean, having heard of his exten-
sive preparations, were in doubt as to
the destination of the Turkish fleet ;
but it appearing from the report of
spies that it was bound for Malta, the
grand master called immediately upon
the Catholic king, the Pope, and the
other Christian princes for their aid
in withstanding tlieir common enemy,
the infidels. These powers were under
BO small obligation to the Knightq,

who had made it a part of the fidth
which they held in unity with thes^
powers, to destroy them upon every
occasion which presented the opportu-
nity. But, to their disgrace, these
powers discovered an ungrateful hesi*
tancy in responding to this demand,
save Philip, and even he, the historian
relates, was actuated by motives not
wholly engendered by a sense of hon-
or, and whose tardiness was well-nigb
fatal to the cause which he professed
to zealously espouse, and upon which
the Knights of Malta relied for
success.

About the middle of May, three
hundred years ago^ the Turkish fleet
arrived in sight of Malta, with a
strength of upward of 40,000, compos-
ed cluefly of janissaries and serapis,
the bravest troops of the Ottoman en\«
pire.

John de la Yalette, the master-
spirit of the defence, commands our
highest admiration for his intrepid ef-
forts in inspiring every aspect with the
buoyancy of hope. The troops at his
disposal to stay this tide of destruction,
which set so furiously against his lit-
tle sea-washed isle, amounted to only
700 knights and 8,500 soldiers, which*
flattered Solymon into the egregious
error that it was an easy conquest ^

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484

Tk$ Sieffe of Malta.

kie janissaries and serapis, who» under
their distinguished commanders, were
accustomed to victory.

The Turks landed at some distance
from II Borgo, and, unresisted, devas«
tated the. defenceless territory; but
thej now drew near a goal which was
calculated to deceive those who enters
tained the fantasy that an easy victory
•waited them.

Mustapha, in view of the Spanish
forces daily expected to relieve the
enemy, counselled an^mmediate at-
tack upon St Elmo. This was a fort
deriving much of its strengh, as well
as importance, from its natural advan-
tages. It was situated on a narrow
neck of land which was washed on
either side by important harbors; it
was accessible only over a road which
was either bare rock or thinly covered
with gravel, and, in the re^, commu-
nications with n Borgo were protected
by the forts St Angelo and Su
MichaeL

The basha, to secure himself a safer
approach to St Elmo, caused to be
erected a parapet of heavy timber,
covered toward the fort with a mix-
ture of earth, straw, and rushes, to re-
ceive the enemy's missiles. Here he
planted his heaviest guns and prepared
for the siege.

The governor of St Elmo delegated
a member of the fort to convey intelli-
gence to La Yalette, the grand mas-
ter, that the place could not sustain
an action for a great length of time ;
die messenger represented, in exag-
gerated coloring, the information that
the fort could not withstand the siege
for more than a week. La Valette, in
his reply, administered a rebuke, al-
though convinced that it could not,
with its limited capacity for sustaining
troops, remain long in tibe possession of
the order ; but he was none the less
impressed with the policy of holding
it, even at a great sacrifice, till the ar-
rival of the Viceroy of Sicily, who
had been instructed by the King of
Spain to represent the kingdom, in
response to ihe call of the grand mas-
ter. He concluded, in view of the ne-

cessities of the case, to head in person
a body of reinforcements ; but being
dissuaded by the importunities of the
Knights, he consented to intrust its
chaiige to De Medran, in whom he
placed implicit confidence.

Stung by the rebuke, and encouraged
by their new accessions, the garrison
sallied forth upon the offensive, dealing
consternation to the unwarned foe; but
having recovered from their surprise,
the Turks turned upon their assailants,
who were discomfited by a perverse
wind which blew the smoke so as to
obscure the enemy, and drove them
within the walli. When the smoke
cleared away, what was the dismay of
the Knights to discover that the Turks
had planted a battery in such juxta-
position as to compromise much the '
security of the fort. It was, unquestion-
ably, a doubtful advantage which the
Christians obtained by quitting their
works, as they now found it necessary
for a greater vigilance to be called into
action.

The tireless infidels having discov-
ered a gun-port but a few feet from
the ground, well-nigh made themselves
masters of the cavaliers by means of
ladders. But af^er slaughtering many
Christians, the garrison, aroused from
sleep and inspired by their sense of
danger, compelled, by the fury of their
assault, the Turks to retire into the
ravelin. The conflict was now renewed
upon the part of the janissaries, and
the contest raged with unabated vigor
from daylight till noon, when the be-
siegers were forced to withdraw.
About a hundred and twenty soldiers
and Knights were killed, at a cost of
nearly three thousand to the enemy.

The situation of the fort was now
grown criticaL Mustapha held the
ravelin, and, conscious of its signifi-
cance to the foe, whose attempts to re-
gain it were strenuous, filled up the
ranks as fast as the desperate strug-
gles thinned them. La Yalette sent
reinforcements; still the infidels per-
severed in battering breaches in the
walls. Fearing lest Mustapha would
attempt to effect his purpose by storm-

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The Siege of Malta.

485

ing, the faltering Ejiighta applied a sec-
<md time to the grand master, recom-
mending a desertion of the works.

La Valette, in opposition to the ma-
jority of his council, held, though re-
gretting the fate which awaited his
brothers in the order, l^at the place
must not be evacuated, and called upon
the defenders to execute their vow, if
necessaiy, which bound them to sacri-
fice their lives for the welfare and per-
petuity of the order. He also deter-
mined to follow soon his reply in per^
son, and fall in the common cause of
Christianity. Such was the grand
master who withstood, alone and un-
supported, as we might say, the whole
infidel forces, and who declared his
fealty to the cause in so determined a
manner — a manner not weakened by
faltering acts — as to inspire courage
into the most craven heart

Some murmured at this response,
and fifty-three of the malcontents ad-
dressed him a letter, in which they ex-
pressed the purpose that, unless on the
next night he sent boats to take them
away, they would seek sudden death
without the shelter of the fort. To this
letter he replied by sending three com-
missioners to examine the tenability of
the works, and explaining to the dis-
affected soldiery their paramount duty
to the organization, and the futility of
sacrificing their lives to no good end,
which were now so needful to sustain
the defence against the enemies of their
holy fiuth. Two of these commission-
en concurred in pronouncing it unten-
able, but the third, Constantine Gas-
triot, esteemed the fort far from being
reduced. To guarantee his good faith
he offered to attempt its defence with
what soldiers the dangerous post would
voluntarily command.

La Valette gladly accepted the offer,
and, with consummate address, informed
the hitherto ckmorous Ejiights that
they might now obtain their cUschai^ ;
that he would relieve them by ano&er
garrison ; and also promising them fa-
cilities for transportation to II Borgo.
^Yoiif my brethren,'' concluded he,
« joay be in greater safety here, and I

shall then feel less anxiety for the pre-
servation of the fort"

Conscious of the infamy that would
await them upon their return, and stung
by the latent expression of the letter,
thev resolved to only quit the fort when
called to face the enemy. The grand
master, to try their feehngs, intimated
that willing troops were preferable to
those who were mutinous. This an-
swer greatly affected the Knights, and
they humbled themselves still more till
La Valette gladly receded from his
rigor.

Having now consecrated themselves
for the immolation, and more troops
having come to their relief, operations
were resumed. An invention produo-
tive of great mischief to the enemy wai
resorted to by the fertile genius of the
besieged. Hoops were constructed of
very combustible material, and ignited
and thrown among the Turks as they
were crowding to the assault These
were calculated to clasp a few of them
together, and, in confusion, to render
reUef impossible, and a horrid death
probable.

For a month the engagement was
daily renewed, and Mustapha was as
frequently repalsed. On ^e 16th of
July, intent upon a grand, overwhelm-
ing assault, the Turkish fleet was drawn
up near the fort, supported by 4,000
musketeers and archers in the earth-
works. The Turks attempted to rush
in at the breaches, now filled up with
the invincible Christian soldiery. Bat
the immense number of the former de*
feated the end they sought by so great
a force. The cannon belched forth a
broad-sweeping desolation among the
assailants for six hours; the enemy
were terrified almost beyond control of
the officers, till, at length, Mustapha
was mortified in having, without gain-
ing any advantage by the slaughter
which his command had sustained, to
recall them.

Mustapha despairing, after this sa;^
guinaiy resistance to his arms, of sub*
duing the garrison so long as commit
nication was kept open with the town,
by which the attenuated ranks were

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466

Ths Sieg$ of Maka.

•applied with fresli fcroops, resolved, a8
hiB surest resort, to extend his works
across the neck and connect with the
harbor in the rear. This work was
execated with much difficulty and loss.
At this time Dragut, the most accom-
plished naval officer of the Ottoman
empire, was killed. Great as was this
loss, Mustapba did not hesitate, but
seemed with ereiy new adversity to
stren^en in his purpose of encom-
passing the Christians with ruin.

Having rendered, by this precaution-
ary expedient, the reception of supplies
from the town impossible, he again re-
newed the assault. The four spirited
attacks which were made upon the
31st of July were repulsed by the
S[nights and soldiers, displaying, in the
words of our author (Watson), ^ a de-
gree of prowess and fortitude which
almost exceeds belief, and is beyond
the power of description."

Intelligence having been conveyed
lo the grand master of the perilous sit-
uation of the fortress, troops were de-
spatched to the. rescue ; but they were
forced to return, leaving the little gar-
rison weak but determined, faced with
certain destruction, yet prepared to
meet it heroically. It commands our
deepest admiration to see, even through
the film of distance, that little band,
■ndaunted, cooped up within that fiery
fomaoe awaiting that doom which was
drawing nearer and nearer, and which
heralded its dreadful approach with a
pageantry at once terrible and sublime ;
Id see them with the blazing canopy
showeringdoath down upon their uncov-
ered heads ; to see them, having only to
legret their former cowardice, adding to
Iheir already resplendent laurels. A
prouder moment does not come to the
historian— a moment more replete with
the fulness of joy than can ever be
known to the fictionist, as he lingers
with enchanted pen upon such scenes ;
and yet, when followed by those which
are revolting to our more refined sense
of enlightenment, he painfully dischar*
ges his duty.

Having spent the night which wit-
■essed the blasting of every hope of

relief in prayer, they bade each other
affisctionate adieus, and repaired to their
death posts. To throw themselves
upon the mercy of a foe which indeed
knew no mercy, was not for a m(Hnent
entertained by those who were wedded
to the Catholic Church. The wounded
and disabled, at their request, were
placed where sure death might meet
them. St Elmo was attacked upon
the 23d of July, 1505, which day saw
the infidel flag flaunting triumphantly
over its ramparts, so soon to be struck
in disgrace and be replaced by the
standard of St John. The resistance
which its handful of defenders made
provoked rather the rage of the Turks
than incited their admiration, and,
afler an unparalleled struggle of four
hours, nothing was left but the broken
walls to urge resistance to the over-
whelming foe. Supremely grand was
the terrific display which its heights
commanded amidst the fiercest of the
strife I A multitude of swaying human
beings, actuated by a maddened re-
venge, hurtling one against the other,
stretching away, whilst those more
closely drawn to its sides were in num-
bers joined in fiery chains, and in the
embrace of their blazing bonds expired
with the wildest shrieks of agony! St
Elmo, wrapped in fire, arrayed in ita
funereal paU of lowering smoke, be-
came the prey of the Turks.

Mustapba surveyed the scene of his
dear-bought victory with feelings no
doubt adverse to those which flattered
him upon his arrival. Brutal, indeed^
were the means by which he sought to
carry consternation to H Borgo; aU
that had been found yet alive were rip-
ped open, and, with the holy symbol
of theur faith gashed upon their bodies,
they were thrown into the harbor, and
winds and tides invoked to beat these
messengers to the giates, to inform the
town of the &11 of St Elmo.

But a period awaited the siege of
Malta which reflected more diisgrace
upon Mustapba than one hundred vic-
tories could efface.

La Valette looked out upon the har-
bor now filled with the floatii^ bodieSi

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The Siege of Makch

4S7

horriblj gashed} of the gallant defend-
ers of St Elmo, but no one could
read his reflections as he viewed those
dead-freighted waves depositing their
burden upon the beach ; no matter what
his acts maj have been when suggested
by such an inspiration, for they were
no index by which to read his heart*

We are informed by the historian
tbat he dissembled his true feelings
that the Knights and soldiers might
not see in him a cowardly exemplar*
But it is not impossible that the grand
master 'looked unmoved upon those
whose dress and sacred wounds alone
betrayed them to have been bound to
him by the endearing ties of the or-
der. His retaliation, however, is not
in accordance with our finer concep-
tions of right, but who wUl question
the justness of u^or-cxpedients ? La
Yalette was the master-spirit of the
defence, and he evinced himself not
unworthy his station. For had he
been less decided, and succumbed to
the importunities of his subordinates,
^ indeed the siege of Malta would have
been of short duration; no Spanish
forces that would have been sent could
have retrieved the advantages that
would have been lost by a cowardly
precipitation. And thus to him may
we ascribe the glory of the long mas-
terly defence which kept an enemy,
thirsting for Christian blood, at bay,
and which made an ultimate recovery
practicable; which, indeed, made the
Turkish triumph but preparatory to
an indelible disgrace. La Valette's
emotions of sorrow soon hardened,
and he ordered his captives to be de-
ci^itated and their heads shot from
the cannon's mouth into the enemy's
camp. The significance of this act,
in part, may justify its commission,
though it would be more in harmony
with our ideal to believe him incapa-
ble of perpetrating such an offence.
The object which Mustapha lumed to
accomplish in forwarding those ghastly
dead to II Borgo was to intimidate
the place into submission ; the return
which La Yalette made was designed
to bespeak an unwavering dispoflitiony

and to hurl defiance in the face of tha
infidels.

Mustapha, incensed at the undaunt-
ed response made to his white flag,
and the message sent back by his
Christian slave, that they hoped soon
to bury him and his janissaries in the
only ditch which they could consistent-
ly surrender, immediately invested the
town and re-commenced the carnage.
Subsequent to the fall of St. Elmo,
the basha had been strengthened by
the arrival of Hascem with the bra-
voes of Alters, amounting to 2,500
choice troops.

II Borgo and St. Michael were now
continuously under fire ; but, to expo*
dite his purposes, Mustapha adopted
the suggestion of Piali, to make th&
Christian slaves draw their shipping
across the neck upon which stood St
Elmo, into the harbor, that there
might be a simultaneous charge from
both land and naTal forces. Thiii
hardship was rendered necessary be-
cause the grand master had caused a
heavy chain to be swung across the
mouth of the harbor, to which impedi-
ment were added the resources of St
Angelo, which commanded its entrance.

Having mastered this difficulty,
Mustapha consented to the pompous
demands of Hascem to intrust to him
the assault of St. Michael, promising
to support him if necessar}\ Hascem
shared his command with Candelissa,
an experienced corsair, who was to
sustain the attack by sea.

With much display Candelissa pro-
ceeded to perform his part Meetmg
with unexpected resistance in the stao-
cado which had been erected to per-
plex his landing, he suffered great loss
from the fort, .which did not delay in
improving so cardinal an advantage,
tie resolved to abandon this and at-
tempt the intrenchments under the
care of Gulmaran ; the Christians re-
served their fire until it might be spent
effectively, and, at their first discharge,
cut down 400 of the assailants. Can-
delissa pushed vigorously on whilst
Gulmaran was reloading, and gained .
the shore ; the latter, having prepared

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488

Tk6 Siege of Malta.

tbr^ snch an emergency, now threw
from bis cannon grape^ot, which did
overwhehning execution, and Candel-
iasa, seeing with dismay his wavering
troops, ordered his boats to be put off
a little from the shore.

The Algerines, seeing no avenue of
escape, were conscious that through
success alone could thej secure their
safety. They therefore marched for-
ward with maddened resolution upon
the earthworks. Before their irresist-
ible chaige the Knights fell back in
confusion. But stung with shame upon
seeing the infidel colors planted upon
their works, they rushed to the rescue,
having been reinforced ; the ardor of
their charge struck terror to the hearts
of the assailants, and Candelissa was
among the first that fled. Of 4,000
only a fifth escaped. The Christians
continued firing upon the boats, sink-
ing many, and covering the waters
With wrecks. Amidst this vast devas-
tation, dying and dead bodies were
mingled in the wildest confusion. This
defeat was 'decided, and Candelissa's
ontimely exultation, which character-
is^ his reparation to the contest, was
of a marked contrast to his inglorious
return as his craft ploughed their way
through the thickly strewn waters.
The Knights were in nowise discour-
aged in this sudden turn in the for-
tunes of the day.

■ In the meantime the attack was
ailso going on by land. Hascem had
well-nigh expiated in disgrace his
taunting threat ; having led his troops
to the charge, he was confounded with
the confusion which the fearful havoc
wrought among the ranks. Being
driven back, he renewed the assault
in the face of the belching cannon
roaring defiance to his arms in vindi-
cation of the sanctity of invaded rights,
but to no purpose. His mortification
was extreme in bemg compelled by
the intrepid garrison to sound a re-
treat. Tlie Imsha now advanced with
his janissaries, and the united forces
^compelled the Knights to retire from
the beach, where, with undaunted spir-
its, they had proceeded to meet the

fresh troops. But they did not yield
without the most strenuous exertions,
and the invaders had paid a dear price
for the dreadful spot. Though ex-
hausted by fatigue, their detennination
knew no abatement, and they awaited
within the breach the renewal of the
confiict. Their hopes were now rein-
spired by the addition of those forces
which liad contributed so largely to
the discomfit of Candelissa. The
janissaries, unable to withstand their
onslaught, were forced to retire amidst
the showering missiles and cheers of
the gallant Christians.

Mustapha, enraged beyond control
by the obstinate defence, employed
one-half of his troops under Fiali
against the town, and with the remain-
der resolved to reduce the fort at any
cost. To secure every chance of suc-
cess he raised more batteries, dug new
trenches, sprung mines, and prepared
in every way possible to facilitate his
design. But upon every hand did the
valiant Christians, animated by the
presence of the grand master, baffie
his arms. Mustapha's principal engi-
neer constructed a machine, upon the
efficacy of which they entertained
high hopes ; it was a huge cask, firmly
made, and filled with powder, chains,
bullets, and everything calculated to
work mischief which the place could
command. This was projected into
the midst of the Christians, who, ere
it exploded, managed to roll it back
upon its artificers, which did fearful
execution among them. Whilst yet
the Turks were paralyzed by the ef-
fect of its report, the Knights rushed
out and engaged them hand to hand.
Many of the infidels were killed, and
the remainder made good their escape.
But Piali was not idle. Though
coping with superior strength, he was
more successful against II Boi^ than
his rival against St. MichaeL He had
gained great advantages, and, as night
terminated his operations, he prepared
the minds of his intimates for the glo-
rious eptry which he proposed to make
on the morrow. He had, by a piece
of stratagem ia calling off the atteo-

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The Siege of Malteu

489

don of the garrison 4)7 a furious as-
sanlty managed in another and im-
portant position to erect a platform of
earth and stones. It was upon this
that night dosed his work, and which
inflamed within his hreast iivelj hopes
of specdilj terminating the siege, and
of reaping new laurels.

A ooundl of the Knights was now
held, and an abandonment of the
worlds advised by the principal part ;
bat La Yalette was inexorable, and
defeated everj such proposition bj
his superior wisdom. He employ-
ed all available hands in digging
trenches during the night, and by a
master-stroke gained possession of the
cavalier which had so excited the ex-
ultation of the Turkish basha. He
detailed a select body of troops to
steal along the foot of the wall, and
who, when arrived at the spot desig-
nated, raised a loud shout and rushed
upon the guard; these, suppasing that
the whole garrison were upon them,
predpitately fled. The Christians
were not slow in securing this advan-
tage beyond any hope of recovery
which the Turks might entertain.

The delay of the Spanish troops was
inexplicable to La Yalette, who attrib-
uted it to the treachery of the Viceroy
of Sicily, but which historians impute
to the infidelity of Philip. • Now, the
gnmd master was aware that their only
hope was to hold out till they brought
reHef ; and the bashas were fearful lest
they should arrive afler so long a delay
at this very opportune moment

Piali, receiving intelligence that the
Spanish forces were to be landed at
St. Angelo, lay in wait there, af^er
interposing every obstacle practicable
to impede their progress. Resolved to
urge every possible resistance, the in-
fidels awaited the Spanish sail, and
were ill prepared for the tidings
which came, to the effect that they
were already landed in another part
of the island. Thus was accomplished
by the duplicity of the Catholic king a
reaalt which was not antidpated ; his
object in landing his forces at the ex-
treme ft the isknd was to shield, as

far as possible, his subjects from the
rigors of the siege. But Mustapha
no sooner learned of their approach
than he withdrew all of the Turkish
forces into the shipping. In his haste
he had deserted St. £hno, manned
with his best cannon. Ere long he
was informed by a deserter that he had
thus disgracefiiUy fled before a force
of 6,000 poorly officered Spaniards, the
same being only little more than one-
third of his own numbers. His rage
knew no bounds. From this indelible
disgrace he knew his only escape was
to disembark and retrieve his fallen
fortunes ; but his command was shared
by those whose personal considerations
and jealousies prevented them from
extending any sympathy to him.

La Yalette improved the interim in
taking every precaution to prevent the
fort from again falling into the hands
of the Turks. The grand master
was now looked upon as the one to
whom too much credit could not be
given, and whose orders were obeyed
with cheering alacrity by all who
were able in any way to assist. A
stronger affection was generated to-
ward him, to which his merits entitled
him, as the most fitting reward which
the Knights could return.

Mustapha having conyened a coun-
cil of his principal officers, they deter^
mined widi litUe dissent to land and
xenew the siege. The soldiery, greatly
disheartened at their late reverses,
were very reluctant to obey, and fre-
quently force was resorted to to com-
pel them. But it must haye been pa-
tent to the commanders that thus, being
forced to use compulsory means, they
could not expect them to effect what
willing and eager troops could easily
accomplish. Mustapha was unable
to stay the current of fiying'soldiera,
and was hurled along with it ; twice
was he jostled from his horse, and was
with difficulty rescued from being cap-
tui'ed. Such was the overwhelming
defeat visited upon Mustapha's com-
mafad, who, we doubt not, would have ^
welcomed even captivity rather than
&ce the saltan, whose arms he had

Digitized by VjOOQIC

490

A Song of the Tear*

thufl signally disgraced. What the re-
f ecdons were that this destin j anima*
ted in his mind, we are left to infer — ^a
destiny so different from what he an-
ticipated for the thousands who were
to destroy the Knights of Malta, only
as an insignificant incident collateral to
the brilliant career which awaited them
at the hands of the larger Christian
powers. When he saw the.mere skele-
ton of his army returning, he might
well be impressed with the vanity of
human calculationa.

The si^ge of I^alta continued four
months, and it, amid the general de-
struction, worked no little benefit to
the Knights of Malta. This success
created joy throughout Christendom,
which was expressed in the most
gratifying manner. If they were
left to fight their battles sJone, it
was only to achieve the greater
glory. And thus ended the fiEunous
siege of Malta, whose valorous de-
fence is unparalleled in the records of
history.

From The Literary Worlonan.

A SONG OF THE YEAR.

SoLEMKLT comes thy last hour, Old Year,
Mercy and love were thy dower, Old Year ;
Though with thy gifts came the sigh or tear.
Parting, we'll bless thee, Old Year, Old Year.

With thy best gifts in thy hand, Old Year !
Dying while blessing the land, Old Year I
Welcoming Christians again, again.
Joyous Old Year, how we loved thee, then I

Softly thou com*8t in the night. New Year I
Robed all in pure virgin white, New Year I
Deeds all unknown of shall fill thy days.
Songs now unheard of will sound thy praise.

Meeting, we fear thee almost, New Year,
Welcome might sound like a boast, New Year
When thou art old, like the year just past^
Then let us bless thee, New Year, at last

Digitized by VjOOQIC

The ReUgiaui SiaH$tie$ of the WoHd.

49i

TniudAted from the dviltik CattolicA.

THE RELIGIOUS STATISTICS OF THE WORLD.

1. NUICBEB OF CATHOLICa IN THB FlYB DIVISIONS OF THE WOBLD^ —

• 2t Classification of the Inhabitants of the Earth after the
Different Religions. — 3. Progress of Catholicity in Great
Britain. — 4. In Holland^ — 5. In the United States. — 6. Mis-
signs of Asia. — 7. Italian Missionaries.

L Let us, at first, take a compre-
hensiTe view of the number of Catho-
£cs scattered over the globe. In this
Yerj year some writers have limited
their number to one hundred andfipy
miUionSj with the remark that the
figure is rather above a real census.
Mr. Balbi, a writer of fame in statis-
tics and in geography, gave, as far
back as 1827, in his work published in
Paris, his own estimate of the various
populations of the world, classifjing
them under the heading of Religions
Professed ; and, according to his cal-
culations, he allotted to the Catholic
Church only one hundred and thirty
nine mUUont (139,000,000), his fig-
ures exceeding those of many geogra-
phers who had preceded him. The
denen millions by some authors allow-
ed this day to the Catholic denomina-
tion, are rather a restitution than an aug-
mentation. The foi*mer reckoning was
a mistake, and new statistics, when ac-
curately put together, have exhibited
a far larger number both of inhabit-
ants and of Catholics. But we still
take this restitution as very inade-
quate. From an accurate investiga-
tion of the matter, we aver that the
minimum of Catholics, over the world,
amounts to two hundred millions
(200,000,000). To afford the reader
the means of testing the accuracy of
our opinion, we shs^ here give the
number of Catholics found in the dif-
ferent states of every part of the
world. We have takea for our guide
official statistics, either civil or ecclesi-
astical, whenever we could obtain

them, or, otherwise, statements of
modem geographers and of most trust-
worthy national writers. We have
only omitted such fractions which were
under ^ve hundred (500) ; but when
they were above the half thousandth
we have set them down at one thou-
sand. Thereby, in a computation,
which cannot be but approximate,
omissions will counterbalance the ad-
ditions, and the final result will not
undergo any material change. Let it,
moreover, be borne in mind that we
have not been actuated by any desire
to attain large figures. We have
only aimed at fixing the surest, or,
at least, the most probable amounL
Thus, for example, we have accepted
only six hundred and ninety thousand
(690,000) Catholics for the Portuguese
possessions in Africa, although na-
tional authors, by no means exagger-
ating, have reckoned them at two mU-
lions.

With such preamble, here is the re-
sult of our investigations :

NUMBER OF CATHOLICS.

I. EUROPE.

Pap&ISntoB . . &900,000

Two Sicillet . . - 9,fi00.000

Tnscanj .... l.fiOO^OOO

Bardtnlan States and Lombardy 7J00.0Q0

Modena .... 6fM),0K)

Parma .... 660,000

Monaco and San-Xarlno - 10,000

Spain .... 17.000,000

Portugal .... 4,800.000

Andorra - - . - 12.000

SwiUerland - - • 1,190,000

Grfiat Britain - • - 7.600,000

France .... 88,000 ,000

Cafriedfonntfd • 8tt,48S,00Q

Digitized by VjOOQIC

498

Ihe Religunu SuoMa of the WoritL

Brought forward

Belgium

Netherlaiida

Anatrian Empire -

Bavaria

Pmssia

Baden

Brnnswick

Bremen

Frankfort

Hamborg

Grand Dnchy of Heese

Hesae Electoral

Wfirtemberg

Mecklenbuig-Schwerin )

Hecklenbnrg-Strelitz f

KaaMO

Oldenbnrg -

]>88er Dnchles of Sach«en-Wei'
mar, Sachaen-Cobnrg, 8achaen<
Altenbnrg, etc. •>

Lnbeck

Banover

Lnxemborg -

Baxony

Denmark

Sweden and Norway

Poland

RQ«ela

Bnropeaa T«rkey and Monte-
negro

Greece

8»,4Mi,000

4,800.000

1,800,000

80,000.a:0

8,000,000

7,000,000

900,000

0,000

6,000

11000

8,000

940,000

900.000

680,000

4,000

990,000
86,000

00,000(?)

8,000

956,000

900,000

06,000

6,000

7,000

4,000,000

8,000,000(0

1,000,000

ioo,ogo

Catholic population In Eorope 147,194,000

H. ASIA Ain> OCEANIA.

Asiatic Turkey -
XoldaviaandWallacfaia.

600,000(?)

moo?'

Aeiatlc Rasaia -

ioo,oon(?)

British India

1.100.000

Netherland India •

85.000

French India

170,000

Portttgueae India, lalanda,

and

Macao

646,000

Spanish India and Philippine

lalanda -

4,TOO,000

PersU

190,000(?)

Anam ...

600,000

Siam

96,000

China ...

1,000,000

New Holland

800,000

Tasmania •

40,000

New Zealand

60,000

New Caledonia and adjoining

islands

70.000

Sandwich Islands •

80,000

Catholic population in Asia
-~1 Oceania •

and(

m. AFRICA.

A^iyssli

Aoysslnia ....
Tripoli, Tunis, and Morocco
Spanish Possessions
Canaries ....
Portuguese Possessions •
Madeira and islands
Continental French Possessions
Rennion and other islands
Continental British Possessions
Mauri tius and other islands
Liberia - '- - -

Madagascar - . . •
Gallaa - - - -

Catholic population in AMca - 4,071,000

9,666,000

179,000

9,000.000

80.000

95.000

960.000

690.000

960.000

900,000

180,000

80.000

160,000

4,000

10,000

lY. AMERICA.

United Stotes

Mexico

Guatemala •

Ban Salvador

Honduras -

Nicaragua -

Costa Rica )

Panama f

New Granada

Venezuela •

Benador

Bolivia

Peru

Chili

Argentine Republic

Paraguay

Uruguay

Brazil

British Guiana

Netherland Guiana and Islanda

French Gniana and Islands

Jamaica, Trinidad, and other

British Isles
Spanish Islands -
Danish Islands
Canada and British Possesalona
HayU ....

6,000.000

8,600,000

1,900,000

700,000

400,000

600,000

900,000

8.000,000

9,000,000

1,600.000 '-

9,900,000

9,800,000

1,800,000

1,500,000

860.000

8,600,000

60,000

40,000

806,000

150,000

84,000

l,56a000

800,000

Catholic population in America 46,970,000

RECAPirULATION.

L Catholic population in Xa-

rope .... 147,194,000

IL Catholic population In Asia
and Oceania

m. Catholic population in Af-

_ rica - - - • 4,Qrn,000

lY. Catholic population in Amer-
ica - . 46,930,000

Catholic population in the four
parts of the globe - 907,801

,000

Thus we reach the sum of nearly
two hundred and eight millions ; nor
do we fear exaggeration in the num-
ber. But were even some one re*
luctant to accept our results, such at-
tenuating doubts could never diminish
our total bejond eight millions. Thus
when we asserted that there are two
hundred millions of Catholics in the
world, we gave a figure far under our
calculations, in order to place it above
all doubt.

n. We win now exhibit, in very
simple tables, the grand division oif
the inhabitants of the world, according
to the different religious creeds :

ChrisUanity
Catholic Church -
Eastern Churches, schis-
matic or heretical
Protestantism

Total

906,000,000

70.000,000
06,000,000

844,000^

844,000,000

Digitized by VjOOQIC

The Rdigunu SkOuUes of ike World.

498

^000,000
. 100,000,000

^ - - - - 00,000,000

Aiddhim^" .... 180,000,000
WoraMp of Ou^ietiu, JBUfUo, of
i^pirifi, etc. .... 182.000,000

Tdtalof SahabiUnUoftheworld. 840,000,000

These lesnltv are not from data as
certain as those which we were enabled
to obtain for the Catholic Church ; yet
they are founded on great probabilitj.
There is a remarkable increase in all,
owing to the fact that more reliable re-
searches have given a larger number
of inhabitants on the globe.

Let us now compare our own re-
sults with those of the most celebrated
geographers. Malte-Brun wrote in
1810, Plnkerton and Balbi in 1827,
and^ yet, although so near to one
another, they are not of one accord
as to the inhabitants of the earth, and
eonsequently they do not agree in
their ^visions. More recent geogra-
phers admit a number far larger than
that allowed by Balbi, and seem to
hesitate between eight hundred and
a thousand mUUone, We are of opin-
ion that the grand total cannot, with
any good reason, be reckoned beyond
eiffht hundred cmd forty miUions (840,-
000,000) ; at the same time it cannot
be set at any figure much below it.
The following figures represent mil-
Kons:

M&lte-
Brna.
ChrUUatdly - 898
Judaitm - . 6
Jsiamitm - . 110
Brahminitm - 00
Buddhitm - ISO
OihtrOrtedt . 100

Pinker- €!▼.

ton. Balbi. Catt'a.

986 SeO 844

6 4 4

190 96 100

60 00 60

180 170 180

100 147 169

Total -

668

700 787

840

in. A glance at some particular
coan tries will show how much the
Catholic Church has gained in num-
bers and influence within a few years.
liCt us begin from two Protestant
coantries in Europe.

The ** Catholic Directory," annually
issued in England for the last hundred
years, wUl, by comparing a few data,
exhibit the progress of Catholicity in
Great Britain's most Protestant sec-
tions — ^we mean England and Scot-

land. We lunit ourselves to the offi-
cial returns given within the last nine
years.- We mass them in two tables,
which will place our assertion upon the
strongest basis of truth. The fret will
show that in these two kingdoms, so
totally averse to Catholicity — ^nay, in-
tensely hostile to it — England and
Scotlimd, the number of clergymen has
increased, within twenty-fve years, at
the rate of 137 per centum ; that of
churches 30 ; religious houses for
men 222, for women 105. The second
table will give the same numbers, but
divided in the various dioceses, in
varied ratio indeed, but everywhere
with the same tokens of increase :

QENERAX STATISTICS OF ENGLAND
AND SCOTLAND.

Clerjy.

Cborchea

r-Bellff

. Com^

Col.

Tears.

men.

A ChiipelB.

Men.

Women.

"\T

18S6

1149

1857

1169

804

106

1858

1904

909

109

1860

1999

026

110

1860

1986

OCO

193

1861

1349

908

166

1869

1888

1019

169

1868

1417

1065

171

1864

1446

1008

188

But if we draw our figures from
earlier dates, the comparison will be
even more striking. Behold the re-
sult within the last twen^-five years :

1880

610

618

1849

807

619

1864

1446

1098

188

Limiting our researches only to
England, we find the increase within
eight years, between 1856 and 1804,
stated in the official returns of the
several dioceses, at the following
rates :

Chnrchea.
DiocKSSB. 1W6. 1864.

Wefltra'ster- 86 117 129 214

Beverly -75 90 « 116

B1nnlnghftm9B 100 183 141

Clifton. .87 49 00 62

Hezhftm . 6S 81 73 09

Liverpool -94 110 166

Newport .96 49 39

Northamp'n 80 96 26

Nottingham 49 03 47

Plymoutb -26 85 28

Salford - - 47 70 "

Shrewsbnry SO M

C1erg7.*n. Conv*te. Monatt**.
1886. IBM. 1886. 1864. 1806. 1864.

Soathwark • 79 100 90

190
47
81
09
84

107
71

147

16
6
8
8

1
6
8

780 941 985 1821
780 965

1 8
8 9

38 SB 100 187
98 100

81
19
39
18
11
95
6
8
8
8
14

XiierMM»Cli« SilCl«rg.886 Cost. 86 Hoiii.81

Digitized by VjOOQIC

494

The XeUgtaui SuOiiUei of the World.

lY. Let us now step over to the
Continent, and investigate the increase
of Catholicilj in a province where
Protestantism has had it all its own
way since the be^nning of the Re-
formation — we allude to Holland. To
understand the progressive develop-
ment of Catholicity in the Low Coun-
tries, we need only compare the figures
of two years, with an interval of half
a century' intervening between them :

Tean. CaUi. Popal*ii. Parfshw. Qergy *ii. Cbnrc**.
1S64 l.aOO^UOO 941 llltt 976

1614 860,000 814 1S16 898

Inc. in 60
jean • 460,000

191

SIO

The amount expended in repairing
the old and building new churches is
reckoned, during this lapse of time, at
thtr^ millions of Dutch florins, a little
more than dxty-four millions of francs
[over $18,560,000— Ed. C W.] All
Uiat government has contributed of its
own toward this sum amounts only to
two millions of florins. In the above
sum of thirty millions no account is
taken of what has been expended in
churches and chapels belonging to re-
ligious communities, or for convents,
hospitals, charitable institutions, or-
phan asylums, and the like. Add to
this what has been contributed for the
endowments of those places, and the
original sum of sixty-four millions of
francs becomes well-nigh double its
amount.

V. But nowhere has the Catholic
Church increased so prosperously,
within the last fifty years, as in the
United States of America. Above
two thousand churches and chapels
built; an increase of one thousand
and eight hundred clergymen; one
hundred and sixty schools established,
for the Catholic training of 18,000
boys and 34,600 girls. Moreover,
there existed in 1857 sixty^x asy-
lums, with 4,963 orphans of both
sexes ; twenty-nz hospitals, with three
thousand beds ; four insane asylums,
with eighty-two patients, beside many
other charitable institutions^ all estaj^

lished and supported by the private
charity of Catholics. Here we copy
a comparative table from the *^ Metro-
politan Catholic Almanac " of 1857 :

08 80 S 1

SSS 380 9 6

489 819 18 9

1061 1678 99 17

1574 9468 84 SO

1879 9889 86 99

9
90
47

U9
184

9S17 8790 49 — —
Sd. Cath. Wobza.]

YI. Canon Joseph Ortalda, in a
work of great value,* the result of
much labor and accurate investiga-
tions, supplies us with two verr inter-
esting documents. One is a Synoptic
Table of the mimons in Asia, ex-
hibiting both the number of Catholics
in each mission and that of mission-
aries employed in them ; a number, by
the way, generally very inadequate,
especiaUy when we take into consider-i
ation the vast territories over which
every mission is extended.

APOBTOLIO VIOABIATSS. If ZflSZOITAlB.

Aleppo - - -96

Aeia Minor - • - 70

Gfalna and adjacent kingdoms :

Xenei - - . -

Xanci ....

Hn-pd, In the Hu-qnang, ntp
tWe miselonarle*, 14

Ha-nan, in the Hn-qoang

Snt-choen, North-woBt vicar-
iate ....

Sat^hnen, Baetern Vicariate
" BonUiem ♦*

Konein-kon

Jon-nan

To.chien

Nankin ...

Pekin, Western Vicariate
** Bonth-wesCn "
•* Eastern "

Tse-Kiang

Klang-si

Leaotnng

Hongolia

Xan-tnng

Ho-nan ...

15
19
14
7
5
6
14
88
17
16
19
6
6
9
8
11
6

Cath*s.

tO.000

100,000

80,000
90,000

18.806
10,000

98.Q0O
17.000
90.000
10,000

rooo

8.000
80,000
13.000
80,000
96.600
18.000

6.000
10,000
11,000

19,000

• "Italian Apostolic Missionaries fn the
Foreign Missions, over the Four Farte of the
World.'' Tnrin: G. Marietti, 1884. Ortalda's
intent Is to proTS before the Senate of the Kinc-
dom of Pteamont how the sappreselon of ren-
gions orders wonld be tojarlons to the Chnrch
and to civilization, whilst ttom their boaoms'go
forth so many missionaries to tU parts of tM
world.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

Bfob.

495

Avonouo TkOAXiAns. Musiova.*8.

Oath's.

8Um, Western Vicariate

12'SS

'* Eastern

80,000

Cochin China, Bast'n Vic'ate

81000

" North*n "

96,000

" We«rn "

lil

80,000

Gamboge and People of Laos

15,000

Tonehia, Bastem Vicariate -

64,000

" Western **

185,000

Soathera "

80,000

Central "

150,000

Corea ....

16,000

Ekwt Indies:

Japan ....

19,080

8,000

Bombay, South Mission

15,000

North "

18,000

Bengal, Western Vicariate
(CSicntta)

16,000

Bengal, BB«tem Vicariate -
Oeyfon— Colombo

9,000

84,900

80,000

Madras . '. - .

44,880

Brderabad

1
15
68

4,000

7,180
100,000

Mayasonr ...

17.110

Coimbatonr ...

17,900

Sardhana

16,000

Agra

90,000

F&na ....

4,000

Verapoiis — Native priests,

LAUntUe98,S7riacSI0 -

880.000

Oanara, or Mangalor— NatiTS

prieatoM

40,000

QniSon— NatlTeprioaUn •

60.000
140,000

ApoerroLio Dbuioatioks.

I^e^aia, Mesopotamia, Knr-

diatan, and Armenia Minor

Syria -^ Holy Land alone

95,000

oonnts ...

98,986

Aden, in Arabia

1,800

Hong-Kons, in China -
Hal-noa, Qoan-tong, Qaan-si,

6,000

China . - • -

40,000

For the French Coioniea in

India ....

7,000

War the Dntcb Colonies in In-

dia and Oceania

11,000

lisboan and adjacent places -

8,000

VII. The chief object of Ortalda'a
work ifl to show how manj mission-
aries Italj gives to the Catholic
Church. He gives the name, the
grade in the hierarchy, and the resi-
dence of each, adding such items of
information as will aid him in the ob-
ject he has in view. We draw from
his laborious work the following table,
which, bj way of conclusion, gives the
final result of all his researches :

lioUan ApotMie JOtfionariet in Foreign ja#«
^OM over tKs Whole World.

MisaiovABUs.

i 1 1

-i

^\< s

BUhops . . .

4 3 , -.

163

Secular Priests .

11 66; 8

181

Benedletlnes

- 5 18

Minor CoDventaals

- 3 -

aoB

•• Observants .

81 115

80 1841 8

866

447

~ ^SS^iST:

669 106

65 160 5

447

916

97 1

315

Dominicans .

1 !-

Carmelites .

.»

— : —

Angustinians .

—

1 ' -

«j

490

Jesuits . . .

106 118

46 207 18

9 12 -

Alcanturines .

1 ! —

Barnabites .

— , —

Crncifers

Friars of St. Bona-

venture

«_

_«

Bedcmptorlsts

— .

—

Sorvites . . .

Oblates . . .

Pallottlncs (of A.

PallotU) . .

Bosminians .

16 , —

From the Semln*y

of Milan . .

4 23

- 8

From the Semln*y

BrignoleSale .

17 6

—

5 -

2066

839 610 167 606 S8 'SOH

BOOKS-

Welcoke, my books, my golden store I
Your leaves mj eyes, my hands explore ;
With you my sweetest hours have flown—
My best of life with you alone.
When none in the wide world could cheer,
Your wisdom dried the bitter tear ;
When summer skies were fresh and blue,
None could rejoice with me like you.
What living voice may speak among
Your silent and time-hallowed throng ?
For you, the best of every age,
I quit the world's degenerate stage.

IVansl^ionframRanaMHU

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I%$ Ancient FaeuUy of PwrU.

From The Month.

THE ANCTENT FACULTY OF PARIS.

At the comer of thie Rue de la
Bdcherie and the old Rue des Rats,
now known by the more dignified ap-
pellation of the Rue de I'Hdtel Col-
bert, maj still be seen, unless the un-
sparing hand of "modem improve-
ment" has very recently swept it
away along with so many other me-
morials of the past, a dirty, dilapidated
building topped by a round tower,
which you might take for some old
pigeon-house. The half-obliterated
inscription upon an escutcheon on one
of the facades of the edifice indicates,
however, some heretofore high and
venerable destination — Urhi et orhi
solus. If curiosity lead you to pene-
trate into the interior of this dismal
edifice, you find yourself, after mount-
ing a damp staircase, in a great circu-
lar hall, divided into four irregular
compartments. Above some empty
niches hollowed in the thickness of the
wall rans a wide comice, the now-de-
faced sculptures of which represent al-
temately the cock — Esculapius's bird
and emblem of vigilance — and the pe-
lican nourishing its young, the type of
self-sacrifice — watchfulness and unsel-
fish charity, the two great duties in-
cumbent on the professor of the heal-
ing art. You stand, in fact, in the
midst of the ancient amphitheatre of the
Faculty of Medicine* There studied,
and there, in their tum, taught, the
great anatomists of the seventeenth
century, Bartholin, Riolan, Pecquet,
Littre, Winslow. This building was
an old adjunct to a large and hand-
some hotel belonging to the medical
body, containing their chapel, library,
laboratory, a vast hall for solemn dis-
putations, with minor saloons for the
daily lectures, etc, with the addition
of a large court and botanical garden.
It was abandoned long before the

Revolution, and not a trace of all this
corporate glory of the medical faciiltj
now remains. The quarter of Paris
in which it stood, known formerly a8
the Latin quarter, long preserv^ a
peculiar stamp and physlQgnomj.
Here were the colleges of St. Michel,
of Normandy and Picardy, of Laon,
Presles, Beauvais, Comonailles, and
that long succession of churches, con-
vents, colleges, and high toppling
houses, filled .with a studious youth,
which formerly crowded the Rue St.
Jacques and the Rue de la Harpe. All
these and many other sanctuaries of
religion and of science, so intimately
connected in the middle ages, cluster-
ed around the faculty. Here, in fact,
was the centre of the university of
Paris, whose origin is lost in the ob-
scurity investing the early mediasval
period. The methodical classification
under the head of faculties of the dif-
ferent studies pursued at that celebrat-
ed institution dates, however, from the
close of the twelfth century. These
Acuities formed independent compan-
ies, attached to their common modier,
the university, like branches to the
parent stem.

Disregarding all apocryphal preten-
sions to antiquity, we cannot assign an
earlier date for the formation of the
medical body into an independent cor-
poration than the year 1267. About
that time we find the faculty in pos-
session of its statutes, keeping registers
and affixing to documents its massive
silver seaL The term Faculty of
Medicine^ it must be observed, is mod-
em. The title Physicorum Facvkatj
or FacuUas in Physica^ waa long pre-
served. Whatever we may think of
the empirical practice and dogmatic
character of the medical art in those
times, we cannot but see in this an m-

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dieation that natural scieaoe was even
then the recognised basis of medicine.
We have here, if not a principle clear-
ly understood and habitually followed,
at least an intuition and a kind of
prc^ramme of the future. A memor-
ial of the old designation survives in
our own country in the title of physi-
cian, while in the land where it origin-
ated it has been discontinued.

Bom in the cloister, medicine long
Tetained an ecclesiastical character.
Most of the doctors in early times
were canons; and those who were
neither priests nor even clerks were
still boiuid to celibacy ; a regulation
which remained in force long after
.ooancils had decreed the incompatibil-
ity of the exercise of the medical pro-
fession with the ecclesiastical state.

The general assemblies of the fac-
ulty were held sometimes rouad the
font of Notre Dame, sometunes at St.
Genevieve des Ardents, sometimes at
the Priory of St. £loi ; while, for the
ordinary purposes of instruction, it
shared fraternally with the &culty of
theology the alternate use of some
common room with a shake-down of
straw in the Quartier St. Jacques. But
by-and-bye riches began to pour in,
chiefly through the means of the lega-
cies of members of the medical corps
or other well-wishers ; and, thanks to
ihe liberality of Jacques Desparts, phy-
sician to Charles YIl., the corporation
of doctors was finally installed in the
abode we have just described. To the
general worth and* respectability of
the body in the fideentb century we
have the testimony of Cardinal d'Es-
toutteville, who, in 1452, was deputed
by the Pope to reorganize the univers-
ity of Paris, and who found less to
reform in the faculty of medicine than
iiL any other department. Indeed, no
change of much importance was intro-
duced, with the exception of the revo-
cation of the law of celibacy, which the
cardinal pronounced to be both^Mm-
pious and unreasonable."

Independence of spirit and great

- reverence for its own traditions were

characteristic of the medical body from

VOL. u. 33

its earliest beginnings. It loved to
describe itself as veteris disciplina re-
tentissimcL In those days men gloried
in their respect for antiquity. In
common with all the different bodies
which composed the university of
Paris, the medical corporation pos-
sessed great privileges— exemption
from all taxation, direct or indirect,
from all public burdens, from all on-
erous services or obligations. When >
we sum up all the advantages enjoy-
ed by this aud other favored bodies
and classes in the middle ages, the
reflection naturaUy suggests itself —
what must have been the condition
of the poor, who possessed no privi-
leges and bore all the financial bar^
dens? In the days, however, when
standing armies in the pay of govern-
ment had no existence, when the king
himself was a rich proprietor wiA
large personal domains, when national
debt and its interest were things un-#
heard of, the ordinary imposts, as dis-
tinguished from all arbitrary and acci-
dental exactions, were, of course, very
much lighter than those of modern
times. Liberty in those days assumed
the form of privilege'; and its spirit
was nursed and kept alive within the
bosom of these self-ruling corporations,
and in none more remarkably than in
that of medicine. The espfit de corps
naturally existed with peculiar strength
in a body not merely organized for
purposes of instruction, but exercising
a liberal profession, of which it had
the monopoly.* Hence a minute in-
ternal legislation imposed upon all its
members, and willingly accepted in
view of the interests of fiie-body. Its
alumni were aspirants to a life-long
membership; whereas with us the
medical man's dependence upon th^
faculty virtually ceases the day he
takes his doctor's degree. He has
nothing more to ask or to receive from
it ; his affair is now with the public ;

* It iB probably this pecnllarlty which caused
the medical to be considered as pre-emlneatly
the facalty. Its practice brought it into intimate
contact with the world at largo ; and this has
aUo doubtless led to tlie exclusive rotentiou« in
this ioetancc, of a dcsigruatlon common in iU
origin to other dopartmonts of learning.

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and the sense of brotherhood with his
colleagues in the profession is lost, it
18 to bo feared, not unfrequently in a
feeling of rivaliy. But it was other-
wise in the olden time. The day
which now sends forth the full-fledged
doctor to his independent career drew
the tie closer which bound him to his
order, in which then only he began to
take his solemn place. The honor
and the interest of each member thus
became common property, and un-
worthy conduct was punished by sum-
mary fitclusion from the body.

Unfortunately this esprit de corps
had iis bad as well as its good results.
It produced a certain narrowness of
mind, a love of routine, and no slight
attachment to professional jargon.
It is not that the faculty was actually
the enemy of all progress, but progress
must come from itself. As no associ-
ation of men, however, can enjoy a
monopoly of genius, useful and bril-
liant discoveries emanating from other
quarters had to encounter the hostility
of the chartered body. This spirit
was exemplified in its animosity toward
surgery, long a separate profession,
in its prejudice against tlie doctrine of
the circulation of the blood, because an
English discovery ; against antimony,
because it orig'mated with the rival
Montpelier school ; against quinine,
because it came from America. To
these subjects we may hereafter recur ;
in the meantime we note them as in-
stances of medical bigotry, which ex-
posed the profession to just ridicule,
but which has drawn down upon it
censure and disesteem of perhaps a
somewhat too sweeping character. It
would be unfair to judge the ancient
faculty solely from its exhibitions of
foolish pedantry and blind prejudice ;
and it is our object on the present
occasion to give a slight sketch of its
constitution and internal government,
such as may enable the reader to form
a juster and more impartial view both
of its faults and of its substantial
merits. Indeed, without some solid
titles to general esteem, it would seem
improbable that the faculty should

have attained to the high poeitian
which we find it occupying in the
seventeenth century.

One accidental cause, no doubt, of
the importance of the doctors daring
the whole period which we are con-
sidering was their small relative num-
ber. From a computation made by a
modem member of the medical pro-
fession in France,* to whom we are in-
debted for our facts, the average num-
ber of doctors in the capital from the
year 1640 to the year 1670 did not
exceed 110. Compared with the pop-
ulation of Paris, which is reckoned at
540,000 souls, this gives one doctor
for every 4,900 of the inhabitants.
The medical corps is now 1,830 strong,
while the population has risen only to
1,740,000. Great as is this increase
of population, greater, we see, propoi^
tionally, has been that of the medical
practitioners, who are at present as 1
to 940. If sickness was as prevalent in
the seventeenth century as it is now,
and recourse to physic and physicking
as frequent, we can imagine that ihe
faculty must have necessarily occupied
a distinguished position. Many offices
now undertaken by public institutions
or by government devolved, also, at
that time on the faculty, which to the
best of its ability supplied the want of
sanitary regulations, and exercised a
kind of medical police, including the
supervision of articles of diet All
this must have helped to swell their
importance. A large proportion of
the doctors received during this select-
ed period of thirty years were Paris-
ians; and nothing is more common
than the perpetuity of the profession
in certain fam ilies. ' This cireu mstanee
must have combined with the corporate
reverence for their traditions to inten-
sify their attachment to a receiyed
system, and to sti-engthen that spirit of
union which is a source of power. The
i-espect which the lower bench paid to
the upper, and the young to the ancient

*Maar1ce lUirnaad, DocUrnr en MMedne,
Doctetir dd Lettres. La Sfidednt an tomtit <f«
MoUere,—Mwtr9, JattUutioM, DifOiHne*. FltfU,
l!W3. Dldler.

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—and by ** young" we mean young in
their degree, not in years — ^must have
contributed toward the same result.
It required ten years of doctorate to
qualify a man to take his place amongst
this venerable class ; and the stat-utes
are prolix on the subject of the re-
spect due to the ancients irom their
juniors on the bench ; a respect which
was to be marked by every external
act of deference.

But the' first and great tie which
bound all the members together was
religion. To profess the Catholic faith
was long an essential condition of ad-
mission to the examinations. The fac-
ulty gave an energetic proof in 1637 of
the importance it attached to this funda-
mental rule, when it withstood the press-
ing solicitations of the king's brother, the
Duke of Orleans; in favor of a certain
Brunier, the son of his own physician
and a Protestant, although the prince
condescended to address a fiattcring let-
ter to the dean of the faculty, signing
himself " Votre bon ami, Gaston," and
although his request was backed by a
royal injunction. The sovereign must
needs bow to the authority of the stat-
utes, respectfully but firmly urged in
contravention of his regal pleasure.
Yet this would seem to have been a
closing efibrt, for in 1648 we find four
Protestant doctors on the lists. Every
year there was a solemn mass on St.
Luke's day, at which all the members
were bound to be present, and which
even at the commencement of the sev-
enteenth century was still sung by the
doctors of the faculty. After mass the
statutes were publicly read. There was
a like obligation, with a penalty for its
neglect, to attend an annual mass for
deceased doctors, and another for bene-
&ctors, as also to accompany the bod-
ies of their brethren to the grave.

The head of the corporation was the
dean. His powers were extensive, and
the honor paid to him unbounded. He
waa the ^guardian of the discipline and
statutes ** of the faculty, vindex discip*
UfUB et custos hgum ; he was at once
its foremost champion and its highest
dignitary. He was also its historian,

entering in its great registers all facta
interesting to the corporation which
occurred during the course of his ad^
ministration. The account of each di*
aoonate is headed thus :

" In Nomine Omnipotentis Deiy Pch
trUj et Filiij et Spiritus SancH. In-
cipit commentarius rerum in decanatu
. . . geetarum^*

Amongst other topics judged worthy
of registration is a necrologlc notice of
members deceased during the period.
Take as a specimen, which marks at
the same time the high estimation in
which the diaconate was held, the ao»
count given of Merlet's death in 1663.
He was the " ancient of the company,**
and had been remarkable for the zeal
he exercised in its behalf. The then
dean, the illustrious Antoine Morand,
pays the venerable doctor a visit just
before he expii-es ; and the dying man
breaks out in a kind of Nane dimiUit
~" Now I can die contented, since it
has been given me to behold once more
the dean of the faculty." Valot, the
king's physician, who had come to see
the patient, expresses in language of
much reverence .his hope that Mer^
let may still live to illustrate the su-
preme dignity in which he stands
amongst them. The ^ patriarch " with
his last breath energetically refuses
such excessive honors. He confesses
that he holds a high rank as ancient of
the school, but not the highest. ^ To
the dean alone," he says, '* belongs su-
preme honor." " Sublime words," ob-
serves Morand in his funeral notice :
^ veritable song of the dying swan, pro-
ceeding from a man truly wise and en-
dowed with all perfection! May he
rest in the peace of the Lord." Of
course, it is a dean who is speaking.
The charge was indeed a weighty one,
both externally and internally ; for in
spite of general respect, the medical
corporation, like most privileged bodies,
had active enemies. Every two years
a fresh election took place on the first
Saturday after All Saints'. The dean
deposed the insignia of his dignity and
gave a report of the state of affitirs to

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2%0 Jncieni Facul^ of Paru.

the assembled doctors, who, as usual
on all solemn occasions, had previously
attended mass. All their names were
then placed in two urns ; one contain-
ing those of the ancients, the other
those of the juniors. The dean shook
the urns, and drawing three names
from the first and two from the second,
proclaimed them aloud. The five doc-
tors thus chosen bj lot as electors, and,
as such, themselves ineligible, swore
to nominate the worthiest, and retired
to the chapel to implore the divine aid.
Thej then elected by a majority of
their number three doctors, two an-
cients and one junior. Amidst solemn
silence, the dean once more drew the
lot, and the name which came forth
was proclaimed dean for the next two
years. The professors, who for long
years were but two in number, were
also chosen biennially, and by a simi-
lar combination of lot and election.
Some good must have arisen from the
liability under which every practition-
er of the medical art lay of being caUed
on to teach it« Another not unwise
regulation was that which, reversing
the order observed in the case of the
dean, placed in the professional urn
two junior names against one ancient.
Long practice of teaching is apt to
wear out the powers of the most able.
Considering the times, the elements of
instruction were abundantly supplied.
The bachelors were not permitted to do
more than comment upon and expound
the ancients, and their programme was
furnished to them. The professors
took the higher and more original
branches ; they alone could dogmatize
from the great pulpit of the amphithe-
atre (ex superiore ccUhedrd). The
teaching embraced, according to the
quaint phraseology of the day : 1. nat-
tnral tlungs, viz., anatomy and physiol-
ogy; 2. non-natural things — hygiene
and dietetics ; 3. things contrary to na-
ture — ^pathology and therapeutics. In
the year 1634 a course of lectures on
surgery, delivered in Latin, and exclu-
sively for the medical students, was
added — a practical course of surgery
in French already existed for the bar-

ber apprentices ; and the faculty begaa
to perceive that if they would keep their
supremacy over the barber-surgeons,
it would be as well to know as much
as their disciples.

The oath taken by the professors is
remarkable, especially the exordium :
" We swear and solemnly promise to
give our lessons^ in long gowns with
wide sleeves, having the square cap (m
our heads, and the scarlet scarf on our
shoulders." This we see' was their
first duty. Their second engagement
was to give their lessons uninterrupt-
edly, and never by deputy, save in case
of urgent necessity; each lecture to
last an hour at least, and to be deliver-
ed daily, except in vacation time, which
extended from the vigil of St. Peter
and St. Paul, the 28th of June, to that
of the exaltation of the cross, the 13th
of September, and on festival days,
which were pretty numerous, including
also certain other solemnities, as well
as the. vigils of the greater feasts, when
the schools were closed, causa canfes-
noniSf as the statutes have it

Practical instruction was much more
meagre than the oral, but this is hard-
ly to be imputed as a fault Anatomy
cannot be learned except by dissection,
and no bodies but those of crimmaLs
were procurable. The faculty had to
look to crime to help on its progress
in this study. When an execution
took place, the dean received formal
notice, and convoked the doctors and
students on the occasion " to make an
anatomy," as it was called. When
the faculty was at peace with the sur-
geons, the latter were favored with an
invitation. By a strange prejudice,
theory and practice, as we have noticed,
were kept distinct The learned pro-
fessor would have demeaned himself
by becommg an operator, while the
acting surgeon was condemned to be a
mere intelligent machine, and was for-
mally interdicted from being initiated
in the higher mysteries of i^e profes-
sion. It was a barber who generally
filled this inferior office, and he not
unfrequently would display more know-
lodge than his masters ; for which of-

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fcooe he was sore to be seyerelj repri-
manded* ^ Doctor non $inat dUtecto*
rem diva^ari^ sed conHneat in officio
dissecandi** — ^"Let not the doctor suf-
fer the dLssector to straj beyond his
province, but keep him to his dutj of
diBBecting.'* This is one of the rules
lud down in the statutes. He was to
work on and hold his tongue. But
not only was the barber condemned to
silenoe— abard sentence, some will say,
on one of his loquacioub profession —
but he was to receire no pay. For
remuneration he was to look to his
brethren of the ra2sor. There were
more facilities for the study of botany
than for any other practical branch of
the medical science. Beside the gar-
den m the Bue de la B^cherie, the doc-
ton had afterward the use of the Jar-
din Royal founded by Richelieu ; and
these advantages do not seem to have
been by any means neglected. Clini-
eal instruction was peculiarly defective.
Absorbed by erudition, philosophy, and
the Intenninable disquisitions of the
schools, our medical forefathers seem
to have forgotten that experimental
knowledge can be obtained only by the
bedside of the sick. Most of the stu-
dents had never seen a single patient
before they reached the honors of the
bapifalaureat. After this they attached
themselves to some doctor, whom they
followed on his rounds, in order to
learn the application of what they had
theoretically mastered, and were by him
introduced to his clients, much as was
the practice in the days of ancient
Rome. The poor sufferer's room was
thos not unfrequently turned into a
pedantic lecture-halL We instinctively
recall to mind Molifere's two Diafoiru-
M8y father and son, stationing them-
selves each on one side of the unhappy
patient, and discoursing in pompous
medical phraseology of the character of
faui pulse and of the humors of his body.*
The practical and, as such, the most
importantdeportmentof m^ical science
received, it must be confessed, the least

Ihirhiiculs^ repouasarU, €t mime ten jm»

^nniy »* VintemperU de eon parenehyme

et PHat <fo see mkUe eMidoquee.**

attention. All the prises, whether of
honor or emolument, which the future
held out, tended to concentrate zeal and
emulation qn dialectics. It seemed as
if the medical art were designed for the
benefit of the doctors rather than the
doctored, and that it was of more im-
portance to be able to descant learnedly
upon a malady than to cure it. To
figure advantageously at one of those
solemn public sittings of the medical
body, which were often graced with the
presence of members of the high aris-
tocracy and of the magisterial body ;
to be able to deliver a briUiant harangue,
and confound an opponent by a well-
timed and well-chosen quotation— *
such was the highest ambition of the
student To preside with distinction
over the discussion of a thesis — such
was the battle-field on which the doc-
tof hoped to win his laurels. If he ac-
quitted himself with applause, he had
gained a victory which raised him high-
er in his own esteem, and in that of
the world at large, than the most suc-
cessful practice of his profession could
possibly do. The first two articles of
the statutes contain this spirit in a con-
densed form, and may be regarded as
the abridged decalogue of the faculty,
summing up their duty toward God
and toward man : 1. the divine offices
shall be celebrated with the customary
forms, and in the usual places, at the
same hours and on the same days as
heretofore; 2. the medical students
shall frequently attend pubHo disputa-'
tions and dissertations.

The process through which the stu-
dent had to pass in order to make his
way to his degree of licentiate was a
trying ordeal. The examination for
the bachelor's degree, after a few pre-
vious solemnities, including the usual
attention first to religion, next to dress
and formal state, lasted a week, during
which the candidate might be question-
ed not only by the regular examiners
on the usual round of the natural, the
non-natural, and the unnatural, but by
any doctor present, each having the
right to propose a certain number of
questions. In conclusion, the aspirant

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I%e Ancient Faculty of Paris.

bad to comment on some aphorism of
Hippocrates. When the examiners
gave in their report, votes were taken,
and a favorable majority, secured to
the aspirant his degree. The new
bachelors swore to keep the honorable
secrets, and observe ail the practices,
customs, and statutes of the tacultj ; to
pay homage to the dean ani to all the
masters ; to aid the faculty against all
opponents and all illicit practitioners,
and to submit to the punishments
which it might inflict; to assist in
gown at all the masses ordered by the
fiiculty, coming in at least before the
epistle, and remaining till the end;
and, finally, to assist at all the aca-
demic exercises and disputations of the
schools during two years, where they
were to maintain some theses on medi-
cme or hygiene, observing good order
and decorum in conducting their argu-
ment

Their great ordeal was now to come.
One is amazed to read of the succes-
sion of tilts they had to run in the in-
tellectual tourney of these two proba-
tionary years ; how from St. Martin
to the Carnival they had to maintain,
always in fall dress and before a lar^e
assembly, their gtiodlibetary* theses of
physiology or medicine ; how from
Ash- Wednesday to vacation time it
was the turn of the Cardinal theses,
so called firom their institution by
Cardinal d'Estoutteville. These chiefly
related to hygienic questions. It is
from among these latter that most of
those puerile and absurd queries have
been extracted which have drawn
down so much ridicule on the faculty.
It is scarcely possible to imagine that
snch questions as the following can have
been intended for serious discussion:
Are heroes the children of heroes?
Are they bilious ? Is it good to get
drunk once a month ? Is woman an im-
perfect work of nature ? Is sneezing
a natural act ? It is only fair, how-
ever, to remember that by far the
greater number of the subjects pro-
posed were of a very different chsirac*
ter, and such as might profitably be
* Bo called becanse selected at pleatnre.

considered at the present day. Bat if
the frequent occurrence of these intel-
lectual jousts was trying to the com-
batant^ their interminable length was
perfectly appalling. From six o'clock
to eight he had to stand a preliminary
skirmish with the bachelors. For the
next three hours he had to encounter
nine doctors, who successively entered
the lists, each bringing his fresh vigor
to bear on the exhausted candidate.
The sitting ended with a general as-
sault, in which all present had liberty
to take a share and overwhelm the
poor bachelor with a very hail-storm
of interrogatories, to which he had to
reply smgle-handed. During the
Cardinal tibeses the debate was still
hotter and more prolonged. From
five in the morning till midday, the
candidate was plied with questions by
the bachelors, all ready to pounce upon
him at the slightest flaw in his argu-
ment or the merest slip of his tongue.
As a climax of cruelty, during the
quodlibetary examinations he was bound
to furnLsh his persecutors with refresh-
ment in an adjoining apartment, of
which he alone was forbidden to par-
take. The sound of the great clock
strikmg twelve mast have been a joy-
ful reprieve to the athlete in the ring ;
the wonder is that any constitutioii
could stand the probationary two years
during which this process was ener-^
getically kept up.

At the close of this period the can-
didates were subjected to private ex-
amination before the doctors, in order
to ascertain their practical capacity
and personal qualifications for exer-
cising the medical art. Great strict-
ness prevailed on all pomts which
nearly concerned the honor and inters
ests of the faculty ; and if the candi-
date had ever practiced any mannal
art, including surgery, he was bound
on oath to renounce it for tlte future.
Then followed a separate private ex-
amination by each individual doctor as
to a thousand personal details affecting
the competence of the applicant. A
secret scrutiny then decided on the ad-
missibility, not as yet the admissioni of

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7^ Ancient Faadty of Paris.

50S

the candidates to the honors and priv-
ileges of actual members of the faculty.
The spirit of the old days was preserv-
ed even in the seventeenth century,
and the licentiates had to receive
ecclesiastical sanction and a quasi-or-
dination. They proceeded accordingly
in procession to the house of the chan-
cellor of the academy, to whom they
were presented by the dean, who, on
their request, fixed a day for their re-
ception. This form was one of the
most cherished traditions of the uni-
versity. Gallican as was the spirit of
that body, it gloried in. tracing its priv-
ileges and constitution to the Holy
See ; a cheap homage, which entailed
DO inconvenience, and of which at
times it knew how to avail itself in its
contests with the king and the parlia-
ment The chancellor, who was a
canon of the metropolitan see of Paris,
bad long enjoyed sovereign jurisdiction
over the schoDk ; and although in the
seventeenth century his power was
purely nominal, no one disputed his
right upon this occasion to represent
the sovereign Pontiff, the supreme
teacher of the Catholic world. Other
curious ceremonies attended the solemn
admittal to the licentiate. All the
high functionaries of state, and other
important personages, were invited to
attend the schools on an appointed day,
in order to learn from the paranymph
the names and titles of the medical
practitioners whom the faculty were
about to present to the city — ^nay, to
the whole world: *^ Quos^ qucdes, et
quat medicos urin, cUqus adeo unioeno
oMy medtcorum coUegium isto hiennio
sit suppedilaturum." The paranymph,
as is well known, was, among the
Greeks, the friend of the bride^^om,
who accompanied him in his chariot
when he went to fetch home the bride.
Now it was held that the new licentiate
was about to espouse the faculty, much
as the Doge of Venice married the
sea. The friend of the spouse, the
paranymph, was in fact the dean, who
presented the young spouses to the
chancellor with a complimentary ad-
dress. That dignitary invited the

assembly to repair on a fixed day to
the great archieplscopal hall, which
upon this occasion was thrown open to
all the notabilities of the capital, who
attended to add honor to the solemnity.
Then the list of the candidates was
read out in their order of merit, as pre-
viously decided after a strict inquiry
by the doctors. They immediately
fell on their knees, bareheaded, in an
attitude of deep recollection, to receive
the apostolic benediction given by the
chancellor in these terms: ^ Auctori*
tote Sctnetm Sedis Apos'olicce, qud
fwngoT in hoc parte, do tibi licentium
legendi, interpretandi, et faciendi med-
icinam hie et uhique terrarunij in
nomine PatriSy et Filiij et Spiritus
SanctiJ* A question was then pro-
posed by this dignitary to the licenti-
ate first in the order of merit, who was
bound to give proof of his competency
fcy solving it on the spot. As the
chancellor was not a doctor, and as the
assembly was miscellaneous, this query
was usually religious or literary, and,
to judge from the recorded questions,
rather curious and subtle than profit-
able. The whole assembly forthwith
repaired in a body to the cathedral to
tliank our Blessed Lady for the happy
conclusion of a work begun under her
auspices. With his hand stretched
over the altar of the martyrs, the
chancellor murmured a short prayer,
the purport of which was calculated to
remind the newly-elected that, belong*
ing henceforth as they did specially to
the Church, they ought to be prepared to
sacrifice themselves in all thln<;s, even
to their very life : tuque ad effusionem
sanguinis. It depended entirely upon
the licentiates themselves whether or
no they were ultimately decorated with
the doctor's cap, which conferred the
full privileges at once of the medical
corporation and of the university to
which it belonged ; and although a
few, from modesty or other causes, de-
clined to aim at this honor, with by far
the greater number it was the conse-
quence and complement of the licenti-
ate. The degree of licentiate intro-
duced the recipient to the public ; t|iat

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504

The Ancient FacuJlXy of Parie.

of doctor admitted him into the very
sanctuary of the faculty. Accordingly
it was conferred, not less ceremoni-
ously, but more privately. It was, so
to say, a family affair. Although, as
we have said, there was no further ex-
amination respecting medical compe-
tency, another minute inquiry was
made into the life and morals of the
applicant, which was followed, if the
scrutiny proved satisfactory, by a pre-
paratory act called the Vesperie, be-
cause it took place in the afternoon.
At this sitting, the president addressed
the candidate in a solemn discourse,
intended to impress him with a high
tiense of the dignity of the healing art,
and of the maxims of honor and prob-
ity which ought to guide its professors.
The ordeal of questions was not alto-
gether closed ; for we find the president
proposing a query, and entering into a
discussion with the candidate, who had
tihus still something to undergo before
he passed on from the class of the
questioned to the more enviable rank
of the questioners.

Upon the great day, the doctor in
posse, precededby the mace-bearers and
bachelors, with the president on his left,
and followed by the doctors in esse se-
lected to argue with him, proceeded to
the hall of the great school. The grand
apparitor then addressed him thus:
** Sir candidate for the doctorate, be-
fore you are initiated, you have to
take three oaths,'* — ^^Domine dodo-
rcmde, antequam incipieis, kahes tria
furamerUa/' The three oaths were:

1. to observe the rights, statutes, laws,
and venerable customs df the faculty ;

2. to assist the day following the feast
of St Luke at the mass for deceased
doctors ; 8. to combat with all his
strength against the illicit pmctition-
ers of medicine, whatever might be
their rank or their condition in life.
**Will you swear to observe these
things ?•• — ^ Vis ista jurare V — asked
the grand apparitor; and the candi-
date replied with that memorable
Juro ("I sweai") which was Mo-
Ii^re*8 last word.* The president,

* The great eomlc dnmaUit played the part of

after a brief address, turned to-
ward him with the doctorial square
cap in his hand, and making with it
the sign of the cross in the air, placed
it ' on the head of the candidate, to
which he then administered a slight
blow with two of his fingers, and forth-
with bestowed upon him the accolade.
The recipient was now duly dubbed
doctor. He made immediate use of
his new powers by asking a question
of one of the doctors present. The
president had then a tilt with the doc-
tor who had presided at the Vesperie,
and the sitting was closed by the new
doctor's delivering a discourse of
thanksgiving to God, to the faculty^
and to his friends and relations pres-
ent. The statutes enjoin that this
speech should be elegant. We may
conceive that the notion of elegance
entertained by the faculty differed con-
siderably from that which the word
suggests to^ our minds. On the St.
Martin's Day following the recently-
chosen doctor did the honors of his
new grade by' presiding over a quod"
Uhetary thesis. This was a sort of
bye-day, being out of course. It was
called the " acte pastlUaire,** in allu-
sion probably to the sugary wafers
presented to the dean stamped with
his likeness, or to the homhons^ of
which there was a general distribution
on the occasion. The next day the
new doctor was entered on the regis-
ters, and took his place on the junior
bench for ten years.

Every one must be struck with the
dose resemblance which the famous
ceremony in Moli^re's Malade Bnagi"
noire bears to those scholastic solem-
nities. Who, indeed, would now re-
member these antiquated customs of
an age ft^m which we are drifting
more rapidly in habits of thought and

Argan on the flrvt repreaentatlon of his plaj of
the MalwU Imaginaire^ now always pernMineA
on the anniversary of his death. He Bad prob-
ably long had within him the seeds of a mortal
complaiut; and after prononnclng the void
JvTO in his character of Bachelor of Medicine
taking his degree, which Is the sobjecl of th»
fitmons ceremonial ballet soeceeding the coae-
dy, he was seised with a sajfocatlng atUck, and
left the playhooae only to explro ahortly after-
ward.

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T%s Ancient Faeulip of Parts*

505

in manners than even the stream of
time is carrying as, if the comic
dramatist had not conferred upon
tbem the immortality of ridicule?
Yet it maj well be questioned if it were
not for Moli^re's ludicrous picture,
from which we have formed our no-
tions and judgment of the old faculty,
whether, did we now for the first time
discover in some old forgotten docu-*
ment the record of these proceedings,
our impression might not beVidely
different ; whether we m%ht not see as
much in them to command our respect
as to provoke us to laughter. Old-
fashioned ways — that is, ways which
no longer reflect the ideas and feelings
of the day — always lend themselves
specially to ridicule. In MoU^re's
time society was beginning to divest
itself of its medisBval garb, and men's
minds were being formed, not always
to their advantage, on a new type.
The old type, however, was so strong-
ly impressed on the medical corpora-
tion—in which the traditionary spirit
was peculiarly powerful — that the garb,
which^ as we know, follows rather than
precedes a change, still sat naturally
on the venerable body of doctors. So
entirely was this the case, that where,
as individuals, they were more or less
under the influence of the Spirit of
the day, in their professional capacity
they had as it were a second self,
dinging tenaciously in all that con-
cerned the faculty to ancient ideas
and forms. Of this combination the
well-known Guy Patin, to whom we
may hereafter have occasion to allude,
was a curious example. It is difficult
to look upon men performing acts, to
^em most serious, however absurd in
oar eyes, as purely ridiculous. As-
suredly they have their respectable
side. Neither ia it easy to believe
tiiat aU these good doctors, indefatig-
. able as we have seen them, and en-
thusiastically devoted as they were to
their calling, were all such pedantic
idiots as Moli^re has painted them.
It is a well-known fact that the inim-
itable piece of buffoonery to which
we have alluded was c(mcocted in the

salon of Madame de la Sabli^re, a
noted rendezvous of the *^ beaux es-
prM* of the day. Moli^re furnished
the canvas and laid-in the colors of
the first painting; but his witty
friends had each some lively touch to
contribute. It is probable that two
or three of the medical' profession —
men who were more or less sceptical
as to the perfection of every saying
and d6ing of the faculty, and with
whom Moli^re is known to have lived
in habits of intimacy — were present
at these meetings, and supplied many
of the technical expressions. It does
not follow thafr these physicians were
actuated by any spite against their
order, any more than Cervantes hated
chivalry, to which, while quizzing its
eccentricities and exaggerations, he
unwittingly gave a fatal blow.

One remark forcibly suggests itself,
when we consider the hyperbolical
praise which the medical body so lib-
erally administered to itself, and with
which Molidre has made us familiar
in passages of his comedies which can
scarcely be considered as caricatures.
We are apt severely to censure as
grossly servile and almost idolatrous
^e flattery with which the men of
letters and courtiers of Louis XIV.'s
reign dosed the monarch. But some
abatement must be made of this harsh
judgment when we flnd the reception
of an obscure bachelor to his d^ree
made the occasion of a prodigal ex-
penditure pf the most exaggerated
metaphors. He is a new star, a pha*
ros destined to shed its light on the
latest posterity ; he is the compendium
of all virtue, talent, and glory ; he
equals, if he does not surpass, all the
heroes of antiquity. And if such
were the eulogies bestowed on a suc-
cessful candidate for the honors of the
faculty, what was the laudation re-
served for the faculty itself, the source
of all this splendor ? Hyperbole went
mad. We find, lor instance, an orator
taking as his text, ^ The physician is
like to God.'' He sets forth this re-
semblance in the attributes of power,
beneficence, merqr: physicians are

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506

The Ancient Facuby of Paris.

the mmisttsrs and the <' colleagues" of
Go(L But this is not enough. The
orator kindles as he proceeds : all
comes from God ; ergo, evil as well as
good. " But from 70U, medical gen-
tlemen," he exclaims, " comes notliing
but good. Doubtless God Is just in
afflicting us, and has his reasons. But
still evil is evil, and medicine is al-
wajs salutarj." (Rather a bold as-
sertion !)' The conclusion is, that we
should owe more to the physician
than to God, seeing that, while the
Lord wounds, the physician heals, did
we not afkr all owe to him tlie physi*
dan himself.

One lost trait to complete this
sketch of thd old customs of the facul-
ty. Molibre has hinted at it in the
closing line of the exordium of his
comic president :

" Salos. honos, et arffentnm,
Atque bonum ajfpetUum.^*

The culinary and gastronomic side of
the medical physiognomy is not the
least curious. Brlllat-Savarin, who
has made a classified catalogue of
gourmands, places physicians under
the head of gourmands by virtue oC
their profession. It is, he says, in the
nature of thmgs. Everything contri-
butes to make them gluttons. The
hopes and the gratitude of patients
combine to pamper them. They are
crammed like pigeons, and at the end
of six months have become irretrieva-
ble gourmands. There seem to be
reasonable efrounds for this accusation.
In what may be called the heroic age
of the faculty — ^the palmy days of me-
dical ceremonial, which had already
begun to dechne in Moli^re's time, al-
though the ancient forms were in the
main preserved — corporation-repasts
were frequent. After every examina-
tion the doctors dined; after every
thesis they dined— on this latter occa-
sion at the expense of the successful
candidate. On St. Luke's Day they
dined; and again when the ao-
countti were given in, and when a dean
was elected. When a chair of botany
was erected; a " botanic banquet" en-

sued as a matter of course. Bat it
would be too tedious to enumerate all
these feastings, since almost every-
thing furnished the pretext for an en-
tertainment. At one time, the facaltj
even officially appointed two of their
number to taste the wines before their
repasts. Under the pretence of hy-
gienic considerations, questions apper^
taining to what may be styled tran-
scendental cookery were of frequent oc-
currence ; and it was gravely debated
whether salad ought to be eaten at the
first course, and potatoes at the sec-
ond ; whether it were good to eat nuts
after fish, cheese after meat, etc

We will conclude with some reflec-
tions of a more pleasmg character as
to the spirit which animated the old
faculty. Some of its statutes are me-
morials of the Tirtuous prindplea
which, in spite of all absurdities of
form, were held in honor by their
body. For instance, the doctors were
enjoined to cultivate friendship with
one another. They were never to
visit a patient without an express in-
vitation. The juniors were always to
rise before the ancients, and the an-
cients were to protect the juniors, and
treat them with kindness. The secrets
of the sick were sacred ; and no one
was to i^veal what he had seen, heard,
or so much as suspected in a patienf s
house. Gravity, mildness, and deco-
rum were to reign in their assemblies,
where each was to speak in his proper
order and without interrupting others.
Disorderly behavior, recriminations,
and abusive language are to be ban-
ished for ever from the faculty. These
Regulations are admirable ; and at any
rate bear witness to the sound views
of the body of whose collective wisdom
they were the expression. Indeed the
great strength of the faculty resided in
its attachment to its salutary moral
laws. Mere formalism would never
have possessed such vitality and en-
durance. When we penetrate into
the life of this old society, we meet
with a tone of genuine uprightness,
manliness,' and candor quite refresh*
ing to the mind. We may add that

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507

most of the great liberal professions—
the bar, i^^ magistracj, and the edu-
cational bodies of the seventeenth cen-
torj — ^make the same favorable im-
pression upon us. Thej exhibit the
bourgeoisie of the daj in a respectable
light, OS manifesting in no ordlnarj de-
gree the qualities of probltj, disinter-
estedness, and the familj spirit, with
all the sober virtues and homelj char-
ities which appertain to it.

We naturally know less of the life
of the students ; but it was probably
moulded upon that of their elders and
superiors. Even Moliere's pompous

Thomas Diafoirus, with whose rejec-
tion by Ang^lique for the handsome,
rich, and agreeable Cloante the read-
er of course heartily sympathizes, is
by no means a contemptible personage ;
and when divested of his priggish sol-
emnity, and of all those ludicrous ac-
cidental qualities which go to make up
the caricature, it cannot be denied that
he is a well-principled, sober, and in-
dustrious youth. It is, therefore, no
unreasonable conclusion to draw, that
such was the general character of the
body of aspirants to the honors of the
venerable doctorate*

From Tbe Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BT ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAFTER XX»

For many hundred yards total si-
lence prevailed among our pedestri-
ans. Even Kate Mulvey seemed at a
loss what first to say, or whether she
ought to be the first to say anything.

Winny, seeing that her poor dog
was getting on famously, was rather
pleased, '' since the thing did happen,"
that it had been brought to so satis-
factory an end afler all ; and by
whom ? Her poor dog might have
been killed, and would, undoubtedly,
but for Emon-a*knock's fortunate ar-
rival at the last moment, and his
prompt and successful assistance.
There was poor BuUy-dhu now, walk-
ing to all appearances almost as well
as ever, and tied up in his handker-
chief. She was glad that the road had
become by this time comparatively
deserted, for she was timid and fright-
ened, she knew not why. Perhaps
she was afraid she might meet her
lather. She was thinking with her^
self, too. how far Emon would come
with ibwQf and who they might

meet who knew them, before he
turned back. Emon-a-knock's heart
was wishing Eate Mulvey at ^Al*
iha Brashia^ but his head was not
sorry that she was one of the party,
for common-sense still kept his heart
in subjection.

Thus it was that silence prevailed
for some time. Bully-dhu was the first
to break it. Whether it was that the
whiskey had got into his head, or, as
the present fashion would say, that he
was " screwed," I know not ; but he
felt so much better, and had so far re-
covered his strength and spirits, that
he had almost pulled the handkerchief
from Emon's hand, and cut an awk-
ward sort of a rigadoon round Winny,
barking, and looking up triumphandy
in her face. Could it have been that
while the others had been thinking of
these other things, he had been
deluding himself with the notion
that he had been the victor in the
battle ?

" Poor fellow," said Winny, patting
him on the head, '^ I do think there's
nothing very bad the matter with you

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508

iU-ffattow JEhe; or, 7^ Test of Futimiy.

after alL Emon, I am beginning to
believe you."

'< I hope joa will always believe me,
Winnj Cavana," was Iub reply, and
he again sunk into silence.

She could not think w)iy he called
her Gavana, and ^' yet her color rose ;"
I believe that is the way your expe-
rienced novelists would express it in
such a case.

A longer silence now ensued. None
of the three appeared inclined to talk
— £mon less than either. Kate Mul-
vey, who had always plenty to say for
herself^ seemed completely dumb-*
foundered, I was going to add, but I find
the word will do as well, perhaps bet-
ter, in its purity. • But, notwithstand-
ing their silence, they were shortening
the road to Rathcash. Winny was
framing some pretty little speech of
thanks to Emon for the trmUe he had
taken, . and for his kindness ; but she
had so often botched it to her own
mind, that she determined to leave it
to chance at the moment of parting.
Kate had no such excuse for her
sUence, and yet she was not without
one, which to herself quite justified it

Some few desultory remarks, how-
ever, were made from time to time,
followed by the still '< awkward pause,"
until they had now arrived at the
turn in sight of Elate Mulvey's house.

Emon was determined to go the
whole way to the end of the lane turn-
ing up to Winny Cavana's. He had
not sought this day's happiness; he
had studiously avoided such a chance ;
but circumstances had so far control-
led him, that he could not accuse him-
self of wilful imprudence. Emon
knew very well that if a fair opportu-
nity occurred, he would in .all proba-
bility betray himself in an unequivocal
manner to Winny, and he dreaded
the result Up to the present he was
on friendly and familiar terms with
her ; but once the word was spoken,
be feared a barrier would be placed
between them, which might put an end
to even this calm source of happiness.
That he loved Winny with a disinter-
ested but devoted love, he knew too

welL How far he might hope thai
she would ever look upon his love
with favor, he had never yet ventured
to feel his way; and yet his heart
told him there was something about
herself, which, if unbiassed by circum«r
stances, might bid him not despair.
But her rich old father, who had set
his heart ^ upon a marriage for his
daughter with Tom Murdock, and a
union of the farms, he knew would
never consent Neither did he be-
lieve that Winny herself would de-
cline so grand a match when it came
to the point

Emon had argued all these matters
over and over again in his mind ; and
the fatal certainty of disappointment,
added to a prudent determination to
avoid her society as much as possible,
had enabled him hitherto to keep his
heart under some controL

Kate Mulvey, though ** book-sworn^
by Winny, if she did not exactly
repeat any of the confidential chat she
had with her friend about Tom Mur-
dock and himself, felt no hesitation in
'< letting slip" to Emon, for whom she
had a very great regard, a hint or two
just casually, as if by accident, that
Tom Murdock " was no great favor-
ite" of Winny Cavana's — ^that the
neighbors " were all astray" in ** giv-
ing them to one another"— that if she
knew what two and two made, it
would all ^^ end in smoke ;" and such
little gossiping observations. Not by
way of teUing Emon, but just as if in
the mere exuberance of her own love
of chat But they had the desired e^
feet, now that Emon was likely to
have an opportunity of a few words
with Winny alone, for Kate was evi-
dently preparing to turn up to her
own house when they came to the lit-
tle gate.

Emon had heard, even in his rank
of life, the aristocratic expression that
*< faint heart never won fair lady;"
and a secret sort of self-esteem prompt-
ed him to make the most of the fortui-
tous circumstances which he had not
sought for, and which he therefore ar-
gu^ Providence might have thrown

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509

in his waj, "What can she do,"
thought he, " but reject my love ? I
shall know the worst then ; and I can
make a start of it I'm too long hang-
ing about here like a fool; a dumb
priest never got a parish ; and barring
his acres and his cash — \£ he has anj
— ^I'm a better man than ever he was,
or ever will be."

These were his thoughts as they
approached the gate, and his heart
begem to tremble as Kate Mulvey
said:

"Winnj, dear, I must part with
jou here. I saw my father at the
door. He came to it two or three
times while we were coming up the
road ; and he made a sign to me to
go im Tm sure and certain he's half-
starved for his dinner, waiting for
me!**

" Wen, Kitty, I suppose I can't ex-
pect you to starve him out-and-out,
and ril bid you good-bye. Fm all as
one as at home now, I may say.
Emon — ^I — ^won't bring you any
further."

" You're not bringing me, Winny ;
I'm going of my own free will."

"Indeed, Emon, you have been
very kind, and Fm entirely obliged to
you for all your trouble ; but I won't
ask you totx)me any further now,"

Kate's father just then came to the
door again; and she, thinking that
matters had gone far enough between
Emon and her friend in her presence,
bid them a final good-bye, and turned
up to her father, who still stood at the
door, and who really did appear to be
starving, if one could judge by the
position of his hands and the face he
made.

The moment had now arrived when
Emon must meet hift fate, or call
himself a coward and a poltroon for
the remaindev of his natural life, be it
long or short.

He chose the least degrading and
the most hopeful alternative — to meet
his fate.

As Winny held out her hand to him,
and asked him to let out the dog, he
flaid:

" No, Winny ; I'll give him up to
you at the end of the lane ; but not
sooner."

Winny saw that remonstrance
would be no use. She did not wish
to quarrel with Emon, and she knew
that at all events that was no time or
place to do so.

They had not advanced many yards
alone, vhen Winny stopped again, as
if irresolute between her wishes and
her fears. She had not yet spoken
unkindly to Emon, and she had tact
enough to know that the first unkind
word would bring out the whole mat-
ter, which she dreaded, in a fiood from
his heart, and which she doubted her
own power to withstand.

" Emon," she said, " indeed I will
not let you come any further — don't
be angry."

** Winny, you said first you would
not ask me, and now you say you
will not let me. Winny Cavana, are
you ashamed of cmy one about Rath-
cash, or Uathcashmore, seeing you
walking with Emon-a-knock ?"

" You are very unjust and very un-
kind, Emon, to say any such thing. I
never was ashamed to be seen walk-
ing with you ; and I'm certain sure
the day will never come when you
will give me reason to be ashamed of
you, Emon-arknock ; — there now, I
seldom put the two last words to your
name, except when I wish to be kind.
,But there is a difference between shame
and fear, Emon."

" Then you are afraid, Winny ?"

"Yes, Emon, but it is only of my
father — ^take that with you now, and
be satisfied, but don't fret me by per-
severing further* Let the dog go—
and good-bye."

All this time she was counting the
pebbles on the road with her eyes.

" No, Winny, TU not fret you will-
ingly ; but here or there it is all the
same, and the truth must come out.
Winny, you have been the woodbine
that has twined itself and blossomed
round my heart for many a long day.
Don't wither it, Winny dear, but say I
may water and nourish it with the dew

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510

Att-EaOaw Eoe ; or, Thn Tut of FuturUg.

of your love f and lie would hftre
taken her hand.

" Not here, Emon," she said, releas-
ing it; **are you mad? Don't you
see we're in sight of the houses ? and
gracious only knows who may be
watching us I Untie your handker-
chief and give mo the dog. For good-
ness sake, Emon dear, don't come any
further."

•* No, Winny, I'd die before I'd fret
you. Here's the dog, handkerchief
and all : keep it as a token that I may
hope."

"Indeed, Em^n, I cannot-— don't
ask me."

Emon's heart fell, and he stooped to
untie the handkerchief in despair, if
not in chagrin, at Winny's last
words.

But BuUy-dhu appeared to know
what his mistress ought to have done
better than she did herself. It was
either that, or Emon's hand shook so,
that when endeavoring to untie the
knot, the dog got loose, " handkerchief
and all," and, turning to his mistress,
began to bark and jump up on her,
with joy that he had gained his liberty,
and was so near home. Winny be-
came frightened lest BuUy-dhu's barks
might bring notice upon them, and she
endeavored to moderate his ecstacy,
yet she felt a sort of secret delight that
she was in for the handkerchief in
spite of herself. She was determined,
therefore, not to send poor Emon-a-
knock away totally dejected.

"There, Emon dear; for God's
sake, I say again, be off home. FU
keep it in memoiy of the day that
you saved my poor dog from destruc-
tion — there now, will Uiat do ?" and
she held out her hand.

" It is enough, Winny dear. This
has been the happiest day of my life.
May I hope it has only been the first
of a long life like it?"

" Now, Emon, don't talk nonsense,
but be off home, if you have any wit
—good-bye ;" and this time she gave
him her hand and let it He in his.

" God bless you, Winny dearest, I
oughtn't to be too hard on you. Sure

you have nused my heart np into
heaven already, and there is some-
thing now worth living for." And he
turned away with a quick and steady
step.

" She called me ' dear' twice,** he
soliloquized, after he thought she had
fairly turned round. But Winny had
heani him, and as she took the hand-
kerchief from Bully-dhu's neck, she
patted him upon the head, saying,
*' And you are a dear good fellow, and
Fm very fond of you."

Emon heard every part of this little
speech except the first word, and
Winny managed it to perfection ; for
though she had used the word " and"
in connection with what she bad
heard Emon say, she was too cunning
to let him hear that one small word,
which would have calmed his beating
heart; and the rest she would iain
have it appear had been said to the
dog, for which purpose she accompa-
nied the words with those pats upon
his head. She spoke somewhat loud-
er, however, than was necessary, if
BuUy-dhu was alone intended to hear
her.

Emon saw the transaction, and
heard some of the words — only some.
But they were sufficient to make him
envy the dog, as he watched them go-
in^ up the lane, and into the house.

It might be a nice point, in the
higher ranks of life, to determine
whether, in a "breach of promise"
case, the above passages could be re»
lied on as unequivocal evidence oo
either side of a promise ; or whether
a young lover would be justified in be*
lieving that his ^it had been success- .
ful upon no other foundation than
what had then taken place. But in
the rank of life in which Winny Car-
ana and Edward Lennon moved, it
was as good between them as if they
had been "book-sworn" — and they
both knew it.

Before Winny went to her bed that
night she had washed and ironed the
handkerchief, and she kept it ever
after in her pocket, folded up in a
piece of newspaper. It had no maik

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Jtt'HaUow Eo$; or, The TeH of Fuiurity.

511

apon it when she got it^ bat she was
not afraid, afler some time, to work
the letters E. A. K. in the comer, as
no one was ever to see it but herself,
not even Kate Mulvej.

Old Ned Cavana, afler returning
from prajer^, determined to rest him*
self fur some time before taking a
tour of the farm, and lay down upon
an old black sofa in the parlor. There
is no shame in the truth that an old
man of his age soon tell fast asleep.
The servant-girl looked in once or
twice to tell him tluit the spotted heif-
er had cut her leg jumping over a
wall, as Jamesy Doyle was turning
her out of the wheat ; but she knew
it would not signify; and not wishing,
or perhaps not venturing, to disturb
him, she quietly shut the door again.
He slept 80 long, that he was only
just getting the spotted heifer's leg
stuped in the farm-yard while the
scene already described was passing
between Winny and young Lennon
upon the road. Were it not for that
Fame heifer's leg he would doubtless
have been standing at the window
watching his daughter's return. Upon
such fortuitous accidents do lovers'
chances sometimes hang ! This was
what VVInny in her ignorance of her
father's employment had dreaded ;
and hence alone her anxiety that
Einon should "^ be off home, if he had
any wit."

On this point she found, however,
that all was right when she entered.
Her father was just coming in from
the farm-yard, " very thankful that it
was no worse;" a frame of mind
yhich we would recommend all per-
sons to cultivate under untoward clr-
cumstancss of any kind.

Of course Winny told her father of
the mishap about poor Bully-dhu's
battle ; she ^ nothing extenuated, ^or
set down aught in malice/' but told
the thing accui*ately as it had occur-
red ; and did not even hide that young
Lennon — i)he did not call him Emon-
a-knock — had ultimately rescued the
poor dog from destruction. She did*
noi think it necessary to say how far

he had accompanied them on their
way home.

"He's a smart young fellow, that
Lennon is, an' I'm for ever obliged to
him, Winny, for that same turn.
There would be no livin' here but for
Bully-dhu. I believe it was £mon
himself gcv him to us, when he was a
pup."

"It was, father; and a very fine
dog he turned out."

** The sorra- betther, Winny. If it
wasn't for him, as I say, beDunc the
fox an' the rogues, wc wouldn't have
a goose or a turkey, or a duck, or a
cock, or a hen, or so much as a chik-
in, in the place, nor so much, iv coorse,
as a fresh egg for our breakfast. Poor
Bully, I hope he's not hurt, Winny ;"
and he stooped down to examine him.
" No, no," he cried, " not much ; but
I'm sure he's thirsty. Here, Biddy,
get Bully a dish of honnia'rommsr^
and be sure you make him up a good
mess aflher dinner. That Emon-a-
knock, as they call him, is a thunder-
ing fine young man ; it's a pity the
poor fellow is a pauper, I may say "

" No, father, he's not a pauper, and
never will be ; he's well able to earn
his living."

" I know that, Winny, for he often
worked here ; an'' there's not a man
in the three parishes laves an honest-
er day's work behind Jiim."

" And does not spend it foolishly,
father. If you were to see how nicely
he was dressed to-day; and — ^beside
all the help he gives his father and
mother."

She was about to add a remark
that work was just then very slack, as
it was the dead time of the year, but
that there was always something to be
done about the farm; but second
thoughts checked the words as they
were rising to her lips ; and second
thoufl^hts, they say, are best.

Old Ned here turned the conversa-
tion by " wondering was the dinner
near ready."

Winny was not a litt?e surprised,
and a good deal delighted, to hear her
father talk so familiarly and so kindly

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518

MrHaOow E9t; or, I%e Tea of Fuiunijf.

c£ Emoo* There never was a time
when her father's kind word of him
was of more value to her heart Per-
haps it would be an unjust implication
of hjpocrisj on the old man's part
to suggest that he might have onlj
been ^' pumping" Winnj on the sul>-
ject. She felt, however^ that she had
gone far enough for the present in the
expression of her opinion, and was
not sorrj when a touch of the /aire
gufiha put her father in mind of ^ the
dinner,"

We, who, of course, can see much
further than anj of* our dramatii
persona^ and who are privileged to be
behind the scenes, could tell Winny
Cavana — ^but that we would not wish
to fret her — that Tom Murdock was
looking on from his own window at
the whole scene between her and
young Lennon on the road ; and that
from that moment, although he could
not hear a woi*d that was said, he un-
derstood the ^ whole thing, and was
generating plans of vengeance and
destruction against <me or both.

CHAFTEB XXL

Matters were now lying quiet.
They were like a line ball at billiards
which cannot be played at, and there
was nothing << to go out for" by any
of the players in this double match.
Bu^ occasionally something "comes
off" in even the most remote locaUty,
which creates some previous excite-
ment, and forms the subject of conver-
sation in all ranks. Sometimes a stee-
ple-chase," five-sovereigns stakes, with
fifty or a hundred added," forms a
speculation for the rich ; with a farm-
er's class-race for twenty pounds,
without any stakes, for horses bona
fde the property, etc

A great cricket-match once " came
off" not very far from the locality of
our story, when Major W — ^n lived at
Mount Campbell, between the ofBlcers
of the garrison at Boyle and a local
club. We bebnged to the ougor's

province of constabulary at the time,
and, as members, were privileged to
take part therein. The ihing was
rather new in that part of the world
at the time, but had been well adver-
tised in the newspapers for the rich,
and through the police for the poor;
and the consequence was — the weath-
er being very fine — that a concourse
of not lea^ Uian a thousand persons
were assembled to witness the game.
There can be little doubt that some of
the younger portion, at least, of our
dratncUis perswuce in this tale were
spectators upon the occasion. It was
within their county, and not an unrea-
sonable distance from the homes we
are now writing of.

January and February bad now
passed by in the calm monotony of
nothing to excite the inhabitants of
the Rathcashes. Valentine's Day, in-
deed, had created a slight stir amongst
some of the girls who had bachelors,
or thought they had; and many a
message was given to those going into
C. O. S., to " be sure and ask at the
post-office for a letter for me," " and
for me," "and for me." A few, very
few indeed, got valentines, and many,
very many, did not

It was now March, and even this
little anxiety of heart had subsided on
the part of the girls ; some from self-
satisfaction at what they got, and
others from disappointment at what
they did not.

During this time Tom Murdock had
seen Winny Cavana occasionally. It
would be quite impossible, with one
common lane to both houses, and those
houses not more than three hundred
yards apart, that any plan of Winny's,
less than total seclusion, could have
prevented Uieir sometimes "coming
across" one another ; and total seclu-
sion was a thing that Winny Cavana
would not subject herself to on ac-
count of any man "that ever stepped
in shoe-leather." " What had she to
him, or to be afraid of llim for?.
Let him mind his own business and
she'd mind hers. But for one half
hour she'd never shut herself up

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Att-HaOaw Sve ; or, The Test of Futurity.

513

on his account Let him let her
alone."

Tom Murdock was not without a
certain degree of knowledge of the
female heart, nor of a certain amount
of tact to come round one, in the
least objectionahle way ; at all events,
80 as not to foster any difference
which might have taken place. lie did
not appear to seek her society, nor did
ho seek to avoid it When they met,
which was really always by accident, he
was civil, and sufficiently attentive to
show that he harbored no ill-will
against her, and respected her enough
to make it worth his while not to break
with her. He was now certain of a
walk home with her on Sundays from
mass. On these occasions her father
was generally with her, but this Tom
considered rather to be wished for
than otherwise, as he could not ven-
ture, even if alone, to renew the for-
bidden subject But he knew the
father had approved of his suit, and
his wish was now to establish a con-
stant civility and kindness of manner,
which would keep him at le^st on his
side, if it did not help by its quietness
to make Winny hei'self think better
of him.

What had passed between Winny
and Emon was not likely in a human
heart to keep up the constrained indif-
ference which that young man had
burdened himself with toward her.
He had, therefore, upon two or three
Sundays ventured again to go to the
chapel of Rathcash.

It is not very easy to account for, or
to explain how such minor matters fall
ot^tj or whether they are instinctively
arranged impromptu; but upon each
occasion of Emon having re-appeared
at Ratlicash chapel, Tom Murdock's
walk home with WiUny was spoiled ;
more particularly if it so happened
that her father did not go to prayers.

£mon-a-knock was never devoid of
a considerable portion of self-esteem
and respect Though but a daily ki-
borer, his conduct and character were
such as to have gained for him the
favorable opinion and the good word

VOL. II. 88

of every one who knew him ; and apart
from the innate goodness of his disposi-
tion, he would not lose the high posi-
tion he had attained in the hearts of
his neighbors for the consideration of
any of those equivocal pleasui*es gen-
erally enjoyed by young men of his
class. He felt that ho could look old
Ned Cavana or old Mick MuMock
straight in the face, rich as they were.
He felt quite Tom Murdock's equal in
everything, mentally and physically.
In riches alone he could not compare
with him, but these, he thanked God,
belonged to neither piind nor body.

Thus far satisfied with himself, he
always stopped to have a few words
with Winny, when chance — which he
sometimes coaxed to be propitious-—
threw him in her way. Even from
Rathcash on Sundays he felt entitled
now, perhaps more than ever, to join'
her as far as his own way home lay
along with hers, and this although her
father was along with her. If Tom
Murdock had joined them, which was
only natural, living where he did, Emon
was more determined than ever to be
of the party, chatting to them all, Tom
included; thus showing that he was
neither afraid of them nor ashamed of
himself.

The first Sunday after the dog-fight
was the first that Emon had gone to
the chapel of Rathcash ^ for a pretty
long time. But, as a matter of course,
he must go there on that day to inquire
for poor Bully-dhu, and to ascertain if
Winny Cavana had recovered her
fright and fatigue. We have seen
that Winny had told her father suffi-
cient of the transaction of poor Bully's
mishap to make it almost a matter of
necessity that he should allude to it to
Emon, if it were merely to thank him
for ^' the trouble he had taken " in sav«
ing the dog. When Winny heard the
words her father had used, she thought
them cold — ^'Uhe trouble he had tak-
en!*' her heart suggested that he
might have said, and said truly, *^ the
risk he had run/'

But, Winny, there had really been
no risk; and recollect that you had

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ased the very same word "trouble**
to Emon yourself, when you knew no
more of his mind than your &tber
does now.

Tom had walked with them on this
occasion, and old Ned's civility to ^ that
whelp" — a name he had not forgotten
— ^helped to sour his temper more than
anything which had passed between
Winny Cavana and him. But all
these things he was obliged to bear,
and he bore them well, upon "the-
long-lane-that-has-no-tuming " system.

But now a cause of anticipated ex-
citement began to be spoken of in the
neighborhood; how, or why, or by
whom the matter had been set on foot,
was a thing not known, and of no con-
sequence at the time. Yet Tom Mur-
dock was at the bottom of it — and for
a purpose.

There existed not far from about the
centre of the locality of our story a
large flat common, where flocks of
geese picked the short grass in winter,
and over which the peewit curled with
a short circular flap, and a timid little
hoarse scream, in the month of May.
It consisted of about sixty acres of
hard, level, whitish sod, admirably
adapted for short races, athletic sports,
and manly exercises of every kind. It
formed a sort of amphitheatre, sur-
rounded by low green hills, affording
ample space and opportunity for hund-
reds, ay thousands, of spectators to wit-
ness any sport which might be in^iugu-
rated upon the level space below.

Upon one or two occasions, but not
latterly, hurling-matches had come off
upon Glanveigh Common. At one
time these hurling-matches were very
common in Ireland, and were consid-
ered a fair test of the prowess of the
young men of different parishes. Many
minor matches had come off from time
to time, but they were of a mixed na-
ture, got up for the most part upon the
spot, and had not been spoken of be-
forehand — they were mere impromptus
amongst the younger lads of the neigh-
borhood. The love of the game, how-
ever, liod not died out even amongst
those of riper years ; and there were

▼ery many men, young and old, whose
hurls were laid up upon lofls, and who
could still handle them in a manner
with which few parts of Ireland could
compare. Amongst those Tom Mur-
dock was pre-eminent. He had suc-
cessfully led the last great match, when
not more than twenty years of age, be-
tween the parishes of Rathcash and
Shanvilla, against a champion called
"Big M'Dermott," who led for the
latter parish. He was considered the
best man in the province to handle a
hurl, and his men were good ; but Tom
Murdock and the boys of Rathcash
had beaten them back three times from
the very jaws of the goal, and finally
conquered. But ShanviJa formally
announced that they would seek an
early opportunity to retrieve their char-
acter. The following Patrick's Day
would be three years since they had
lost it.

Tom Murdock thought this a good
opportunity to forward a portion of his
plans. A committee was formed of the
best men in Rathcash parish to send
a challenge to the men of Shanvilla to
hurl another match on Glanveigh Com-
mon upon Patrick's Day. Tom Mur-
dock himself was not on the committee ;
he had too much tact for that. " Big
M'Dermott " had emigrated, leaving a
younger brother behind him — ^a good
man, no doubt; but as the Shanvilla
boys had been latterly bragging of
£mon-a-knock as their best man, Tom
had no doubt that the challenge would
be accepted, and tliat young Lcnnon»
as a matter of course, would be chosen
as their champion. Had he doubted
this last circumstance, he might not
have cared to originate the match at
all. He had not forgotten the poker-
and-tongs jig about four months before.
His humiliation on that occasion had
sunk deeper into his heart than any
person who witnessed it was aware of;
and although never afterward advert-
ed to, had still to be avenged. If, then,
at the head of his hundred men, he
could beat back young Lsnnon with an
equal number twice out of thrica before
the assembled parishes, it would in

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515

some degree wash out the humiliation
of his defeat in the dance.

Upon the acceptance of this chal-
lenge not oulj the# character of the
ShanviUa boys depended, but their
pride and confidence in Emon-arknock
as their best man.

At once, upon the posting of the
challenge, with the names of the com-
mittee, upon the chapel-gate of Rath-
cash, a counter-committee was formed
for ShanviUa, and, taking a leaf from
their opponents' book, their best man's
name was lefl out. But he at the same
time accepted the leadership of the
partj, which' was unanimouslj placed

upon him.

Thus far matters had tended to the
private exultation of Tom Murdock,
who was determmed to make Patrick's
Day a day of disgrace to his rival, for
since the scene he had witnessed with
the dog and the handkerchief he could
no longer doubt the fact.

The whole population of the parishes
were sure to be assembled, and Winny
Cavana, of course, amongst the rest
What a triumph to degrade him in her
eyes oefore his friends and hers ! Sure-
ly he would put forth all his energies
to attain so glorious a result. He
would show before the assembled mul-
titude that, physically at least, ^^ that
whelp " was no match for Tom Mu]>
dock — his defeat ^t the poker-and-
tongs jig was a mere mischance.

The preliminaries were now finally
settled for this, the greatest hurling-
match which for many years had come
off, or was likely to come off, in the
province. Rathcash had been victori-
ous on the last great occasion of the
kmd, just three years before, when
Tom Murdock had led the parish, as
a mere stripling, against *^ Big M'Der-
mott" and his men. The additional
three years had now given more man-
liness to Tom's heart, in one sense at
least, and a greater development to the
muscle and sinew of his frame than
he could boast of on that occasion. He
was an inch, or an inch and a half, over
Emon a-knock in height, upwards of a
stone-weight heavier, and nearly two

years his senior in age. His men were
on an average as good men, and as
well accustomed to the use of the hurl,
as those of ShanviUa — ^theb: hurls
were as well seasoned and as sound,
and their pluck was proverbially high.
What wonder, then, if Tom Murd^
anticipated a certain, if not an easy,
victory ?

As hurling, however, has gone very
much out of fashion since those days,
and is now seldom seen — ^never, in-
deed, in the glorious strength of two
populous parishes pitted against each
other — it may be* well for those who
have never, seen or perhaps heard of
it, to close this chapter with a short
description of it.

A krge flat field or common, the
larger the beUer, is selected for the
performance. Two large blocks of
stone are ph&ced about fifteen or twenty
feet apart toward either end of the
field. One pair of these stones forms
the goal of one party, and the other
pair that of their opponents. They
are about four hundred yards distant
from each other, and are generally
whitewashed, that they may the more
easily catch the attention of the play-
ers. A ball, somewhat larger than a
cricket-ball, but pretty much of the
same nature, is produced by each party,
which will 1>B more fully explained by-
and-bye. The hurlers assemble, ranged
in two opposing parties in the centre be-
tween the goals. The hurls are admir-
ably calculated for the kind of work they
are intended to perform — viz., to puck
the baU toward the respective goals.
But they would be very formidable
weapons should a fight arise between
the contending parties. This, ere now,
we regret to say, has not unfrequently
been the case — ^leading sometimes to
bloodshed, and on , a few occasions to
manslaughter, if not to murder. The
hurl is invariably made of a piece of
well-seasoned ash. It is between
three and four feet long, having a flat
surface of aboirt four inches broad and
an inch thick, turned at the lower end.
Many and close searches in those days
have been made through the woods.

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516

AU-Hdlaw Eve; or^ The Test of FtUuritjf.

and in cartmakei*'8 shops, for pieces of
ash with the necessary turn, grown by
nature in the wood; bat failing this for-
tanate chance, the object was pretty
well effected by a process of steaming,
and the application of cramps, until the
desired shape was attained. But these
were never considered as good as those
grown deeignedhji by nature^br the put'
fk>$e.

The contending parties being drawn
up, as we have said, in the centre of
the ground, the respective leaders step
forward and shake hands, like two pu-
gilists, to show that there is no malice.
Although this act of the leaders is sup-
posed to guarantee the good feeling of
the men as well, yet the example is
generally followed by such of the op-
posing players as are near each other.

''A toss** then takes place, as to
which side shall "sky" their ball.
These balls are closely inspected by
the leaders of the opposite parties, and
pronounced upon beforo the game be-
gins. Thero is no choice of goals, as
the parties generally set them up at
the end of the field next the parish
they belong to. Whichever side wins
*^ the toss " then <' skies " their ball, the
leader throwing it from his hand to
the full height of his power, and ^ the
game is on." But afler this no hand,
under any circumstances, is permitted
to touch the ball ; an apparently un-
necessary rule, for it would be a mad
act to attempt it, as in all probability
the hand would be smashed to pieces.
The game then is, to puck the ball
through the opponents' goaL Two goal-
roasters aro stationed at either goal,
belonging one to each party, and they
must be men of well-known experience
as such. Their principal business is
to see that the ball is put fairly between
the stones ; but they are not prohibited
from using their hurls in the final strug-
gle at the spot, the one to assist, the
other to obstruct, as the state of their
party may roquiro.

Sometimes a game is nearly won,
when a fortunate young fellow on the
losing side sUpa the ball from the crowd
to the open, where one €i his party

curls it into the air with the flat of his
hurl, and the whole assembly — for
there is always one — hears the puck
it gets, sending it Ralf-way toward the
other goal. The rush to it then is tre-
mendous by both sides, and another
crowded clashing of hurls takes place.
When the ball is fairly put through
t|)e goal of one party by the other, the
game is won, and the shouts of the
victors and their friends are deafening.

CHAPTEB XXn.

A HURLING match in those days
was no light matter, particularly when
it was on so extensive a scale as that
which we are about to describe — be-
tween two Lirge parishes. They were
supposed, and intended to be, anucable
tests of the prowess and activity of the
young men at a healthy game of rec-
reation, as the cricket-matches of the
present day are that of the athletic *
aristocracy of the land. In aU these
great matches, numbers of men, wo-
men, and children used to collect to
look on, and cheer as the success of
the game swayed one way or the
other ; and as most of the players were
unmarried men, it is not to be won-
dered at if there were many young wo-
men amongst the crowd, with their
hearte swaymg accx)rdingly.

It had been decided by the commit-
tees upon the occasion of this great
match, that a sort of distinguishing
dress — ^they would not, of course, call
it uniform — should be worn by the
men. To hurl in coats of any kind
had never in this or any other parish
match been thought of. The commit-
tee left the choice of the distinguish-
ing colors to the respective leaders,
recommendmg, however, that the same
manner should be adopted of exhibit-
ing it. It was agreed that sleeves of
different colors should be worn over
the shirt sleeves, with a broad piece of
ribbon tied at the throat to match.

Tom Murdock had chosen green
for his party, and not only that, bat

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517

with a detennination to make himself
popular, and to throw his rival as far
as possible into the background, had
purchased a sufficient quantity of
calico and ribbon to supply his men
gratis with sleeves and neck-ties.

Poor Emon-a-knock could not af-
ford this liberality, and he felt the ob-
ject with which it had been puffed and
paraded on the other side for a whole
week previous. He was not afmid,
however, that his men would think the
less of him on that account. They
knew he was only a laboring man, de-
pending upon his day's wages ; and
many of those who would wield the
hurl by his side upon the 17 th of
March were well-tcJ^o sons of com-
fortable farmers. Many, no doubt,
were laboring boys like himself, and
many servant-boys to the farming
dass.

A deputation of Shanvillas had
waited on Emon-a-knock to ascertain
his choice of a color for their sleeves
and ribbon.

He thought for a few moments, and
then taking a red pocket-handkerchief
from his box he said, '^ Boys, this is
the only color I can think of. It is
as good as any."

" I don't like it, Emon," said M'Der-
mott, the next best man in the parish.

"Why so, Phiir said another.

"Well, I hardly know why. It is
too much the color of blood. I'd
rather have white."

** Don't be superstitious, Phil a^woeh-
aip said Emon ; " white is a cowardly
color all over the world, and red is
the best contrast we can have to their
color."

"So be it," said Phil.

" So be it," re-echoed the rest of the
deputation ; ^ sure, Emon has a right
to the choice. Lend us the handker-
chief, that we may match it as neai: as
possible.'*

"And welcome, boys; here it is;
but take good care of it for me, as it is
the only one I have notcf."
. The deputation did not know, but
the readers do, that he had given the
fidk>w to it— off the same piece — ^to

Winny Cavana with the dog. Hence
his emphasis upon the last word.

No time was lost by the deputa-
tion when they lefl Emon. They had
scarcely got out of hearing, when PhD
M'Dermott said, " Boys, you all know
that Tom Murdock has bestowed his
men with a pair of sleeves, and half a
yard of ribbon each. Now if he w«^
as well liked as he lets on, he needn't
have done that ; and in my opinion he
done it by way of casting a slur upon
our mane's , poverty. Tom Murdock
can afford a hundred yards of green
calico and ^^j yards of tuppenny rib-
bon very well; — ^at least he ought to
be able to do so. Now I vote that
amongst the best of us we bestow our
man with a pair of silk sleeves, and a
silk cap and ribbon, for the battle.
There's my tenpenny-bit toward it."

" An' f second that vote, boys ;
there's mine," said another.

" Aisy, boys, an* listen to me," broke
in a young Solon, who formed one of
the deputation. " There's none of us
that wouldn't give a tenpenny bit, if it
was the last he had, to do wliat you
say, Phil; but the whole thing —
sleeves, ribbon, and capi — won'c cost
more than a couple of crowns; an'
many's the one of the Shanvilla boys
would like to have part in it I vote
all them that can afford it may give a
fippenny-bit apiece, an' say nothing
about it to the boys that can't afford it.
If we do, there isn't a man of them
but what id want to put in his penny ;
and I know Emon would not like thaU
It wouldn't sound well, an' might be
laughed at by that rich chap, Murdock^
Here's my fippenny, Phil."

There was much good sense in this.
It met not only the approbation of the
whole deputation, but the pockets of
some, and was unanimously adopted.
The necessary amount of money was
made up before an hour's time ; and a
smart fellow — ^the very Solon who had
spoken, and who was as smart of limb
as he was of mind — was despatched
forthwith to C. O. S. for three yards
of silk and two yards of ribbbon, to
match as nearly as possible Emon-»-

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518

AU-HaUow Eve; or, The Test of FtUurity.

knock's handkerchief, which was se-
cured in the crown of his cap.

The very next afternoon — ^for Shan-
villa did not sleep on its resolve —
there was no ' lion in the street for
them; — the same deputation walked up
to Emon's house at dinner-hour, when
they knew he would he at home. He
had just finished, and was on his way
out, to continue a joh of planting ^ a
few gets" of earfy potatoes on the hill
behind the house, when he met them
near the door.

M'Dermott carried a paper parcel
in his hand.

« Well, ttbys," said Emon, « what's
the matter now ? I thought we settled
everything yesterday morning."

"You did, Emon a-wochal; but we
had a trifie to do after we left you. I
hope you done nothing about your own
sleeves as yet."

** No, Phil, I did not ; but never
fear, I'll be up to time. But I don't
wish to change the color, if that's what
brought you " •

" The sorra change Emon ; it is
almost too late for that now. But
some of the boys heerd that Tom
Murdock is givin' his men, every man
of 'em, sleeves an' ribbon for this
match. We don't expect the likea
from you, Emon ; and we don't mind
thai fellow's puffery and pride. We
think it better that the Shanvilla boys
should present their leader with one
pair of sleeves than that he should
give a hundred pairs to them. We
have them here, Emon a-wochal; an'
there isn't a boy in the parish of Shan-
villa, or a man, woman, or child, that
won't cheer to see you win in them."

" An' maybe some one in the parish
of Rathcash," whispered Solon to Phil.

Here Phil M'Dermott untied his
parcel and exhibited the sleeves, fin-
ished off in the best style by his sis-
ter Peggy. What would fit Phil
would fit Emon ; and she was at no
loss upon that point

"Here they are, made and all,
Emon. Peggy made them on my fit ;
and we wish you luck to win in them.
Faixy if you don't,' it won't be your

fault nor ours. Here's your hanki-
cher ; you see there isn't the difiPer
of a miUh%ogue*s wing in the two
colors."

Perhaps it was the proximity to
Boher-na-milthiogue that had suggest-
ed the comparison.

** Indeed, boys, Fm entirely obliged
to you, and I don't think we can fail of
success. It shall not be my fiialt if
we do, and I'm certain it won't be
yours. But I'm sorry — "

" Bidh a hurst, Emon ; don't say
wan word, or Fll choke you. But
thry tliem on."

Emon's coat was forthwith slipped
off his back and thrown upon the end
of a turf-stack hard by, and Phil
M'Dermott drew the sleeves upon his
arms, and tied them artistically over
his shoulders.

** Dam' the w^an, Emon, but they
were med foryou ! " said Pliil, smooth-
ing them down toward the wrists.

" Divil a word of lie in thaty any
way, Phil," said Solon. "Tell us
something we don't know."

" Well, I may tell them that yen
have too much wit in your head to
have any room for sense," replied
M'Dermott, seemingly a little annoyed
fit the remark.

Solon grinned and drew in his horns.
" They are, indeed, the very thing,"
said Emon, turning his head fit>m one
-to the other and admiring them. He
could have wished, however, that it
had been a Rathcash girl who had
made them instead of Peggy M'Der-
mott. "But I cannot have every-
thing my own way," sighed he to him-
self.

M'Dermott then quietly removed
Emon's hat with one hand, while with
the other he slily placed die silk cap
jauntily upon his head. There was a
general murmur of approbation at the
effect, in which Emon himself coold
not choose but join. He felt that be
was looking the thing.

After a sufficient tune had been al-
lowed for the admiration and verdict
of the committee as to their fit and ap-
pearance, Phil M'Dermott took them

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MaHnes and Wurzburg.

519

off again, and, folding them up care-
fblly in the paper, handed it to Emon,
wishing him on bis own part, and that
of the whole parish, health to wear
and win in them on Patrick's Daj —
« Every man of as will have our

own colors ready the day before ''he
added.

Emon then thanked them heartily,
and turned into the house, to show
them to his father, and the deputation
returned to their homes.

TO BX COHTUICrCD.

Translated from the Qerman.

MALINES AND WURZBURG.

▲ SKETCH OF THE CATHOLIC GONaBBSSES HELD AT HALIXES AKD wSrZBITBO.
BY ANDREW NIEDEHMA8SER,

CHAPTER IT.

HiHiOBEN. in a speech delivered at
the convention of Salzburg, Septem-
ber 24, 1857, spoke as follows : " All
grumblers and pessimists should strive
to understand that we live in a great
age — great because it is destined to wit-
ness the triumph of the truth. I feel
that it is a great age, and I thank God
for the happiness of living in the nine-
teenth century. Except the age of
the apostles and that of Constantine,
no period in the history of the Church
can compare with the present."

Notwithstanding my frequent and
intimate intercourse with some of the
most exti*eme pessimists in Germany,
I own I am convinced of the correct-
ness of Himioben's opinion. The first
and principal reason of this conviction
is the heroic achievements of Christian
charity, of which every part of the
globe has been the scene in our days.
Where such deeds are doiie as those
which we have witnessed and heard of
so of^en, God^s kingdom on earth must
flourish. The rays of Christian
charity illuminate the whole world.

We cannot deny that the century
beginning with the year 1764 and
closing in 1864 has been an age of

spoliation for the Churclu The sup-
pression of the Society of Jesus by
King Joseph Emmanuel, of Portugal,
in 1759, was followed by a similar
measure in France in November, 1764.
On April 3, 1767, the Spanish, and
on the 20th of November, 1767, the
Neapolitan, Jesuits met with the same
fate. Joseph II. of Austria, who was
chosen Emperor of Germany in 1764,
suppressed 700 monasteries in his
hereditary dominions, whilst the cham-
pions of the French Revolution were
still more ruthless in the work of
destruction. In Germany most of the
Church property was secularized, un-
der circumstances of great cruelty, in
1803. On May 28, 1824, the King
of Portugal decreed the suppression of
all religious orders in his kingdom.
In 1835 the Spanish government
confiscated the property of 900 mon-
asteries, and a royal decree, dated
March 9, 1836, pronounced the same
doom on all the remaining religious
houses in Spain. Since 1860 the
Sardini&ns have suppressed at least
800 convents, and the remaining
Church property will doubtless fare
in the same manner, for the rapacity
of these sacrilegious robbers is never
appeased. On the 28th November,
1864, the Czar of Russia ordered 125
of the 155 Polish convents to be

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520

MaUfUi and Wunsburg.

dosed, and the monks were treated
with great cruelty.

Tnily this age of enlightenment can
boast of glorious exploits. Sacri-
legious robbery has been the order of
the day throughout Europe, and civil-
ized governments have trampled
under foot rights that have been
sanctioned during many successive
ages. But their efforts have proved
abortive, for the Church flourishes
more and more, and develops new
seeds of life. The religious orders
and congregations of the nineteenth
century rival in purity, austerity, and
holy zeal the monks of the most pros-
perous ages of the Church, and devoted
disciples of Christian charity are count-
less as the stars of the firmament,
whilst their activity cannot fail to
elicit the admiration of every im-
partial witness. Charity has engaged,
in a particular manner, the attention
of the Catholic re-unions ; it is their
proper province — even more so than
science and art. It is the culminating
point of their activity ; for what is re-
ligion but practical love of God and
our neighbor ? Art is the proper ob-
ject of our fancy ; science, of our in-
tellect ; and cluirity, of the will — and
free will is the distinguishing character-
istic of the human soul. Art requires
facility ; science, thought ; but charity
supposes action, the real living act
which always turns the balance.
Truth must not only be proved, but
felt ; science and art are the necessary
fruits of true religion ; science is not
the light, but is to give testimony of the
light. The object of art is the beauti-
fal ; of science, the true ; and of charity,
the good ; but the beautiful, the true,
and the good are the three highest cat-
egories — ^the indispensable conditions
of intellectual activity — ^the connecting
links between the intellect and God,
who is the fountain-head and prototype
of all being, as well as the last end of
human investigation and aspirations.
If it is true that the intellect can find
repose only in the unity of three re-
lations, and that we meet with the em-
blem of the Trinity in all places, then

I know not where this trinity finds a
more perfect expression than in art,
science, and charity. Whoever has
comprehended these three, has grasped
everything of which man is capable,
and an assembly of men who occupy
themselves with art, science, and
charity is at all times of great import-
ance, for it bears a truly universal
character.

Let not the reader expect that I
will enter into all the details of tlie
proceedings of the general conventiona
concerning the subject of Chris -ian
charity. To do this would require a
book even more voluminous than
Bishop Dupanloup's work on ChristiaB
charity. At Malines alone how many
great and weighty questions were dis-
cussed by the first and second sections
(" CEuvres Religieuses" and " Econo-
mic Chr^tienne"), not to speak of the
fifth section, which treated of similar
subjects. We shall mention a few of
the questions proposed. " What,** it
was asked, ^ can a layman do to pre-
serve the people in the faith of their
ancestors, to induce them to observe
the laws of God and the Church, and
to teach them to resist strenuously eyerj
attack of infidelity T' It was recom-
mended to establish in every city con-
ferences of men, and to explain for
them the principal truths of our faith.
It was further agreed that, during
Lent, the people should have an oppor-
tunity of following some spiritual ex-
ercises and thus refreshing their souls.
Good books, likewise, are to be fur-
nished to the poor at a moderate price.
The assembly next debated what
measures should be taken to revive
pilgrimages not only to Rome and
Jerusalem, but also to the places of pil-
grimage existing in every country —
shrines with the history of which the
people should be made familiar. Then
followed a discussion on the prevention
of abuses, so that every pilgrimage
may preserve its religious and edifying
character. It was decided to foster
all societies whose object is the aa^
sembling, edification, and instruction
of apprentices and journeymen. How^

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MaUnes cand Wurzburg.

521

ifc was asked, are the meetings in the
evenings to be carried on? how the
religious exercises on Sundays ? how
are sick members to be visited? etc
The Malines congress also declared
that ft is the dutj of the state to fix bj
law the age at which children may be
allowed to work in factories and mines ;
to procure healthy dwellings for the
workmen; to determine the duration
of a day's work ; and to see that males
and females work in separate apart-
ments. The congress sought to im-
press on owners of factories the obli-
gation devolving on them to take care
of the children of their employees, to
provide for their laborers when sick,
not to force women suckling infants to
work — ^in short, to treat their employees
in a Christian manner. Jean DoUfns,
of MUhlhausen, and Lowell in Am-
erica, were proposed as models worthy
of imitation. Amietus Dlgard and
Audigaime, of Paris, placed at the dis-
position of the central committee the
results of their long experience. De
Rtancey, of Paris, was the zealous advo-
cate of the '* Patronage," which he
wishes to be founded on charity and
freedom, and to spread over every
country. It was urgently recommend-
ed to establish clubs for journeymen
in Romanic countries. Count Lemer-
cier and Marbeau, of Paris, submitted
to the consideration of the central
committee an elaborate paper on the
amelioration of the social condition of
the laboring classes, insisting particu-
larly on the necessity of providing
them with suitable dwellings ; this
paper proved of gi*eat value in pre-
paring the programme. The debate
on the best way of checking the habits
of intemperance which are now 'unfor-
tunately becoming so general among
all classes of the laborers, was unusu-
ally interesting. During the present
century no one has done more to attain
this desirable end than Father Mat-
thew in Ireland, who has probably
thereby conferred even greater benefits
on his countrymen than the great
O'ConnelL Nor were the prisoners
neglected at Malines ; the congress de-

clared itself in fiivor of solitary confine-
ment, vSadi at the same time recommend-
ed most earnestly societies for aiding
discharged convicts. In short, these
men were occupied with all that might
prove beneficial to their neighbor.

Among the most prominent speak
ers in the second section were de
Riancey, Count Lemercier, Perin,
Jacobs, of Antwerp, Dogiiee, Lenor-
mant, Digard, Beslay, Jean Casier,
F. de Robiano, Count Legrelle, de
Richecourt, de Gendt, Vandenest, and
especially Viscount de Melun, who,
together with Marbeau and Baudon, is
the leading spirit of every charitable
undertaking in Paris.

In the first section, of which, as be-
fore mentioned. Count Villermont was
chairman, the proceedings were very
animated, nay, at times aiplemn and
grand ; the most active members were
de Hemptinne, of Ghent, the jurist
Wauters, of Ghent, Lamy, of Louvain,
de Haulleville, of Brussels, O'Reilly,
of Ireland, the BoUandist fathers Gay,
Boone, and de Buck, Lemmens, Abel
Le Tellier, Count Edgar du Val de
Beaulieu, Abb6 Kestens, of Louvain,
Abb4 G6andre, Abbe Geslin, of Ker-
solon in France, editor of " L'Ouv-
rier," F. Van Caloen, F. Antoine,
DemuUiez, Terwecoren, Abbe Gaul-
tier, of Brussels, Fassin, of Verviers,
Chevalier Van Troyen, Bosaerts, Ver-
speyen, Abb6 Battaille, de Caulin-
court, Paga Sartundur, of Madrid,
Malengi6, Peeters Beckers, de la
Royere, Viscount d'Authenaisse, De-
vaux, Putsaert, and some others whosi^
names have escaped my memory — ^aU
of them edifying Christians, men of
strong and sound intellect, seeing the
realities of life, and of feeling hearts,
sympathizing with the joys and loves
of their fellow-men, and taking cogni-
zance of their necessities. They will
long be remembered and blessed by
the posterity of those to whose spirit-
ual and corporeal wants they have at-
tended.

The religious orders, which in mod-
em times have been so often mocked
at and slandered, found many warm

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322

MoHtus €aid Wurzburg,

defenders at Maline^. Baron von
Gerlache devoted the most brilliant
passage of his opening speech to their
defence. Woefete, a lawyer of Brus-
sels, delivered a masterly discourse on
religious communities before a full
meeting of the congress. Many
speakers touched on the same theme,
and Count Villermont made it the
special order of the day. This subject
was exhausted by the able speeches of
de la Royere, Verspeyen, O'Reilly,
Count du Val de Beaulieu, Viscount
d'Authenaisse, Lamy, Viscount de
Kerckhove, Ducpetiaux, and others.

The WUrzburg general convention
passed a resolution in favor of reli-
gious orders, and at Frankfort the
*' Bposchtii^enverein" will shortly pub-
lish a pamphlet on this subject. The
Malincs cowgress also resolved to en-
courage popular works on the origin,
the nature, and the spread of religious
orders, and to give a fair exposition of
the manifold benefits they have con-
ferred' on mankind. It was also rec-
ommended to publish the lives of the
founders of these societies, to give an
account of their history in schools and
other educational institutions, and, by
means of the pulpit and the press, to
make known as widely as possible the
principles of religious orders. In this
way the members of these societies
will be compensated to some extent for
the countless slanders and calumnies
which are continually heaped on them.
The laymen present at Malines
pledged themselves to pass no oppor-
tunity of rendering them a service,
and defending their rights ; of showing
them reverence, and of spreading
more and more their communities.

For the sake of completeness, I
shall mention the names of a few who
spoke at Malines in the fifth section.
Religious Liberty, where many import-
ant questions were discussed. It is
impossible to enter into details con-
cerning all, for who can be present in
£ve places at the same time ? Beside,
there were assembled at Malines and
Wttrzburg more than 7,000 delegates,
so that I cannot give even the names

of alL In a grand painting the artist
does not represent all his figures ia
full ; he contents himself with giving
us an outline of their features. De-
champs and Ncut, men of great merit
and able to control the most animated
debate, presided in this section. Du-
mortier, of Brussels, and Coomans, of
Antwerp, both veteran members of
the Belgian parliament, managed ad-
mirably the details of business. Sen-
ator Delia Faille and Count de Thenx,
as well as Cai'dinal Sterex, made
many valuable suggestions from the
rich fund of their experience. The
young and able jurist, Woeste, of
Brussels, Digard, of Paris, and the
journalist Lasserre were the most ac-
tive members of this section. Here,
too, spoke Don Almeida, of Portugal,
an orator sweet and strong as the
wines of his native country, and one
of the most handsome men in the con-
gress. Here, also, we renew our ac-
quaintance with Ducpetiaux, Dogndc,
of ViDers, Verspeyen, Geslin, of Ker-
solon, and Abbe Geandre. To these
names we may add those of Don Ig-
natio Montes de Oca, grand almoner
of the Emperor of Mexico, Abbe Pac-
quet, professor of the University of
Quebec, in Canada, Canon Rousseau,
Jalheau, Stofielt, CoUinct, Landrien,
de Smedt, Baron von Montreuil, Chev-
alier Schouteste , Nellaroya, Wigley,
of London, Ch. Thelller, of Ponche-
ville, and Abb^ Huybrechts. Abb^
Mullois, of Paris, is well known in
Germany. In this section we also
noticed Generals de Capiaumont,
Baron Grindl, and Lamoy, whose re-
marks were always received with ap-
plause.

Lc Camus, of Paris, represented the
" Society for the Diffusion of Grood
Books," founded in 1862 by Viscount
de Melun. More than 12,000 good
books have already been distributed.
The executive committee consists of
eighteen members, who are assisted in
their charitable labors by another com*
mittee of fil^y.

And now we shall bid farewell to
Malines.

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Malinea and Wurzburg*

523

The Grerman conventions have call-
ed into existence many cLarltable in-
stitutions. Foremost among these is
the Society of St. Boniface, founded
at Regensburg in 1849. Even long
before, Count Joseph von Stolberg
had visited every part of the German
empire to enlist the sympathies of
high and low for the noble object of
this society, and had thus prepared
the \rvLj for its establishment At
Regensburg he was ejected president,
and thus crowned his labors. Since
its institntion the society has founded
67 missionary parishes, 114 chapels,
and 98 schools for about 100,000
Catholics in northern Europe. Forty-
two of these stations are entirely
maintained by the association, whilst
most of the remaining ones receive
considerable pecuniary assistance.
Much, however, remains to be done ;
many stations will go to ruin unless
speedy aid is afforded them. All
Catholic Germany must contribute,
by its exertions, its prayers, and its
sacrifices, to bring to a successful issue
the greatest of our national under-
takings, the reunion of all Gei*many
in the one true faith.

An annual report of the results
achieved by this society is presented
to the general conventions. Al WUrz-
burg Canon Bieling spoke in the
name of Bishop Conrad Martin, of
Paderbom, who by his great work
has created an immense sensation
among the German Protestants. Great
exertions are making to spread the
society of St, Boniface ; may they
prove successful.

At Wiirzburg the Hungarian Socie-
ty of St. Ladislaus was represented
by Canon Kubinszky, and the Bavari-
an Missionary Society by Monsignore
Baron von Overkamp.

I must next speak of the St Jo-
seph's Society. It was founded at
Aix-la-Chapelle ioif the purpose of en-
abling the Grerman Catholics living
at Paris, London, Havre, and Lyons
to secure places of divine worship.
Canon Prisac, of Aix-la-Chapelle, is
the business manager of the society,

and is assisted in his labors by Lau-
rent Lingens and others. During the
first two years of its existence the so-
ciety accomplished very little.

The missionaries of the poor Cath-
olic Germans in the great emporiums
of England and France have already
been three times in our midst For
years the pastor of the Germans
in London, Rev. Arthur Dillon . Pur-
cell, has done everything in his power
to establish the German mission in
that city on a sure basis, and his
efforts have at last been crowned with
spccess. Although aq Englishman
by birth, he speaks our mother tongue
very fluently and without fault His
speeches will not inspire enthusiasm,
but will convince and obtain their end.
At Aix-k-Chapelle, in 1862, the Ger-
man mission in London Vas repre-
sented by Adler, missionary priest of
the diocese of Wtirzhui-g, and at
Frankfort, in 1863, by Boddinghaus,
of MUnster. The Jesuit father Mo-
deste has thrice urged the claims of the
Germans in Paris. He is a native
of Lorraine, and, therefore, speaks
French and German equally welL
His speeches are carefully prepared,
and produce a great sensation, for
they are addressed not only to the
mind but also to the heart. The La-
zarist Miillijans, a native of Cologne,
spoke for the German mission in the
Quartier St. Marceau, which has
been committed to his cai*e. Abb6
Braun, who has done much for the
Germans in Paris, was likewise pres-
ent at the Wiirzburg meeting. Father
Lambert, of Havre, a pious and de-
voted priest, privately represented to
us the misery of the German emi-
grants in the French seaport But of
what use are these cries for help, un-
less we are willing to make some sac-
rifice? Will not twenty-five million
Grerman Catholics do something for
their poor forlorn brethren ?

In the third place, I must mention
the journeymen associations. There
are at present more than 400 of these
in Germany, and a few in Switzerland
and Belgium. Of late, similar socio-

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524

MdUnu and Wunhurg.

ties have been established at Buchar-
est, Rome, Pnris, London, St. Louis,
Cincinnati, and Milwaukee. The pre-
fects of the society at Cologne, Vien-
na, and Munich have lately received
special marks of esteem fram the
Holy Father in recognition of their
services, whilst the Emperor Francis
Joseph has honored the Vienna asso-
ciation by his presence, and the young
King of Bavaria, Louis II., has accept-
ed the protectoi-ship of all the Bava-
rian associations. The second general
convention at Mayence eam<«tly re-
commended these societies, but Kol-
ping of Cologne was the instrument
chosen by God to undertake and carry
out the great work. Of Kolping it
may truly be said that he has the
welfare of mankind at heart, and thou-
sands will bless his name. In his own
way, he is one of the foremost social
reformers of the nineteenth century.
At Wtirzburg he convened many of
the prefects fjx)m every part of Grcr-
many, and secured the future of the
societies by the introduction of the
religious element. Kolping is not
only a powerful speaker, but also a
journalist, and one of the most popular
writers in Germany. Gruscha, of
Vienna, has often taken Kolping's
place at the general conventions. As
an orator, Gruscha seems to exert a
magic'power over his hearers, and it
is useless to combat liis \ lews, for he
carries everything before him. Gru-
scha is general-prefect of all the jour-
neymen associations in Austria. Al-
ban Stolz, the founder of the Freiburg
association, has spared no pains to
promote Kolping's undertaking. He
is the most eminent ^nd successful
popular writer in Germany. His
pamphlets attract universal attention,
and his almanacs are read by thou-
sands. Stolz does not approve of
everything done by the Catholic con-
ventions, still he has been present nt
several of them ; for instance, at Aix-
la-Chapelle and Frankfort. MuUer,
of Berlin, is one of the most energetic
prefects; he succeeded in tbunding
for the Catholics at Berlin a splendid

club-house. He publishes an able re-
ligious weekly, and an excellent alma-
nac, founds new missions every day,
and does all in his power to extend
the kingdom of Christ in the north of
Germany. He is a talented and in-
teresting speaker, although his style
is not very harmonious or elegant.
Greorge l^yr, of Munich, general-
prei<^t of more than a hundred asso-
ciations in Bavaria, and a general fa-
vorite, has built, probably, the finest
club-house in Germany. The most
zealous promoter of this enterprise
was Dr. Louis Merz, of Munich, who
spared neither labor nor sacrifice
whenever there was question of fur-
thering the interests of the Church :
his memory is enshrined in the hearts
of all his friends.

The memorial submitted by Kol-
ping to the German bishops was
signed by the following diocesan pre-
fects : Beckert, of Wtirzburg, Pohholz-
er, of Augsburg, J. Weizenhofer, of
Eichstiidt, Benkcr, of Bamberg, Schacf-
fer, of Treves, G. Arminger, of Linz,
B. Holbrig], of St, Polten, Max Jager,
of Freiburg, F. Riedinger, of Spires,
F. Nackc, of Paderbom, and the pre-
fects, Jos. Mayr, of Innsbruck, F. Hop-
perger, of Agram, &d C. Ziegler, of
Rottenburg.

To mention more names would be
tedious, but I hope and trust that Giod
will reward in a special manner the
prefects of these societies. For the
last few years the social question has
occupied the attention of the Catholic
conventions, and Rossbach, of Wiirx-
burg, Vosen, of Cologne, and Schiiren,
of Aix-la-Chapelle, have delivered in*
teresting discourses on this subject.

The reading-room associations and
social clubs or casinos next demand a
notice. We are justly proud of pos-
sessing four hundred Catholic jour-
neymen associations, but we will hare
more reason to boast when there will
be in Germany two or three hund^ed
casinos, aU united together by the
closest des, and particularly when we
will again possess several purelj
Catholic univereitiesi and when our

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MaUnes and WUrzhurg.

525

scholars and educated men will form
reunions such as that established by
five hundred students of Louvain in
Belgium previous to the congress of
1864.

Adams, a lawyer of Coblenz, has, so
to say, identified himself with these
dubs. The affairs of the casino in his
own native city are conducted by him
with extraordinary skill, and to hid ex-
ertions chiefly the Rhenish Casino
Union, which will be shortly joined by
many cities in the Rhenish countries,
owes its existence. Adams is an able
and pleasing speaker, full of confidence
in the future and in the power of
sound principles. May Adams be-
come to the social dubs in Germany
what Kolping is to the journeymen
associations.

Falk, of Mayence, has accomplished
▼cry much for the social club of his na-
tive city. To him belongs the credit
of securing for the Mayence Reading-
room Association the celebrated
"Frankfurter Hof.'* On the twen-
tieth of November, 1864, when the
casino of the " Frankfurter Hof " was
solemnly inaugurated, President Falk
delivered his most successful speech,
for Falk, although a mechanic, is an
orator by no means to be despised by
the enemies of the Church. His
words are like the blows of a hammer,
and his voice sounds like the rolling
thunder. Falk's speeches are not dis-
tinguished by any artistic merit, but
there is something in them which
calls forth immense applause, and he
generally leaves the tribune amidst
deafening cheers.

In Belgium more than twenty casi-
nos have been established since 1863.
At the beginning of 1865, Germany
could .boast of almost fifty similar as-
sociations. Let us spare no exer-
tions to promote the welfare of these
clubs, and we will soon have a league
of Catholic gentlemen extending not
only from the Danube to the Rhine,
but from the Adriatic to the- German
ocean.

We must also devote a few
words to the Sodety of St. Vincent de

Paul. Among its most energetic
members are Lawyer Lingens, of Aix-
larChapelle, one of the most regular
and active Members of the German
conventions, and Von Brentano, a
merchant of Augsburg, who is a very
eloquent speaker. I must not for-
get to mention Baudon of Paris, gen-
eral-president of all the sodeties of
St. Vincent de Paul in France ; Le-
gendl also and Meniollo, of Paris, de-
serve to be noticed.

The energetic and pious Capuchin^
Fathej Theodosius of Chur, in
Switzerland, a poweHnl man of im-
mense stature, will close this array of
the champions of charity. Ho has
made many attempts to solve the so-
cial question from a Christian point of
view, and has displayed incomparable
ingenuity in alleviating the miseries of
his fellow-men. He has founded con-
gregations, built convents, for them,
and established seminaries and col-
leges which are model institutions;
but, above all, he has brought the
blessing of Grod on the Swiss factories,
and has introduced contentment and
happiness among the working classes.
His success in prevailing upon the
Swiss capitalists to conduct their fac-
tories upon Catholic principles is cer-
tainly one of the sublimest triumplis of
Christian charity.

The congregation of the Sisters of
the Holy Cross, founded by Father
Theodosius about twelve years ago
in Chur-Ingenbohl, numbers already
112 houses, spread over Switzerland,
Bohemia, Austria, Sigmaringen, and
Baden.

Among the most prominent Catho-
lics of Switzerland are Sigvvart MttUer,
of Uri, the venerable Councillor Haudt,
of Lucerne, Charles von Schmid, of
Bodstein, the leader of the Catholics
in Aargau, Von Moos, of Lucerne,
Engineer Miiller, of Altorf, Dean
Schlumpf, of Zug, Canon Fiala, of
Solothurn, an excellent archaeologist,
Canons Winkler and Tanner, of
Lucerne, both eminent theologians, P,
Segesser, of Lucerne, Canon Keller,
of St G^ James Baumgartner, the

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526

MaMne$ and WurAurg.

ablest Sw^iss statesman, F. Gallus-
Morel, of fiinsiedeln, the journalists
Sclilelneger in Aargau, Reding and
Eberle in Schwjz, the historian Kopp,
of Lucerne, Muelinen, and Burgener,
the learned Dr. Schmeitzl, pastor in
Glarus, Director Greith, of St. Gall,
the painter Deschwander, and the pub-
lisher Benzigcr. Count Theodore von
Scheerer is the leading spirit of the
Catholic societies in Switzerland, and
admirablj fitted to be the president of
the general conventions of the Swiss
"Piusverein." 'Mei-millod, of Geneva,
who for the past eighteen years has
incessantly toiled in the vineyard of
the Lord, has lately been appointed
bbhop by Pope Pius IX. Bishop
Marilley, of Lausanne, is a modem
confessor of the Church, whilst
Bishop Greith, of St- Gall, is an emi-
nent scholar.

CHAPTER T,

00KCLU8I0N.

Not all the doings of the Catholic
conventions deserve our approbation,
nor is all that is said there worthy of
praise. At the sixteen general con-
ventions held since 1848, many absurd
and trifling measures have been pro-
posed. Silence is a virtue unknown
to many delegates, and conciseness is
a quality not to be found in the re-
marks of many a speaker. These gen-
tlemen should remember the wise old
saw, " Ne quidnimis" especially when
about to address an assembly. Bragga-
docio should be mercilessly put down.
Some persons there are who every
year regale the convention with the
self-same concretions; others speak
when there is no occasion whatever
for opening their mouths ; whilst others
again are unacquainted with par-
liamentary rules, and cannot clothe
their ideas in suitable language. Many
a speaker has been carried away by
his enthusiasm, and exposed himself to
ridicule; others were mercilessly
hooted from the tribune ; whilst not a
few delivered productions which bore

a strange resemblance to an t^ii
fcUuus or an over-done beefsteak.
At JVLilines many words were wasted
in mutual compliments, and there was
a tendency in several of the orators to
court applause by piquant and ex-
aggerated expressions. We must ex-
pect that among several thousand
delegates there will be many insigni-
ficant men, whose chief merit consists
in opening now and then the flood-
gates of their trashy eloquence. Were
I to permit myself to indulge in
malicious remarks, I might enumerate
a long list of singulai* characters, who
were living examples of the faults in
question.

For these and other reasons the
duties of the presiding officer at the
general conventions are by no means
easy, still, thus far tliere has been no
want of able presidents, and many of
them were chosen from among the
nobility. The following gentlemen
were honored with this office:
Chevalier von Buss; Count Joseph
von Stolberg; Baron von Andlaff, who
presided bo& at Linz and at Munich;
Baron Wilderich von Ketteler, who
was chosen chairman at Miinster
and at Frankfort; Maurice Lieber,
who was elected president at Brcslau
and at Salzburg ; Chevalier von Hart-
mann presided at Mayence; Count
G'Donnell, of Vienna, at Linz and at
Prague; Count Brandis, at Aix-la-
Chapelle and Freiburg ; Councillor Zell
at Vienna; A. Reichensperger at
Cologne ; and Baron von Moy at Wurz-
burg. Germany may justly be proud
of these men — ^men of agreeable man-
ners, distinguished not only by their
social position but also by their literary
taste and nobility of character, each of
whom can boast of an honorable
career.

It may not be inappropriate to men-
tion in this place some of the noble-
men who graced by their presence
the Catholic conventions. Prominent
among these were Don Miguel, duke
of Braganza, and the young prince, Don
Miguel, Prince Charles of Loeweustein-
Wertbheim, and Prince Charles of Isen*

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Malinet and WUrzburg*

527

burg; Count von Hompesch, of Rurich,
Count Augustus von Spee, of Heltorf,
Count Schaesberg, Baron Felix von
Lee, of Missen, Count Hoensbroicb, and
Baron von Halberg-Bi-oich, of Aix-la-
Chapelle, represented the Rhenish no-
biltj; whilst Westphalia was repre-
sented by Count von Vischerlng, the
Counts Max and Ferdinand von Galen,
the Barons von Schorlemer, the Count
von Stolberg, Baron von Twickel, Bar-
on von Ketteler, Baron von Hereman,
Baron von Oer, Baron von Druffel,
and others.

Of the Austrian nobles I shall men-
tion Count von Migazzi, Baron von
Mayerhofer, a field-marshal of the em-
pire, Count Adolphus Lewis von Barth-
Bartlienheim, Count Maurice von
Fries, Count Henry von Hoyos-Sprenz-
enstein. Count Henry von 0*Donnell,
Chevalier von Hartmann, Baron von
Sdllfried, of Salzburg, a very zealous
and energetic man, and Count Freder-
ick von Thun. Count von Thun was
chosen vice-president at Wurzburg, and
delivered a speech. Tall and of a com-
manding figure, a thorough-bred noble-
man, a diplomat well acquainted with
the ways of the world, a man of refined
manners, a Catholic distinguished by
his living faith and his ardent love for
the Church, as well as by his intimate
knowledge of every shade of religious
life, Count Thun appeared as the rep-
resentative of the Austrian nobility,
• which, for the most part, is still ani-
mated by truly Catholic sentiments, and
of the mighty empire, as a delegate
from imperial Vienna, where Catho-
licity is daily acquiring new vigor, and
as the bearer of an. illustrious name,
which reminds every Catholic of the
concordat between Francis Joseph and
the Pope, which has been so beneficial
to the Church in its results. Among
the German Church dignitaries Dr,
Baudri, coadjutor-bishop of Cologne,
is especially distinguished by his zeal
for the success of the conventions, many
of which he has opened by a glowinw
discourse. Archbishop Gregory and
Bishop Ignatius, of Regensburg, spoke
sU Municli, and Bishop Wedekind, of

Hildestein, at Aix-la-Chapelle. The
apostolic words of Bishop von Stahl
will always ring in the memory of his
hearers. The Bishop of Limburg, Pet-
er Joseph Blum, was represented at
Frankfort by his vicar-general, Dr.
Klein. Dr. Gotz, dean of the cathed-
ral at Wiirzburg, deserves great praise
for his efficient arrangements at the
last general convention. I may still
notice Buchegger, vicar-general at
Freiburg, Canon Broix, of Cologne,
Krabbe, dean of the cathedral at Miin-
Bter, Dean Schiedemayr, of Linz, Ca-
non Wiery, of Salzburg, Canon Freund,
of Passau, Schmitt, vicar-general at
Bamberg, Abbot Mislin, of Groswar-
dein, Provost Pelldram, of Berlin,
Canon Henry Szajbely, of Gran, Abbot
Michael von Fogarasy, of Grosswar-
dein, Canon Michael Kubinsky, of £[al«
ocza. Canon Dr. Molitor, of Spires,
Canon Dr. Malkmus, of Fulda, Provost
Niibel, of Soest, Dr. Stadler, dean of
the Augsburg cathedral, Provost Kal-
liski, of Gnesen, Canon BUchinger, of
Gratz, Strehle, of Freiburg, Dr. Hausle,
of Vienna, and Miiller, of Munich.
The general conventions were also at-
tended by Bishop Mermillot, of Geneva,
one of the best pulpit orators in Eu-
rope, and by the Roman prelate, Mon-
signore Nardi, who is able to speak in
four languages. The Catholic con-
gresses were marked by several grand
and imposing scenes. It was a glorious
sight to behold 5,000 men, from every
part of the known world, walk in pro-
cession to the cathedral of St. Rombau
at Malines, but it was no less edifying
to see hundreds of delegates making a
pilgrimage from Salzburg to Maria
Plain, and paying their devotions to
the Mother of God. We can never
forget the dedication of the column
erected in honor of the Blessed Virgin,
which took place at Cologne on the 8th
of September, 1858, in presence of the
whole congress. The enthusiastic wel-
come extended to the Bishop of Orleans
at Malines defies all description, but
the reception of the Hungarian prelates
by the Viennese convention (Sept. 21,
22, 1853) was still more solemn. By

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528

Mulinei and Wwrzburg.

hiB speech delivered on the evening of
Sept 2, 1864, Father Felix produced
a profound impression. DoUinger, too,
at the Munich convention in 18G1, call-
ed forth a storm of applause bj his
well-known declarations. Uniquft in
its kind was the scene in the Kiuser-
saal at Aix-la-Chapelle already de-
scribed. When, after the discourse of
Father Felix on Sept 2, 1864, the
Redemptorist father Dechamps, and
the Carmelite, F. Hermann, weeping
tears of joy, thankfully embraced the
Jesuit, and a Belgian bishop, joining
the group, shook hands with the three
religious, no heait remained unmoved.
At Wiirzburg, also, on the 14th Sept.,
1864, a solemn, touching scene took
place, which joined in bonds of the sin-
cerest friendship the Catholic Hun-
garians and Germans. Von Majer, a
Hungarian lawyer and land-owner,
had charmed all of us ; his manly and
chivalrous appearance, the romantic
costume of his country, and his able
speech, did not fail to produce an over-
powering effect ; Vice-President Adams
expressed t)ie opinion of the assembly,
and then followed cheer upon cheer for
the noble Hungarian.

Now and then there appears a
speaker who possesses the talent of a
demagogue, and causes a great though
transient sensation. A Tyrolese,
G renter, now a member of the Aus-
trian '* Reichsrath," is an orator whom
I delight to hear ; he spoke at Salzburg
and Aix-la-Chapelle. At Wiirzburg,

likewise, a speaker of tiie same class,
Brummel, a lawyer of Baden, address-
ed the assembly. I transcribe an ac-
count of his speech, which 1 wrote at
the time. " After F. Modeste had left
the tribune, amid thundering applause,
a tall, stately figure, betraying at once
the military career of the speaker, tooto
the floor. The hero who now confronts
us fought at the side of Fimodan
and La Moriciere for the Holy Father ;
distinguished himself at Casteliidardo ;
took part in the defence of Ancona ;
and for six months was held a captive
by the Piedmontese. It is Bmmmel,
of Baden. His voice sounds like the
clarion's shrill tones summoning an
army to battle. His speech is a vio-
leiit attack on the shameful abuses ex-
isting in Baden. He combines force
of expression with warmth of feeling,
unflinching bravery, and a burning
hatred of everything base, with a child-
like love for the Church and the truth.
He was the Tancred in the crusade
against the self-styled saviors of the
people of Baden, and nobly did battle
for the venerable and much persecuted
Archbishop of Freiburg, Hermann
von Vicari."

Having thus concluded these unpre-
tending sketches, those of my readers
who have been disappointed will in-
dulgently consider that it was written
to assist a Catholic congi*egation to
build a church. But thus to extend
the divine worship is more pleasing to
the Almighty than to write a good book.

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St. Mixaheth. 529

From The Literary Workman.

ST. ELIZABETH.

aa 70U hare done it to one of the least of these mj brethren, 70a hare done it to me.**

A SHBiLL and joyous summons

At Wartbui^s postern rang.
And lightly from his panting steed

The princely Landgrave sprang.
Comes forth his stately mother

To meet him in her pride,
But the quick glance of Louis seeks

The sweet face of his bride.

Then scomM spoke the Landgraviney

** Fair son, thy lady sweet
« Hath cares too ui^ent thus in haste

Thy coming step to greet.
Upon thy couch so stately,

Within thy chamber fair,
A Tile and loathsome leper

She tends with pious care.'*

A wrathful man was Louis,

Yet not a word he said,
But up the castle's echoing stair

In quivering haste he sped—
Within her silent chamber,

As o'er the couch she hung,
Her lord's returning bugle

Had all unheeded rung.

In silent ecstacy she knelt,

Her heart so hushed in prayer.
It thrilled not at his longed-for step,

Now echoing on the stair.
With hasty hand young Louis tore

The coverlid aside —
The lifeless form before him lay

Of Jesus crucified,
Bleeding and pale, as in the hour

When for our sins he died.

« See, mother, see the Leper

She brings to be our guest,
Whom only she prefers to me —

May his dear name be blest
Elizabeth, sweet sister.

Still bring such guests to me ;
Sinful and all unworthy

I am of him and thee ;
Yet train me in thy patient love

His guest in heaven to be."
VOL. n. 84

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560

Dr. Pusejf an Hu C^rch of England.

Fnm. The Month.

DR. PUSET ON THE CHURCH OP ENGLAND.

It 18 just twenty years since the
great movement in the Anglican
Church, which took its rise and its
name from the University of Oxford
and the ^ Tracts for the Times," was
broken, as it were, into two streams
of very different direction by the
submission of Mr. Newman to the
Catholic Church. It happens that
the circumstances pf the last year and
a half have brought the history of the
movement prominently before the
world ; and ihey have occasioned an
Interesting set of publications from
men of eminent position, whose names
were at the time hardly less watch-
words than at present No one of the
few most conspicuous Oxford leaders
of thought who belonged in any sense
to the Tractaiian party has yet been
removed by death. Dr. Pusey is still
at Christ Church, Mr. Eeble still at
Hursley ; but Mr. Newman has be-
come the founder of the English Ora-
tory of St Philip Neri, and Archdea-
con Manning is the present Catholic
archbishop of Westminster. These
foor names were more than any others
in the mouths of the adherents of the
Oxford movement twenty^ years ago.
Archdeacon Wilberforce lived in Uie
country, and had, we believe, hardly
begun to publish that series of theo-
logical treatises which soon after made
his name second to none in the Angli-
can Church as a writer on doctrine :
Isaac Williams, loved and venerated
by all who knew him, had lefl Trinity
and was occupied on his ^ Commentary
on the Gospels" without taking any
further part in the movement : the in-
fluence of Charles Marriott was hardly
felt except by his immediate acquaint-
ance. There were of course others
whose position— such as that of Mr.

Oakeley and Mr. Dods worth in London
— ^gave them much influence in particu-
lar places ; but, speaking broadly, and
without reference to the actual connec-
tion of individuals with the ^ Tracts "*
— ^in which, we think, Archdeacon
Manning took no part at all — ^the four
names we have just mentioned might
be said to constitute the High-Church
Quadrilateral. It must be remember-
ed, moreover, that among the Angli-
cans, whose church had at that time not
even so much liberty to speak in con-
vocation as has since been allowed to
it, and whose bishops were probably
unanimous in nothing except in suspi-
cion of Tractarianism, personal in-
fluence went for far more than is ever
the case among Catholics. Whether
they liked it or not, the position and
responsibilities of party leaders were
thrust upon the persons we have
named ; veneration and confidence
haunted them, and their words were
made into oracles. A little later than
the time of which we are speaking,
an enthusiastic admirer — ^now a colo*
nial bishop— dedicated a volume of
sermons to the three first, under the
name of the three valiant men of
David's band, who had broken through
the ranks of the enemy to fetch water
from the well of Bethlehem, the
fountain of ancient doctrine ; one of
the three, he plaintively added in his
dedication, was taken prisoner by
the enemy in the' attempt! This
was after the submission of Dr. New-
man.

Recent circumstances, as we bare
smd, have drawn from thtiee of these
four distinguished persons declarations
of opinion and feeling with regard
to the Anglican establishment whidi
it may weU be worth while to place

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2>r. Pusey on the Church- of England.

5S1

tide by side. The first in point Of
time was Dr. Newman, in his cele-
brated ^ Apologia pro Vita $u&l* in
the appendix to which he had occa-
sion to speak his mind about Angli-
canism. The passage will be fresh
in the memories of most of our read-
ers; and it has been preserved as
part of a note in the second edition
of the ^Apobgia^" lately published by
Dr. Newman as the " History of my
Religions Opinions.** It contains, as
a passage from Dr. Newman was
sore to do, most that can be said
for or against the establishment in the
happiest words :

•^When I looked back upon the
poor AngUcan Church'* [afler becom-
ing acquainted with Catholicism],
^ for which I had labored ' so hard,
and upon all that appertained to it,
and thought of our yarious attempts to
dress it up doctrinally and sssthetic-
ally, it seemed to me to be the veriest
of nonentities."

lie then says that, looked at as a
human institution, it is great :

** I recognize in the Anglican estab-
lishment a time-honored institution, of
noble historical memories — ^a monu-
ment of ancient wisdom, a momentous
arm of political strength, a great na-
tional organ, a source of vast popular
advantage, and, to a certain point, a
witness and teacher of religious trtUh :
.... but that it is something sacred ;
that it is an oracle of revealed doc-
trine ; that it can claim a share in St.
Ignatius and St Cyprian ; that it can
take the rank, contest tlie teaching, and
stop the path of the Church of St.
Peter; that it can call itself 'the
Bride of the Lamb' — this is the view
which simply disappeared from my
mind on my coyiversion, and which it
would be almost a miracle to repro-
duce. I went by, and, lo! it was
gone ; I sought it, but its place could
nowhere be found,* and nothing can
bring it back to me. And as to its
possession of an episcopal succession
from the time of the apostles — ^well, it
may have it; and if the Hply See
ever so decide^ I will believe it, as be-

ing the decision of a higher judgment
than my own ; but for myself, I mutt
have St. Philip's gift, who saw the
sacerdotal character on the forehead
of a gaily-attired youngster, before I
can by my own wit acquiesce in it;
for antiquarian arguments are alt<^
gether unequal to the urgency of visi-
ble facts."

Dr. Newman then expresses . his
sense of the benefits he received by
being bom an. Anglican, not a Dissen*
ter, and so having been baptised and
sent to Oxford:

'' And as I have received so muck
good from the Anglican establishment
itself, can I have the heart, or rather
the want of charity, considering that
it does for so many others what it has
done for me, to wish to see it ovel^.
thrown ? I have no such wish while
it is what it is, and while we are so
small a body. Not for its own sake,
but for the sake of the many congre-
gations to which it ministers, I will do
nothing against it. While Catholics
are so WQ^k in England, it is doing
our work; and though it does us
harm in a measure, the balance is in
our favor" (p. 342).

Here is a plain, definite view about
the estaMuhment — ^giving it certainly
not less than its full meed of praise as
a human institution, and acknowledg-
ing benefits providentially received in
it with all the warmth of a most affec-
tionate heart, which never lets a single
touching memory fade away. But its
claim to a divine origin and supernat-
ural character is set aside as a palpa-
bly absurd one. "Without questioning
whether it be heretical or schismatical
or both. Dr. Newman declares that he
cannot even believe its orders to be
valid unless the Holy See declares
them so to be. But Dr. Newman does
not wish for the destruction of the es-
tablishment until the CathoHc minista7
is numerous enough to supply its
place as the teacher of the mass of the
population — an office at present dis-
charged by Anglicans, not indeed ad^
quately, not without many shortoom*
ings and some errors, but still better

Digitized by VjOOQIC

582

Dr* Pu9ey on the Church of Mugland.

than might be the case if no such in-
stittttion existed.

In expressing his own views about
t]ie establishment, Dr. Manning was
obliged in the course of last jear to
Rpeak at greater length, and to explain
more in detail the Catholic doctrine
with regard to baptized persons invol-
untarily outside the pale of the visible
Church. The occasion of his dedara-
lion was the judgment of the Privy
Council on the case of the ^< £ssays
and Reviews." This last of the series
of similar decisions of the same tribu-
nal, the ultimate court of appeal for
Anglicans in matters of doctrine, nat-
urally gave an opportunity for review-
ing the gradual retirement of the
Hjgh-Chnrch party from the bold
ground which they had taken up in
1850, at the time of the Gk)rham case.
The fitcts only required to be pointed
out; the mere narrative spoke more
forcibly than any possible comment-
ary. History, eidier political or eccle-
siastical, scarcely contains such an-
other example of a sot of high-minded
and earnest men having so ostenta^
tiously to shrink from their implied
pledges, and belie their most solemn
declarations. Immediately after the
Gorham decision the leaders of the
High-Church party published a series
of resolutions, the purport of which
was that the Church of England
would be '^eventually'' committed to
heresy unless she "openly and ex-
pressly" rejected the erroneous doctrine
sanctioned by the decision. The con-
sequences were drawn out, involving
the loss on the part of the Church ^
England of the office and authority to
witness and teach as a member of the
universal church ; and it was said that
she would thus become '< formally
separated from the Catholic body, and
be no longer able to assure to her
members the grace of the sacraments
and the remission of sins." Dr. Man-
ning's task was therefore easy ; here
were men who had pledged them-
selves in this way in 1850, and, as far
as in them lay, pledged the party of
which they were leaders. What were

tbey doing in the Qmrch of England
in 1864, after fourteen years in which
she had not only not cleared herself
from the Gorham judgment, but ao
quiesced in it? She had spoken in
convocation on a number of subjects,
never on this ; she had moreover seen
a controversy on the Lord's Supper
within her pde, the issue of which was
diought a triumph to the High-Church
party — not because it proscribed the
hereUcal doctrine held by the larger
number of clergy in the Church, but
because it just shielded their own doc-
trine from being proscribed in turn ;
finally, the " Essays and Reviews'* had
appeared, and their writers also had
been protected from proscription bj
the crown in council. Dr. Manning
might well say that it seemed as if
Providence had been mercifully striv-
ing to open men's eyes to the position
of the Church of England. On the
ground taken by the resolutionists of
1 850, she had forfeited whatever daim
she ever had to allegiance over and
over again.

This is hard truth ; but it was not
urged by Dr. Manning in a hard waj«
nor with the intention of taunting with
their inconsistencies men of whom he
has always spoken with respect and
affection. The only important matter,
after all, is, whether the High-C%urch
party, whose opinions were expressed
by the resolutions lately refeired to,
have in ideality receded from their
former ground. This is a very serious
question ; because, unless it can be an-
swered in the negative, it involves an
abandonment on their part, not of this
or tliat particular doctrine, but of the
whole Catholic idea of a church. The
resolutions of 1850 proceeded on the.
hypothesis that a church that tolerated
heresy became itself ^ilty of it; and
that the Church of England was re-
sponsible for the acts of the courts to
which she submitted without protest
From a Catholic point of view, a vf*iy
grave change must have come over a
set of men who held this principle, if
they afterward contented themselves
with a church that tolerates heresy oa

Digitized by VjOOQIC

Dr. Piuey on the Church of England.

5SS

iSbe ground that it also tolerates ortbo-
doxj; that its prayers are ortho-
doXy tliat its formularies admit of an
orthodox sense. Yet it seems quite
hnpossible to draw from the declara-
tions of Dr. Pusey and others any-
thing but an acknowledgment that such
a change has taken place. It is not
therefore a question as to their view
of the present effect of the Gorham de-
dsion or any other, but as to their
view of the character of the Church in
which they hope to be saved.

Dr. Manning's pamphlet was no-
ticed by Dr. Pusey, in a preface
placed by him before a legal statement
as to the immediate effect of Lord
Westbury's decision in the case of the
"Essays and Reviews." This pref-
ace, like many of Dr. Puse/s hro-
churesy was marked by considerable
strength of language against those
whom he was assailing, and contained
distinct threats that he and his friends
might set up a free church if their de-
mands for a reconstitution of the court
of appeal were disregarded. It was
implied that the chancellor had acted
from " the pure love of the heresy, and
the desire of throwing open to unbe-
lief an article of faith against which
rationalism rebels,'* at the price "of
breaking off churches of the colonies
from the Mother Church" (no colo-
nial churches are named), " and famil-
iarizing devoted minds among us at
home to thoughts of organic severance
from the Church whose discipline is
fettered by such a tribunal ;" and so
on, "The Church of England has
necessarily more tenacity than the
Scotch establishment For, having a
divine original" [origin ?], " it is an
organic body, and knows more of the
value of intercommunion, not indeed
OS a condition absolutely necessary, but
as the natural fruit of divine unity.
It is then the more remarkable when
members of the Church of England
begin to speak {as they have) of a
free church. Our extension in the
Golonies, which has so enlai^ed the
Chardi and its episcopate, makes
such a rent possible, even though not

one bishop in England should join it
And *if ever there should be a r«it
in the Church of England,' said one,
Uhe rent in Scotland would be noth-
ing to it' " At the end of the pref«
ace, men were urged to league to-
gether as in the days of the Anti-Corn*
Law agitation: no candidate was to
receive support at the next election
who would not pledge himself to do
his best to bring about a change in the
court of appeal. And a note was ap«
pended, suggesting that "no church
should be offered for consecration, no
sums given for the building of churdies,
which by consecration should become
the property of the present Church of
England, no sums given for endow-
ment in perpetuity, until the present
heresy- legalizing court shall be modi*
fied."

It must surely have occurred to Dr.-
Pusey, as it did to so many of his
readers, that this threatening language
accorded very iU with another pas-
sage in his pamphlet, in which he
avowed his retirement from the threats
he had jomed in making in 1850. No
fair-minded man can doubt that the
resolutions to which we have alluded
implied a threat of secession from An-
glicanism, unless the Church of Eng-
land cleared herself from the Grorham
decision. Unless she cleared herself,
the resolutionists declared she would
"eventually" be bound. Dr. Pusey
in explanation says that he wished the
word to be "ultimately." We can
see no great difference between the
two. He then (p. 17, note) says that
the resolutions were modified so as to
be made acceptable to him; all the
more, we suffpose, is he responsible
for their wording, having signed them.
He also says that the difference be-
tween the Ime of action adopted by the
different persons who signed them is to
be accounted for by the fact that some
of them thought that the judgment, in
itself, committed the Church of Eng-
land ; others, that it did not Surely
men must be judged by their words.
We may think as we please of the
conduct of those who fdterward left

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584

Dr. Piaey on the Chtreh of England.

the Church of England, or of those
who remained in it ; hut it cannot be
doohted that, as far as these resolu-
tions are concerned, the former acted
oonsistentlj, the httter inconsistently,
with them* Moreover, in the page we
are quoting, Dr. Fnsey seems to us
to retire altogether from his po-
sition, without saying so openly.
He tells us that when he signed
the resolutions, *'not having a paro-
chial cure, and worshipping mostly
in a cathedral where baptism did
not enter into the service, I felt the
value of the baptismal office as a wit-
ness to truth rather than as a teacher
of it" Since that time he has come
to realize more distinctly ^ the value
of the Prayer-book, speaking, as it
does, to the hearts of the people in
their own tongue, in teaching and im-
pressing on the people the doctrines
which it embodies." This seems to
us to imply, that as long as the formu-
laries used in public offices speak an
orthodox language, the Church may in
other ways be committed to heresy
without losing her character. On the
tame ground, as long as the words of
consecration are used in the << Lord's
Supper,** any doctrine whatever may
be taught concerning it. At laSl
events, this is all that Dr. Pusey says
as to his adherence to or disavowal of
the resolutions of 1850. He cannot
1)0 surprised if his threats in 1864 have
been taken as worth no more than his
declarations fourteen years ago— if the
politicians on whose will the decision
of these questions depends have found
out that the bark of the High-Church
leaders is worse than their bite.

**Hl motas anlmoram, atqne luec oertamlna

unta
PolTerls exignl jactn compressa qniescnnt/*

So long as the Bible is read and the
Prayer-book used, they will impress
on the people the doctrines which they
embody ; and the Essayists and Re-
viewers and Dr. Colenso will labor so
entirely in vain to pervert them, that
no court at all will be necessary to
punish the propagators of false doc-
trines. At all events, it may fairly

Ue presumed that the throats about a
free church are worth just as much,
and no more, as the threats- about se-
cession.

But our immediate subject is the
course of the controversy about the An-
glican establishment. Some expres-
sions in Dr. Puse/s preface, in which
he said that some Catholics " seemed to
be in an ecstasy at this victory of Sa-
tan" (the decision of the Privy CouncO
as to the '^ Essays and Reviews'*) ap-
pear to have suggested attacks on Dr.
Manning with reference to his "' Crown
in Council," in which he was said to
have rejoiced in the troubles of his
fermer friends, and to be merry over
the miseries of the Church of England.
The same kind of charge has often
been made against Catholics, especial-
ly converts ; and it is in the nature of
things that it should be made. Every
** trouble" in the Church of England
of the kind of which we are spedung,
while it weakens it as a teacher of
fragments of Catholic truth, weakens
also its hold on the minds of many
who have hitherto been in the habil of
making it the object of that allegiance
and that obedience which the instincts
of every Christian heart urge it to
pay to Uie one mother of the children
of Grod. So far, therefore, as the
Gorham case or the Denison case, or
the question of the *^ Essays and R^
views " and the Colenso decision, tend
to expose the true and simply human
character of the institution that calk
itself the Church of England, so far,
many good and loyal souls are set
free from a delusion, and their affec-
tions transferred to their right and le-
gitimate object This, in the case of
individuals, is a matter of rejoicing.
On the other hand, on the groun£i
stated so clearly by Dr. Newman, it
is no matter of rejoicing that a body
which has to teach so large a number
of baptized souls all that they will
ever know of Catholic truth should
have the truths that it yet retains di-
minished in number and in certainty,
and should lose all power of piwenr-
ing them from corruption.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

Dr* Puieg en the Okwrch of England.

6B5

]>r. Manning's letter to Dr. Fosej
contains a clear and calm statement of
the doctrines on which the feelings of
Catholics toward bodies like the
Qinrch of Engbind are based. Dr.
Posej had declared that he knew that
" a very earnest body of Roman Cath-
olics rejoice in all the workings of God
the Holy Ghost in the Charch of
England," and bad contrasted them
with others who are in << ecstasy at the
victory of Satan." It became neces-
sary Uierefore to state in what sense a
Cadiolic can admit that the Holy
Ghost works in the Church of Eng-
land. No Catholic, then, by denying
Qtterly and entirely anything like the
character of a church to the Church
of England, denies thereby -the work-
mgs of the Holy Ghost or the opera-
tions of grace among those who are
its members ; nor when these opera-
tions are affirmed and rejoiced in is
any affirmation thereby made that the
Church of England is in any sense
whatever a church at alL Dr. Man-
ning stat(» in full the reasons why we
affirm the workings of the Holy
Ghost among the English people;
aod these ])arts of his pamphlet — ^in-
deed, the whole of it — ^are extremely
valuable, as a clear statement of
truths which it is very difficult to get
Englishmen generally to underatand,
on account of their prevalent igno-
rance or misconception of the doctrine
of grace. The truths in question, we
need hardly say, enable Catholics to
rejoice heartily in the effects of grace
among the Dissenters, not less than
among Anglicans. Dr. Manning has a
few pages also on the specific truths
that have been preserved by Anglican-
ism, and the fear with which he re-
gards the process of undermining the
Christianity of England which is go-
ing on. He also explains how natur-
ally he rejoices at conversions, which
are to him the bringing of souls from
the imperfect to the perfect knowledge
of the truth ; and sums up by an ar-
goment to pro\e that the Anglican
establishment, instead of being, as
Dr. Pusey had called it, ^ the great

bulwaik against infidelify in this
land," is in reality responsible for that
infidelity; as having been the source
of the present spiritual anarchy in
England; as having weakened even
those truths which it retains by de-
taching them from others and from the
divine voice of the Church, which is
the guarantee of their immortality ;
and as being a source of unbeUef by
the denial of the truths it has rejected
and also of the perpetual and evei^
present assistance of the Holy Ghost
to preserve the Church from error.
We may add, having quoted Dr«
Newman on the subject of Anglican
orders, that Dr. Manning speaks with
equal clearness as to their entire in*
validity.

Dr. Puse/s controversial appear-
ances are generally rather late in the
day : the method of his mind is induc-
tive, and he rejoices above all things
in the accumulation of a vast amount
of materials, which he does not al-
ways succeed in clearly arranging or
lucidly epitomizing. Ho has taken a
year to answer Dr. Manning's short
pamphlet of less than fifty pages, or
rather a part of it. The volume teems
with undigested learning ; and a very
large share of it is taken up with a
long postscript and a set of notes. It
will not be our business at present to
do more than state concisely in what
the answer to Dr. Manning consists,
and endeavor to draw out from the
pages of Dr. Pusey what his idea is
of the Anglican Church, and what his
ovra position in her.

There is nothing in direct answer
to Dr. Manning's explanation of the
doctrine as to the working of the
Holy Ghost outside the visible
Church — ^an explanation which of
course places the Anglican Church
on the same ground wi^ the Dissent-
ing sects. The satisfactory answer to
this would of course be some proof
that the Anglicans have orders and
sacraments, and that grace is given
through them, not merely to the dispo-
sitions of the individual who receives it.
Dr. Pusey, of coarse, maintains tha

Digitized by VjOOQIC

5B^

Dr. Puiey on the Church of EngUmd.

yalidity of Anglican orders, bat
lie adds nothing to the controversj,
except the remark that the form of
consecration used in the case of Par-
ker was taken from that used in the
case of Chichele a century before.
As the controversy does not turn
solely upon the form used in Parker's
consecration, the &ct adduced by Dr.
Pusey has little to do with it.» With
regard to the other point, it is of
course impossible, or very difficult, to
prove the connection between the ef-
fect of a supposed means of grace
and that supposed means itself, inde-
pendent of the subjective dispositions
and belief of the recipient Dr.
Pusey has no proofs which would not
equally show that any one who
thought himself a priest was one,
and that any one who thought he
received a sacrament irom him
would receive it But the state-
ment of Dr. Manning on which Dr.
Pusey fastens more particularly is
that which accuses the Anglican es-
tablishment of being the <' cause and
spring of the prevailing unbelief.'*
Dr. Pusey remarks first that there
is plenty of nnbelief everywhere.
That is true ; and eveiywhere it can
be traced to some cause ; the charge
is, that the Reformation has produced
it in England, which was free from it
before. Dr. Manning's first proof —
that Anglicanism rejects much Chris-

« PractlcalW gpeaking, it is snrely a matter
of surpriso that eo few Anglicans shoald have
Interested themselves in aecertainlnt^ what Is
thought ahont their orders bv others than them-
selves. No portion of the Catholic Church (as
thej consider it) has ever been persuaded to
aclcnowiedge them in any way. It is of course
their bneiness to obtain their acceptance, not
ours to disprove them ; all the more, as so very
large a nnmber of those who have borne these
orders have never believed in their sacramental
character. Dr. Pasey says (p. 278), " I do not
believe that Ood maintains the faith where there
is not the reality." He is speaking directly of

l>een believed, even with all the force of the old
Catholic traditions to maintain it? And as to
the priesthood and its correlative, the eacriftce,
a strong argument, on Dr. Pasey's own ground,
against their exiatance in Anglicanism, might be
found in the fiict that all practical belfef in
them has so completely died out in the mass of
the people. If there had been the realltv, there
would have been the fiiith; and so it Is with
Bastern heretics and BChlsmatlca.

tian truth — ^is met by a statement of
the amount of truth which both com-
munions hold. In this part of his ar^
gument Dr. Pusey seems to us to
avoid the real question at issue. Dr.
Manning speaks of the formuUiries <A
the Church of England, no doubt, as
well as of her practical teaching, such
as it has been for the last three hun-
dred years, and such as it is through-
out the length and breadth of England
at this day. But in a question as to
the amount of truth with which she
claims to be "the great bulwark
agsunst infidelity," it is obvious that
her formularies must be judged ac-
cording to the sense commonly attach-
ed to them, and according to the
interpretation of them supplied by the
ordinary teaching of her clergy.
Every one knows that various senses
have been applied to the Anglican
formularies ; and it was the object of
the celebrated No. 90 of the « Tracts
for the Times" to prove that, in some
cases, it. was the intention of the com-
pilers of the articles to allow men of
various schools to sign them. Still, it
is going far beyond this to put for-
ward the so-called ** Catholic?* inter-
pretation of the formularies as ihB
sense of the Church of England. It
would be untrue even if we consider
the matter as a simply literary ques-
tion; much more is it in the highest
degree unfair to put forward this in-
terpretation in a controversy which
turns upon what actually has been and
is taught by her. If a foreigner — ^as
unacquainted with the real teaching of
Anglicanism as Dr. Pusey is with
that of Catholicism — ^were to take up
this book and believe what he finds in
it, he would, we venture to say, derive
a totally false impression of the doc-
trine of the English Church as it lies
on the face of her formularies, and as
it has always been understood and
acted upon by nine-tenths of her
clergy and people. He would find an
assurance that she holds the three
creeds, which would give him to un-
derstand that she interpreted them in
the same ssnse as the Catholic Church*

Digitized by VjOOQIC

Dr, Pfney on the Okureh of England,

537

He would learn with surprise that
there is no difference between Angli-
cans and Catholics cm justification*
<^ There is not one statement in th^
elaborate chapters on justification in
the Council of Trent which cmiy ofu9
could fail in receivii^," says Dr.
Fosej. He would find that Dr. Man-
ning had quite falselj said that ^ the
Church of Ei^land sustains a belief
in two sacraments, but formally pro*
pagates unbelief in the other five.''
In fact, that the Church of England
holds all seven \o be sacraments, with
only a difference in dignity. Still
more to his astonishment, he would
read that the Church of England does
not, in particular, object to extreme
unction ; she ^ only objects to the later
abuse of it," which is not the Catholic
practicer— namely, the custom of not
administering it except to the dying.
Then, if some one told him that the
Church of England has discontinued
the practice iJtogether, and that any
one would be called a simple papist
who attempted to introduce it in any
way, he might naturally be inclined
to find fault with the treacherous
guide who had so misled him. It is
the same with other points. Dr.
Pusey tells us that the Cbarch of
England does no^deny the infallibility
of general councils or of the Church.
His reasoning on this last head is so
good a specimen of his method, that
we may HweU on it for a moment.
One of the articles teaches, that as
the other churches have erred, so
also the Church of Rome hath erred
—even in matters of faith. Dr.
Manning sums this up, very naturally,
as a statement that all churches have
erred. "The article," says Dr. Pusey,
** was a puzzle to me when young."
He supposed, it seems, that the con-
demnation must have been meant to
fall on doctrinal decrees. " The two
clauses, being put antithetically, must
correspond. On further information,
I found that there were no canons of
Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Antioch
that were intended ; then it followed
the same principle of the corre-

spondence of the two clauses — ^that
neither were canons of the Church of
Rome spoken of. The article more-
over does not say that the Church of
Borne %9 in error in the present, but
heUh erred in time past"

It is strange to see so much ingenu
ity wasted in a hopeless cause. Dr
Pusey remembers perfectly that th
attempt to put forward the interpreta*
tions for which he contends, not as ike
sense or teaching of the Church of
England, but as a sense of her articles
barely tolerated by her in certain in-
dividuals of Catholic opinions whom
she wished to retain, as others, in her
service, was met many years ago by
an outcry such as has not been heard
in our day in England, save in the case
of the Catholic hierarchy. And yet ho
thinks it fair and just to argue as if the
Church of England not only allowed
such interpretations, but as if the views
which they embody were her regular
teaching, so that she has a right to
claim that she has put forward boldly
in face of the infidelity around her those
portions of Christian truth to which-
they relate. Her people then are, and
always have been, really taught that
there are seven sacraments, that there
is a real presence on the altar, that
there is a eucharistic sacrifice, that
the Church is infallible, and so on. And
as he speaks of her ministers being
vowed to banish anddrive away strange
doctrine, His position implies that any
heresy which might contradict these
great Catholic truths could not be per-
mitted within her pale. And now,
suppose he was taken at his word;
suppose, in consequence of this so-
called Eirenicon^ negotiations were
opened and emissaries sent from
Rome to the bishops and convocation
of the English Church to treat of re-
union. What would be the first step
of the Anglican authorities, those who
really have a right to speak for their
communion, and who would be backed
by the great body of the clergy and la-
ity in the country ? It would certainly
be to repudiate the false face put upon
their teaching by Dr* j^usey, and to

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5SS

Dr. Pu$ey on the Church of England.

declare that their Church had always
been, and meant to be, thoroughlj and
simply Protestant on the points at is-
sue.

If, therefore, Dr. Pusej cannot an-
swer Dr. Manning's charge except by
attributing to the Church of England
the ordinary and regular teaching, as
against infidelity, of doctrines which
she practically disclaims— even if it be
allowed that she does not formally pro-
scribe them — ^it is clear that he thinks
^ little better of that ordinary and regu-
lar teaching as it is in fact than Dr.
Manning himself. His book is in re-
ality more a long excuse of himself
and others for remaining in her than
anything else. This is quite a differ-
ent question. She may tolerate Cath-
olic opinions in her ministers, and Cath-
olic interpretations of her articles. Her
defenders have then to give an account
of what sort of church it is which can
compromise truth by purposely ambig-
uous formularies, and allow side by
side in her pulpits men who must con-
sider each other as heretics. But Dr.
Manning's question relates to her actual
teaching as a ^ bulwark against infidel-
ity ;" and Dr. Pusey knows very well
that for every clergyman who teaches
more sacraments than two, or the eu-
charistic sacrifice, there are twenty
who deny them.

Perhaps the most elaborate part of
Dr. Pusey's volume is that in which
he endeavors to prove that tde unity of
the visible church need not be visible,
and that it is sufficiently secured by
orders and sacraments, 'through its
union with Christ, as head, by the sac-
raments, and the indwelling of God
the Holy Ghost" He naively asks,
How can we be said to deny the indis-
soluble unity of the Church when we
cannot approach communion without
repeating the Nicene Creed? Cer-
tainly, few people could ever be con-
victed offfake doctrine if the repetition
of the creed in public service was
enough to absolve them. In this part
of the work, however, Dr. Pusey more
than ever leaves out of sight the real
nature of the charge which he has im-

dertaken to answer — ^the charge of hav-
ing denied the indbsoluble unity of the
Church, its visible head, and its per-
petual voice. The question is, whether
these truths can be considered as a
part of the system which the Church
of England teaches and defends. Here,
of course, there is more divergence aa
to the doctrine between the two con-
troversialists ; and Dr. Pusey answers
only by a theory of his own. But in
fact, even if he fairly represents An-
glicanism, he cannot escape the charge,
as to the unity of the Church, any more
tlian that as to its infallibility. He real-
ly maintains that for all practical pui^
poses the Church was infallible up to the
division of East and West — we meet
in his pages that phrase of which his
friends are so fond, the '' Holy Undi-
vided Church." Now it is difficult to
find what infallible teacher Dr. Posey
acknowledges ; to what he would sub-
mit a conclusion, we will say, as to the
Immaculate Conception, which he has
drawn by his own reason from his
study of Scripture or the fathers. His
position may be understood from the
following passage :

'^This, I understand, is a favorite
formula with Dr. Manning — ^By
whom does God the Holy Ghost speak?
By the Roman Church? or by the East-
ern? or by the Anglican?* I have
been wont to say, by all concurrently,
in so far as they teach the same fiuth
which was from the beginning, which
is the great body of all their teaching;
and, if need require, they could at tlds
day declare concurrently any truth, if
it should appear that it had not as yet
been sufficiently defined, against some
fresh heresy which should emerge"

(p. 84)-
The faith of Christians is therefore

proposed to them by an authority on

which tliey are bound to receive it;

but that authori^ has in the first place

to be tested by Christians themselves,

who must decide by their own reason

— for they can hate no other guid^—

whether in any particular point the

three churches teach the same faith

which was from the beginning. Fur-

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Dr. Pusejf an the Ohurch of England.

589

Cher this authority cannot speak at all
predselj on thoae points as to which
Christians must most desire i£s guidance
—those pomts on which these three
churches differ.- Dr. Poser speaks of
his reciting the Nicene Creed. On
what authority does he believe that the
Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father
and the Son ? He may ihitdc that the
Eastern faith comes to ranch the same
thing as the Western ; bat that is a con-
dosion of his own reason. And we
must leave to oar readers to make oat
for themselves the way in which .he
tries to show that the cimrches could
still act concurrently^ if the occasion
were to arise ; especially in the very
obvious and, according to the Anglican
teaching, perfectly possible case, that
one of &ese three churches themselves
should be the victim of the new heresy,
which, according to him, would consti-
tute the occasion for a new definition.*

< We are not, of coarse, answering Dr.
Pasey^e book; bnt we cannot help qaotinga
•Ingle jMMMge fh>m the treatise- *' Oa the Tem-
poral Htssion of the Holy Ohoet," lately pub-
ilsbed by his grace the Archbishop of West-
minster, which simply destroys the whole
theory on which Dr. Pnaey reasons. Few
things of the kind can be more refreshing than
to tarn fh>m the pases of Dr. Pasey to the clear,
bright, simple, and precise statements of Dr.
Manning. . It is like breathins pure country air
after groping about in a London fog ; aud the
fiuidfhl and unsubstantial images that bewilder
the readers of the Mrenicon vanish like so mach
mist and Taper as the mi^estic outlines of the
Church, as sketched by the archbishop, take
poasession of the mind. No one who reads
lids book will need aoy other answer to that of
Dr. Posey. On the point before us the arch-
bishop says : *"* There are some who appeal from
the Tolce of the liTing Church to antlqultr, pro-
fessing to believe that while the Church was
•nitcdit was InfiiUlble; that when it became
divided it ceased to soeak infalliblv ; and that
the only certain rule or faith is to oelleve that
.which the Church held and taught while yet it
was united, and therefore infallible. 8uch
rcasoners fall to observe that since the supposed
division and cessation of the Infltllible voice
there remains no divine certainty as to what
was then Infelllbly taught To affirm that this
or that doctrine was taught then where it la now
disputed, is to beg the question. The infallible
Church of the first six centuries— that is, before
the division— was InfHlUble to those who lived
In those ages, bnt Is not lufallible to us. It
spoke to them ; to us It Is silent. The Infalll-
billtv does not reach to us; for the Church of
the last twelve hundred years is by the h;rpo-
thesls fkllible, and may therefore err In deliver-
ing to us what was taught before the division.
And It is certain that either the East or the
West, as it is called, must err in this, for they
contradict each other as to the filth before the
division. I do not speak of the protests of later
separations, because no one can invest them
with an iDHslliblllty which they not only dis-
claim for themaelyet, bnt deny a&ywiiwe to
Mdat**(pp.'74,'36}.

It is clear that, according to Dr.
Pusej, we must ascertain what the
"Undivided Church" taught for'oar-
selves, and then receive it on her
authority. Far more than this in re*
alitj; for we are to find out for our-
selves negative conclusions as well as
positive. There is what he speaks of
as a vast practical system in the
Catholic Church, the honor paid to
our Blessed Lady, and other things of
that kind, which penetrate the daily
life and the ordinary thoughts of the
great mass of her children. On this
Dr. Pusey sits in judgment, and
declares it to he alien to die teaching
of the " Undivided Church," hecause
he does not find it himself ib the
fathers. We do not see that he
places his ohjections to it on the
authority of his own Church. This
leads us to our question, what, to him»
is Anglicanism ? Is he content to be
its dutiful child, to catch its genuine
spirit, to echo without further question
its definitions, to *< rest and be thank-
ful" with whatever it may give him?
We believe that no one who has ever
known anything about the subject has
suspected Dr, Pusey of any intention
to secede from the Anglican Church :
tlus makes it all the more strange that
he should give it so wavering and
niggardly an allegiance. Other people
openly avow that they simply put up
with it as a convenient lodging-place
for men of no particular opinions ; it
exacts little, leaves them pretty much
alone, and yet furnishes them hand-
somely with the outward parapher-
nalia of a church. Like the Roman
Senate in the old story about Tiberius,
it admits the gods of all nations easily
into its Pantheon. One set of opinions
alone it objects to, because they are so
exclusive I Except in that case, its
courts always shield the persecuted*
Mr. Grorham is attacked for a heresy,
and they shield him ; Mr. Doaison for
a truth, and they absolve him ; even
the ^I^says and Reviews" do iv>t de-
prive their authors of this oompre-
hensive protection. Its toleration gives,
as a statesman expressed it, ^ general

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«40

Dr. Pmey on the Church of England,

Batififiictioii.'* Who can refiiBe to be
loyal, when the yoke is so light ?

" Qaod 8l nee nomen, nee me ttia forma teneret,
FoftBet servitiam mite tenere taam;"

and so Dr. Posey himself seems to
feel, save in those moods of rebel-
liousness which now and then come
over him. We have seen how he
once almost pledged himself to secede
if the Gorham judgment was not
disavowed. He was too old then to
be excused on the plea of youthful
impetuosity; at all events, the fit
passed away: the baptismal service
contents him. We have seen the
threats he. threw oat mora than a year
ago about a free church if the court
of appeal were not modified: that
mood too has passed away. His
present book speaks in the most con-
tented manner : ^ Essay and Review-
ism a passing storm," is the title that
runs along the top of one of his pages ;
and he speaks of ^ the bright promise
of the year of ingathering which the
Lord has blessed V* He has forgotten
his despair of last year, and boldly
proposes to the Catholic Church terms
on which reunion may be made,— -
terms, we venture to say, which
would be rejected at once by every
authority of the Church of England
itself. Still, with all this, we do not
see in his book any indication that,
except as to the validity of Anglican
orders, he really thinks much better
of Anglicanism than Dr. Manning or
Dr. Newman. Its authority is noth-
ing to him; and they, on the other
hfuid, do not deny that, though a mere
human institution, it teaches many
truths which might otherwise be un-
taught. He is ready to leave it if it
'^accepts heresy;'' but it seems that
what is heresy, and what is its accept-
ance, must be left to himself to
decide. This is the language of one
party in a contract or a compromise
to another; not that of a pupil to a
teacher, a child to a parent — above
all, not diat of a Catholic to his
Church. He does not aver that <<the
Chuieh of England is the best possible

bulwark against infidelity,'' but onlj*
^ as a matter of fact, that it is at this
moment, under God's providence, a
real and chief bulwark against it."
He complains of Dr. Manning's state-
ment that she "rejects much Christian
truth " in a way ^at looks very much
as if he thought she rejected ^ome-
and he only defends her even then by
putting an entirely strange face upoa
her. He hoists a false flag, and
fights for her under it.

We are unwilling to speak person-
ally of an amiable and excellent man $
but Dr. Pusey, if there are few exactlj
like him, is still in his way a repre-
sentative man ; and his Yfork shows na
the position of many others beside
himself. It is obvious that he is reaUj
in the Church of England because he
has nowhere else to go. He is loyal
to her, not because he loves and ad-
mires her, but because he thinks he
can find no other resting-place. Deeply
versed in the Scriptures, especially of
the Old Testament, and with a large
acquaintance with some of the fathers,
he has studied them under that fatal
disadvantage which consists in the en-
tire ignorance of the living system in
which the authors whom he has read
lived and breathed. The fathers es-
pecially, if they are studied without a
knowledge of the ever-living Church,
are certain to be misunderstood and to
convey inadequate ideas of their own
practice and belief. The Church alone
explains and completes their testimony.
It is exactly the everyday life, the
things and customs and ideas that are
too familiar to be chronicled, that must
ever be unknown to those who have a
merely literary knowledge of any sys-
tem or any set of men. The strange
thing is that any reasonable man
should suppose it to be otherwise. Dr.
Pusey, if we may judge from the
opening of his postscript, really seems
to think that if St. Augustine were to
arrive to-morrow in London, he would
go to worship in St. Paul's or West-
minster Abbey, rather than at Moor-
fields or Warwick Street — St. Augus-
tine, whO| in a well-known passage.

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hdand hejbre ChriMiianiiy.

541

bag pointed oat the unfailing mark
which the common sense of mankind
has fixed upon the true Church bj
the simple popular use of the name
Oathotic !

The result of Dr. Pusej's thought
and fttudy may be summed up in two
simple heads. The first is an attitude
of mind .utterly and entirely alien from
that whidi is the first condition of the
relation of a Catholic to the Church.
He has never been taught by a church,
guided by a church, moulded by a
ehnrdi ; he is self-educated and self-
reliant; he has made his own teacher
for himself, and has never sat at the
feet of any other, except of the author of
a book of which he was himself the in-
terpreter. Speaking of the possibility
of ^ secession" in his own case, he tells
OS, '^ I have always felt that I could
have gone in on no other way than that
of closing my eyes and accepting
whatever was put before me'' (p. 98).
What a revolution that would be I
This attitude of simple, uncriticising,
ungmdgiBg docility and obedience, is a
thing wfaidb to him is a perfect novelty.
It is one thing to take our faith from
an abstraction of our own brain ; quite
another to receive it from a living re-
ality, outside and independent of our-
selvea. This is the first thing that

strikes us in men like Dr. Pusey, as
their minds are reflected in books such
as that before us. The second is an
amount of misconception, misiind^r-
etanding, and positive ignorance of the
Cathdic system, which would be simj^ly
anintelli^ble did we not consider the
great diradvantages under which any
one in his position must have studied
it. He is not one of the more rabid
schoolof Anglican controversialists ; his
character and habits of mind are quite
alien from wilful misrepresentation and
conscious unfairness. And yet there is
hardly a fair statement in his book on
matters which belong to Catholidsm ;
and there are many most provoking
misstatements, as well as many most
ludicrous and childish blunders. The
book presents an easy victory to any
moderately-informed Catholic theokh
gian who may take the trouble to re-
fute it. This has not been our pur-
pose at present. We have been con-
tent with pointing out that his defence of
Anglicanism really condemns it, be-
cause it implies that he cannot defend
it without misrepresenting it In a
future article we may deal with him
as a controversialist, and point out, by
way of specimen, some few of the mis-
takes into which he has fallen in his
attack on the CathoHo Church.

Flrom The Literary Workman.

lEELANp BEFORE CHRISTIANITT.

Thb ignorance of true Irish history
that prevails, and the absurdity of the
things given as facts to a large mass
o€ moderately educated people, is
pamfuUy surprising. For instance, it
28 genendly believed among a great
number of people, and it is taught to
them in books, that Ireland was a
hind of desolate bogs, and forests fill-
ed with wolves, and inhabited by htw-
lefls savagesy till converted to a ^ sort

of Christianity** by the English, of
which Christianity the remarkable
part was that it had nothing to do
with the Pope* Many people believe
St. Patrick to have be^ an English-
man ; others think he was a Welsh-
man, and a few bold spirits of the
present day declare that they can
prove him to have been an exceHeot
Protestant Savages, bogs, wolves, and
desdationi having been taken oompaa-

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542

Irdand before CkritHofii^,

fiion upon by the English, they subju*
gated the people, tanght them, gave
them laws, and in the reign of Henry
II. o£ England attached Ireland to the
British crown, when that country be-
gan to have a history. Before that
date, that is, before the twelfth century,
for Henry 11. ascended the throne
in 1154, Lreland had had no history
worth remembering or worth noting.
This is a short summary of the chief
points of the Protestant belief on
that matter. And although true
knowledge concerning many things
has struck root and spread amazingly
of late years, there is so much still to
learn about Ireland, and the liistory
of that countiy is at once so interest-
ing and so edifying, that ^ Papers on
Irish History" are offered to the read-
ers of the "Workman** with a convic-
tion that they will find a welcome
both in that country and in England.

In looking hack to the earliest
years of the history of Ireland, our
instructor is tradition. It is a very
enrlous thmg, however, to see that
the old tales, which have passed with
many for poetic fables, have assumed
in these days a remarkable import-
ance, because in so many instances
sctenoe is proving tiudition to be truth.
Speaking of Ireland, Camden says : .
^'If what the Irish liistorians relate
be true, this island was not without
reason called Agy^^ or mo9t ancient^
by Plutarch. For they begin their
histories from the remotest period of
antiquity, so that compared with them
all other nations are of modem date,
and but in a kind of infancy. They
tell us that one CtBsarecLf grand-
daughter to Noah, lived here before
the flood, and that afterward came
Bcuiholanua {Parthdcmus)^ a Scyth-
ian, 800 years after the flood, and
waged fierce war with the giants.
Long after this, Nemethus, the Scyth-
ian, landed, and was presently driven
off by the giants. Afterward, Dela,
with some Greeks, made themselves
masters of the island; then Gaothe^
htSj with his wife ScaUty daughter of
Pharaoh, arrived here, and called the

island from her Scotia, and from him
Oaaihela, and this at the time of the
Israelites' departure out of Egypt A
few ages after, EShenu and Herm-
one (or as the Lrish calied them, Bver
and £rimon)j sons of MUmtu, king of
Spain, led some colonies into this isl-
and, which had been dep<^ulated by
a plague. These stories I neither
mean to affirm nor refute, making all
due allowance for antiquity.'' Then
Camden gives his own opinion in
these words: ^That this idand was
originally inhabited upon the general
dispersion of mankind, I have not the
least doubt." And at this date, no
one who may be quoted as under-
standing the subject, has any doubt of
the immense antiquity of the Irish ;
an antiquity wbdch, in fact, defies
calculation. But it is in some meas-
ure proved by the discovery in Ire-
land of those weapons which are
the earliest weapons of defence used
by man. They are fiints chipped into
a shape like the head of a spear.
They were used before men knew
how to use metal ; and they belong to
that earliest time which geologists
have called by the name of the stone
age. Greologists have divided the
early ages into three: the stone, the
bronze, and the iron period. In the
stone age, Ireland had a people, and
the celts, or flint stones chipped into a
form like a spear head, were their
weapons.

The debated point of whether or
not Ireland was peopled from England,
is one which is of little interest*
There was a time in the history of
man when people could have walked
over from France to England, and
when Ireland was joined to Wales*
Strange as this may read to some
persons, it is less strange than the
greater instance of, for example, Aus-
tralia being found peopled, and yet
parted from the rest of the world by a
great sea. The people of Australia had
not gone there in vessels. They had
got there by land; and whether, by
the gradual work of time, during
which the land sunk, and the sea flow-

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Irdand before OkrUHamty..

548

ed in orer it, and by this means gave
islands to the world, or whether by
enonnoos conyalsions rocks shiyered,
and the hind was rent apart and sunk,
as between ns and France, where the
chasm may be said to be filled in by
die water that makes the Straits of
Dover — ^however it was done, wheth-
er soddenly or not, the researches of
modem science have settled thftt these
things occurred, and that the people
who were our forefathers in this man-
ner were separated from each other.
Aecepting this theory as a truth, it is
idle to a& whether Ireland was peo-
pled from this country or not. But in
the presence of such a theory, no per-
son can any longer laugh at Ireland's
traditional antiquity; it is more rea-
sonable to accept it, and to allow that
they have proved their ancient and
hereditary intelligence by preserving
history.

And this theory of the manner in
which islands were divided from conti-
nents is, in fact, constantly proving it-
self before our eyes. Not to go out
of England, we inay see the progress
of such a change now in Lincolnshire.
The reason why the great embank-
ments against &e sea are necessary
there, and have become more than
ever necessary of late years, is, that
the land is sinking ; and but for the
preventions that science and labor
effect, a part of Lincolnshire would
become an island.

There are now a few words to be
said about the name Scotia, as applied
to Ireland. The Komans caUed all
the iar ** western people" Scots, or
Scythians. It meant a people who
sailed — a maritime people— they
learnt the word in these countries, for
it is Teutonic J or northern Celtic ; and
we use the word ourselves when we
speak of a boat ecudding over the
waves.

That the people from Spain came to
Ireland, and that the existing Irish
are their descendants, is not disputed.
Hibems and Hermione, called by the
Irish Ever and Erimon, left their
in Btbermctj from the Spanish

for one brother, and in the Irish JSrtn
for the other. But yet Hibemia is a
comparatively modem name; and
Ireland is the ancient Scoti<iy called
lerae by the Roman poet Claudian
and other Roman writers, and Ivvor-
na by Diodoms Siculus, and many
beside.

One word more about the rade flint
weapon calledfr^erywhere a oelt It
took its name undoilbtedly from the
peopk who used it. It was the weap>
on or the northern or Celtic nations.
When Celts are found they indicate to
ns the existence of the men who used
them, and their state of civilization.
Wherever they are found they are
called by this name, and their name is
derived from the northern people.

Ireland has always been coasidered
a most healthy country, and in Camp-
bell's Philosophical Survey of Ireland,
Dr. Rutty tells us, ^ The bogs are not
injurious to health, and agues are very
unfrequent here." And again, these
'^ bogs are not, as may be supposed
from their blackness, masses of putre-
fiactioD, but, on the contrary, are of
such a texture as to resist putrefaction
above any other substatoce we know
of.** Of such assertions we have now
constant proof, and the durability of
the beautiful and often highly polish-
ed ornaments made out of Irish bog-
wood is too well known to dwell upon.

The people seem to have been, in
very early times, great feeders of
sheep, cattle, and pigs. But the rich-
ness of the soil of this beautiful island
yields to the labor of the scientific
fanner great gain.

Very curious speculations have aris-
en as to the gold that has been found
in Ireland. It remains a mystery.
Mr. O'Connor, in his dissertations on
the history of Ireland, says, '^that,
soon after the arrival of the Scots
from Spain, we read of Uchadan of
Cuala, who rendered himself famous
by lus skill in the &brication of met-
als.** This places the civilization of
Jreland very far back ; and taken to-
gether with the eariy renown of the
Irish in music, puts them at once in a

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2^ CMouui of Shodst,

posifeiou of their own. When a peo-
ple are musicians and w(M*kers in
gold, silyer, and other metals, thej
have advanced a good waj in what is
meant by the word civilization. Their
masic is described as being of the most
affecting and tender kind; and ihej
seem to have met together, as . afler>
ward at Tara, for such accomplished
recreations before ai^thing of that
kind would have been understood in
England.

It will be interesting to give, from
^ Gough's Additions'* to Camden's ac-
count of Ireland, some notes of the
buried gold that has been found :

^In the bog near GuUen, in the
county of Tipperary, in 1732, a la-
borer found a piece of worked gold, a lit-
tle less than half the size of a small egg.
It weighed 3 ozs. 4 dwts. and 7 grs."

<'In 1739, -a boy found a circular
plate of beaten gold, about eight
inches in diameter, which, lapped up
in the form of a trian^e, enclosed
three ingots of gold, which they say
could not weigh less than a pound ;
for the boy no sooner brought them
home than his mother, a poor widow,
gaye them to* a merchant, on whose
land she had a cabin, as brass to make
weights."

This is one of the great many in-
stances in which large pieces of gold
were sold as brass. Gold was found
in these lumps, and in thin plates, as
follows :

<*1742. A chOd found on the
brink of a hole a thin plate of gold.
1747. A girl found in the turf-
dust a thin plate of gold, rolled on
another, which when extended was 14
inches long, and a quarter of an inch
broad ; of which a fellow standing by
took about half from her; what he
left weighed 6 dwts. 13 grs. Soon af-
ter, an apprentice girl found 1 oz.
5 dwts. of the same kind, rolled after
the same manner, in a sod of turf as
she made the fire."

Vessels of a " yellow metal,'' as the
people said, were frequently found in
this bog. They used to sell them for
brass. One was four-sided, and 8
inches high, with a handle on each
side ; the sisters who pot^sessed it sold
it to a tinker, who mended a pot and
gave thirteenpence for it. The page
of Irish history which the sight of
these vessels, and the consideration
of their shape and workmanship,
might have revealed, has been, doubt-
less, lost with them in the melting
pot.

From ThA St Jamat Magulne*

THE COLOSSUS OF RHODES.

In the elementary works for the in-
struction of young people we find every .
day frequent mention of the Colossus
of Rhodes. The statue is always rep-
resented with gigantic limbs, each
leg resting on the enormous rocks
which face both sides of the entrance
to the {principal port of the island of
Rhodes, and ships in full sail pass
easily, it is siud, between its legs ; for
Phny the ancient tells us that its height
was seventy cubits.

This colossus was reckoned among

the seven wonders of the world, the six
others being, as is well known, the sus-
pended gardens of Babylon, devised
by Nitocris, wife of Nebuchadneszar ;
the pyramids of Egypt ; the statue of
Jupiter Olympicus; the mausoleum
of Halicamassns ; the temple of Diana
at Ephesus ; and the pharos of Alex-
andria, erected in the year of Rome
470, and completely destroyed by an
earthquake a.d. 1303.

Nowhare has any authority been
found for the assertion that the Golos-

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The Coh98US of Shodes.

545

SOS of Rhodes spanned the entrance to
the island, and admitted the passage
of vessels in fall sail between its wide-
stretched limbs. No old drawing even
of that epoch exists, when the statae
was jet supposed to be standing ; sev-
eral modem engravings maj be seen,
but they are mere works of the imagi-
nation, execnted to gratify the carios-
ity of amatenr antiquarians, or to feed
the naive credulity of the ignorant.

A century ago, the Gomte de Gay-
ins, a distinguished French archaeolo-
gist, found fault with his countrymen for
admitting this fiction into the school-
books * for young people ; but he sought
in vain to trace its origin.

Vigenere, in his " Tabieattx de Phi-
lottrcUe^^ is supposed to have been the
first who ventured to make an imagin- -
ary drawing of the colossus. He was
followed by Bergier and Chevreau,t
the latter adding a lamp to the hand
of the statue.

The greater number of French dic-
tionaries, RoUin, in his "• Ancient His-
tory,** and even some encyclopasdic dic-
tionaries, have adopted the fiction of
their predecessors.

A fictitious Greek manuscript, quoted
by the mythologist Dachoul,| further
adorns the colossus by giving him a
sword and lance, and by hanging a mir-
ror round his neck.

The Gomte Ghoisel-Grouffier, in his
picturesque^ Journey through Greece,"
published about the year 1780, declares
the colossus with the outstretched legs
to be fabulous. He says : ^' This fable
has for years enjoyed the privilege so
readily accorded to error. It is com-
monly received, and discarded only by
the few who have made ancient history
their study. Most people have accept*
ed, without investigation, an assertion
which is unsupported by any authority
from ancient authors.** Neverthelens,
the Belgian, Colonel Rottiers, and the
Sngllsh geologist, Hamilton,§ do not

* " Memoirs de rAcademis des Inscriptions,'**
t. xrfv., p. W).
t ** Histolrs du Monde,'' iv., p. 8l».

' Religion des Andens RomalnSy'' p. Sll.
' Besearclies in AsU Kioor," etc. London,

VOL. n. 85

184S/

yield to this respectable authority, but
endeavor to place the site of the statue
at the entrance to one of the smaller
harbors of the island, scarcely forty
feet wide. Bottler goes still further, and
gives a superb engraving of the colos-
sus under the form of an Apollo, the
bow and quiver on his shoulders, his \
forehead encircled by rays of light, and
holding a beacon fiame above his head.

Polybius is the first among the an-
cient writers who mentions the Colos-
sus of Rhodes, in enumerating the do-
nations received by the inhabitants of
the island after the fearful earthquake
they experienced in 222 or 224 b.c.
We quote the passage: "The Rhodi-
ans have benefited by the catastrophe
which befel them, owing to which not
only the huge colossus, but also a num-
ber of houses and a portion of the
surrounding walls, were demolished."
Then follows a list of the rich gifts they
received from all parts. Among the
benefactors Polybius mentions the throe
kings, Ptolemy IH. of Egypt, Anti-
gone Doson, of Macedonm, and Seleu-
cus, of Syria, father of Antiochus. The
ancient Pliny records that the colossus,
after having stood for sixty-six years,
was overthrown by an earthquake, and
that it took the artist Chares de Lin-
dos, to whom the Rhodians had in-
trusted its construction, twelve years to
complete his task.

The tendency in art to produce
grand effects by colossal works became
perceptible twenty-five yeai*s before
Phidias; for we find that 463 years
before Christ the inhabitants of Syra-
cuse caused a huge statue to be erect-
ed to Jupiter Eleutherius, after the
death of the tyrant Thrasybulus. This
tendency was an indication of the de-
cline of art, traceable during and after
the period of Alexander the Great

But to return to the colossus. One
Philo-Byzantius wrote a short treatise
on the seven wonders of the ancient
world, about 150 years B.C.* In it he

* It wae reprinted with a Latin translation, by
J. C. Orelll. at Leipzic, in 1816. Strabo also
mentiona tne coIomos as one of the aevea
wonders of the world.

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546

Tk« Oolossus of Bhodes.

gives aa explanation of the construc-
tion of the colossus, but nowhere speaks
of the extended legs, under which ves-
sels in full sail entered the port On
the contraiy, he mentions one sole
pedestal, which was of white marble.
Moreover, the statue was said to be 105
feet in height, and the harbor entrance,
according to modem researches, was
350 feet wide ; it could not, therefore,
possibly reach across this space.
Lastly, if the statue had stood at the
entrance of the port, the earthquake
must have overthrown it into the sea ;
whereas Strabo and Plinj tell us
that its fragments remained for a
considerable time imbedded in the
earth, and attracted much attention
by their wonderful size and dimen-
fiions.

Now this is the real truth concern-
ing the colossus :

Towai^ the year 305 b.c., Deme-
trius Poliorcetes laid siege to Rhodes,
and the inhabitants defended them-
selves with so much bravery that, after
a whole year of struggle and endur-
ance, they forced the enemy to retire
from the island. The Rhodians, by
whom the sui^-god (Helios) was wor-
shipped as their patron (having emerg-
ed from the waves of the iBgean Sea),
inspired by sentiments of devotion, and
excited by fervent gratitude for so sig-
nal a proof of the divine favor, command-
ed Charts de Lindos to erect a colossal
statue to the honor of their deity. An
inscription explained that the expenses
of its construction were defrayed out
of the sale of the materials of war left
by Demetrius on his retreat from the
island of Rhodes. This statue was
erected on an open space of ground
near the great harbor, and near the
spot where the pacha's seraglio now
actually stands ; and its fragments for
many years after its destruction were
seen and admired by travellers. This
explanation is still ftirther supported
by the fact, that a chapel built on this
ground in the time of the Knights of
Rhodes is named Fomum SancH Joan-
nis Colossensis,

We have seen that Strabo, who

wrote and travelled during the reigns
of the first two Roman emperors, was the
eai'liest author after Folybius who men-
tioned the fall of the Colossus of Rhodes,
and that very concisely. Pliny enters
into somewhat fuller details, and speakB
of the dimensions of the mutilated limbs.
" Even while prostrate," says he, " this
statue excited the greatest admiration.
Few men could span one of its thumbs
with his arms ; and each of its fingers
was as large as an ordinary ftiU-sized
statue. Its broken limbs appeared to
strangers like caverns, in the interior
of which enormous blocks of stone were
seen."

From this time we find no further
mention whatever of these fragments ;
but it is curious that toward the end
of the second centuiy several writers
speak of a colossal statue at Rhodes as
still existing. It is possible that one
was again constructed, but of smaller
dimensions. Indeed, Leo Allazzi tells
us that the Colossus of Rhodes was
reconstructed and completed under the
Emperor Vespasian ; but later Greek
authors give us nothing in support of
this opinion.

A long time after the fall of the Ro-
man empire the island of Rhodes was
conquered by the general-in-chief of
the Caliph Othman, in the seventh cen-
tury of the Christian era; and then
mention is once more made of a colos-
sus in metal. '^ This last memorial of
a glorious past was not respected by
the conqueror," says the Byzantine
history. ^ The general took down the
colossus which stood erect on the island,
and transported the metal into Syria,
and sold it to a Jew, who loaded 980
camels with the materials of his pur-
chase."

We should refer any who may be
curious for further details on the Colos-
sus of Rhodes to a remarkable work
on the subject by Carl Ferdinand LU-
ders, in which the fiction of the gigan-
tic outstretched Umbs is completely dis-
posed of; but with such an array of
learned accessories, more germanicOj
that few will perhaps read it througb-
ont

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PuiUe Lift of Sl OaOaritu of Siena.

From The Konth.

PUBLIC LIFE OF ST. CATHARINE OF SIENA.

No one can expect to find the his-
tory of the Church free from vicissi-
tode ; as it has its bright and glorious
periods, so also it has its times of
gloom and darkness, when a superfi*
cial observer might ahnost interpret
the disastrous character of the more
Ralient facts that meet his eye, as the
evidence of a suspension of the vital
activity and healthy vigor of the whole
body. But the life of the Church is
essentially internal, and depends on
the free action of divine grace, pene-
trating and animating the whole com-
manity — an action that is perpetually
kept u]> by the most common and un-
obtrusive ministrations of sacramental
strength, which are going on in full
frequency and efficacy, while the politi-
cal fortunes of the hierarchy, or of the
supreme power, are crushed by oppres-
sion or persecution ; or even while
scandals are seen in high places —
when bishops become courtiers, when
cardinals are truckling to kings and
emperors, and popes are in captivity
*or exile. And it often happens that
these dark times are most prolific of
the noblest fruits of the interior life ;
and that at such seasons the choicest
treasures of the Church— the souls on
whom great and special graces have
been bestowed —are providentially
brought out into unusual prominence,
so as to exercise great influence and
give a character to the period, or a
direction to some of its most important
transactions. Even if it be not so, at
all events we have only to go a littie
below the surface in order to find
plentiful indications of the rich veins
that are contained in no soil but one.
Thus, in Italy, at the time in which
this paper treats, there were a number
of saintly souls, whose names have

since taken rank in the calendar of tha
Church. The secular historian sees
little more than a set of quarrelsome
states, resdess in their mutual discord
and aggressive ambition, and distract-
ed, ever and anon, by the most furious
domestic strife, which would slake it-
self with nothing but blood. St. An-
drew Corsini once showed his audience,
as he was preaching in the Piazza of
Fiesole, looking down on Florence, an
immense flight of hawks, kites, and
other ravenous birds, battling with
one another over the city. They re-
presented, he told them, the number of
evil spirits that were engaged in stir-
ring up the inhabitants to intestine dis-
cord. Florence was not worse, but
rather better, and more thoroughly
Catholic, than its neighbors ; yet when
we take up such a life, for instance,
as that of St. Giovanni Colombini, of
Siena, the founder of the Gesuati, we
find ourselves at once in an atmosphere
of calni and fresh simplicity, of happy
peace, fervent devotion, and loving
faith; and it is only by the chance
mention of public calamities — the suf-
ferings of the peasants, whose fruit-
trees had been cut down by the Ger-
man *^ company^' of marauders, and the
like-^that we are reminded of the
Italy of the day, with its endless dis-
turbances and hopeless insecurity. We
have not merely the beautiful picture
of Giovanni himself, and his immediate
followers and friends ; of his good wife,
for instance, who begged him to read
her pious book while she kept him
waiting a few minutes for his dinner,
and who, though he had at first thrown
it on the floor in a fit of impatient
anger, could not persuade him to leave
t , when all was ready, till he had read
to the end the story of St. Maiy of

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648

PiMe Uft of Sl CcUhartne of Siena.

Eg^pt She had prayed that he might
be more given to almsgiving than he
was, and then had to complain
that she had prayed for a shower, not
fbr a deluge, when he began to give
away everything in the house; and
she had to yield at last to his saintly
fervor, and release him altogether from
the obligations of the married life. It
b not only Francesco Vincenti, the
other rich and noble gentleman of
Siena, who caught up the example of
Giovanni, began to ^ve great alms,
dress shabbily, and serve the poor, and
at last joined him in giving up the
world altogether, and placing himself
under religious obedience ; or Giovan-
ni's cousin Catarina, the first of the nuns
whom he established, whom he could
not persuade to embrace the state of
poverty, though she had given up the
idea of marriage, till he called her to
a little window in the wall between
their two houses, one nighty as she was
going up to bed with her lamp lit, and
talked to h^r in so heavenly a strain
that her heart was perfectly changed ;
and when she turoed to go away at
last, she found that she had been listen-
ing all night, and the morning rays
were streaming through the shutters,
though, as he bade her observe, the
little stock of oil in her lamp was un-
oonsumed. These might be accidents
of piety and simple faith in particular
families ; but wc cannot so account for
the great number of followers that en-
listed themselves under Giovanni — so
'i;nany, that the worthy magistrates of
Siena thought fit for a time to banish
him and his companions from the city,
lest every one should join them ; nor
for the ready and enthusiastic welcome
that he met with wherever he went
throughout Tuscany, the joy with
which his preaching was received, and
the rapid fruit that it produced. The
beautiAd account of him and his early
followers, written in the century after
his death by Feo Belcari, is full of
details and anecdotes that seem to
prove the powerful hold that faith and
religion retained upon the mass of the
population in those seemingly black

and miserable days. The mere num*
ber of his followers, as we have said,
is an evidence of this • the proofs to
which the novices were put were very
severe indeed; yet wiien Urban V.
came from France to Italy, Giovanni
went to meet him at Cometo with a
company of seventy, all of whom had
joined him within two years. The
same conclusion is forced upon us
when we take up the life or the letters
of the still more famous child of the
same fair city, St. Catharine of Siena,
of whose public influence we hope to
give presently some short account
The family of religious disciples whom
she collected around her ih the course
of her short life, from all ranks and
classes, could never have been furnish-
ed save by a population thoroughly
penetrated with religious feeling, and
familiar with the loftiest principles of
faith. Her own home, too, is a charm-
ing picture. There is the good pious
father, <<a man simple and without
guile," as Father Raymond tells us,
^ fearing God, and keeping free from
vice ;'' a man so moderate in speech,
that for no occasion whatever, of dis-
turbance or trouble that was given
him, did unbecoming words escape hia
lips ; rather, when others of his family
felt bitterly, and he heard them break
out into angry words, he set himself
at once, with a joyous countenance, to
comfort them, saying, "• Ah, God give
you good luck 1 don't fret yourself, or
say things like that, which don't befit
us." He let himself be injured and
brought to the brink of ruin by a false
charge, and yet would never allow any
one in his presence to speak against
his accuser, leaving his cause entirely
to God ; and in due time all was won-
derfully set right His large family
of children were brought up with so
much modesty, and with so great a
hatred of anything licentious, though
only in word, that one of the daughters,
whom he had given in marriage to a
young man who had lost his parents
when a child, and learnt bad language
from the chance companions he had
picked up, made herself ill with grier*

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PtMic lAfe of St. Oatharina of Siena,

549

ing over her husband's bad habit in
th^ respect, and could never be well
or happ7 till he had given it up. We
hear less of the rest of the family.
Catharine was one of twenty-five chil-
dren ; but though they opposed for a
while her resolution not to marry, and
tried to make her give up her exces-
sive penances, they seem to have been
good, fervent Christians ; and her
mother, with her natural love for her
child, struggling against the sacrifice
of giving her up entirely to the service
of Gt)d, is delightful in her simplicity,
and her character gives a charming
air of truthfhlness and reality to the
whole picture. But there is no reason
for supposing that the family of the
good Jacomo and Lapa were far above
the level of their neighbors in virtue
and piety, except in the instance of
the one chosen soul whose wonderful
graces and history have alone saved
them from being altogether forgotten,
like the mass of their daily companions
in the streets and the churches of Siena.
What we are told of them reveals that
which escapes the notice of the super-
ficial historian — the daily life of a
Catholic people, however politically
unsettled, and subject to violent out*
breaks natural to its hot temperament
and passionate disposition — though the
character of the Siennese was said to be
comparatively gentle and sweet — still
thoroughly leavened and penetrated by
the fiiith that had been handed down
through an unbroken succession of gen-
erations, since the city's first martyr
consecrated its soil by his blood. Such,
in general, was the population of Italy,
and, of course, of great parts of Europe,
at that time; and such a population
constitutes a resource, as it were, for
the Church, (hat it must take, it would
seem, many generations thoroughly to
corrupt or to destroy. From the
depths of such a people springs ordi-
narily the ever-fresh crop of eminent
saints, who form the chief glories and
supports of the Church in their succes-
^ sive generations ; and the wide extent
to which the principles of Christian
faith and practice infiucnce the mass

from which they themselves rise,
makes it possible for them to gather
followers around them, to touch the
springs of public action and thought,
and to exercise the wonderful infiuence
upon the men of their day which is so
strange an enigma to the uncatholic
historian.*

The singularly beautiful life of St.
Catharine of Siena, written by her
friend and confessor, Raymond of
Capua, gives us as perfect an account
as we could wish to have of the per-
sonal and, as it were, private history
of the saint, and sets her character be-
fore us in the freshest colors, like a
picture of Fra Angelico. But it is de-
ficient in that very part of her life to
which it is our purpose more particu-
larly to attend. The public influence
exercised by St. Catharine was fresh
in the recollection of those for whom
Fr. Raymond wrote : they wished to be
told the antecedents, as it were, of a
person whom they had seen brought
forward by Providence in so remark-
able a manner to support the papacy
in an hour of severe trial. A com-
plete life of Su Catharine would haVe
to include a great mauy points which
have been omitted by Reiymond ; and
much that he has mentioned or allud-
ed to would have to be fixed more ac-
curately as to time and place. Nor
could any one hope to draw up such a
work with success without the fullest
acquaintance with the ample collection
of her letters. It is from these last
that many most important features of
her pubHc life would have to be
drawn.t We owe them, probably, to

♦ Thaa Dr. Milman (" Latin Christianity," t. r.,
p. 891-3) Is Ailrlv npset by what he calls a ''most
extraordinary letter** of St Catharine. It is
that in which she relates her aaalstanca of
I^icola Taldo, when nnder sentence of death and
on the scaffold. He adds at the end of his note :
*'St. Catharine had the stigmata. And this
woman Interposed between popes, princes, and
republics T' We may see, perhaps, whether she
'Mntorposed/* or was entreated to do so;
whether her inflaence was sought by herself, or
forced on her by others.

t One of the best sketches of St Catharine's
action on pnollc matters with which we ara
acquainted Is contained In the Introdactlon to
H. Caltler*s recent translation of her letters Into
French. The **Sistoir6 cU 8U. Catluirine'' pal>>
llshed many years ago by M. Chavin de fiCalao,
contains a great deal of eztraneoos matter, and

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S50

Public lAfe of St, Oatharine of Siena.

the care with which her disciples or
secretaries copied them before they
were sent, for it is hardlj- likelj that
thej could have been otherwise recov-
ered from the persons to whom ihej
were addressed.

It is not easy to say at what pre-
cise time the public action of Catharine
began. She was in the twenty-fourth
year of her age at the time of the
death of Urban V. She had already
passed, for about four years, from that
life of prayer, mortification, and con-
templation with which her saintly ca-
reer had begun, to one of greater in-
tercourse with others ; and she had
already brought about some very won-
derful conversions, of which Fr. Ray-
mond has given us an account. She
had in several cases been successful
in obtaining reconciliations between
families hostile to one another through
the hereditary feuds and traditions of
revenge which have always had so
baneful an effect on Italian society;
but it does not appear that she had
had any personal intei'course with
Urban Y., or any of the great prelates
or princes of the time ; and perhaps
her fame had not travelled far beyond
the frontiers of Tuscany. Giacomo
Orsini, who passed through Siena in
the year following the deaUi of Urban
to receive the dignity of cardinal from
Gregory XI., may have made her ac-
quaintance in her native town, and
carried the report of her wonderful
sanctity to the court of Avignon. The
next year, 1872, we find her already
in correspondence with important per-
sons. War had agam broken out be-
tween the Holy See and the restless
Bamabo Visconti. Bamabo had
usurped the dominion of Beggio, a fief
of the Church, and had proceeded to
other excesses, such as to force Greg-
ory XI. to excommunicate him in

does not Beom to as to use the letters as they
mi«tat hATe been used. M. Ohristophe, in his
^BUtoirede la PapatUe pendant 1$ XlVeSilcU:'
fliUs entirely in giving eafflclent importance to
the sain t There la agood Itellan "Sioria di Sta.
Oatarina da Siena^** by Fr. Oapecelatro. an Ora-
torian, publlehud a few years ago, in which mnch
vae ie made of the admirable notes of Fr. Bar-
•macchl to QlgU*^ edition of the letters.

1371. War was now declared ; but
it was at first favorable to the Milan*
ese tyrant. A league was then organ-
ized against him, in which the emper^
or, the King of Hungary, and the
Count of Savoy took part. John
Hawkwood, moreover, with his fisi-
mous English lances, was engaged on
the Pontifical side. The success was
now chiefly on the side of the league,
and Visconti once more betook him-
himself to intrigues and negotiations
at Avignon, where he obtained a trace
in 1374. We find St. Catharine writ-
ing, in* 1372, to two great French pre-
lates, the Cardinal Pierre d'Estaing^
who had just been appointed legate at
Bologna ; and the Abbot of Marmon-
tier, a relation of the Pope, who was
sent at the same time to govern Pera-
gia and discharge the office of nuncio
in Tuscany. Her letters to the cardi-
^nal seem to show that she was already
known to him. The first contains lit-
tle but spiritual exhortation, though
there is a hint at l^e end to the saints
favorite subject at this time, the cru-
sade against the infidels. In the seo
ond she speaks strongly for peace
among Christians. The letter to the
abbot — ^who afterward became a cardi-
nal, and died on the schismadcal side
— ^is evidently an answer to a letter
from him, asking advice for himself
and also for the Pope. St. Catharine
urges him to prevail on the Holy Father
to put down the nepotism that pre-
vailed among high ecclesiastics, to
discourage the luxurious worldliness
of the prelates, and to choose good
and virtuous men as cardinals. A
little later we find her writing to the
truculent Bamabo himself, the man
who made papal legates eat the mis*
sives of excommunicatio]i which they
were charged to deliver to him — ^who
declared that he was Pope in his own
dominions, and dressed up a mad >
priest in mock vestments to excommu-
nicate the Pope in return, and made
the monasteries under his rule take
charge of his hounds. This letter, ^
again, was in answer to a message
brought to Siena from Bamabo by

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Public lAfe of St. Catharine of Siencu

551

one of his servants. Catharine sets
before him the crime he has been
guilty of in going to war with the
Pope, and exhorts him to make
amends for it bj taking part in the
crdsade. The letter seems to have
been written afler the peace granted
to Visconti in 1374. The^ame date,
or perhaps an earlier one, seems to
belong to a long letter of the saint to
Beatrice della Scala, the wife of Bar-
nabo, in which that ladj is urged to
become more religious herself, and
thus to inflaence her liusband, espe-
cially to peace and obedience toward
the Holy Father. This letter, also, is
in answer to a message.

Catharine's life became still more
actiye than before about this time.
She was sent for to Florence by the
general of her order, and seems to have
gone about to several other cities, such
as Pisa and Lucca, and to have ex-
ercised great influence everywhere.
Her presence had before this begun to
attract crowds wherever she went:
they came to speak to her, to consult
her about the affairs of their souls or
their family troubles ; and her burn-
ing words wrought numberless con-
versions. The B. Raymond, speak-
ing of this part of her life, teUs us in
his simple way, '< If all the limbs of
my. body were turned into so many
tongues, they would not be enough to
relate the fruit of souls which this vir-
gin plant, that the heavenly Father
hath planted, did produce. I have
sometimes seen a ihousand persons or
more, men and women, come at the
same time, as if drawn by the sound
of some unseen trumpet, from the
mountains or from the villages in the
territory of Siena, to see or to hear
Catharine. These persons — I don't
say at her words, but even at the mere
sight of her — were suddenly struck
with compunction for their misdeeds,
bewailed their sins, and ran to the con-
fessors, of whom I was one; and so
great was the contrition with which
they made their confessions, that na
one could doubt that a great abundance
of grace had descended from heaven

upon their hearts. This happened
not once or twice only, but very often.
For this reason Pope Gregory XI., of
happy memory, who was both con-
soled and rejoiced at this great fruit in
souls, granted letters apostolic to me
and to my two companions, giving us
power to absolve all those who came
to see Catharine and to confess their
sins, in all the cases for which the
bishops of the dioceses had faculties.
And that truth, that neither deceives
nor can be deceived, knows well that
many came to find us out whowete
laden with great sins, and who had
never before made confession, or never
received as it ought to be received the
sacrament of penance. We — ^that is,
my companions and myself— often re-
mained fasting till evening, and were
too few to hear all those who wished
to confess ; and indeed, to declare my
own imperfection, and the influence of
this holy virgin, so great was the
throng of people wishmg to confess
that many times I found myself quite
worn out and wearied by the excess
of fatigue. But Catharine went on
praying incessantly; and when the
holy prey was won, she rejoiced fully
in the Lord, as one who had won a
victory, ordering her other sons and
daughters to wait upon us, who were
tending the nets that she had spread.
No pen can express the abundance of
the joy in her mind, nor even the signs
of gladness that she gave, which in-
deed gave us so much internal de-
light as to make us forget the recol-
lection of any sadness whatever we
had to undergo." *

Gregory XI. seems before his elec-
tion to have been well acquainted with
St. Bridget, for he was the cardinal
through whom she had wished to com-
municate to Urban V. the message
that she had received to deliver to
him. He kept up a correspondence
with her as long as she lived, and re-
ceived some tremendous warnings
from her about the return cf the Holy
See to Bome. At the time of which

* Legmkda^ li. ch., 7.

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PuiHc Life of Sl Catharine of Siena.

we axe speaking, 1374, in the fifth
year of his reign, he sent SL Bridg-
et's confessor to Catharine to recom-
mend himself to her prayers. This
may have been the opening of the in-
tercoarse between them. Of the four-
teen letters to Gregory that remain to
us, none seem to bear an earlier date
than 1376.* It does not appear cer-
tain, therefore, whether she had any
direct influence upon the Pope's de-
sire to set on foot a new crusade, which
he urged on with much vigor about
the time of the peace granted to Yis-
conti. But it was one of St. Catha-
rine's thi*ee darling projects ; thd other
two being the reform of the prelacy
ftnd the restoration of the papacy to
Rome. The fact that her confessor
and friend, Fr. Raymond, was appoint-
ed to preach the crusade seems to im-
ply that she had been in conununica-
tion with Gregory upon the subject.
We have already said that she pix>-
posed to Bamabo himself to take the
cross. The idea of sending all the
turbulent spirits in Europe to fight
against the Turks was not a new one ;
Urban V. had proposed it to the
^ companies" who ravaged France and
even insulted him by exacting a ran-
som for Avignon ; but the freebooters
naturally preferred the less dangerous,
though less glorious, life that they
were living in France* They were at
last persuaded to enlist against Peter
the CrueL In St. Catharine's time
there was a proposal of the same kind,
with regard to the ^' bands" in Italy,
whom we shall presently see the
instruments of the greatest possible
miBchief to that unhappy country.
We have a letter from her to Sir John
Hawkwood, from which it appears

Fonr of these letters (7-10) were written
vhUe Catharine was at Avignon, and were only
to be found in Latin amone the papers of B.
Raymond, who wae, it appears, interpreter be-
tween tlib saint and the Pope, who did not qq-
derstand her Tnscan dialecL M. Chavin de
Jialan (11^ 880) conjectures that the first three of
them may be sammaries of oonversatkms ihat
paased at ATignon. taken down afterward by
B. Raymond. Bat internal evidence is aealDst
this BQppositlon ; and it is not at all unlikely, as
the oppoRition to her inflacDce was so strong,
that the Pope preferred that she should oommu-
nicate with him by letter.

that he and his followers had actuaUj
^i^g&ged to sei've in the crusade.
Other letters on the subject of the
same expedition show that she was
now in a position to address herself
with effect to the sovereigns of great
states. She writes at this time to
Queen Jos^na of Naples, and to the
queen-mother of Hungary, in hopes
of her assistance in persuading her
son. King Louis. But if the peace
with Bamabo had made the crusade
once more possible, fresh troubles
soon ensued in Italy which prevented
it, and which occasioned the still
greater prominence of St. Catharine
' as an earnest advocate of peace.

The disturbances were not, this
time, the work of the ViscoiUL Bar-
nabo turned them to his own advan-
tage, but he was not their author.
Historians concur in attributing a
feeling of general discontent with the
internal administration and external
policy of the pontifical government in
Italy to the conduct of the^rench le-
gates. We find very strong charges
against them; for example, in th&
chronicle of St. Antoninus, written in
the following century ; but it may be
questioned whether he did more than
repeat what he found in other Floren-
tine writers; and, in this case, the
testimony of a Florentine is hardlj to
be admitted without suspicion. But
it is very hkely that many of the
charges of tyranny, ambition, extor-
tion, and luxury are not unfounded.
Still, the internal administration of the
States of the Church had been settled
by Albomoz, and his system might
have carried the government through
without an outbr^dL, even under the
trial of administrators quite unworthy
to succeed him. had it not been for
the suspicions that arose, in cities ex-
ternal to the pontifical territory, that
its governors aimed at the subjugation
of their neighbors. It thus seemed to
become their interest not only to de-
fend themselves, but to anticipate the
danger by raising revolts in the States
of the Church. It is quite clear that
Gregory XI. had no such design him*

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553

Belf, and that he would not have toler-
ated it in his subordinates. Neither
are the acts of the latter such as can-
not be explained on other grounds.
But what is clear to us at a distance
was not necessarilj so dear to the
contemporaries of St. Catharine. Cer-
tain measures of the legate at Bolog-
na, and of the governor of Perugia,
had an unfor unate look. In the first
place, it seems that the diplomacy of
that time did not insist, in the case of
a confederacy of a number of powers
against a common enemy, that peace
should not be made by one member of
the league without the consent of the
remainder. The peace with Bamabo
had been made, it appears, without the
concurrence of Florence, Pisa, Siena,
and the other allies of the Pope. An-
other cause of soreness was a measure
adopted about the same time by the
Cardinal Legate of Bologna, which
pressed hardly upon Tuscany. The
last two years had been yeara of great
scarcity in that part of Italy, and he
now forbade the exportation of grain
from the Legation. He was no doubt
afraid of relieving his neighbors at the
risk of suffering himself. But there
was more to come. Sir John Hawk-
wood and his followers had to be dis-
charged on account of the peace;
they were no sooner dismissed than
they invaded the Florentine territory,
attempted to make themselves masters
o^ Prato, and ravaged the country up
- to the gates of Florence itself. Thus
soldiers, only a few days before in the
pay of the Holy See, were attacking
one of its allies with fire and sword.
It looked very like an attempt to en-
slave Tuscany. At the same time
Siena had a complaint of the same
sort against the abbot of Montmajor
at Perugia. The powerful family of
the Salimbeni were at that time in
exile from Siena, the last revolution
of which city had put the supreme
power' into Uie hands of the popular
party. The pontifical governor of
Perugia leagued himself with the ex-
iles, and thus appeared to be aiming at
the destruction of the liberties of Siena.

Sr^o omnis fariie eurrexit Etruria
jusHs, Nothing had indeed been done
which did not admit of explanation ;
And, if his legates had really been
guilty of aggression, Gregory XI.
could, have readily disavowed them.
Indeed, he ordered the edict against
the exportation of grain from the Ro-
magna to be revoked ; in which, how-
ever, the cardinal at Bologna refused
to obey him. But this conciliatory
order came too late. Under such pro-
vocation men, and especially Italians,
would not wait for explanations.
They were jealous of their liberties,
and they hated the idea of foreign
domination ; the representatives of
the pontifical government at the time
were foreigners to them, and seemed
to be seeking to enslave them. Flor-
ence flew to arms : she had been long
devoted to the Holy See ; now she
gave herself over to the rule of the
faction within her, who had ever been
the minority, because they were the
enemies of the Pope ; and these men,
feeling themselves still in reality the
weaker party, lost no time in plunging
into the most frantic excesses, that
they might alienate their country from
the Holy Father beyond hope of recon-
ciliation, and wreak their own ven-
geance on their personal enemies so
fully as to leave them no chance of
again recovering their power. Hawk-
wood was soon disposed of; he was
bought off for a large sum. The move-
ment in Florence became a revolution,
with all its accompaniments of blood,
spoliation, and terror. The inquisitors
were massacred, the prisons destroy-
ed ; the prior of the Carthusians, who
presented himself as papal envoy
with overtures of reconciliation, was
torn to pieces, and his flesh thrown to
the dogs. The clergy were with-
drawn from the jurisdiction of the
Pope ; the nomination of benefices
assumed by the magistrates of the re-
public. These, however, were all
changed ; a committee of eight, a sort
of Comite du Salut Publlque — called,
in derision, the Eight Saints — seized
the helm of government; it was a

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554

Puilic Life of Si. CcUharine of Siena.

complete reign of terror. Bat thej
were not content with turning Florence
against the Pope ; thej sent envoys
throughout the whole of Tuscany and
Umbria, inyiting all the- cities to join
in league against the pontifical gor-
emment, and bearing with them red
banners inscribed with the word " Lib-
ertas." The conduct of the French
governors had but too well prepared
die subjects of the Pope for these in-
vitations. Citta di Castello led the
way ; Perugia, Nami, Viterbo, Mon-
tefiascone followed ; before the end of
1375 nearly the whole of the pontifical
territory, ibi^ Patrimony, the Duchy
of Spoleto, and the March of Ancona,
were in open revolt All that Albor^
noz had done for the Holy See seem-
ed to have been done in vain. Bolog-
na, almost alone, remained faithful;
but even there the government of the
legate was very insecure.

It was felt at Avignon that some-
thing was now to be dealt with very
different even from a war against the
Visoonti. Some " companies" of Bre-
tons were then ravaging or ransom-
ing cities in the south of France, un-
der two famous captains of the day,
Jean de Malestroit and SUvestre de
Bade; they were enlisted under the
flag of the Church, and prepared to
descend on Italy. But Gregory XL
determined to try the method of con-
ciliation before letting them loose.
He sent envoys to Florence, who of-
fered terms to which" no prudent per-
son could make objection. Perugia
and Citta di Castello were to be fi^e,
but the Florentines were to cease in
their revolutionary propaganda in the
States of the Church, and particularly
in Bologna. The " eight saints** had
all that was reasonable and good in
Florence against them, and they dared
not openly refuse to entertain terms
such as these. But they sent secret
instructions to their commander in the
field while the negotiations were being
carried on ; he marched on Bologna,
raised the people in revolt, and made
the legate a prisoner. They succeed-
ed in their ulterior object: the Papal

envoys left Florence without conclud-
ing any peace.*

After this fresh provocation, noth*
ing remained for the Pope but to at-
tack the Florentines with every weap*
on at his disposal. The Breton com-
panies were ordered to march, under
the general command of the Cardinal
Robert of Geneva, a man, it seems,
with more of the soldier than the
priest about him, who was to be, with-
in three years from the time that he
began his expedition, the first of the
miserable line of Antipopes who op-
posed themselves to the legitimate
successors of Gregory XL His pres-
ent campaign was distinguished chiefly
by two events, neither of which cast
credit on the pontifical cause : a treaty
he made with Visconti (who had be-
fore allied himself with the Floren-
tines), by which the Guelfic party in
the nordi of Italy were sacrificed to
the enmity of the tyrant ; and the aw-
ful sack and massacre of Cesena by
the Breton troops. But the Pope
used spiritual weapons also against
offenders like the Florentines ; and in
their case the temporal consequences
of the solemn excommunication under
which they fell made themselves fi&r
more swiftly and keenly felt than in
that of a great seigneur like Bamabo.
Their merchants and agents were in
every country of Europe : the sentence
of the Pope exposed them everywhere
to confiscation, imprisonment, and
slavery ; their commerce was rained,
and it is said that the immediate loss
to the city amounted to three million
florins. At all events, early in the
year 1376, and but a few weeks aft«r
they had chosen not to avail them-
selves of the moderate overtures made
by the Papal envoys, the Florentines
began to desire peace. It is probable
that there had always been but a nar-
row majority in favor of the violent
measures of which we have spoken ;
now, the great misfortunes of the state
made even its revolutionary rulers
look about them for a mediator, for
their first attempt at negotiation had
proved a failure. They had sent two

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555

ambassadors to Avignon ; but instead
of apologising for their undeniable ag^
gressions, they laid all the blame on
the pontifical delegates, and were dis-
missed by Gregory with a confirma-
tion o£ their sentence. A mediator,
therefore, was necessary ; and instead
of asking the kind offices of the emper-
or, or the king of France, or some
other of the sovereigns of £arope,
thej determined to seek the help of
Catharine of Siena.

Catharine had bsen in the midst of
the tnmult, doing what she could to
maintain peace. It seems that
Oregory XL had begged her to go to
Lucca, where she was held in great
veneration, to keep that city from
pining the league against the Church.
She had also exerted her influence at
Pisa, and seems lo have susoeedad in
both places, though with soms diffi-
culty. From Pisa she wrote the first
of her series of letters to the Pope.
She was still there when the magis-
trates of Florence invited her to un-
dertake their cause. She visited the
city, conversed with the principal men
of all parties, and it was agreed that
they should send another and a hum-
bler embassy to Avignon, on condition
that she should precede the envoys,
and endeavor to soften the heart of
the Holy Father toward his rebel-
lious children. She was already
sending letters to Avignon imploring
peace, and urging the Pope to return
to Rome, and to raise the standard of
the crusaders, in order to unite all
discordant elements by directing them
to a common object. She had sent
her mp^t intimate confidant and con-
fessor, Father Raymond, to plead the
cause of the Florentines ; and soon
followed him herself, accompanied by
a number of her « disciples," arriving
at Avignon about the middle of June,
1376.

As is so often the case in the lives
of the chosen instruments of Provi-
dence, Catharine was to do a great
work at Avignon, but not the work
for which she apparently went there.
She was received by the Pope with

the greatest kindness and distinction;
she was even intrusted by him with
full powers to make peace with the
Fiorantines. But Gregory XL. knew
the men with whom he was dealing
better than she. The government of
Florence was still in the hands of the
eight; they did not really desire
peace, at least on any terms that the
Pope could grant them. They had
yielded to the vast majority of their
fellow-citizens in seeming to wish for
wha!; would be in reality the end of
their own power. The envoys
delayed their journey to Avignon:
when thsy did arrive, and Catharine
proposed to use the full powers the
Pops had given her, they replied that
they had no authority to treat with
her; nor ware thay more honest in
their de^lin^s with the Pope himself.
The timd, then, for the particular task
that Catharine had undertaken was
not yet eome ; but she was at Avignon
now, at the side of Gregory XI., and
she was to decide him to a step far
more important than the granting a
peace to Florence.

The character of Gregory XL is so
constantly represented in the same
colors by historians of every grade,
that it would seem almost rash to sup-
pose that they could all have been
mistaken in the picture. It has a
softness and beauty about it that are
extremely touching, when viewed in
the light of his many misfortunes and
early death, overshadowed as it was
by the threats of the still greater
troubles from which it saved him.
He had been marked out for high
ecclesiastical dignity from the very
first, and was but eighteen when his
uncle, Clement VL, made him car-
dinal. His career after his elevation
justified his premature advancement;
he made himself famous for learning,
and even more so for his tender piety
and the unsullied purity of his lifo.
His humility and sweetness won all
hearts : perhaps the more because his
frail health, his pale countenance, and
evident delicacy of constitution, gave
a kind of plaintive charm to his very

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556

PMic Life of St. Oatharine of Siena.

appearance. Though he was barelj
fortj jears of age at the death of
Urban V., he had been elected Pope
after the conclave had lasted but a
single night. He had refused at first,
but at last had been forced to accept
the crown of Sl Peter as a matter of
dutj. He was then onlj in deacon's
orders. No one has ever questioned
the puritj of his alms, or even the
Tightness of his views and the sound-
ness of his judgment We have
already said, with regard to one great
paramount question of the time, that
he had secretly vowed to take back
the papacy to Rome, if he ever should
be elected pope. But, inheriting as
he did the traditions of Clement VL,
surrounded in France by noble and
powerful relatives, and by cardinals '
almost exclusively his fellow-pantry-
men, and With health and constitution
that were almost sure to be ruined at
once by the air of Rome, everything
seemed to forbid him to make the
effort that was required. The earlier
years of his reign had passed away,
not indeed without many thou:rhts and
even declarations on the subject, but
without any steps being taken to put
the design in execution. In 1374 he
had announced his intention of visiting
Rome to the emperor ; in the follow-
ing January he had written in the
same sense to Edward UI. and to
other kings of Europe. But that
summer and autumn saw the outbreak
at Florence, and the gi*eat revolution
that arrayed almost the whole of the
Ecclesiastical States in rebellion
against the Church ; and the advocates
of the French residence of the papacy
must have thought themselves safe
now' that Italy had risen against
Gregory. He was not, like Urban V.,
a pope elected from outside the Col-
lege oP Cardinals, with little sympathy
and but few ties with them. He was
of one of the great Limousin families,
the nephew of the most brilliant of the
Avignon popes, surrounded by power-
ful relatives, all of whom were inter-
ested in keeping him where he was.
The quiet security of Provence suited

him, and he was one of those gentle
characters, not wanting in ordinary
firmness and decision, which still
are more fitted for tranquil times
than for days of disturbance, and
are more capable of suffering and
of patience than of initiating bold
measures and breasting th^ waves of
a great emergency. Family and
personal influence had much weight
with him; not from any active
ambition or spirit of nepotism, so
much as that it had become at Avignon
a matter almost of course that many
of the splendid prizes in the gift of the
Popes should be bestowed on their
relatives. He himself owed his
position originally to that custom*
At a time when reform was mnch
needed in the prelacy, and many
abuses and scandals existed which re-
quired to be sternly rebuked and
punished, he could see what was
wanting more easily than carry it out
With a severity alien to his natare.
He was influenced by the atmosphere
around him. In the same way, not-
withstanding his own strong inclination
to grant peace on any terms to the
Florentines, he seems to have yielded
&s to his actual policy to the more vio-
lent and relentless counsels of the
French cardinals, headed by Robert
of Geneva, who led the Breton com-
panies over the Alps. It might well
have been thought that such a pontiff
would not now act against the advice
and the wishes of all around him, and
that the actual state of Italy ^oold be
enough to make him adjourn indefi-
nitely his promised journey to Rome.
To such a character it is some-
times Everything to have support and
companionship-^--the mind and the
voice of another, however inferior, thai
seem to give body and life to thoughts
and designs not new indeed, but which
seemed before to belong rather to
the world of dreams and imag^natioaB
than of possible realities; to change
wishes and longings into practical res-
olutions ; to chase away phantom diflEU
culties, and nerve the will to efforts
and sacrifices which the oooscienoe

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b51

has long prompted. With all of us
our own ideas and designs seem some-
times to date their real existence from
the moment that we found thej were
shared by some one else. In the case
of Gregory XI., he seems, before the
arrival of Catharine at Avignon, to
have been almost alone in his wish to
return to Italy ; and he had already
seen something of St. Bridget, and
learnt from intercourse with her what
the personal influence of great sancti-
ty might be. Catharine at once won
his perfect confidence, and her pres-
ence gave him the courage to follow
out the course which he had long felt
to be the right one. It is this which
makes it historically true that she had
so great a part in the final return of
the Holy See from Avignon. It is
easy to find reasons why Gregory
should have returned; it is easy to
show that there was danger that
an attempt might be made by the
Romans to give their city a bishop of
their own creation ; or, on the other
hand, tiiat Gregory had intended to
take the step long before he took it.
If these things are alleged to show
that the influence of St. Catharine has
been exaggerated by her historians,
they are beside the point. Her prov-
idential mission at Avignon was not to
put new considerations before the mind
of Gregory, but to strengthen his will
to act upon considerations already fa-
miliar to him.

The esteem in which the Pope held
her was not only manifested by the re-
ception he gave her, and by his invit-
ing her even to speak in public as to
what she thought to be required for
the best interests of the Church*; it al-
so shielded and defended her from the
dislike with which her unwelcome pres-
ence was viewed by many a magnifi-
cent prelate and many a brilliant offi-
cial of the court of Avignon. The re-
forms that she spoke of as so necessa-
Tj, and the return to Rome that she
reoommended, were equally distaste-
ful to them. Three of the most learn-
ed prelates asked leave of the Pope to
visit her, and began to catechise her

most severely both as to her presump-
tion in coming as the envoy of Flor-
ence, and as to her preternatural gifts
of prayer and her extraordinary mode
of life. But they left her overwhelm-
ingly convinced of her sanctity and
wonderful gifts. The fine ladies
about the court — the sisters, nieces,
and relations of the Pope and the car-
dinals — ^looked on her with instinctive
dread. Some of them even tried to
patronize and make tier the fashion ;
but she either exhorted them plainly
to conversion, or turned from them
with that stern silence with which her
Master received the overtures of the
blood-etained paramour of Herodias.
One of them — a niece of the Pope-
knelt beside her in apparent devotion,
as she was rapt in prayer before com-
munion, and plunged a needle or bod-
kin into her bare foot, to see whether
she could feel it, * When her state of
abstraction ceased, Catharine could
hardly walk, and her sandal was full
of congealed blood. The French king
heai*d of her influence with the Pope,
and sent his brother, the Duke of An-
jou, to dissuade Gregory from listen-
ing to her ; but Catharine won the re-
spect and admiration of the duke, pre-
vailed on him to offer himself for the
crusade, and suggested him to the
Pope as its captain-in-chief. Then an
attempt was made to influence Grego-
ry by means of the deference that he
paid to the advice of saintly souls. A
forged letter wa& sent him — as it ap-
pears, in the name of the holy Peter of
Aragon — ^telling him that if he went
to Italy he would be poisoned. Cath-
arine showed him that the letter was
not such as a servant of God would
write, and that poison could be given
him in France as well as in Italy.
After all, the Pope still hesitated ; he
made preparations and issued orders,
but it was with slowness and reluct-
ance; and at any time a change
might come over the state of affairs in
Italy that might be the occasion of in-
definite delay. One day again he
asked her opinion. She said she was
a poor weak woman ; how should she

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558

PubUe Lift of St. Oatharine of Siena.

giye advice to the Bovereiga Pontiff?
^ I do not ask you to counsel me," be
replied, ^but to tell me wbat is the
will of God." Again she excused ber-
self ; and Gregory again urged her,
commanding her at last, by yirtue of
her obedience, to tell him what she
knew of God's will as to the matter.
She bowed her head — ** Who knows
the will of God better than your holi-
ness, who hare promised him by tow
to return to Rome P* Gregory had
never revealed his vow to living soul ;
and from that moment his determina-
tion was taken. Still the opposition
was great and powerful. The cardi-
nals urged him with the example of an
excellent Pope, Clement IV., who had
never done anything without the ap-
proval of the Sacred College. Cath-
arine met their arguments, she even
went so far as to urse the Pope to de-
part secretly, so obstinate and so influ-
ential was the party that wished to re-
tain bun in France. At length, on
September 13, 1376, amid the remon-
strances of his family and the tears of
his aged father, as well as the suUen
complaints of the whole court, Gregory
XI. left Avignon. Catharine had re-
mained to the last, and then went on
foot with her companions to Grenoa,
whither the Pope was to pass by sea.
It seemed as if every kind of influ-
ence that could beat down his cour^
age was to be allowed to work upon
the failing heart of Grregory. Every-
thing that could be turned into a bad
omen was carefully noted. His horse
refused to let him mount ; then it be-
came so restive that another had to be
brought. As he passed by Novis, Or-
gon, and Aix to 'Marseilles, every-
where the inhabitants were in tears
and gloom. Marseilles itself, when
he came to embark, was the scene of a
grand explosion of grief. Then there
came the terrors of a dangerous voy-
age, from the extremely severe weath-
er encountered by the fleet The
grand master of the Knights of St.
John himself took the helm of the gal-
ley in which the Pope sailed— a
weather-beaten veteran, accustomed

to perils of all sorts, who had to ex-
ert all his skill under the storm that
came on as they made across toward
Genoa. They were obliged to put
into Yillafranca for some days. It
was not till the 18th of October, six-
teen days after leaving Marseilles,
that Genoa was reached. Here tlie
Pope was met by bad news from Rome
and from Florence; the Florentines,
alarmed at his approach, were prepar-
ing for the most desperate hostilities ;
the Romans seemed quite unwilling to
put the government of the city into his
hands. A consistory was held (the
greater number of the cardinals were
with the Pope), and the resolution
was adopted not to proceed further with
the journey. All seemed lost; but
Catharine with her company was in
Grenoa. The Pope sought her out —
it is said, by night; and from her
calm and fervent words gained fresh
strength and courage to pursue his
journey to the end.*.

So, afler ten days spent at Genoa,
the fleet once more put to sea, to be
driven again into Porto Fino, where
the feast of All Saints was kept It
arrived at Leghorn on the 7th of No-
vember, and there again lingered ten
or eleven days. As far as Piombino
all went well. When the galleys lefl
that port, another storm — the most vi-
olent of all they had met with — ^arose,
and drove them back shattered and
disabled ; three cardinals were serious-
ly ill, one of whom died at Pisa a few
days later. At last Cometo was
reached on December 6, more than
two months after the departure from
Marseilles. Gregory remained there
for several weeks to regain his strength,
and then sailed up the Tiber, landing
near the basilica of St. Paul on Jan-
uary 17, 1377, the day before Ac
foast of the Roman Chair of St Peter.
His entrance was a triumph that
seemed to promise him every security
for peace and tranquillity ; and the
joy and devotion of the Romans may

* See Ctpeoelatro, *'J8toria di SarUaOeUarina;'^
lib. ▼., p. &, ad ed.

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A GhrUtmas Carol 559

have taken awaj for the moment the seemed llkelj to furnish reason for the
moomful feelings with which he had prolonged exile of the papacy, brought
tamed his back on France. Thus, a about, under the providence of God,
year and a half after the revolution at the fliUilment of the resolution to re-
Florence, which, had caused so rapid turn to Rome which the Pope had so
and widespread a defection among the long delayed to accomplish. The in-
cities of the Pontifical States, and strument of the deliverance of the
seemed to threaten the very existence Holy See from its dangerous position
of the temporal power of tiie Church, was the envoy of its rebeUious chil-
these very events, which might have dren, the humble maiden from Siena.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

BY AT7BBBY DB VBBB.

P&IHBVAL night had repossess'd
Her empire in the fields of peace ;

Calm lay the kine on earth's dark breast ; -
The earth lay calm in heaven's embrace.

That hour, where shepherds kept their fiocks,

From God a glory sudden fell ;
The splendor smote the trees and rocks.

And lay like dew along the dell.

Qod^s angel close beside them stood :

<< Fear naught," that angel said, and then,
^ Behold, I bring you tidings good :

The Saviour Christ is bom to men."

And straightway round him myriads sang
Loud song again, and yet again,

Till all the hollow valley rang

<♦ Glory to God, and peace to men.*

The shepherds wentUnd wondering eyed,
Li Bethlehem bom, the heavenly stranger •

Mary and Joseph knelt beside :
The Babe was cradled in the manger I

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660

Law and LUeraivre.

From The St. James Magazine.

LAW AND LITERATURE.

NoTwriHSTAKDiKO the seeming
incongmity, there subsists a very in-
timate connection between law and
literature. To the legal profession,
more than any other, we are indebted
for the magnitude and splendor of
our literature. Nor is it only with
one or two branches or divisions of
literature that the connection exists.
On the contrary, there is scarcely a
single department in which the legal
profession is not represented. History,
biography, philosophy, metaphysics,
poetry, the drama, fiction, oratory,
criticism, and even theology, have all
been contributed to by men who at one
time or other were connected with the
legal profession. Nor is tlie literature
which has emanated from that source
of a superficial or evanescent nature.
Much of it has passed away, and is
now almost unknown; but a great
deal still remains, forming some of the
best and most enduirabie of our
classics. And these contributions have
been — and still are being — ^made in
spite of the opposition and discounte-
nance of the legal profession itself.

There is an opinion very prevalent
among the public generally, and the
legal profession in particular, that the
study of literature is at variance and
inconsistent with the study of law;
that the more the former is indulged
in, the more the latter will decline.
In support of this opinion we are told
that very few men have distinguished
themselves in both avocations; that
men of great literary attainments have
seldom risen to eminence in the legal
profession. That is, no doubt, true;
but I attribute it to a very different
cause. I consider that the study of
literature must have a beneficial dSect
upon a lawyer, provided that it is

made subservient to the business of
his profession.

The duties which lawyers are called
upon to dischai^e are many and
various, and consequently a vast deal
of general knowledge is indispensable
to the formation of a really good
lawyer. It is not sufficient that he is
wen versed in legal principles and
precedents. Without these be cannot
succeed in his profession ; but they arc
not the only requisites. There are
many cases in which legal principle
and precedent are only of secondary
importance. It is when he is called
upon to deal with such cases that the
lawyer feels the advantages of varied
information. If he is ignorant of almost
everything but law, he must be pain-
fully aware of his utter incompetence
to do justice to his client. He is com-
peUed to grope his way like a man in
the dark; he wanders at raadom,
stumbling over eveiytliing that lies
in his path, and ends, it may be, by
falling into a ditch from which he
vainly attempts to extricate himself —
every attempt only causing him to
sink deeper — and is at last compelled
to call for help. But it is differ^it
with the man who, in addition to his
legal knowledge, is possessed of much
general and varied information. He
can always see his way, and, if assist-
ance is necessary, he knows where to
seek for, and seldom fails in obtain'mg
it. It is only to a law^^er of this latter
stamp that any man with his eyes
open would intrust the care of in-
terests which involved other than
strictly legal questions. ,

Now if it be true that a large amount
of general knowledge is necessary to
the formation of a really good lawyer,
then it must be admitted that the study

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loM) and Literature.

561

of literature is an indispensable part
of his professional education. The
arts and sciences are all represented in
literature ; and it is only in the study
of literature that the requisite general
information can be gained. The
error appears to me to consist in con-
founding the term literature with
amusing Uterature. This confusion of
terms is verj common ; but it is also
very absurd. When I speak of " lit-
erature/' I use the word in its most
comprehensive sense ; and if I weqe
to be understood as meaning solely
'^amusing literature," my meaning
would be grossly perverted. There is
no ground for accepting a limited in-
terpretation unless the term used is
expressly qualified.

Ease, fluency, and polish, not only
in speaking, but also in writing, are
likewise indispensable to a lawyer,
particularly in the higher walks of the
profession. Isl order to attain these
requisites, conciseness, concentration,
and arrangement of thought must be
diligently studied. .There is nothing
which tends more to the acquirement
of such qualities than the careful ex-
amination of them as displayed in the
writings and speeches of others, and
the frequent expression of our own
thoughts, both in writing and in
speech. Law treatises, it need scarce-
ly be said, are not conspicuous as
models of either ease, fluency, or pol-
ish ; and therefore the lawyer who as-
pires to these accomplishments must
seek elsewhere for his models. In
this respect, also, the study of litera-
turg^is beneficial to the lawyer; and
if attentive reading be accompanied
with frequent careful writing and
speaking, he cannot fail ultimately to
gain the objects of his desire. If the
members of the legal profession would
bestow more pains than they do to the
acquisition of a good style of writing
and speaking, the advantages which
would accrue to them would greatly
outweigh all the trouble incurred. I
have seen letters and even pleadings
written, and heard speeches delivered,
by men of eminence in the legal profes-
voL. II. 86

sion, which displayed either the gross-
est carelessness or the most lamentable
ignorance of the rules, not only of
composition, but also of grammar ; and
such as would have been almost inex-
cusable in a schoolboy. It is a com-
mon notion that elegance is not re-
quired, and is out of place in law pa-
pers and in letters. I for one can-
not agree in that opinion. An ele-
gant style is always desirable. It
is preposterous to assert — as many
people do — ^^hat attention to style
begets a habit of neglecting the
substance for the sake of the shadow.
On the contrary, an elegant style adds
to the effect both of speech and writ-
ing ; and thei;efore it ought to be culti-
vated by every lawyer.

So much for the general objection
that the study of literature is incom-
patible with the study of law. I think
I have said quite sufficient to show
that it ought to form a part of the ed-
ucation of every lawyer. But with'
reference to the proof of the assertion,
that men of distinguished literary at-
tainments have seldom risen to emi-
nence in the legal profession, I could
name many men who have rendered
themselves conspicuous for their liter-
ary abilities, and, at the same time,
gained the highest honors of their pro-
fession. Yet I admit tl^t overwhelm-
ing evidence of a contrary nature
might easily be adduced ; but I do not
admit the reason to be that the one
profession is incompatible with the
Other. I maintain the reverse. The
reason why comparatively few lawyers
have risen to eminence, both in litera-
ture and in law, appears to me to be
simply this, that whenever their litera-
ry leanings became known, the oppor-
tuni^ was denied them of distinguish-
ing themselves in their profession ; the
consequence of which was that they
abandoned the study of law altogether,
and betook themselves to the more
agreeable and less laborious occupa-
tion of literature. And it must also
be borne in mind that law is not al-
ways studied with the view of engag-
ing in its practice; but ofleo with the

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562

ZouF and LUerature.

sole purpose of gaining admission to
the bar for the sake of its social ad-
vantages, or with the aim of acquiring
such a knowledge as will be useful in
legislative discussion.

I now proceed to consider the
causes which lead to the intimate con-
nection between law and literature. I
do not think thej are difficult of ex-
planation. Speaking generallj, it
may be said that the lawyers who have
distinguished themselves in literature
have been for the most part members
of the bar. Comparatively few have
been members of the other branches
of the profession. In England intend-
ing barristers must be students of an
inn of court for three years,* during -
which time they are not permitted to
engage in any business. In Scotland,
too, every appUcant for admission into
the faculty of advocates must have
graduated either in arts or in laws ;
or undergo an examination in Latin,
Grreek (or in his option, in lieu of
Greek, two of the following languages,
viz., French, German, Italian, and
Spanish), ethical and metaphysical
philosophy, and logic or (in his option)
mathematics, beside an examination
in the civil law and the law of Scot-
land; and one year must be passed
without an occupation. Having been
called to the bar, a few years gener-
ally elapse before much business is in-
trusted to them, and often it never
comes at alL During all this time
something must be done— An occupa-
tion of some kind must be found either
for pleasure or to kill time ; or it
may be to earn a means of subsist-
ence. Literature — to which their pre-
vious training inclines them — ^is the
only employment which is available ;
and accordingly literature is resorted
to. A taste for letters is thus foster-
ed« Its gratification has a twofold ad-
vantage, it affords both pleasure and
profit. It becomes a habit, and is in-
dulged in on every available occasion.

* Now, before being admitted as ftwUmts they
must have pasaed a public examination at an
iiniver«Uy, or undergo an examination In Latin,
Bngliah language, and Bngiiih history.

There is always plenty of leisure, at
least for many, years, and that leisure
is devoted to literature. The employ-
ment is so seductive that in many
cases its legal votaries ai% drawn
away from their regular studies —
which unfortunately often happen not
to be profitable in a pecuniary sense —
and adopt literature as a profession
Even lawyers with a large practice
can occasionally find time for indulging
in literary pursuits. During vacation
they have plenty of leisure, and as
they are accustomed to constant hard
work in session, they experience a
want and a craving whenever the^
have nothing to do, and this they en-
deavor to satisfy by devoting them-
selves to literature. Many of the
most eminent men ,at the bar occupy
the greater portion of their spare time
in literary studies.

The practice of law eminently
qualifies a man for attaining dis-
tinction in h'terature. It engenders
rapidity of thought, systematic arrange-
ment of aiguments and ideas, and
facility of expression. Lawyers in
the enjoyment of any considerable
practice are almost constantly called
upon to form their opinion and give it
expression, apparently without time
for even the most superficial reflection.
Continual exercise renders these easy
to them. In setting forth their argu-
ments both in written and in oral
pleadings they are trained to habits
of carefulness and close reasoning;
because they know very weU that any
inconsistencies or false reasoning will
at once be discovered by the judges
whom they are addressing, or by the
opposite counsel. What would im-
pose upon a jury, or upon an ordinary
reader or listener, will not impose
either upon the judges or opposing
counsel. They are thus led to say
what they wish to say in the clearest
manner, and in the way which is most
likely to succeed in gaining the object
in view. As they are compelled to
avoid false reasoning and inconsis-
tencies themselves, so they are ever
on the outlook for them on the part of

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563

an opponent — ^it becomes, in fact, a
habit. Again, the various duties
which thej are called upon to dis-
charge enable them to pass from one
subject to another with ease and readi-
ness, and compel them to acquire a
vast amount of general information
which is carefully stored up for future
use« The habits thus engendered and
constantly exercised, either in written
pleading or in oral debate, are easily
transferred to literature when that is
indulged in. As perspicuity, arrange-
ment, and close reasoning are the
very qualities which lead to literary
success, and as these are more
exercised and consequently more
perfect among lawyers than among
any other class of men, the reason
why they occupy such an eminent
position in literature is easily under-
stood.

There are two departments of lit-
erature to which the foregoing ob-
servations are applicable only to a
limited extent — ^poetry and fiction.*
In many respects poetry and fiction
are analogous: and the old adage,
" Poeta nascituTy nonfit^ may, there-
fore, with almost equal propriety, be
applied to the writer of fiction. How-
ever true it may be that the poet m
homy there can be no doubt that the
development of the poetic faculty is

quite as much a matter of hard study
and practice as the development of
any other inborn faculty. The study
of law is thei opposite of poetical ; but
this very antagonism begets in the
lawyer, by comparison, a keener relish
for and appreciation of poetry, when
he turns to it in his hours of leisure.
And if he is gifted with the ^ faculty
divine,** the delight taken in its culti-
vation will be greater, because it is to
him a relief from the dry details of his
ordinary pursuits. He sees, too, so
much of human life— of character and
passion — ^in the course of his profes-
sional career, that he is enabled to
delineate with truth, with strict ad-
herence to reality, the feelings and
emotions which he attempts to exhibit
in the creatures of his imagination.
These, combined with the habits of
continuity of thought and forcible ex-
pression engendered by his profes-
sional studies, must contribute in no
slight degree to his success as a poet
or novelist. I do not mean to say
that any lawyer may write a good
novel or poem if he will oniy apply
himself to the task. All I assert is
that if he is giiied with the poetic
faculty, his professional studies, when
properly attended to, will contribute
materially to his success as a poet or
novelist.

MISCELLANY.

FoitSL Wood in Flint — An interesting
specimen of this kind, which is in the
Oxford collection, has lately been de-
scribed and figured in a paper by Pro-
fessor Phillips. The nodule of fiint,
which, when broken across, disclosed
the containe<l wood, was of an elongated
oval form, and had the uneven and knot-
ted surface which frequently indicates
aggregation on a sponge. The fractured
surface showed partial change of color
by watery action from without, and
many vanations of tint within, arising

from somf. original differences in the
composition of the mass. The color
was, on the whole, somewhat lighter
than is common in flints of the " Upper
Chalk." Examined with a lens, it
showed traces of spicula and other or-
ganic bodies ; but it was impossible to
trace through the mass a distmct spongy
structure. The wood lay in the centre,
and the figure of the fiint was, in a general
sense, conformed to it, and embraced it
equally on all sides. There was a cer-
tain distinctness of color in the fiint

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564

MUceOany.

where it lay in contact with the wood.
The wood was a fragment worn and
rounded in some of the prominent parts,
and looked like a small portion of a pine
branch which had been exposed to rough
treatment, so as to present a wasted sur-
face deprived of the bark. It was en-
tirely siliceons, and exhibited its veget-
able structure most perfectly. Travers-
ing the woody fibres were several short,
tubular masses swollen at the end, and
marked more or less plainly with trans-
verse rings. These Professor Phillips
supposed to be flint moulds of cavities
lett by boring shells, probably Teredi-
Tilda, It would appear that these ani-
mals must have begun their operations
in a young state on the wood, when it
was reduced to its present form and siase ;
for the moulds wnich remain in their
holes appear to be quite small at the
surface, and to expand internally. The
writer of the paper becomes absolutely
poetical in his speculations upon the
remnant of extinct vegetation which he
described. He writes : " Par away from
the Cretaceous Sea of Albion, among
the mountains previously uplifted in the
West, from which had flowed the great
river of the Wealden, we see a forest of
coniferous trees. Whirled and broken
to fragments by the rushing stream
which received their decaying stems,
the ruins of the forest reach the sea, and
some few pieces float &r from the shore
beyond the area of deposited mud and
drifted sand. Attacked by xylopha-
gous mollusks, and sinking to the ocean
bed, one, at least, serves as the nucleus
for organic growth and accretion." Pro-
fessor Phillips does not here refer to or-
dinary accretion ; he conceives of the
block as first surrounded by organic
matter, and then, when buried in the
cretaceous deposit, serving as a centre
of attraction for siliceous solutions, such
as have more than filled to solidity the
tissues of sponges. — Poptdar Science JRe-

The Bemoval o/Neurcdgic Pain, — It has
lately been stated in some of the French
journals that Dr. Oaminiti, of Messina,
has discovered a remedy for certain
forms of neuralgia. A patient of his
had long been suffering from trifacial
neuralgia; she could not bear to look
at luminous objects, her eyes were con-
stantly watering:, and she was in con-
stant pain. Blisters, preparations of
belladonna, and hydrocnlorate of mor-

phine, friction with tincture of aconite,
pills of acetate of morphine and cam-
phor, subcarbonate of iron, etc., had
been employed with but partial success,
or none whatever. At length Dr. Oam-
initi, attributing the obstinacy of the
affection to the variations of temperature
so frequent in Sicily, adopted the expe-
dient of covering all the painful parts
with a coating of collodion containing
a certain proportion of hydrochlorate of
morphine. This treatment was perfect-
ly successful ; the relief was instantane-
ous and permanent, and the coating
fell off in the course of one or two days.

The Maiteae FomU Elephant.— Tht curi-
ous pigmy pachydeim whose remains
were some time ago discovered in the
Maltese bone-caves, has been indefatig-
ably investigated by its original discov-
erer. Dr. Leith Adams. This gentleman
has recently met with further relics of
the fossil elephant in several new locali-
ties. He met with its teeth in great
quantities in a cavern near Crendi. In a
gap, evidently at one time the bed of a
torrent, he has discovered the teeth and
bones of thirty more individuals. The
skeletons are met with jammed between
large blocks of stone in a way which
shows clearly that the carcases must
have been hurled into their present situa-
tions by violent floods or nreshets. Dr.
Adams has now almost completed the
skeleton of this wonderful little repre-
sentative of an order which, till this dis-
covery was recorded, had been com-
monly termed gigantic. Dr. Adams con-
cludes, from his numerous inquiries,
that the Maltese elephant did not ex-
ceed the height of a small pony.

The Volcanic District of Chili. — Some
short time since, M. Pissis, the great
explorer of South American geology,
transmitted to M. Elie de Beaumont an
elaborate description of the volcMiic re-
gions of Chili. He found the volcano
of Chilians again in a state of eruption.
This is a very rare circumstance in the
volcanoes of the Andes, where the erup-
tions generally succeed each other only
at very long intervals. The present
eruption, which is much more extensive
than the last one, commenced toward
the end of last November, at a new
point, situated about 200 metres below
the summit of the grand cone, the
new cone having toward the end of
January attained a height of fifty me-

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MiseeQany.

565

treSb The lava, escaping by two aper-
tures near the summit, had already
TCAched the vast glacier surroimding
this massive volcano. The grand cone,
which was covered with snow during
the eruption, had the appearance of be-
ing completely bare, yet the snow had
not been melted, but was covered with
a great quantity of projected substances,
which formed a layer over the snow of
many decimetres in thickness. The al-
ternation of glaciers with layers of
scorife are frequently met with in the
volcanic c >nes of the Andes ; wherever
natural clefts occur, a great number of
these layers may be seen successively
superposed. The volcano of Antuco,
visited last year, had been in eruption
on a small scale in 1863. As no solid
bodies were being projected at the time
of his visit, M. Pissis was enabled to
examine the interior of the crater, and,
favored by a strong westerly wind,
to observe it without being annoyed by
the acid vapors which escape in abund-
ance. The principal column of va-
por proceeded from an aperture nearly
circular, being recognized as that
through which the lava had escaped.
Its diameter was only from four to five
feet.

Dransferring Photographs to Metal for
Printing. — Some months since we called
attention to some very promising exper-
iments in this direction, conducted by
Mr. Woodbury, of Manchester. These
have resulted in a process recently
patented, which is likely to assume a
very important position in the arts.
Mr. Fox Talbot has the merit of first
pointing out the facta upon which it is
based. This gentleman, to whom phot-
c^raphers too ojfien forget how much
they owe, discovered in connection
with one of his photo-engraving pro-
cesses that gelatine when dissolved in
hot water, if mixed with bichromate
of potash or ammonia, dried, and ex-
posed to the action of light, would be-
come insoluble — a result due to the
decomposition of the alkaline bichro-
mate and the liberation of chromic
acid. It will at once, therefore, be seen
that a coat of the bichromated gelatine
on a glass or metal plate placed under
a negative and exposed to li^ht, would,
when subjected to the action of hot
water, be dissolved away in some parts,
and in othier parts unaffected, thus pro-
ducing a photographic positive in r^

lief. Acting on these facts, Mr. Wood-
bury takes the image in relief so pro-
duced, and either by mechanical press-
ure with some soft metal, such as type
metal, or by the usual process of elcc-
trot3rping, produces an intaglio impres-
sion therefrom. A properly prepared
ink, formed with gelatine and some
black or other colored pi^ent, is then
passed over the plate, with which the
impression is filled up even to the
surface. Of course the gradations of
relief in the bichromatic gelatine print
form gradations of depth in the metal
intaglio, in which again the ink, being
transparent, forms gradations of black-
ness proportioned to its varying thick-
nesses. When this ink is transferred to
paper, delivered as a jelly is from its
mold, the delicate tints, the deepest
shadows, and the intermediate grada-
tions of the photographic negative are
faithfully reproduced. In preparing
the relievo, two ounces of gelatine are
dissolved in six of water, and to this is
added three-quarters of an ounce of
lump sugar. Four ounc^ of a solution
containing sixty grains of bichromate
of ammonia to the ounce being added
to this, the whole is then, while quite
warm, strained. A plate of glass is
next covered with a sheet of talc tem-
porarily fixed by a few drops of water ;
liie talc is coated with the above, and
being sensitive to light, is placed in the
dark to set. This done, the coated
talc is removed, a negative laid over
the talc, and exposed to light in the
usual way, the only change being that
of causing the light to pass through a
glass condenser and fall on it in a par-
allel direction. The hot water is then
applied as above stated. In order to
insure perfect flatness while the cast is
being taken, the talc side of the film
should be again fastened to a plate of
glass with Canada balsam. Mr. Wood-
bury calculates that with three or four
presses going, these mechaaically
printed photographs could be pro-
duced at the rate of 120 per hour.
Apart from ordinary purposes, the
process can be applied to glass for
transparencies; to china for burning in
with enamel colors; to the production,
at a cheaper rate, of porcelain transpar-
encies, etc., etc. At present the prints
exhibited are said to lack clearness;
and the high relief of the extreme darks
is also objected to. — Popitlar Science
Beoiew,

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New PuhUcatioM,

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Hemoib and Sbrkonb ov the Rby.
Fbancis a. Baker, Priest of the Con-
gregation of St Paul. Edited by the
Rev. A. F. Hewit. Crown octayo,
504 pp. New York : Lawrence
Kehoe.

Now and then, in our way through
this world, we encounter nersons of a
peculiar character, so placidly gentle in
their manners, so unworldly in all their
ways, that they do not seem fairly to be-
long to this world at all. Not that they
are melancholy, reserved, and unsocial.
On the contrary, they play their own
part in society thoroughly and well; so
well, indeed, so thoroughly do they har-
monize in every circle where they may
be thrown, so little they display of that
roughness and rudeness, that froward
importunity, that obstinate self-wiU,
self-conceit, and self-devotion which are
so common among us, although we ac-
knowledge them as blemishes upon our
nature — in fine, so much more perfectly
do they wear the garment of humanity
than we ourselves, and so easily, that they
seem like better creatures from a better
world, mingling among us like good
angels sent hither to exhibit before our
eyes the perfect type of a true manhood.
Of course, all men have their temptations
and imperfections, but the ordinary life
*of some rare men is such as we have de-
scribed ; so they appear before the world,
and so they live in the memories of their
friends. So will Father Baker long live
in many memories. That joyous face,
that sweet smile, that gentle voice, that '
soft step, have passed away. One may
visit the Paulists still in their convent,
and a thousand attractions lead us there,
but we shall miss Father Baker. So
quietly, so easily, so naturally he drop-

ged into his place — and everyplace was
is that chanty, and courtesy, and Chris-
tian zeal found open — no one could
appreciate how much he did, what
large areas he occupied on this scene of
life, until he was taken away. Who
will now make up the loss to his breth-
ren? Who will take his place in the
missions ? Who will comfort and sus-
tain that long line of penitents ? Who
will guide the feet of those converts?
Who will supply in the churches that

silver voice, now soft as the flute, now
thrilling like the trumpet, that roused
us and warned us, that pierced our
hearts betimes as with a sword, and yet
so kindly that we would not wish to es-
cape unwounded ? Our sorrow for such
a loss can find no refuge but in resigniv-
tion. "The Lord gave, And the Lord
has taken away. Blessed be the name
of the Lord."

In this volume of memoirs F. Hewit
has undertaken a far greater task than
merely to respond to the fond recollec-
tion of friends, or to pay a tribute to the
memory of a good priest. He has made
a most valuable contribution to the
Catholic literature of this country. One
of the most pregnant periods in the his-
tory of our American Church is that dur-
ing which Father Baker was either a
student or a Protestant preacher. That
aspiration toward Catholicism called
Puseyism (although, in truth, Dr. Pusey
was not its chief ruling and guiding
spirit) which swelled in the hearts
of so many members of the Church
of England, so called, who struggled
for a reformation, or restoration,
until their great water-logged craft,
timbered, and tinkered, and coppered
by so many sovereigns and parlia-
ments, shook and trembled in every
joint, and which finally burst forth in a
flood of conversions to the Catholic
Church — that memorable movement
gave birth to a parallel agitation here,
and with the same results. Li no part
of the country perhaps, New York ex-
cepted, was the storm greater than in
the diocese of Baltimore, where Father
Baker and his biographer then resided*
In these memoirs we see graj^hlcally por-
trayed the rising, the swellmg, and the
various fluctuations of that storm. All
this belongs to Catholic history, and
Catholics ought to know it Episcopa-
lians are glad to forget those days, and
no writer of theirs will dare to recall
the stirring scenes which displayed their
own religion in its poverty and helpless-
ness, and drove so many gallant but
tempest-weary souls into the haven of
the true Church. Those, however, who
like Father Hewit participated in this
revival of true faith, and had the cour-
age to follow the truth which it unfold-

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ed, have no reason to be ashamed of the
history, and he gives it in life-like col-
ors. This part of his task is charm-
ingly done. We have here descriptions
of Baltimore and its churches, both An-
glican and Catholic; early rambles of
the author with Father Baker through
the city, when a secret impulse led them
so often to visit the Catholic sanctuar-
ies, especially that quiet little Sulpician
church of St. Mary's— sweet and holy spot
it is indeed ; the amusing efforts of the
Protestant bishop and his disciples to
ape Catholicism, at least in its exterior
dress, with their long cassocks, crosses,
their profound bows before naked alt-ars
draped in broadcloth or velvet, like
drawing-room tables ; the very natural
wrath of the Low-Churchmen — all this
is placed before us very naturally, and
with a life-like simplicity. Our biog-
rapher has had, moreover, the good*
judgment to recognize what great ques-
tions are involved in the life of a con-
vert such as Father Baker, and he takes
theVn up directly and boldly. The pre-
tensions of Anglicanism to be a branch
of the universal Church, and a represen-
tive to the world of Catholicism, are ex-
posed with a straightforward, nervous
logic which leaves poor donkey little
room to sport the lion's skin.

Perhaps the most interesting portion
of these valuable memoirs is that which
contains a series of letters, written by Fa-
ther Baker to an intimate friend, during
the last ten years before his conversion.
There are chasms in this correspondence,
but they are well filled up by the ex-
planations of his biographer. We have
here a glimpse of hid inner life, and a
chart is given us, imperfect, of course,
but deeply interesting, of that pathway ■
by which he was led to the Church. It *
commences with the pleasing delusions
of a young Pusei/ite who looked upon
his own insulated communion as the
great Church Catholic, and his little
i&hle within the chancel as an altar
of sacrifice, and his cross, and candle-
sticks, and other clandestine play-
things, as legitimate heirlooms of An-
glican devotion. Thus he writes:
" Your brother told me of his intended
repairs in his church. I am delighted
to hear it. It will not be long, I hope,
before such is the universal arrangement
of our churches. Only one thing will
be lacking (if he has a cross), the candle-
sticks. I have come to the conclusion
that we have a perfect right to them, for

they will come in by the Church com-
mon-law, as the surplice did" (p. 71).
By-and-bye comes a change. **The
workings of a mind and heart struggling
with doubt and disquietude, weary of a
hollow and unreal system, weaned from
all worldly hopes, detaching itself from
all earthly ties, and striving after truth
and after God, become more and more
manifest, until at last, after seven long
years, the result is reached." The re-
suit is announced in the following
brief and startling communication to his
friend :

Baltimore, April 5, 1858.
Mt Dbar Dwioht: The decision is
made. I have resigned my parish, and
am about to place myself under instruc-
tion preparatory to my being received
into the Catholic Church. I can write
no more at present May God help
you.

" Your affectionate friend,

" Frakcis a. Baker."
Three years aft«r this, namely, in the
summer of 1856, commenced Father
Baker's career as a Catholic priest and
missionary, which continued until his
death. During this time his active life
was bound up with that of his associ-
ates, first in the Redemptorist order, and
then in the new congregation of St.
Paul, formed by himself and his fellow-
missionaries. His biographer, there-
fore, furnishes us a description of those
protracted spiritual exercises called
" Missions," with a brief history of their
introduction into this country. Then
follows an account of those missions in
which Father Baker took part, or rath-
er it is a portfolio of pictures in which
the more serious labors of the mission
are shadowed in the perspective, while
gay groups of various kinds and colors
are made to figure in the foreground.
Father Hewit has given himself a great
latitude, accommodating himself to the
literary tastes of our day, and his read-
ers will certainly thank him for it.
When these missionary campaigns were
actually going on, it was hard toil all
the year round, and little play ; but in
retracing their course with us our author
avoids the dry details, which would in-
volve much repetition, and recalls in
preference the sunshiny hours of relaxa-
tion, and the pleasing incidents which
befel them on their way and relieved
their labors. Turning away, therefore,
boldly from the regular highway of bi-
ography, we are conducted hither and

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thither in a professional ramble around
the United States. " Follow my lead-
er ^^ is the word, and down the lanes we
go, and over the fences, and into the
green fields. Now we find ourselyes in
Savannah, chatting with the old negro
preacher as he sits ^4n the sun, on a lit-
tle stool, holding his cow by a rope
around her horns, while she nibbles the
grass that grows along the streets."
Now we are gazing on the gentleman
• hermit of Edgefield, in rags, and bare-
footed, fasting on bread and water, and
reading the "Fathers of the Desert,"
** Brownson's Review," and other asceti-
cal books good for hermits. Now, again,
we mingle with a motley company on a
coasting steamer, while the philosopher
and the spiritualist are discussing the
question, " Can God annihilate space ?"
The next moment we are at St. Augus-
tine, in the casemates of the old fort or
castle of St. Marco, and take a look at
the narrow loop-hole through which,
after a course of rigid fasting, the Semi-
nole chief Wild Cat was enabled to es-
cape to his home in the everglades.
Presently we follow Father Baker and
his comrades to Charleston, where, then,
** all was peace, Sumter solitary and si-
lent, untenanted by a single soldier."
3oon, again, we are in New York, then
in New Jersey, then among the coal
mines of Pennsylvania, and then (serious-
ly and not profanely be it said) we go to
Halifax. Kalamazoo, Covington, Que-
bec, St. Louis, are visited in their turn,
and a host of other places huddled to-
gether in that small area to which these
wandering apostles restrict their labors.
We like this seven-year trip with Father
Baker and the Paulists, and we like the
free, oflf-hanrl, and original way in which
P. He wit curries us through it, with all
his digressions. These digressions may
be sins against the rules of biographical
composition, but if so they are " capi-
tal " ones.

The last fifteen pages of the memoirs
contain the story of Father Baker^s sick-
ness and death ; a sad story, indeed, but
sadly sweet to those who knew him well.
Their eyes will be watered with tears as
they read it, but happy tears, such drops
as form the rainbow when the sun smiles
on the summer shower. There was a
light from heaven on the death-bed of
Father Baker that is stronger than our
grief.

The volume oontams twenty-nine ser-
mons of Father Baker, chiefly parochial

discourses, with a few others selected
from those he was accustomed to preach
on the missions. It is unnecessary for
us to make any comment on these. His
eloquence and his style are well known.
He was a model peacher, as well as a
model Christian and a model priest.
The art of sacred eloquence is little un-
derstood among us, and therefore we
hail this contribution to it with enthu-
siasm. It will show the young pulpit
orator how the Word of God will admit
of legitinuite ornament, which is neither
derived from the theatre, the lecture-
room, nor the political rostrum. We
never listened to a preacher of whom it
can be more appropriately said : '^ How
beautiful upon tne mountams are, the feA
of him thai bringeth good tidings, and that
preacheth Mlnatian,^*

This work is well printed on super-
'fine paper and handsomely bound. We
have no doubt that the numerous
friends of Father Baker will be glad to
obtain this delightful memoir of nis life
and labors.

The Temporal Mission of the Holy
Ghost. By Henry Edward Manning,
D.D., Archbishop of Westminster.
New York : D. Appleton & Co.

The Messrs. Appleton have again ren-
dered a great service to the reading
pul)lic, especially the Catholic portion
of it, by republishing a standard work
in English Catholic literatura The
author of this work, Archbishop Man-
ning, was formerly a dignified clergy-
man of the Established Church of
England, and one of the leaders of the
Oxford movement. He was the Arch-
deacon of Chichester, a position in the
' English Church next in rank to the
episcopate, and conferring a quasi-epis^
copal dignity and jurisdiction. He is
said to have possessed in the highest
degree the confidence of the English goy-
emment, and to have been the person
most frequently consulted concerning
political measures relating to the inter-
ests of the ecclesiastical establishment.
The London Weekly Begitter states, on
what it claims to be authentic informa-
tion, that he was marked forpromotioa
to the episcopal bench. But, far beyond
the distinction conferred on him by
hierarchical position, was the influence
which he wielded by the simple force
of his intellectual and moral superiori-
ty. His writings, especially a treatiBe

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on " The Unity of the Church," raised
him to the first rank as an advocate of
the principles of the High-Church party.
In the first stage of the Oxford move-
ment, he was considered a more safe
and judicious advocate of its princi-
ples than Dr. Pusey and Mr. Newman,
and his name and opinions had more
weight with the bishops and the supe-
rior clergy on account of the calm,
moderate, and thoroughly ecclesiastical
spirit and tone of his character and
writings. After Mr. Newman's con-
version, Archdeacon Manning succeed-
ed in a great measure to his vacant
throne, and held it for about six years.
He led the second great movement
from Oxford to Rome, and his conver-
sion, which occurred in 1851, made
nearly as great a sensation, on both
sides of the Atlantic, as that of Mr.
Newman had done in 1645. Six months
after his reception into the Catholic
Church he was ordained priest. Some
time after he joined the '*Oblates of
St. Charles,'' a religious congregation
founded by St. Charles Borromeo, and
established a house in London, of which
he was appointed the superior. He re-
ceived also the appointment of provost
of the Cathedral of Westminster and
was decorated by the Holy Father
with the title of a Roman prelate. Dur-
ing the thirteen years of his priest-
hood he has been most actively and
zealously employed in laboriuj^ for the
advancement of the Catholic faith,
chiefly by preaching, writing books,
and privately instructing converts from
the educated classes, in which latter
work he has been remarkably success-
ful. It is probably for this reason
that, in spite of his 'remarkable ameni-
ty of mind and character, and the ex-
treme courtesy and gentleness which
characterize his controversial writings,
he has been regarded and spoken of
by the English in so hostile a manner,
and that his appointment to the see of
Westminster seemed to awaken a feel-
ing of resentment. The mind and
character of Archbishop Manning are
sure, however, to command, in the long
run, fhe respect of all classes of men,
however widely they may differ from
him in their theological opinions; and
although certain English suscej^tibili-
ties may have been unpleasantly irritat-
ed by his elevation, yet the general
veidict will agree that the Holy Father
has placed a most worthy suecessor in

the vacant chair of the illustrious Car-
dinal Wiseman.

In the book before us the author
treats of the office of the Holy Ghost,
as sent by the Father and the Son in
the temporal order; that is, in the order
established in time, through which the
principal operation ab extra of the Bless-
ed Trinity is accomplished, viz., the re-
demption of the human race. In a very
interesting introduction he takes occa-
sion to explain in part the motives of
his conversion, by pointing out the
connection between the Catholic doc-
trines which he held as an Anglican
and their complements in the filU sys-
tem of Catholicism. In the body of the
work he discusses the office of the
Holy Ghost in relation to the Church,
to Reason, to Holy Scripture, and to
the Divine Tradition of the Faith. This
includes a very wide scope of doctrine,
embracing revelation, the medium
through which revealed truths are
proposed, explioated, and defined; the
formation of Christian theology and
philosophy; the relation of faith to
science, and the whole subject of the
inspiration and interpretation of Scrip-
ture.

If we may be allowed to express a
modest opinion on the subject, we
should say, that the principal merit of
Dr. Manning, as a theological writer,
lies in his ability to unfold the analogy
of faith, and expose the inter-commun-
ion^ so to speak, of the ^reat truths of
natural and revealed religion with one
another. He shows pre-eminently in
his writings that gift which is denomi-
nated in theology " the gift of intelli-
gence ;" that is, the ^ift by which the
mind penetrates the interior essence of ■
the doctrines of faith, and their interi-
or relations. His exposition is in the
highest deg^e luminous, and his style
corresponds in this regard to his
thought, so that his treatment of the
great doctrines declared by the Church
appears like a statement of self-evi-
dent propositions, or a geometrical
demonstration in which the problem
is proved by simply describing the fig-
ure. We have never read anything
which has given us more satis&ction
than his statement of the four grand
fundamental propositions on which the
entire fabric of the Catholic doctrine
rests. It appears to our mind that in
his statement of the nature of the evi-
dence by which reason apprehends the

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being of God, and the credibility of
revelation, and afterward the real
meaning and contents of the revelation,
he has marked out the outlinea of a
sound and correct philosophy of relig-
ion, which is so much needed, and
without which the antagonists of reve-
lation cannot be adequately refuted on
rational principles. We desire to quote
one sentence, short but pregnant, in
illustration of our meaning. After
stating that he always uses the word
" rationalism'* in an ill sense, he pro-
ceeds to say :

'* By rationalism, I do not mean the
use of the reason in testing the evi-
dence of a revelation alleged to be di-
Tine. ^

" Again, by rationalism I do not mean
the perception of the harmony of the
divine revelation with the human rea-
son. It is no part of reason to believe
that which is contrary to reason, and it
is not rationalism to reject it. As rea-
son is a divine pft equally with reve-
lation — the one m nature, the other in
grace — discord between them is impos-
sible, and harmony an intrinsic necessi-
ty. To recognize this harmony is a
normal and vital operation of the rea-
son under the guidance of faith ; and
the grace of faith elicits an eminent
act of the reason, its highest and no-
blest exercise in the fullest expansion
of its powers." (Introd., p. 4.)

The eliciting of this eniinent act of
the reason to the utmost possible ex-
tent is at present the great desideratum
in theology. It involves the exhibition
of the intrinsic harmony between faith
and science ; that is, of the conformity
of revelation, not only as to its extrin-
sic motives of credibility, but also as to
the intrinsic credibility of its doctrines
to reason. It appears to us that Dr.
Manning appreciates the first half of
the desideratum more perfectly than
the second ; and that, in regard to the
second, he appreciates more completely
what is necessary to convince Anglicans
and« Orthodox Protestants than what
is requisite for rationalists, with whom
the chief contest has to be carried on.
The main drift of his reasonings goes
to establish, in an admirable manner,
that Christianity is credible, and that
Catholicism is identical with Christian-
ity. Orthodox Protestants already be-
lieve the first, and whatever difficulties
they may have on the subject are easily
answered by a lucid statement of the

grand external proofs of that whicb
they have been educated to accept as a
first principle. Of the second, they
can be convinced by the exposition of
the analogy and harmony of the spe-
cial Catholic dogmas which they have
not been taught with those they al-
ready believe. Difficulties raised on
the side of human science against the
intrinsic credibility of revelation, they
can easily dismiss by reverting to their
first principle of the well-established
verity of divine revelation, as resting
on extrinsic evidence. Establish in
their minds the in&llible authority of
the Church, and they are content to re-
ceive a doctrinal exposition of all that
she teaches which is made by way of de-
duction from revealed principles, with-
out seeking for a reconciliation of this
exposition with the deductions of pure-
ly rational principles. This is no doubt
a very sound and Christian method,
and it were to be wished that all would
be willing to follow it. Experience has
shown, however, that those who have
been brought up in the more advanced
and rationalistic Protestantism, are with
difficulty induced to adopt it. They
exact an answer to the difficulties and
objections lying in their minds against
the intrinsic reasonableness of revealed
doctrines, before they will attend to
their extrinsic evidence. The exposi-
tion of this intrinsic conformity be-
tween revealed and rational principles
forms for them a part of the requisite
moral demonstration of the credibility
of the Christian revelation. Nor is it
altogether without reason that they re-
quire this. They are obliged to learn
a great deal which a High-Church An-
glican has already received from his
early education. They have the same
incapacity of apprehending correctly
the most fundamental Catholic veritic^
which the Anglican has of apprehend-
ing certain specific dogmas. Both most
have these misapprehensions removed
in the same way, only it is a shorter
and more restricted process for the one
than for the other. The account given
by our illustrious author of his own in-
terior history shows that the extrinsic
proof of the claims of the Roman
Church to supremacy over all portions
of the Christian fold did not convince
him before they were illuminated by
the discovery of the intrinsic relation
between this supremacy and the essen-
tial spiritual unity of the Church in

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571

Christ. Hia mind demanded an appre-
hension of the rationale of strict, ex-
ternal, organized unity of administra-
tion under one ecclesiastical head. It
was enough for him that this rationale
was made evident from revealed princi-
ples, because h^ alreadv possessed these
principles as a part of nis intellectual
life. Those who have lost in great
measure the Christian tradition, or who
have never had, must find the rationale
further back in their reason.

A Jew, for instance, apprehends the
doctrines of the Trinity and the Incar-
nation as follows : " God is divided into
three portions, one of which became in-
closed in human flesh." A Unitarian
will apprehend these doctrinel, and
others, such as original sin, atonemeat,
etc., in some form almost equally re-
pugnant to reason. Many Protestants
apprehend the doctrine of the real pres-
ence to be that God is made a piece of
bread, or that a piece of bread is made
God. It is evident, according to the
rule laid down by Dr. Manning in the
passage above cited, that it is impossi-
ble foit the human mind to assent to
such irrational propositions on any ex-
trinsic authority. Even supposing that
a person admits the proofs of divine
revelation and the authority of the
Church to be irrefragable, he cannot
submit to either while he believes
that they require him, to assent to
such absurdities. Hence the necessity
of exhibiting the Catholic dogmas in
their analogy to the truths of reason, as
a part of the evidence of their credibil-
ity. A large portion of nominal Chris-
tians are so completely imbued with ra-
tionalistic and 'sceptical notions, and so
full of misconceptions of Catholic ideas,
that they are persuaded of the validity
of a thousand objections derived from
reason, science, history, etc., against the
Catholic religion. They cannot be
reached by a line of argument which
lays the principal stress on the extrinsic
proof of the Christian revelation propos-
ed by the Catholic Church, and rules out
their objections and difficulties by the
principle of the obedience due to legit-
imate authority. It seems to us, for
this reason, requisite to make every ef-
fort to exhibit the interior conformity
between faith and reason, thieology and
science, and to prove that faith is really
"an eminent act of reason." All Cath-
olics must agree in this general state-
ment, for all the advocates of the Cath-

olic religion have from the beginning of
Christian literature aimed at this result.
In regard to the method of doing it,
however, there is some diversity of
opinion. Dr. Newman, for instance, re-
gards the progress of theological science
as a movement from below upward, and
from the circumference to the centre.
That is, science is elaborated by the re-
flection of individual minds, especially
the gifted and learned, on the dogmas of
faith, under the supervision and sub-
ject to the judgment of authority. Dr.
Manning, if we understand him correct-
ly, regards the movement as one which
proceeds ii\ a reverse order ; he repre-
sents the Church as proceeding in a
more direct, positive, and magisterial
manner ; not by collecting the accumu-
lated, elaborated, and clarified products
of stilly, thought, reasoning, and medi-
tation, and giving them her implied or
express approbation, but by continual-
ly giving forth utterances of inspired
wisdom received from a divine source.
He apprehends that in adopting the
other view, there is danger or subordi-
nating the Ecclesia Docens to the £c-
clesia Discens, and making reason a
critic on divine revelation. Those who
adopt the latter view have a tendency
to elevate theological opinions and ar-
guments which have gamed a wide ac-
ceptance to a species of authority bind-
ing on the mind and conscience, and
limiting the freedom of investigation.
They desire that all arguments on doc-
trine should follow the traditional
track and merely emulate and elucidate
what has been already taught by the
great doctors- of theology. They ex-
tend the sphere of authority and infalli-
bility to the utmost possible limits, and
many of them seek to extend the pro-
tecting sBgis of the Church over philo-
sophical systems. Those who adopt
the other may often err in an opposite
extreme. Yet, we think, they have a
principle which is justified by sound
reasons, and by the actual history of
the formation of doctrine and theology
in the Church. That principle is stated
by Mohler in these words: "For a
time even a conception of a dogma^ or an
opinion, may be tolerably general, with-
out, however, becoming an integral
portion of a dogma, or a dogma itself.
There are here eternally changing indi-
vidual forms of an universal prmciple
which may serve ... for mastering that
universal principle by way of reflection

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and speculation." (Symb. Introd., p.
11, London Edit.)

On this principle, they seek continu-
ally to scrutinize more deeply the inner
essence of dogmatic truths, and to in-
vestigate its relation and conformity to
the principles and deductions of phil-
osophy and science. We think history
shows that this is the way in which
theology has actually advanced, and the
Catholic Church herself attained more
and more to that reflective conscious-
ness of her own dogmas by which she
is enabled to enunciate from time to
time her solemn definitions. St. Thomas
made an immense advance, beyond St.
Augustine and the other fathers. The

great Jesuit theologians, Bellarmine,
uarez, and Molina, struck out a new
and bold path in theolo^. Take, for
instance, the ^reat doctrines of o||ginai
sin, predestmation, and efficacious
grace. The conception of these dog-
mas, and the scientific explication of
their contents, has been greatly modified
in the process of time, and chiefly
through the influence of a few original
thinkers. These have generally met
with a strong opposition from the es-
tablished schools of theology, and the
most strenuous efforts have been made
to decry them as unorthodox and to
procure their condemnation by author-
ity. The names of Catharini, Sfondrati,
and Molina will serve as a suflSicient il-
lustration. Tet, their method of stat-
ing Christian doctrine on important
points has gained a great predominance
m the Church, and uie supreme author-
ity has frequently intervened, not to
enforce these opinions, but to protect
those who hold and advocate them
from censure. Not only theologians,
but even teachers of natural science,
have brought about great changes in
current theological opinions. For in-
stance, Galileo, and those who followed
him, have, by the force of scientific de-
monstration, compelled theologians to
modify their interpretation of Scripture
where it speaks of natural phenomena.
Geology has caused a similar general
change of the method of inter-
preting the Scriptural accounts, of the
creation and the deluge. The old Swiss
proverb is verified in the perpetual ef-
fort to discover the harmony between
faith and s(uence : *^ God gives us plen-
ty of nuts to crack, but does not crack
them for us.'* One of these hard nuts,
not yet cracked, is the question con-

cerning the extent of the influence of
inspiration in preserving the sacred
writers from error in matters of purely
human knowledge. The well-known
opinion of Helden on this subject, it
appears to us, is a little too summarily
condemned by our learned anthor.
The opinions of Bellarmine and Lessius
were severely censured in their time,
but nevertheless are now acknowledged
to be tenable and probable. We think
the opinion of Holden deserves at least
a very thorough examination and dis-
cussion before it is put under the ban.
Dr. Manning admits that " it is evident
that Holy Scripture does not contain a
revelation of what are called physical
scienc^,^' and that *^no system of chro-
n^ogy is laid down in the sacred books**
(p. 165, Eng. Ed.) Nevertheless the
sacred writers speak of physical pheno-
mena and of chronological dates. The
Holy Spirit allowed them to speak of
the former in accordance with their
own and the common opinion even,
when that was erroneous. He has al-
lowed their statements respecting the
latter to fall into such inextricable con-
fusion, through accidental or intention-
al alterations either in the Hebrew or
Greek text, that we cannot tell with
certainty what they intended to record
on the subject Does not this show that
revelation was not intended to teach
chronology ? And if it was not, how
does it militate against the Cath-
olic doctrine of inspiration to main-
tain that the sacred writers were
originally left to follow the best human
authority they could find in chronology
as well as in science ? If the end of
revelation did not require that an in-
fallible system of dates should be
preservoL in the sacred text, why should
it have been given at firtt ? Why arc
minor historical facts, relating to the
numbers who fell in particular battles,
etc., within the cope of infallibility any
more than matters of science and chro-
nology? It appears to us, tliat until
some authoritative decision is' made,
this question is open to discussion, and
the opinion of Holden tenable without
prejudice to orthodoxy. Very proba-
bly the distinguished author meant to
express simply his judgment as to what
is the sounder view of inspiration^
without denying that the other is with-
in the limits of orthodoxy. However
this may be, this is the only instance la
which tiiere is any appearance of sever-

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ity toward those whose theological
opinions on matters extra Jidem differ
m>m his own. It were to be wished
that some other writers, who are dis-
posed to censure their brethren severely
and throw suspicidn upon their loyalty
to the Church, on account of theolog-
ical differences, would imitate the ad-
mirable model placed before them by
the illustrious chief of the English
hierarchy. We commend to their at-
tention the following extract from the
London WeeUy Begigter, which is a por-
tion of an excellent and well written
review of' Dr. Pusey's Elrenieon,
When severely pressed by an able an-
tagonist, one frequently finds himself
driven to defend the Catholic cause
upon the common, certain ground
where all Catholics stand together, and
to sink domestic controversies. This
is very well; but the same language
ought to be used toward opponents m
these domestic controversies, when they
are discussed inter nos, which is used
resfpecting them when we are fighting
the exterior enemy. If one takes
certain giound because it is available
against non-Catholics, he ought to
allow other Catholics to stand upon
that ground at all times in peace with-
out having his fidelity to the Church
called in question. We give the quota-
tions now, without further comment,
and leave the intelligent reader to
make hi \ own reflections on them :

" The greater part of the remainder
of the volume is taken up with proving
what most Catholics would be ready to
admit, that many exaggerated things
have been said by Catnolic writers of
name concerning the Pope's personal
infallibility, on the prerogatives of the
Blessed Virgin, and on many other sub-
jects. No doubt, viewed from without,
there is much matter for perplexity in
this whole subject. We know that
many persons, now Catholics, have
been kept back from seeing the
Church's claims on their absolute alle-
giance, because of the hold these exag-
gerated statements had obtained on
their imagination, and the repugnance
tliey felt to the aspect of doctrine thus
X>resented. This, we think, has arisen
partly from their having attributed to
such statements an authority which
they did not possess, and from their
not distinguishing between matters of
£iith and matters of pious opinion.
.. . . Catholics, on the other hand, . .

. . . know that the Church, while re-
quiring unitoH in necesaariis^ is most
free in conceding libertas in dtiiis ; . .
. . . does not aim at creating a dead
and soulless level of uniformity, but
tolerates great liberty of opinion in
matters of opinion," etc.

"Even though we might ourselves
hold that what are commonly called
the Ultramontane opinions are the more
logical, the legitimate deduction from
Scripture, the true development of
patristic teaching ; and however much
we might wish for a union of all
Christians on this basis, we should
nevertheless hold most strongly, until
otherwise taught, that a reunion on the
principles of Bossuet would be better
than perpetuated schism."

Archbishop Manning's work will, of
course, take its place in our standard
Catholic literature, and we earnestly
recommend it to all our readers.

The Chbistian Exaheneb.
Ixxix.

Vol.

We observe by a notice appended to
its last number, for November, 1865,
that this long-established periodical has
been transferred from Boston to New
York, and will hereafter be conducted
under the editorship of the Rev, Henry
W. Bellows, D.D. This is a significant
fact, but precisely what it signmes time
only can reveal to the uninitiated. So
far as we can conjecture its significance,
the change of location and editorship
bodes a change in its prevailing tone
and spirit. It is, however, announced
that the former editors will co-operate
with the new one in the conduct of the
Review, which leads us to suppose that
the different schools of Unitarians will
be allowed fair scope for expressing
their views in its pages. Those who
are acquainted with the writings of Dr.
Bellows may fairly expect that if he de-
votes his time and energies j;o the task
of contributing articles on the great
topics which are just now occupying
the attention of Unitarians, there will
be a great improvement in the general
spirit and tendency of the Review. It
will become less extreme in its ration-
alism, and more positively Christian.
Dr. Bellows has come the nearest
to Catholic doctrine in some of the
frmdamental points of religion of any
rationalist with whose writings we have
happened to meet. We shall look with

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interest for the result of the movement
which has placed this powerful medium
for influencing minds and shaping the
course of eyents in the sphere to which
he belongs under his control. Mean-
while, we have some criticisms to make
on certain portions of the number which
closes the Boston series of ^^ The Exam-
iner."

The first article contains a critique
upon Miirs " Examination of the Phil-
osophy of Hamilton." We are delight-
ed to have that overrated and incon-
sistent disseminator of sceptical princi-
ples, Sir William Hamilton, demolished,
no matter who does it. One of his pu-
pils, Mr. Calderwood, has attacked him
on the side of positive philosophy,
showing his sceptical tendencies. Mr.
Mill has countermined him by a more
subtle scepticism than his own, and has
shown the baselessness of the positive
and dogmatic portion of his philosophy.
Very goodl The most dangerous of
all errors is semi-scepticisnL It defends
all that it retains of philosophical and
theological truth in such an illogical
manner that it brings it into doubt and
discredit with logical thinkers. It
covers up its scepticism so adroitly that
the unwary are deceived and poisoned
by it unawares. Let the contradiction
between its two elements be shown, let
both be pushed to their legitimate con-
sequences, and a great advantage is
gained. Those who push through the
sceptical principle, like Mr. Mill, bring
it to sucli a patent absurdity, that every
right-thinking mind will reject it at
once. Those who take the other side,
are forced upon a better and more solid
basis for both science and faith. The
reviewer of Mr. Mill seems to have
given himself up completely to his
sway, and to be unable to do more than
echo his thoughts. He gives up tran-
scendentalism, the ^and philosophy of
Boston and Cambridge which was to
supersede .old-fashioned Christianity
and inaugurate a new epoch, as an ex-
ploded and obsolete system. This for-
midable iron-clad has "blown up and
gone under^ like the famous Merrimac;
and it appears that Dr. Brownson seed
not have levelled his artillery against
her, but might have waited patiently
for her own magazine to be set fire to
by her crew. We are no longer even
sure that two and two do not make five,
or that two parallel lines cannot inclose
a space 1 Tne writer anxio'^««ly endea-

vors to show that in spite of this Mr.
Mill will still allow him to believe in a
God, and in the difference between right
and wrong. Let him, however, if he
will persist in believing something, do
it with trembling. For, if two and two
might, for anything we know, mako
five, one might possibly become equal
to nothing, and then some day we may
all find ourselves annihilated. Mr. Mill's
mine can be countermined as easily as
Sir William Hamilton's ; for, when once
the perception of absolute and necessary
truth is questioned, there is no stopping
short of nihilism.

The article on Dr. Newman's " AjmI-
Offia'*^ is well written, and shows a candid
and respectful appreciation of the in-
tellectual and moral greatness of the
illustrious convert. The author, how-
ever, makes a sweeping, wholesale
charge of having adopted a system of
equivocation, chicanery, and sophistry
upon the Jesuits, and the whole Catho-
lic Church, which has nothing to sus-
tain it but an on dit. The charge is
false. But apart from that, in saying it
the writer struck a foul blow, unworthy
of an honorable critic. Here is a great
question, on which men's minds are
divided, and on which there are most
weighty and important testimonies to
be examined. The writer does not
profess to enter the lists for the discus-
sion of it, but merely to criticise the
particular statements of Dr. Newman.
If he had anything to say. about it, he
should have taken up Dr. Newman's
statements and arguments, and made
some rejoinder. It is always a sign
that a man is either weak or disingenu-
ous, when he throws a wholesale asser-
tion of the general badness of your
cause m your face, because you nave
successfully defended it in respect to
one particular item. It is also very
achootbayUih to repeat continually the
stale generalities that one has read in
his books or in the newspapers about
the Jesuits. Cannot our antagonists
*'invint $ome other little bit of truth T^
We are tired of hearing this one so
often.

The writer fairly admits thatdf any
other guide to truth is necessary,
beside the individual reason, that guide
must be the Catholic Church. There
is no alternative except to follow your
own light, or be a Roman Catholic.
Every man, he thinks, has for himself a
light, which is infallible for himself

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alone, and only for the time being. We
would like to ask him whether this is a
certain, necessary, and uniyersal trath,
true for all times, and every individaal?
Is it so ? Then by the same process
which proves it to be so, you can estab-
lish a complete system of universal
truths, and amon^ them the universal
or Catholic principles of the Catholic
Church. We admit the infallible light
of reason, excluding his limitations,
which are ipso facto destroyed if he an-
swers our question in the affirmative.
If in the negative, the assertion he has
made is true only for himself, as a kind
of provisional arrangement — a sort of
dark lantern borrowed for the evening.
It is quite probable that by-and-bye the
sun may rise, and the dim rays of his lan-
tern blend with its brighter beams. The
infallible light within may tell him that
he needs the revelation of God, and the
instruction of the Catholic Church.

Decidedly the most valuable article
in the number is the one on '^ English
Schools and Colleges." It is evidently
written by one who is perfectly familiar
with the English system of education,
and contains many valuable hints and
suggestions for che improvement of our
own colleges. We recommend all those
who are engaged in the higher branches
of instruction to procure and read it ;
and, indeed, the author would do them
a great service by publishing it separ-
ately as a pamphlet, with such additions
as he might think suitable to enhance
its value. ,

OUR Faith, The Victory ; ob, A Com-
prehknsrvb vib w op the principal
Doctrines op the Christian Re-
ligion. By Rt. Rev. John McQill,
D.D., Bishop of Richmond. Balti-
more : Kelly & Piet. 1865.

This new edition of a work already
noticed in our pages is well printed,
and, if the paper were of somewhat
finer quality and the binding a little
better, would be a very handsome
volume. The extravagant price of
paper at present is a very fair excuse
for the first defect, although we cannot
help regretting that a work of such
high meriAind permanent value should
not be brought out in a style complete-
ly worthy of it. If our copy is a fair
specimen, however, there is no excuse
for the binding, which, though hand-

sonxe enough, is so loosely and care-
lessly executed as to endanger already
some of the leaves falling out. We
recommend our Catholic publishers to
show a little more of the enterprise and
thoroughness requisite in first-class
houses. Mr. O'Shea has given them a
good example in Dr. Brownson's
" American Republic," which we trust
will not be without a good effect. We
again recommend this admirable work
to our readers as one of the best in the
English language on the great topics of
which it treats.

The American Repxtblic : Its Consti-
tution, Tendencies, and Destiny. By
O. A. Brownson, LL.D. 8vo. New
York: P. O'Shea. Pp.435. 1866.

This is a work brought out in a very
superior style of typography which
does great credit to the enterprise of
the young publisher, Mr. O^Shea, and is
worthy of its great subject and its
equally great author. We have only
had time to read the preface, which
breathes the exalted philosophical
wisdom, the noble, magnanimous spirit,
and the pure Christian faith of the
illustrious Catholic publicist and
American patriot who wrote it. A
more extended notice of the work
itself will appear in our next number.

History of England from the Fall
op Wolsby to the Death op Eliza-
beth. By James Anthony Froude,
M.A., late Fellow of Exeter College,
Oxford. Vols. HL and IV., 8vo.
New York : Charles Bcribner & Com- '
pany.

The fourth volume of Mr. Froude^s
work ends with the death of his hero,
Henry VIII, The portion of the history
embraced in the instalment now before
us includes, therefore, many picturesque
incidents, which the author narrates
with his most charming and brilliant
pen, and with that quick eye for dra-
matic effect which lends such a fascina-
tioA to his style. In a notice of the first
and second volumes we expressed with
sufficient clearness our judgment of Mr.
Froude^s faults and merits, and we see
no reason to modify our previous state-
ments. He professes to have originally
approached his subject without preju-
dice or any purpose of running counter

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to the commonly received opinions of
the world; bat he does not deny that
he has come to take a very different
Tiew of Henry and his times from that
accepted by the rest of mankind. He
has this advantage over his critics —
that, as he makes nse of state papers and
other manuscript records which are not
accessible to the world at large, it is not
always possible to test the correctness
of his qaotations or the justness of his
inferences from official documents. We
can only say that in the few instances
in which it has been in our power to
folio «ir him in his researches, we have
learned to distrust not only his accuracy
but his honesty. We must wait until
some other and dispassionate historian
shall have explored the same fields be-
fore we can detect all his misrepresenta-
tions and rectify all his errors.

HuMOBouB Poems. By Oliver Wendell
Holmes, with illustrations by Sol.
Eytinge, Jr. Boston: Ticknor &
Fields. 1865.

A cheap but neat edition, bound in
pamphlet form, forming one of a series
of ^^ Companion Poets for the People,
illustrated.*' Dr. Holmes is our Thomas
Hood, in some respects more to our
taste than his English compeer. His
humorous poems, though steeped in
the double distilled oil of wit, have no
poison in them, and are wholesome and
delicious, when taken laughing in
small doses.

The Practical Dictation Spellino-
BooK, in which the spelling, pronun-

• elation, meaning, and application of
almost all the irregular words in the
English language are taught in a
manner adapted to the comprehension
of youth. For the use of schools.
By Edward Mulvany. New York:
P. Omea.

The plan of this book is excellent,
and will, we have no doubt, be general-
ly adopted in our schools. It has evi-
dently been compiled with much care
and attention. The scholar that mas-
ters its various sections will not be apt
to make those ridiculous mistakes in
spelling and writing which are so pre-
valent m the community. In the next
edition the typographical errors ought
to be attended to. The present one
contains too many such errors.

LITERARY nTTELLIOBNCE.

Messrs. Murphy & Co., Baltimore, an-
nounce for publication at an early day
the following works : A new improved
and enlarged edition of Archbishop Spal-
ding's ** Miscellanea ;" a new edition of
** The Evidences of Catholicity," by the
same author; *^The Apostleship of
Prayer," a translation from the French of
the Rev. H. Ramifere, S.J. ; "The Manual
of the Apostleship of Prayer ;" new edi-
tions of " Ellen Middleton," " Lady Bird
and Grantlv Manor," by Lady Fuller-
ton ; and of " Pauline Seward."

P. O'Shea, New York, announces :
" The Life of St. Anthony of Padua;"
" The Life and Miracles of St. Philo-
mena ;" " The Christian's Daily Guide,"
a new prayer-book ; the second volume
of "Darras' History of the Church."

P. Donahoe, Boston, announces the
publication of a new illustrated maga-
zine for the young folk. It is to be called
" Spare Hours," and is to appear early
in December. There is room for such a
publication, and we hope it will prove
a success, and that Mr. Donahoe will
make it equal to anything of the kind
published in this country. A good
magazine for the young has been a want
long felt. The subscription price is
two dollars per year.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

From The American News Com-
pany, New York : " Aurora Floyd," by
M. E. Braddon. 12mo., pp 372. " The
Ordeal for Wives." A novel, bv the
author of " The Morals of Mayfair."
12mo., pp. 448. " Rebel Brag and Brit-
ish Bluster: A record of unfulfilled
prophecies, baffled schemes, disappoint-
ed hopes, etc., etc. By Owls-Glass."
Paper, pp. 111.

We have also received a neat little
pamphlet, of twenty-four pages, en-
titled : " Notes on Willson's Readers,"
by S. 8. Haldeman.

From the Hon. Wm. H. Seward,
Secretary of State, Washington : " Di-
plomatic Correspondence for 1864.
Parts 3 and 4."

From Charles Scribnbr, New
York : " Plain Talks on Familiar Sub-
jects," a series of popular lectures. By
J. G. Holland. 12mo., pp. 835.

From P. O^Shba, New Yoj^ : Num-
bers 14, 15, and 16 of" Darras* History
of the Church."

From D. & J. Sadlibr & Co., New
York : Parts 5, 6, and 7 of " D'Artaud's
Lives of the Popes.*

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CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. |L, NO. 11.— FEBRUAET, 1866.

Translated from Etudes Bellglenses, Historiqiies et Litt^ndres, par des Fdres de la Gompagnie

de J^sus.

CHARLES IL AND fflS SON, FATHER JAMES STUART.

Of aU the Stuarts who reigned over
Great Britain only one, if historians
can be trusted, abandoned Anglican-
ism and became a child of the Catho-
lic Church. It is true that to the
name of James II. that of his elder
brother, Charles IL, has sometimes been
added ; but the general opinion is that
Charles had no religion whatever,
and scoffed at all creeds alike. Docu-
ments, however, which have lately
been brought to light, enable us to
prove that both the sons of Charles L
abandoned Protestantism, and that in
their persons Catholicism occupied for
more th an tw enty years the throne of
Henry VnL

To understand how the religion of
Charles II. could remain so long an
historical enigma, we must recall to
min4 the peculiar circumstances in
which he was placed. Surrounded by
fanatical sectaries, who yielded him a
kind of insubordinate obedience, and
VOL. n. 87

kept him in continual fear of the axe
by which his unfortunate father had
suffered, he felt constrained to observe
in public the forms of worship which
he had sol^nnly renounced before the
altar. And to this we must add an-
other reason. Far from reforming
the disorders of a licentious youth, he
prolonged his excesses to the very eve
of death, and his unbridled passions
tended to extinguish in his naturally
weak and timid soul all the energy
alike of the man and of the Christian.
So, though a Catholic at heart, Charles
never had the courage during his
whole reign to avow his sentiments.
Some thought him a zealous Presby-
terian; others, a devoted Anglican.
Those who knew him better declared
he was nothing but a bad Protestant,
and for that declaration they had
more reason than they supposed.

There is no question that he died
in the bosom of the Church ; but that
he had returned to it long before he
died is a fact which has only lately

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578

Charle9 IT. and St$ Son,

been established. After Ijing for two
hundred years among the dusty ar-
chives of a religious order in Rome, a
remarkable correspondence has been
brought to light between the sixth
successor of Henry YIIL and Father
Paul Oliva, the general of the Jesuits.
The occasion of this singular inter-
change of letters between Whitehall
and Rome was the presence in the
Jesuit house, in the last named city, of
a young novice whom all the fathers,
even the general himself, believed to
be a French gentleman. Charles in-
fonned Father Oliva who this young
man was. By the right of paternal
authority he demanded that James
Stuart, the eldest of his natural sons,
should be sent back to him. He
wished to keep him for some time
about his person, and by his as-
sistance to instruct himself more
thoroughly in the Catholic faith, and
so finish the work which he had long
ago commenced. After reading these
letters, and penetrating the hidden
thoughts and mental tortures of the
conscience-stricken king, who knows
his duty, and fears, yet wishes, to fulfil
it ; a crowned slave, bearing beneath
his royal robes a yoke of iron, and
sighing in vain for liberty to believe
and worship after the dictates of his
heart, we cannot resist the conclu-
sion tliat Charles 11. was neither a
deist nor a waverer ; he was a Catho-
lic — a timid and a bad one, if you wil^
but firm in his convictions.

But, you may say, a conversion
such as this is not much for the
Church to brag of. Here you have a
prince bom a heretic, and becoming a
Catholic so quietly that his people
know nothing about it. The Church
declares that faith without works is
dead. Well, it is true that Charles'^
life was in perpetual discord with his
faith. We certainly do not propose
our neophyte as a model penitent ; it
is enough if the reasons which led to
his conversion afford his countrymen
another proof of the divine origin of
Catholicism. It is surely a startling
circumstance that this slave to volup-

tnousness should turn his back upon
the easy-going Anglican Church, so
complaHant even to the monstrous pas-
sions of Henry YHI., and choose the
most inflexible of all Christian com-
munions, the one which preferred los-
ing her hold upon the glorious and
powerful Island of Saints to conniving
at adultery; which defended the in-
nocent Catharine of Aragon against
her ferocious spouse, and might,
one hundred and« forty years LUer,
have protected Catharine of Porto-
gal also had a royal caprice again
attempted to displace a virtuous
queen in order to raise a vicious favor-
ite to the throne of England. This
monarch, timid by nature, and sur-
rounded by sanguinary &natics, knew
that the bare accusation of " popery"
would be enough to stir up his whole
kingdom against him ; yet he did not
hesitate to become a ^' papist^ — ^he up-
on whom the laws conferred the title,
so much coveted by his predecessors,
of supreme head of the Established
Church. Do we not see in this a sig-
nal triumph of God over man, of truth
over falsehood ?

Should it be asked why this corre-
spondence has remained so longun*
published, we answer that it was by
its nature strictly confidentiaL So
long, too, as the Stuarts maintuned
their pretensions to the English crown
the publication of such letters would
have seriously compromised them.
Then came the suppression of the so-
ciety, after which it would appear that
all trace of the correspondence was
lost, until it was recently brought to
light by the learned Father Boerow^
The original letters form part of a
collection of autograph manuscripts of
Charles H., Father Paul Oliva, Chris^
tina of Sweden, James 11., the queen-
mother, Henrietta of France, Catharine
of Braganza, and other celebrated per-
sons of the time. The letters of
Charles are impressed with the rojal
seal

* ZitoriadOlaeomfMrHom^taUi CMMa OaUoUea
4i Carlo H., B$ tflnffMUmxi, osMite ite Mr«-
tun amUnUcki 4ii origimaii.

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579

It is easy enough to mention cir-
cumstances which would naturally
have prepossessed Charles ita favor of
the Church. In the first place, he
was indebted for his life, after the de-
feat of Worcester, almost entirely to
Catholics, who at great risk to them-
selves concealed him from the soldiers
of Cromwell and enabled him to es-
cape to France. In Paris he must
have seen many things to influence
his religious sentiments. The most
profound impression, however, was
made upon him by the venerable M.
Olier, the founder of St Sulpice.
** God opened to him," says his bio-
grapher, the Abbe Faillon, H the Eng-
Hsh monarch's heart. In the new
conferences which he had with this
prince, he showed him the beauty and
truth of the Catholic religion with so
much grace, force, and energy that
Charles IT. was cpnstrained to a^now-
ledge afterward to one of his friends
that although many distinguished per-
sons had spoken to him about these
matters, there was none of them who
had enlightened' him so much as M.
Olier ; that in his words he recogniz-
ed and felt an extraordinary virtue ;
in fine, that he had fully satisfied him.
There can be little doubt that M.
Olier had persuaded the king to ab-
jure his errors and to take the first
step toward a return into the bosom
of the Church; that is to say, by
sending a secret abjuration to the
Pope, who, as has been said above,
required nothing more. For, in the
first place, it was rumored all through
France and England that Charles had
sent to the Pope a secret abjuration ;
and beside, M, de Bretonvilliers, after
mentioning that his majesty recognias-
ed and felt an extraordinary virtue in
his conversations with M. Olier on
the truth of the Catholic religion, adds
these significant words: 'At pres-
ent, I can say no more.* This reti-
cence naturally leads us to infer
that Charles had taken some step
toward becoming a Catholic which

it was not then prudent to make
known."

Two years after his restoration to
the throne, and under the influence,
probably, of the queen-mother and the
queen-consort, he resolved to open
with the Holy See a negotiation which
he hoped might lead to the restoration
of the English people to religious
unity. It was necessary to proceed
with the greatest caution. He chose
for his envoy Sir Richard Bellings —
the same to whom he afterward in-
trusted the most secret and delicate of
his missions to the court of Louis
XIV. Sir Richard set out for Italy
under pretext of attending to affairs of
his own ; and as soon as he could do
so safely, he quietly went to Ron)e.
His finit business was to ask for a
cardinal's hat for Louis Stuart, duke
of Richmond and Lennox, better
known under the name of the Abb^
d'Aubigny. He was a near relative
of the king's, and had been summoned
from Paris to fulfil the functions of
grand almoner to Queen Catharine.
Charles wished to place under his
charge the affairs of the Church in
Great Britain. A memoir on this
subject was drawn up for Bellings by
Lord Chancellor Clarendon^, and
copied by Clarendon's son. It Is dated
October 25, 1662. Each leaf is au-
thenticated by the royal signature. A
minute of the instructions given by
Charles to his ambassador is preserv-
ed at Rome. It can only have been
drawn up by Sir Richard himself:

^ 1. His majesty solicits this promo*
tion for the advantage of his kingdom,
and in order to give the Catholic
party an authorised chief, iutimately
united with the sovereign by the ties
of blood, and upon whom he can de-
pend securely under all circumstances.
The king, to quote his own words,
sees in the elevation of the Abb6
d'Aubigny to the cardinalship ' an es-
sential condition to the good under-
standing which ought to exist between

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580

CJuaiet IL osnd HU Son,

tbe Pope and his nugeetj ; he deemd
this a measure of the last importance
for the welfare of his Roman Catholic
subjects throughout his dominions.'

*^ 2. The cardinal once appointed,
his majesty engages to support him in
the style which his dignity and his re*
lationship to the sovereign demand."

The Holy Father summoned a
secret congregation of cardinals to
consider the matter, and also appoint-
ed a council of theolo^ans, who were
instructed to draw up their opinion in
a careful report In this document
we find a careful resume of the ^ Ben*
efits which the Catholics of England
have received from his Britannic ma*
jesty.*' They approved of the proposed
appointment; but unfortunately the
Ahh6 d'Aubigny was given to the er-
rors ci£ the Port Royalists, and the
Pope felt compelled to refuse Charles's
request He refused, however, with
so much delicacy, and gave such good
reasons for the refusal, that the king,
instead of breaking off intercourse
with the Holy See, as he had threat-
ened to do, ordered Bellings to pro-
ceed to the second object of his mis-
sion. This was nothing less than the
conversion of the king and the recon*
ciliation of his realms to the Roman
Chui-ch.

IV.

Sir Riohabd was instructed to treat
directly with the Holy Father, axid
the number of counseUors whom the
Pope might call to his assistance was
to be strictly limited. On the side of
the English there is every reason to
believe that nobody was in the secret
except the king, the two queens, the
envoy, and the person — whoever he
may have been — ^who drew up the
document which we shall presently
have occasion to quote. Clarendon
certainly knew nothing about it; he
was reeUly to assist in the promotion
of d'Aubigny; but he was a stem
enemy of the Catholics, and even be-
fore Sir Richard's return we find him
opposing in parliament a proposal of

his sovereign's for granting liberty of
conscience to dissenters.

There is no doubt that Charles II.
hunself made known to the H0I7
Father his intention of becoming a
Catholic and re-establishing Catholi-
cism as an authorized form of worship
in his kingdom. There is, moreover,
no doubt that Pope Alexander VII.
replied to him. This is all that we can
now affirm with certainty; and we
should not have known even this . if
the king had not mentioned it inci-
dentally in one of his letters to Fa-
ther Paul Oliva.

The absence of these two letters Is
much to be regretted ; but we have
fortunately at hand a document of
still grea^r value. This is the pro-
fession of faith presented in the name
of the English monarch as the basis
of a concordat :

" Proposition on the part of Charles
n., king of Great Britain, for the
much-to-be-desired reunion of his three
kingdoms of England, Scotland, and
Ireland with the apostolic and Roman

AAA

^ His majesty, the king, and all
who aspire to the unity of the Cath-
olic Church, will accept the profession
of faith drawn up by Pope Pius IV.
afler the decisions of the Council of
Trent, and with it all the other de-
crees respecting faith or discipline
enacted either by the aforesaid council
or by any other general council, as
well as the decisions of the last two
pontiffi in the affair of Jansenius ; re-
serving to himself, however, as is done
in France and some other places, cei^
tain special rights and certain customs
which usage has sanctioned in our
own particular Church. These vari-
ous decrees are to be understood wiHi
the restrictions which other oecumen-
ical councils have, prudently no doubt
and after mature consideration, im-
posed upon them, as the aforesaid pro-
fession of faith proves. YThence it
follows that, except within these limits,
nothing may henceforth be imposed
upon or prescribed to either the king
or any <^ his Catholic subjects; and

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Father James ShtarL

581

that it ahall not be imputed to them
as a crime or a favoring of heresy
shoold thej have occasion to declare
t&eir mind upon matters of this sort.
Under these conditions Ids migesty is
ready to break at once with all Prot*
estant societies and all sects separated
from the Roman Chorch, and to with*
draw from their communion. He de-
clares his detestation in particular of
the schism and deplorable heresies
originated by Luther, Zwingle, Cal-.
Tin, Memnon, Socii^us, Browin, and
other equaUy perverse sectaries. Bet-
ter than any one else, he knows by sad
experience in his own kingdom what a
deluge of calamities, what revolntions,
what a Babel-confusion this pretended
Beformation (which might better be
called a conformation) has entailed in
politics as well as in religion; so much
so that these three kingdoms, and es-
pecially England, are, in both secu-
lar and sacred affairs, nothing but
a theatre of frightful disturbances,
which hold the entire world
chained with attention and dis-
may.**

This profession of faith is followed
by twenty-four "notes" or "declara-
tions," in which the king indicates
more in detail the course which he
proposes to follow in his difficult task
of religious restoration. The recon-
ciliation with Rome once effected, he
would grant the Protestants complete
toleration. The hierarchy shonld be
re-established as it was in the time of
Henry VITL, before the schism. Par-
ishes should be established and semi-
naries founded. The king also *de-
Bcribed in what manner he would ar-
range for the introduction of the Ro-
man liturgy, the preaching of the di-
vine word, the teaching of the cate-
chism, the administration of the sacra-
ments, the celebration of provincial
synods, and the admission of the re-
ligioas orders of both sexes into
Great Britain ; he spoke of the festi-
vals, beside Sunday, which it would be
possible to make days of obligation,
and of the precautions which ought to
be adopted in bringing the people

back to the veneration of the saints
and their relics.

It may be suggested that Charles
was not sincere t but it is difficult to
understand what he could have hoped
to gain by these representations, made
in strictest confidence to the Pope, if
he did not really intend to return to
the bosom of the Church and hope
to bring his people with him. Lin-
gard says that he used to feign an in-
clination toward Catholicism, in view
of the subsidies which he received
from the king of France; but we
must remember that at this time it
was Louis who made all the over-
tures and evinced all the eagerness
for an alliance between the two coun-
tries, and that Charles held back.
Louis XIV. was ready to pay almost
any price for his neighbor's friendship,
and Charles was under no necessity
of peiiHng his crown and arousing
all the fanaticism of his subjects in
order to obtain what Louis was so
ready to give him.

Just about the time of the depart-
ure of Sir Richard Bellings for Italy
Charles made an attempt to obtain
from parliament an act of indulgence
in favor of the Presbyterians, Inde-
pendents, and Roman Catholics. He
met with the most violent resistance,
even from his own ministers. Far
from canying this equitable measure,
he soon found himself compelled, by
the clamors of parliament, to issue a
proclamation ordering all Catholic
priests to leave the countiy under
penalty of deaths Disheartened by
this ignominious defeat, he seems to
have rushed more madly than ever
into debaucheries, and stified the voice
of conscience until a providential in-
cident, in 1668, aroused his better
feelings.

About the month of April, 1668, the
king received a piece of news which
awakened in his heart at once remorse
and hope. A natural son whom he
loved tenderly — a young man of great

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582

CkoHei IL and m$ Son,

intelligence and acquiiBments — ^had
abjured Protestantism and consecrated
himself to God's service in the Society
of Jesus. This personage, who was
destined to play a part in Charles's
conversion as important as it was
mysterious, is not unknown to our
readers alone : no memoir of the time
makes any mention of him. We
must go back a little way to find out
who he was.

The son of Lucy Walters, the in-
triguing and factious Duke of Mon-
mouth, bom in 1649, is generally re-
garded as the first fruit of Charles's
illicit amours ; but this is a mistake. It
was not in the Netherlands, nor in
Paris, but in the isle of Jersey, that
the heir to the English crown began
the career of licentiousness which ulti-
mately proved so disastrous to his
reign. This little island, rich and
populous, had always remained faith-
ful to the royal house; and it was
probably with the hope of obtaining
succor for the royal cause that Charles,
while Prince of Wales, went there in
1647. But unfortunately he encoun-
tered, under the roof of one of the
most illustrious, families of Great
Britain, a temptation which e:s[tin-
guished all his warlike ardor. The
young soldier reposed in the gardens
of Armida, and gave not a thought to
the terrible morrow which might fol-
low his careless sleep.*

The child bom of this connection,
who afterward was called James
Stuart, .was taken, in infancy, we
know not by what name, to the conti-
nent. He was educated by the best
masters in France and Holland, and
as he grew up manifested great quick-

* In the mnltipliclty of more Important eTents,
English historians hare lost sl^ht of this abor-
tive Jersey expedition ; bat If thej do not con-
firm, they at least do not contradict onr state-
ment. After the battle of Xaseby, Prince Charles
fled to the Scllly Isles and afterward to Jersey.
The next three years he passed chiefly at the
Hairne. He does not reappear in history nntil
1648, when he made a fhiltless demonstration
with a royalist fleet at the month of the Thames.
In the meanwhile he used to pay occasional
visits to his mother at Paris, and what more
likely than at her inatigatlon he should have •
made a trip to Jersey in tiie hop« of doing some-
thing for lOa flithert . ^

ness of inteOect, together with the
most estimable qualities of the heart.
Charles was proud of him and loved
him ; but when he came to the thrade
he durst not publicly recognize him.
He was afraid of his parliament and
afraid of the factions which encompassed
him. Beside, the child's mother was still
living, and no doubt had obtained &om
the monarch a promise not to compro-
mise the honor of her noble family by
acknowledging the son nntil Uiere
should no longer be any danger of her
being suspected as the mother. So,
when the yonng man, then about
eighteen years of age, was summoned
to London in 1665, he was cmnmand-
ed to present himself under the name
of Jacques de la Cloche du Booig de
Jersey ; and though he received from
his father the most unequivocal marks
of affection, he soon grew tired of his
false position, and b^ged pennission
to return to the continent and rasome
his studies. Charles relnctantfy- con-
sented. He gave his son at parting
a document written in French with
his own hand and impressed with the
royal seal, which is still preserved at
the Gesti in Rome. It runs thos :

^ Charles, par la grftoe de ^en Roy
d'Angleterre, de France, d'^cosee et
d'Hibemie, confessons et tenons poor
nostre fils naturel le sieur Ji^oqnes
Stuart qui, par nostre ordre et com-
mandementa vescuen France et antlies
pays jusques 'k mil six cent soixante
cinq oil nous avons daign^ prendre
soin de Luy. Depuis, la mtoe amn^
s'^tant treuv6 k Londres de nostre
Yolonte expresse et pour raison. Lay
avons command^ de viyre sous anttre
nom encore, s^avoir, de la Cloche du
Bourg de Jarzais.^ Auqnel, poor
raisons importantes qui tegardent la
paix du Royaume que nous avons
toujours recherch6e, deffendons de
parler qu' apr^ nostre mort [•• e.,
of the secret of his birth]. £n oe
temps, Luy soit lors pamis de pre-
senter au parlement cette noetre de-

* Charles wrote indilferently Jarsalt, JenalB.

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Father James Sfuart.

583

elaration qae, de plein gr^ et avec
^uit^,nous Luydonnons k sa requeste,
et en sa langue, pour lui oster occa-
sion de la monstrer k qui que ce soit
pour en avoir Finterpretation. — ^A
Wthall, le 27 de septembre 1665.
Escry et sign6 de nostre main, et
cachet^ du cachet ordinaire de nos
lettres sans auttre fa9on.
L. s« Chasles."

(tbaxslatIok.)

We Charles, by the grace of Gk)d
king of England, France, Scotland,
and Ireland, acknowledge and hold as
our natural son Sir James Stuart, who
by our order and commandment has
•^lived up to the year 1665 in France
and other countries, where we have
seen fit to ^ke care of him. Thence
after, on the same year, he resided in
London by our express will and for
good reasons, we having commanded
him to live under a new name, to wit,
La Cloche du Bourgde Jarzais. Whom,
however, for important reasons touch-
ing the peace of the realm, whereof
we are ever regardful, we forbid to
speak concerning the secret of Ms birth
until after ,our death. At that time
be it then permitted him to present to
parliament this our declaration, which
of our own free will and in justice *
we ^rant him at his request and in his
language, in order to remove all occa-
sion of his ' exhibitmg it to any one
whatsoerer for its better interpretation.
At Whitehall, the 27th of September,
1665. Written and signed by our
hand and sealed with the ordfnary
seal of our letters, without other fash-

ion.
I., s.

Chables.

With this acknowledgment of
parentage, the young man returned to
the Netherlands ; but he soon reflected
that in the event of his father's death
the document was not likely to be of
much service to him, for it mentioned
no provision for his support. The
English Parliament would be very apt,
on one pretext or another, to refuse

him any sum whatever. So he pre-
vailed upon Charles to give him an-
other paper, assigning to him £500 a
year, '< subject to the good pleasure
of the next successor to the crown and
of the Parliament" Coupled with
this legacy were the conditions that
James should live in London and re-
main faithful to the Anglican Church.
This document, dated Feb. 7,^ 1667,
is also preserved at the Gesii : *

" Charles, by the grace of God
king of England, France, Scotland,
and Ireland. The Sieur James Stuart,
whom we have heretofore recognized
as our natural son, liying under the
name of La Cloche-— having repre-
sented to us that, should he survive
our death, he would be without means
of support, if not recognized by par-
liament, beside other difficulties which
might occur in this affair; for this
reason, bending to his entreaties, we
have seen good to assign him and to
leave him from our domain, if sdch be
the good pleasure of our successor to
the crown and of our parliament, the
sum of £500 sterling per annum.
Which legacy it will not be lawful for
him to enjoy, except in so far as he
shall reside in London, living accord-
ing to the religfon of his fathers and
the Anglican liturgy.

At Whitehall, the 7th Feb. 1667.
Written and sealed by our proper
hand. Chables^"

L. 8.

When the king imposed the second
condition he little imagined that his
son was already on the point of aban-
doning the Established jChurch ; but
so it was ; and on the 29th of
the next^ July he was received into the
Catholic communion at Hamburg.
Very soon afterward he determined to
enter the Socie^ of Jesus ; but there
was one great obstacle in the way.
He could not be received without tell-
ing the secret of his birth, for illegiti-
macy was an impediment from which
it was necessary to obtain a dispensa-
tion. And if he told it, with no other

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584

CkarUi IL and SRs San^

proof to show than the two papers just
cited, which it would be impossible for
an Italian Jesuit to verify, who would
believe him ? In this perplexity he
had recourse to the ex-queen Chris-
tina of Sweden, who was then at
Hamburg. There was a dash of ro-
mance in the story which pleased the
eccentric princess; she was well ac-
quainted personally with Charles IL,
and having obtained from him a con-
firmation of all that James* Stuart had
told her, she gave the young man a
letter which secured a ready belief
for the account that he gave of him-
self at Rome. This letter, written in
Latin, is also among the documents
lately discovered at ^e Gesii :

"James Stuart, who was bom in
the isle of Jersey, and of his own free
will assumed the name of La Cloche
du Bourg, is the natural son of
Charles II., king of England, and so
much has been secretly confirmed to us
by his Britannic majesty. Renouncing
the sect of Calvin, to which his birth
and education had up to this time at-
tached him, he joined.the Holy Roman
Church at Hamburg July 29, 1667.
In faith of which, contrary to our cus-
tom, we have written by our own
hand this declaration, to the end that
James Stuart can, in an extraordinary •
circumstance, open kis conscience en-
tirely, to his confessor and receive
from him the necessary counsels for
the salvation of his soul.

L. 8. Christina Alexandra."

James Stuart was ^accordingly re-
ceived into the Society in April, 1668,
under the name of Jacques de la
Cloche. The inventory of his person-
al effects, to which the novice, ac-
coi*ding to custom, affixed his signa-
ture on entering, gives us a curious
idea of the wardrobe of a king's son.
Here it is : " One' hat ; one ecclesias-
tical habit and mantle ; one pair of
breeches and a waistcoat of black
cloth ; one vest trimmed with yellow
fur; a sword-belt of green leather;
white silk stockings; two shirts and

one undershirt; one pair of lioen
drawers,*' etc

Ti.

It was on the 11th day of April,
1668, that James Stuart commenced
his religious life. On the 23d
of Apnl, 1668, the Marqais de
Ravigny, the French ambassador at
London, sent to the court of St Grer-
main an account of a conversation he
had just had with Charles II. The
King of £ngland had said to him : ^ I
am very desirous of effecting a strong
union with France, but I most have
help; for there are many people
about me who are not of that way of
thinking. As to myself, I have al<»
ways been so disposed, as you know
better than anybody...'' Charles,
after having repeated t&ese words
several times, had added more than
once — " Leave it to me. I will speak
with you about it before many days."
M. de Ravigny, whose efforts* toward
the political unity of the two cabinets
had, up to this time, been without re-
sult, received the overture with ap-
parent coldness. 'Louis XIV. was
equally incredulous, and M. de Lionne
replied to the representative of France
in England in these terms : ^ The
king is of the opinion that your re-
sponse was exceedingly judicioas,
when the King of Great Britain signi-
fied his desire of making a strong al-
liance with him, and hinted to you to
make advances. His majesty has al-
ready made so many, and has been so
poorly responded to, when requested
to enter into the matter, that the pru-
dence and dignity of his majesty for^
bid his committing himself further. • "
Charles waited to receive the pro-
positions of the court of St. Germain ;
but the court of St Germain was
dumb. Driven to declare himself,
therefore, he renewed the assurances
he had already given, and the letter of
the French ambassador, bearing date
of May 21, 1668, describes the inter-
view, and closes with these signifieani
words : ^^ It looks as though this will

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Father James Stuart.

585

come to Bomeihing ; for this reason I
most humbly beg jour majesty to send
further instructions.^

Thus, only a few days after the
humble novice of the Quirinal had as-
sumed the robes of his order, Charles
and Louis were busily engaged in ce-
menting that family pact which broke
the Triple Alliance, and delayed, for
many years, the formation of that for-
midable coalition under which France
finally succumbed. Are we too bold
in suspecting something more than a
simple coinddence in the simultaneous-
ness of these two events ?

Hume, in his ^History of the
House of Stuart,'* attributes the action
of the English monarch to his admi-
ration for the gaiety, wit, and elegance
of the French court. Let those who
will, accept this frivolous explanation!
The curious conjuncture of dates, to-
gether with a vast assemblage of
other facts looking in the same direc-
tion, have convinced us that the true
motive of this sudden chaqge was the
religions convictions of the king. The
eonscience of Charles had long been
troubled. Even before assuming the
crown, he had resolved to introduce
larger religious liberty into the realm.
Baffled in all his attempts, completely,
disconcerted, he learns one day that
his eldest son — a mind thoroughly se-
rious and earnest — ^had separated him-
self utterly from the errors of Prot-
estantism, and had d^berately devoted
himself to a life of prayer, of silence,
and of mortification. Then Charles
took heart, and convinced that he
could not attain his object without the
help of France, he resolutely set
aside all the obstacles of national sen-
timent, and entered at once upon the
completion of the compact While
this was pending, the British sover-
eign was employed, for the three
months which followed the entrance
of his son upon the novitiate of the
Jesuits, in strengthening himself
aic^inst the insurrections and the civil
war to which his conversion was cer-
tain to give rise. It is not, however, by
political precautions alone that her-

esy is made to yield to l^e true faith.
There must also be the discreet the-
ologian, the wise master, the spiritual
guide-^assistance difficult to avail
one's self of when Anglican intoler-
ance watches menacingly at the gates
of all the royal palaces ! Such a
guide, such an instrument of the di-
vine pity, the prince felt that he pos-
sessed tp-day in the novice of St. An-
dr^ Resuming the dress of a gentle-
man, James Stuart, known by nobody
at court, might readily obtain access to
the king without exciting suspicion.
To him Charles would joyfully become
a disciple, joyfully become a penitent ;
from him he could receive the neces-
sary religious instruction and absolu-
tion for his sins. Li concert with
the two queens, he therefore decided
to write to the father-general of the
Jesuits and request the immediate re-
turn of the novice to England. The
prince wrote to Rome five autograph
letters, all in French ; four to P. Oli-
va, one to his son. The different en-
velopes have perfectly preserved the
stamp oif the royal seal. It is for the
reader now to determine whether the
author of these pages — so truthful, so
ingenuous — was, as has been a thou-
sand times asserted, only an accom-
plished cheat. It is for &e reader to
declare whether the brother of James
n. merits those a^ous epithets of de-
ist and atheist with which Protestant-
ism has so freely bespattered him,
doubtless in recompense for the scorn
and aversion whidi Charles always
felt in his deepest heart for the Estab-
lishment of Henry YIII.

Scarcely five months had elapsed
since James Stuart began to practise
the rules of St. Ignatius, when a
stranger placed in the hands of Paul
Oliva, father-general of the order,
the following letter:

To THE Reverend Father-gen-
eral OF THE Jesuit Fathers :

Reverend Father, — ^We write
this to your reverence as to a person
whcnn we believe to be most prudent
and judicious, inasmuch as the princi-

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586

Ckarht IL tmd Bii San,

pal charge which jon have of an insti-
tute 80 famous will not pennit us to
think otherwise. We address^you in
French, a language common to all
persons of quality, wherewith we be-
lieve that your reverence is not unac-
quainted, preferring this language to
bad Latin, ip which we could with
difficulty write so as to be understood ;
it being our principal aim in this that
no Englishmal may intrude himself
as a translator — a thing which would
otherwise be exceedingly prejudicial
to us, for the reason that we wish this
letter to be a secret between you and
us.

And to commence, your reverence
onght to know that for a long time,
amid the embarrassments of the crown,
we had prayed God to grant us the
opportunity of finding at least one
person in our realm in whom we could
confide touching the affiiir of our sal-
vation without giving our court
grounds for suspecting that we are
Catholic And although there have
been here a multitude of priests, both
in the service of the queen (a portion
of whom have dwelt in our palace of
St James and at Somerset House)
and also scattered throughout our
whole city of London; nevertheless
we could not avail ourselves of any
because of the suspicion we should
give to our court by^nversation with
such people, who, wnatever disguises
of clothing they may assume, are al-
ways known for what they are. Yet
despite so many difficulties, it seems
as if the providence of Grod had pro-
vided for and seconded our desires, by
causing to be born to us in the Catho-
lic religion a son to whom alone we
could confide ourselves in an afiair so
delicate. And although many per-
sons, perhaps better versed than him-
self in the mysteries of the Catholic
religion, might be found for our ser-
vice in this exigency ; nevertheless
we could not make use of others as
well as of him, who would be always
capable of administering to us in se-
cret the sacraments of the confession
and of tlie communion which we

desire to receive as soon as pos-
sible.

This our son is a young gentleman
whom we know you have received
with you at Rome under the name of
the Sieur La Cloche de Jersay, for
whom we have always had a peculiar
tenderness, as much because he was
bom to us when we were scarcely
sixteen or seventeen years old, of a
young lady of the highest rank in our
realm (rather from the frailty of
our early youth than from a bad
heart), as ako because of the excel-
lent nature we have ever remarked in
him and of that eminence in learning
wherein he has advanced through our
means. For this makes us all the
more esteem his conversion to the
Catholic religion, since we know that
he has been led to it through judg-
ment, reason, and knowledge. Many
important reasons touching the peace
of our realm have prevented us, up to
the present time, from publicly recog-
nizing him as our son ; but this will
be for a brief time only, because we
presently design to make a kind of
public recognition of him ere many
years, having, however, provided him,
in 1665, with^the necessary assurances,
in case we should come to die, so that
he may make use of them in due time
and place. And as he is not known
here in anywise, saving by the queens
—this affair having been managed
with great secresy — we could in all
safety converse with him, and exercise
in secret the mysteries of the Catholic
religion, without exciting in any one
of our court the suspicion that we are
Catholic, which we could not do with
any other missionary ; in addition to
the confidence that we should have in
opening to. him our conscience in all
freedom and sincerity as to a part of
ourselves. Thus we see that, although
he was bom in our tender youth
against the ordinances of God, the
same God has seen fit to preserve
him for our salvation, since it pertains
to himself alone to know how to
bring good out of eviL

We believe that the need we have

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FaJdMT Jam$i ShuarL

587

of him has been snfficientlj explained
to your reverence, and if your rever-
ence write us, you will intrust your
letters to our son alone, when he comes
to us. For although we do not doubt
but that you would find secret ways
enough to do it, nevertheless you would
disoblige us excessively by intrusting
yoar letters to anybody but to this our
son, for many considerable reasons
whereof your reverence can conjecture
apart, but especially from the mischief
which it would bring upon us, as we
were subjected to great hazard on ac-
count of our receiving a letter which •
we had from Rome in reply to one
we had written to the deceased Pope ;
and although it was presented to us
with all necessary circumspection and
by a Catholic person, nevertheless it
could not be managed with sufficient
prudence to prevent the suspicion of
our most keen-sighted courtiers. But
having found means to stifle the sus-
picion which was abroad respecting
our being Catholic, we were obliged,
through fear of renewing it in men's
minds, to consent on several occasions
to many things that turned to the dis-
advantage of numerous Catholics in
our kingdom of Ireland. This is the
reason why — although we had written
with aU possible secresy to His Holi-
ness respecting our conversion to . the
Catholic Church at the same time that
we besought His Holiness to make our
very dear cousin, my Lord d'Aubigny, a
cardinal, whereof we were refused for
good reasons — ^we have not been able
to pursue our point.

And although the Queen of Sweden
is very wise and discreet, nevertheless
it is enough that she is a woman to
lead us to ^ar that she cannot keep a
secret, and, as she believes that she
alone knows the oHgin of our well-
beloved son, we have written her
again and have confirmed her in that
opinion. This is done in order that
your reverence shall manifest to her,
upon occasion, that you have no
knowledge of his birth, if she should
inquire of you. As also, we pray your
reverence not to make Jmown to her

or to anybody else, be it whom it
may, the design we have of becoming
Catholic, or that we send for our son
for this object If the Queen of Swe-
den asks where he is gone, your rever-
ence wiU find some pretext, either that
he is gone on a mission to our island
of Jersey or to some other part of our
realm, or still another pretext, until
we make our desires and wishes in
this matter again known to you.

We pray you, then, to send to us as
soon as possible our very dear and
well-beloved son — that is to say, at the
first time that this season or the next
permit. We believe that your rever-
ence IS too zealous for the salvation
of souls, and has too much respect for
crowned heads, not to accord to us a
request so just. We had had some
thought of writing to His Holmess and
disclosing to him what we have in soul,
and by the same means to pray him
to send our son to us. But we have
believed that it would be sufficient for
us this time to make a declaration to
your reverence, reserving for another
occasion — ^which we shall bring to pate
as soon as possible — ^the writing and
declaring ourselves to the Pope by a
very secret courier sent post by us.

If our dear and well-beloved son, li
not a priest, and if he cannot become
one without making publicly known
his true name and origin, or from
other circumstances (which we say be-
cause we do not know your mode of
acting in these matters), in that case
let him rather not be made a priest at
Rome than that he communicate
aught of wliat he is to the bishops or
priests; but let him pass through
Paris and present himself to our very
dear cousin the King of France, or, if
he prefer, to our very honored sister
the Duchess d'Orleans, to whom he
can make manifest on our part our
good desire in all safety. They know
well enough what is the wish of our
soul, and will readily recognize our
very dear and well-beloved son by the
tokens which we gave to him in Lon-
don in 1665, and, perceiving that
he is CathoHc, they woUld endeavor

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588

Charle$ IL and HU Son,

and would 'be.able to make him a
priest without any one's knowing what
he is, and with all possible secresy as we
believe. If, however, without so many
crooks and turns, he prefer to come
to us without being a priest — which
is, perhaps, the better course — then we
would do the same thing by means of
the queen our very honored mother,
or of the queen-consort, who would
have at their service bishops, mission-
aries, or others to perform the cere-
mony without any one's perceiving or
knowing anything about it. We say
this in the event of his encountering
difficulties in effecting this at Bome.

And although we wish our very
dear son to come to us, it is, neverthe-
less, not our design to draw him away
from your society. On the contrary,
we should rejoice if he remain in it all
his life if God inspire him to that vo-
cation, and, after having put our con-
science in order by his means, we shall
not prevent him from returning to
Rome, to live according to the society
to which he has attach^ himself; and
even during the time that he shall be
at our service we shall not prevent
him, if he so will, from pursuing, with
those of your body that are in our
realm, the life commenced in conform-
ity with the religious vocation which
he has embraced, provided that it be
not in London, but in some city or
village not far off from our city of
London, to the end that when we need
him he can come with the greatest
promptitude and facility. And the
reason why we do not wish him to re-
side in London among your people is
because of the danger of his being sus-
pected as a Jesuit, from his being seen
to enter those places which are the
residences of your people, already too
well known by many — a thing that
would turn to our prejudice. Now
we are well content, after being ab-
solved by him of heresy, ani after we
are reconciled to God and to the
Church, that he return to Bome to
lead the religious life which he has be-
gun, awaiting further orders from ns
— a scheme which seems to us quite

to the pomt, and we believe that yoar
reverence will be of our opinion and
counsel in this last particular. Thus
doing, when he shall have been here
some weeks or months, we will send
him back to Bome under the govern-
ment of your reverence, to the end
that, under your care, he may the bet^
ter fit himself for our service. And
during the short time that he shall be
at London, when he speak to any one
of yours let him guard himself well
in discoursing upon the object of his
coming. He can say that it is for
• some affair of importance in our court,
of which only your reverence and him-
self should have cognizance.

Li the meanwhile, though we can-
not openly manifest to your illustrious
society the affection and the good-will we
have toward it, this does not prevent
your reverence from making known
to us, by our very dear and well-be-
loved son, if there be any way in
which we can aid it, which we should
do all the more willingly because we
know that everything which we can
contribute will be employed in the
service of God for the remission of
our offenses. For the rest, we recom-
mend to your prayers oar realm and
ourselves.

Charles, King of England.

At Whitehall, the 3d of August,
1668.

Enclosed in the communication ad-
dressed to the father-general was a
second letter of the king's, which reads
as follows :

To OUR VERT HOyORED SDK THE

Prince SruARt, resident with
THE Jesuit Fathers under the

NAME OF SiEUR DE LA ClOCHE,

AT Rome : * •

Monsieur,— We have written very
ftilly to your reverend father-general;
he will tell you our pleasure. The
Queen of Sweden has asked of us, as a
loan, the sum of money that we bad
taken care to provide for your main-
tenanoe, which was sufficient for

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FaAer Jamei Skuari.

589

many years. Wo have ordered what
was necessary in the matter; and
this is a reason why you need not put
yourself to the trouble either of writ-
ing to her about it, or of speaking
nore thereof.

If the autumn season be too disa-
greeable to get out on your journey to
us, and if you cannot venture upon it
without putting yourself in imminent
danger of falling ill, wait till the com-
mencement of next spring, having es-
pecial care for the preservation of
your health, and keeping yourself in
all quiet, writing us nothing, for we
are not a little suspected of being
Catholic

The queens are very eager to see
you, as we have communicated to
them privately the news of your con-
version to the Roman religion. They
have counselled* us to tell you that we
do not forbid your living in the insti-
tute to which you have attached your-
self, and we should be rejoiced if you
remain in it all your life ; but desire
vou to measure well your powers and
your constitution, which has appeared
to us veiy feeble and delicate. Que
can be a good Catholic without being
a religious, and you ought to consider
that we design, before many years, to
publicly recognize you as our son.
But as neither parliament nor the
state of affairs has permitted it up to
the present moment, we have always
been constrained to defer it You
ought, moreover, to consider that you
can aspire to the same titles from us
as the Duke of Monmouth, and per-
haps to more ample ones. Beside, we
are without children by the queen
and those of the Duke of York are
very feeble ; while, for every reason
and because of the rank of your
mother, jou can- lay claim on our-
selves and on parliament to be pre-
ferred to the Duke of Monmouth. In
that case, bemg young, as you are, if
liberty of conscience and if the Catho-
Hc religion be restored to this realm,
yo\i would have some hope of the
crown. For we Can assure you that
if Grod permit that we and our very

honored brother the Duke 'of York die
without children, the crown will be-'
long to yourself and parliament can-
not legitimately oppose it, unless that
the &ct of your being a Catholic ex-
clude you ; as liberty of conscience is
not yet established, and since, at pres<
ent, only Protestant kings are eligible.
This, then, we are advised by the
queens to tell you. If, hi the mean-
time, all things considered, you prefer
to serve God in the Society of Jesus,
we do not wish to offer any resistance
to the will of Gk)d, whom we have al-
ready grieved too much by our of-
fences. We do not, therefore, forbid
your pursuing that vocation, if Grod
inspire you to it ; but we desire only
that you think well of it

We do not wish to write to the Pope
until we have spoken to you by our
own mouth. We had written to the
late Pope, to the end that he should
make our very dear and well-beloved
cousm, my Lord d'Aubigny, a cardinal ;
whereof we have not had the satisfac-
tion that we demanded. However,
we are not offended in this. His Holi-
ness having made known to us mani-
fold reasons why he could not con-
scientiously create a cardinal in our
realm, the affairs of religion and other
things being as they are.

Not long since we wrote to the
Queen of Sweden, and advised her not
to write to you, and to treat you
henceforth as simply a gentleman,
without manifesting that she has any
knowledge of your birth. This is a
reason why you should not take it
amiss if her majesty treat you after
that manner. Ijt is a no light burden
to us to see you always constrained to
live unknown, but have patience yet a
little, for before many years we shall
try to so conduct affairs and parlia-
ment that all the world will know who
you are. You will no longer live in
these hindrances and restraints, and it
will depend only on yourself to live in
the liberty and the pleasure of a per-
son of your birth, unless that God
strongly inspire you and that you '
ahould wish to continue absolutely the

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590

Chadei H and jSs Skm,

religious life which 70a have com-
menced.

Although we cannot, and ought not,
to openly show the good-will that we
have for the Society of Jesus, who
have received you, yet in the mean-
while if we cannot publicly favor them
with our royal munificence, there may
still be some place, room, or occasion
wherein they might need our aid, and
where we could contribute somewhat
We would do it all the more because
we know that all will be employed for
the service of God and the remission
of our offences, and because, also^ we
could desire that no one of your line-
age should remain with them without
founding something as a memorial
suitable to one of your extraction.
We will talk about this matter in Lon-
don, if you persist in your design of
living with them.

In the ineanwhile, believe that we
have always had you in our peculiar
affection, not only because you were
bom to us in our tenderest youth, when
we were scarcely sixteen or seventeen,
but particularly because of the excellent
nature that we have always remarked
in you, because of that eminence of
knowledge in which you have been ad-
vanced through ourmeans, because yon
have always borne yourself as a virtu-
ous man, and because you have been
especially obedient to our commands :
the which, joined to the paternal love
that we have felt toward you, strongly
govemi our desires in wishing all kinds
of benefits for you, beside the pity
that moves us in seeing you so un-
known and disregarded — a thing which
shall continue as brief a space as pos-
sible.

It is not easy for us to send private*
ly to Bome a sum of money adequate
for a person of your birth and suffi-
cient to put you in the condition and
estate of appearing before us, being,
as we are, neither willing nor able to
noise it abroad that we have any one
at Bome with whom we have commu-
nication. It is not possible that you
are not everywise modest enough to
eome to us, if not in the conditioii of

one gf your rank, at least as a simple
gentleman when you put foot in E^g-
iokd. Finally, pray God for ourselves,
Che queen, and our realm.
I am your affectionate finther,

CHABI.1E8,
King of Eng., Fr., Scot, and Ire.

At Whitehall, 4th of Aug., 1668.

Charles IL, in the letters we have
just given, left his son at liberty to set.
out at the end of autumn or even at
the winter season. Twenty-five days
have not elapsed when his resolution
changes. He wishes the novice at
Rome to make haste to precipitate hi^
departure. What was the cause of
this serious disquietude ? It was this :
Queen Christina, repenting of her
abdication and hating the north, re-
solved to seek an asylum for her re-
maining days in the shadow of the
Vatican. Charles was informed of
her intention, and at once took alarm.
Christina would then witness tiie de-
parture of James Stuart; entangling
the inexperienced novice in a network
of cunning questions, what secret could
escape her? Everything would be
discovered. Litde by little the rumor
W0UI4 spread from Italy to En^and.
Charles already saw his kingdom in
revolution and himself reduced to the
most grievous extremity. Such was
the object of the second letter to the
father-general :

To THE Reyerend Fathbb-geks-

BAL OF THE JeSUIT FaTHEBS AT

Rome:

Reverekd Fathbb^ — ^We send,
with the greatest diligence and with the
greatest secresy, an express to Bome
chioged with two letterp, one to
your reverence to the end that our
well-beloved son set out as soon as
possible ; the other to the Queen of
Sweden^— having commanded the mese:
senger to await the arrival of her
majesty in any Italian town through
which she may pass, not wishing even
that the aforesaid express should ap-
pear at your house, Aroogh fear of be-

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Father Jomei StuarL

591

ing recognized bj some of your order
who are English. As he ifi a person
of rank, we have in like manner for-
bidden his delaying more than one
day at Bome, fearing lest he should
be recognized by certain Englishmen
who are at Rome.

We say, then, to your reverence
that, since the first letter that we wrote
you, we have received trustworthy news
that the Queen of Sweden returns to
Bome, contrary to the anticipations
which we had formed — ^the which has
not a little embarrassed us in the mat-
ter of our salvation. This is the rea-
son that, upon this new accident, hav-
ing taken counsel with the queens, we
have determined to write in haste to
the Queen of Sweden, feigning to her
and persuading her that our very dear
and well-beloved son has represented
to us that he wishes assigned to him
something fixed for life, to the end
that in case he should not pursue the
religious calling he has commenced,
being now a Catholic, he may have
something to fall back upon ; and that
even if he should pursue it, he prays
us to settle a sum of money upon him
which he may dispose of according to
his devotion, whidi petition we have
granted him ; but since this cannot be
effected at Bome, we have ordered
him to go to Paris to find certain cor-
respondents of ours, and after that to
proceed to Jersey or to Hanton,* where
he will receive from us forty or fifty
thousand crowns in total, which may
be deposited in some bank; and that
we have instructed him not to tell his
superior of his birth; but that he shall
simply feign to your reverence that he
is the son of a rich preacher, who, be-
ing deceased some time since, his moth-
er, moved with a desire of becoming a
Catholic and to give him the goods
which belong to him, has written to
him, and that your reverence, desirous
of the salvation of this person, and of
making her a Catholic, and perceiv-
ing also that he can come by his es-
tate, has readily permitted him to go.
This we have arranged in order that
* Kow Sonthampion.— Sd. C. W.

she shall thus believe that she alone
has the secret, and will therefore not
break the matter to your reverence
from the friendship she bears him.
Thus we counteract any suspicion she
might have of your letting him come
to us and of our being Catholic But
above all it is necessary that our very
dear son do not wait, but that he set
out as soon as possible; for, as she
needs money (and so needs it that she
demanded at the last Swedish diet 35,-
000 crowns in advance), she would
embarrass him in such a way that the
drama which we wish to play would
come off but illy. This we have ar-
ranged touching the Queen of Sweden.
Your reverence will not be astonish-
ed then if this fear has led us to dread
the evils by which we are besieged ; a
fear all the more lively in us, because
these evils are greater and bear in their
train consequences more dangerous.
Now it is a truth received without dis-
pute among our wisest statesmen, that
of all the temporal evils which can be-
fal us, the proof that we are Catholic
is the greatest, since it would infallibly
cause our death, and at the same time
many convulsions in oUr realm. Your
reverence ought not, therefore, to be
astonished if we take so many precau-
tions and if we have judged proper to
write him this second letter also, as
well in the matter of the Queen of
Sweden as to supply omissions which
we made in the &«t, and at the same
time to retract some things contained
therein — that our very dear and hon-
ored son do not present himself to our
very dear cousin the King of France,
nor to our very honored sister the
Duchess of Orleans, as we advised be-
fore ; but only that he come to us, be
it through France or through Paris or
by other ways, as it shall pleasd your
reverence to determine. He will ab-
stain during the journey from writing
to the Queen of Sweden, lest she see
that those things are not carried out
which, as we have heretofore said, have
been pretended to her. This we have
decided upon with the aid of the queens,
fearing a discovery or some accident

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Oiarlet IL and HU Sm,

Moreover, we pray your reverenoe
(who are secretly acquainted, as are
her moet christian majesty the queen,
and our very dear sister, Madame the
Duchess of Orleans, with the warm dis-
position for becoming a Catholic which
We have for a long time shown), — we
pray you, nevertheless, to abstain from
writing to them in any fashion touch-
ing these matters, but to keep every-
thing quite secret until the providence
of God has otherwise disposed of af-
fairs.

Now as we desire, with all requisite
prudence in an affair of so great con-
sequence to ourselves and Uie peace
of our realm, that our very dear and
well-beloved son find everything which
is necessary in the business of our
salvation made easy for him, and to
avoid the inconveniences which might
spring upon this side, we have taken
counsel with the queen to this effect,
ihat when he shall arrive alome in
London — ^for such is our good will
and pleasure — he take time to clothe
himself, and dress himself as quickly
as possible, if he be not sufficiently
well-dressed — ^not having been willing
to do so for fear of soiling his gar^
ments by the bad weather and muddy
roads, which soil a carriage and also
all who are in it ; and having put him-
self in order and rendered himself
presentable, let him take occasion to
address himself to the r^gning queen,
.either when she is dining at our pal-
ace of St. James or when her majes-
ty shall go to visit the queen, our very
dear and honored mother. To whom,
without causing any suspicion, he will
present a sealed letter in the form of
a supplication, in which he will say in
a few words who he is. Her majesty
has directions from us to manage
everything which is necessary for an
introduction to ourselves, with all
possible prudence, and we are assured
that there shall arise no disorder nor
suspicion. He has nothing else to do
but to let himself be directed accord-
ing to Yhat shall be advised him, and
we command him to observe punctual-
ly everything we have written to him,

especially what we have put within
the envelope.

In the meanwhile, we renew to
your reverence the prayer which we
made to you from the first, which is,
not to write us, nor to make any re-
sponse saving by the hands of our
very dear and well-beloved son, whom
we order to set out from Rome as soon
as possible, not wishing that the Queen
of Sweden speak to lum f(»r the afore-
said reasons. Having departed from
Rome, he will take his ease in coming
to us. We pray, however, your rev-
erence, i( this be necessary, to move
him to come as soon as possible, rep-
resenting to him the need we have of
him. For we know that he has no
little repugnance to England, which
we attribute to the fact of his not hav-
ing been educated there, and also of
his finding himself compelled to live
there alone, so that we have never
been able to induce him to live there
more than a year. And even before
that year was finished, he presented
us so many reasons that we were con-
strained to let him go to Holland,
where he bore himself with great
praise and to our great satisfaction in
the belles lettres and other studies, in
wluch he made admirable progress.

We believe he has too mudi judg-
ment to wish to disobey us, and not
come as we desire. As soon as he
comes we shall endeavor, by means
of the queens, to have him made a
priest in all secresy. And if there be
anything that the bishop ordinary can-
not do without permission of His Holi-
ness, let him not ^euI to provide for it,
but very secretly, so ihat no one shall
know who he is : which will be done if
possible before he set out from Rome.
Meanwhile we beseech you, reverend
father, to pray God for the queens,
our realm, and ourselves, who are
Chables, King of England.

At Whitehall, the 29th Aug., 1668.

Yet even these numerous and ar>
gent recommendations did not quite
pacify the timid monarch. One fea-
ture in the rule of St Ignatius, of

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Fatkdt Jamu Stumi.

S9a

wlticli hiB qaeen's had jnat advisett
him, suddenly upset all his ideas* He
saaUdies up the pen. He counter-
mands the orders he has just given.
He traces a new plan of campaign in
which the cleaniess of exposition^ the
abititj of conception, the facility of
execution, are about on a leveL This
third letter, we must confess, does
little credit to the geographical know-
ledge and above aU to the courage of
Charles IL In another point of view,
however, it merits the attention of the
reader. Precisely « because of the
trouble which reigns in his thoughts,
we detect more than once the cry of
the souL More than at any time
hitherto, the unhappy prince lets us
discover the cruel anguishes which
torture his conscience, and the incon«
testable sincerity of his desires.

To THE ReVE&END FATHER-aSlfEB-

▲L OF THE Jesuit Fathers at

Rome :

Beyerend Father, — ^We have
never felt so many embarrassments,
though we have had enough of them in
* our Hfe, as at present, when we wish to
think seriously of our salvation. We
have but just sealed this other letter,
which we pray you to read before the
one which is open, that you may bet-
ter learn our ihtention and the order
in which we hold to the writing. The
queens have advised us and coun-
selled us not to press his [our son's]
coming, because they wish to arrange
and bring about certain very necessa-
ry and notable precautions, to render
the arrival of our very dear and welU
beloved son to England very prudent
and secret

For this end their majesties, having
ibund means of learning accurately
and with judgment the ways of your
society regar^ng those who have but
recently joined them, inform us that
they have ascertained from a good
source that the novices of your holy
socie^, not less than with others, are
never sent off without some member
of the fraternity accompanying them,
«B mnch to be advised of their actions
voii. n. 88

and deportment as to render an ac-
count to the superior— the which we
admire as a yerj holy prudence and
which can only spring from the divine
spirit with which so holy a society is
animated. But nevertheless in this
matter we beseech your reverence to
dispense with this companionship in
the case of our very dear son ; because
we command him absolutely, in vir-
tue of the power which God has giv-
en us over him, to come to us by him-
self, partly because this will properly
accord with th4 letter which we have
sent to the Queen of Sweden, who.
should believe that he has gone alcme
—that is to say, unaccompanied by
any member of the fraternity; but
principally because of the dangerous
inconveniences whereof we should be'
constantly in fear if he came in the
company of any of the fraternity.
We have already, with great secresy,
pretended to some very safe persons
in a great number of the English
ports, and by ways entirely concealed,
that a foreign prince, of such a car-
riage, such a mien, alone by himself,
is flying to us, and much more indeed
which we could not explain to your
reverence without going too far into
detail We do this, partly that if we
come to be anywise snspecled of be-
ing too familiar with him (Father
Jan\(BS Stuart) we may have some-
thing to say to remove the suspicion.

Your reverence can see by this
that if he should bring an Italian with
him who was recognizable as an Ital<^
ian, be it by his accent or otherwise,
this might be the occasion of over-
tlirowing all our designs and of inter-
rupting the scheme which we wish to
work out in order to come most surely
to our just desires. Even in case he
can have some one other than an Ital-
ian with him, we should forbid his
bringing any one into England, of
whatever nation he might be, for many
very considerable reasons, which it
would take too long to recount.

Tour reverence ought not to be sur-
prised if we are so cautious, because
we learned in the time of Cromwell

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Chatrki IL and m$ SoHj

what misery in, and what are the
things of this world, what it is to he
pradent and to hide one's self in order
to succeed in our undertaking. We
douht not that, as our very dear and
well-heloyed son is young, he is far
from eager for company and conyersa-
tion, and that he does not desire to
have intercourse with any one hy let-
ter or hy discourse ; (or we know that
he does not love the court any too
well. But he must needs have pa-
tience, inasmuch as it is not reason-
able that for a pleasure so brief and of
so little consequence, he should put
himself in danger of ruining all oar
designs. Beside, he ought to know
diat when he shall put foot in our
palace, he is not to converse with any
one saving with ourselves and the
queen, who will give the necessary
orders in the matter. Nor will he
write any letters saving to you, rev-
erend father, and these letters that he
shall write to you we shall despatch
by an express in great secresy to
Borne, to the end that your rever-
ence relieve us in the necessities
which may arise touching' our
souL

We have made inquiries respecting
the seaports near^t to Rome. Among
many which have been named to us,
we recall Givita Yecchia and G^nes. >
We command him, then, to go to G4nes.
We have ascertained, with all neces-
sary prudence, that your society has
at that place a house of your order.
Being then at G^es, we wish him to
«eek out some ship or English shallop,
but in such wise that we do not wish
any of the fraternity to recommend
him to the master nor to those who
manage the ship, not showing their
aoquainlancedhip with him, for very
considerable reasons ; but especially
because these seafaring men will re-
peat it all as soon as they come to
port Moreover, we desire that he
put off and lay aside his religious
robes in the house of his friends and
brother Jesuits of G^es. He will
assume them again in the same place
on his return to Borne, when we send^

him back to pursue there the religjoos
life he has commenced*

He will land then in our realm sol-
itary and in disguise. He will call
himself everywhere he may go Henry *
de Rohan, which is the name of the
family of a certain French prince, a
Calvinist, and very well known and
intimaite with us. We are in such
fear lest some acddent occur, that in
these different ports we at present
take cognisance, both very secretly
and with the requisite prudence, of
ships which have arrived or are due,
and even so far as we can of persons,
under pretence of a zeal for the well-
being of our realm, and under pretence
of maintaining the Protestant religion,
to which we pretend to be attaiched
more than ever, although, before God,
who knows the heart, we abhor it as
very false and pernicious.

Moreover, we forbid our weiy dear
and honored son to pass throng
France and by the other passages and
ports which lie in that part, for he
could not bring about our intentions
with sufficient secresy sailing fitmi that
coast, and therefore we have found no
place more proper than G^^nes for his
embarkation. And, in the meanwhilei
awaiting his return to Rome, your
reverence shall noise it abroad that he
has gone to Jersey or Hanton to see
his pretended mother, who desires to
become a Catholic, as we have suggest-
ed and feigned in that other letter, and
that, to make the greater haste, 1m
went by sea.

This then we command him to
observe, point by point, throogh the
authority that God has given us over
him, and we promise him, on the faith
of a king, thajt we seek nothing else in
his coming but the salvation of oar
souls, his good, and that of the soae^
to which he has attached hiwiRel^
which, sooner or later, we shall find
means to notably fiivor with our royal
magnificence* And so fiur from for-
bidding his pursuing his calling, both
for the Catholic religion and your eo-
ciety, we and the queens will iu^ It
upon him better than any direetar he

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F<aheir Jama Stuart.

595

can liave. It is very trae that when
Uie eeason and affiora permit tis to
write and make known to His Holiness
the veneration we hold him in as the
vicegerent of God, we hope that he
will be too well disposed toward us to
refuse him the cardinal's hat, inasmuch
as the conditions which could forbid
his having this dignity for the honor
of our person and of our realm^are
not fulfilled in his case, viz., residence
in England, since we can send him to
dwell at Rome, as we promise, and
with the royal magnificence requisite
for his birth. Nevertheless, if in time
he prefer to live according to the relig-
ious life he has commenced, we would
readily abandon what would be to the
honor of our crown and of our person,
rather than to urge and procure such
dignities against his will.

We have made discreet inquiries of
our physician whether sea-sickness
cause any dangerous accidents to those
of a feeble constitution, who has an-
swered us that sea-sickness never killed
any one, but on the contrary has been
the means of greater health. Never-
theless, if it be too painful for him to
make one trip of it, he shall contiive
that the bark or shallop in which he
sails rest from time to time in some
port He might easily come at once
to London ; but we do not wish it for
good reasons. Let him land at some
other port of England, from whence he
can come by la^d in a carriage to
London.

We once again entreat your rever-
ence not to write to us nor to make
any reply, saving by the hand of our
very dear and honored son, when he
comes to us. And, if there be a need
for anything which he does not possess
in makmg the voyage to London,
we beseech you, reverend fothcr, to
have particular care in the matter,
furnishing him with whatever he re-
qoires, whereof he will keep ac-
count.

We firmly believe it is Grod who
has inspired us to all these above-
mentioned ways for bringing us in
secret oar very honored son, because

of what he has said in his word^-that
when two or three are gathered to-
gether in his name, he will be in the
midst of them. For it is exactly our-
selves, and the queen, our very dear
mother, and the reigning queen, who
decree all these things, not without
having invoked, first of all, the Holy
Spirit. Beside that, the queens have
commanded their priests to celebrate
many masses in accordance with their
intention, which is nothing other than
that this affair succeed as well as all
our other projects above mentioned,
which tend not only to our good, but
to that of the Soman Catholic Church
and of our realm. We are,

Charles, King of England*

These last two letters were a sad
revelation to Father Oliva, and no
doubt very much diminished the hopes
which he had before conceived. How-
ever, the order was given to the
novice to set out without delay.

If James Stuart could easily obey
his father by departing from Bome be-
fore the arrival of Queen ChrLstina,
it was certainly more difficult for him
to conform to the frequently contra-
dictory injunctions* concerning the
route to be taken and the precautions
to be guarded against which had been
successively transmitted to him.
Everything which was rational and
practicable the young man respected.
He set sail from Leghorn about the
middle of October, a fact which we
learn from a brief letter of Father
Oliva to the King of England. It is
of course unnecessary to explain to
the reader why the father-general
has dated his note from a Tuscan port
rather than from the city of the
Roman pontiffs at which he wrote :

SiBE, — ^The French gentleman who
is charged with the delivery of this
letter will inform you of my utter
carefulness in fulfilling the commands
of your three letters and my unlimited
devotion to your royal person. Tour
.majesty will always see me execute
with the same promptness and the

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696

ChadH IL and BU Son,

same seal eyerything which he shall
deign to impose on me. I shall en-
deayor to be sach in reality as he
deigns to believe that I am ; such as
the confidence with which he honors
me obliges me to show myself.

I throw myself respectfully at the
feet of yoor migesty.

Leghoni, Oct 14, 1668.

In one very important respect it
was found necessary to abandon, or
rather to violate, the royal progranmie.
Charlesy a perfect stranger to ecclesi-
astical laws, always supposed that, at
his request, his son could be made
priest either at Borne or in London.
But James Stuart was only twenty-
one years old, and was without theo-
» logical Sadies. Even if the»e serious
objections had not existed, it would
not have been prudent to elevate to the
saoTQd office a novice whose religi-
ims experience extended scarcely over
a space of six months. Thus, despite
the repugnance of the king, Henry de
Bohan, as our young traveller must
now be called, took as his companion
a priest of the society, a Frenchman,
as far as we can judge, who, disguised
like himself, was presented to their
Britannic majesties in the quality of a
friend of the refugee prince. This
wise measure, imposed by the timidity
of Charles, was attended by so little
inconvenience, that we shall find the
monarch himself^ on the occasion of
his son's second voyage to England,
earnestly requesting of the father^
general the return of this same reli-
fftouMf whose talents and virtues he had
come to appreciate.

Tn.

This is not the place to describe
the warmth with which Charles open-
ed his arms to bis first-born, whom he
had always peculiarly cherished, nor
the joy of the two pious princesses,
nor itie tender emotions of the youth
upon whom beamed, at length, the
sympathy and affection he had never
blown before* In the isolation of his *

earlier Hfe, James Stuart had sadly felt
the void which the absence of that
sweetest tie on earth, the family*
creates* This grief had eaten into
him like a cancer, till the day when
he resolved to renounce the world*
When the victim has immolated him*
self, when he has said to fiesh and
blood, I will know you nevermore I
belaid in a royal palace, by one of
the first thrones on earth, the humble
novice finds again a home^-venerable
queens are mothers to him. His fiiH
ther caresses him, and, emulating the
example of bis brother, the Duke of
York, who was also preparing to em-
brace Catholicism, receives the child
of St Ignatius as an angel from
heaven.

But it was not for such pleasures
that the young Jesuit had quitted his
solitude. Guided by the wise coon-
sels of Father Oliva, and assisted by
his own studies and the able co-opera-
tion of his companion, he engaged
without delay in the religious instruc-
tion of the king. Of these conievenees,
surrounded with so much mystery,
two fragments have come down to us.
One word upon the nature and up<m
the history of this double dc^cument.

It consbts of two divisions, and is a
re8um6 of a great theological discus-
sion which, at once, establtshes the
divine authority of the Boman, and
saps the foundation of the Anglican,
Church. The original piece is in the
French language and in the hand-
writing of tlie kkig. He was not, how-
ever, the author. The primitive text
has disappeared, probably through
fear that a paper of this nature, if it
should get abroad, would iumish ma-
terial proof tliat a sovereign of Great
Britun had held communication with
a ^papist" priest These pages of
religious controversy Charles carefiil-
ly concealed. While he lived proba-
bly no one, save the Duke of York,
had any knowledge of them. After
the death of Gharks, James 11. found
these writings again, one in the pri-
vate chest, the other in the cabinet of
the dead monoroh, and in spite of the

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Father Jame$ Stuart

597

storm which they were certain to pro-
doce, he did not fear to make them
{mblic. In 1700 he presented them
toLemidfj as a proof of the faith which
animttted his brother, to the general
aaeembly of the clergy of France
eonvened at St. Grermain-en-Laye.
Of the many thousand copies which,
dnring the reign of the last of the
erowued Stoarto, were circulated on
both sides of the Channel, there exists
at the present day only one. The
Jesuit College at Rome still possess the
edition of 1685, and in addition a
manuscript copy oiP the two papers,
both bearing, as a guarantee of their
perfect au&enticity, the autograph
signaUure of King James. All the
English historians speak of these two
oelebrated writings; but only to de-
clare that the real convictions of
Charles had nothing in common with
these fragments of a controversy
transcribed by him they know not
why.

James IL in his ^ Memoirs" gives
us a short anecdote, which from its
connection, with this subject we will
reproduce. One day, finding himself
alone in his cabinet with the Arch-
bishop of Canterbury, he availed hiiii*
self of the opportunity to place in his
hands the two papers.

^ He, the archbishop, appeared sur-
prised, and remained for a quarter of
an hour without making any reply.
Then he said that he had not supposed
the deceased king was so learned in
the matter of controversy, but he nev-
ertheless thought the arguments could
be refuted. Upon which the king
b^^ed him to znake the trial, telling
him that if he accomplished it by means
of reasons both solid and honestly ex-
pressed, he would probably succeed in
converting him to his church. The
archbishop replied that it would, per-
haps, be evincing a want of respect
for the deceased king, should he seek
to contradict him ; but his nugesty re-
lied by urging on him that Uie hope
of converting himself ought to over*
ride every other consideration. He
besoug^ him then to occupy himself

at once with a refutation of these pa**
pers, and to empby his pen if he
thought proper. Whatever the reason
may have been, neither this authoriza-
tion nor the pressing instance of my
Lord Dartmouth could engage him to
write, and there appeared no reply
during the four years that his ougesty
reigned in England."*

Here then are these dogmatic pages,
almost as unknown in our century as
in the time when Charles concealed
them in the most secret places in his
palace. We publish them exactly as
they saw the light

PIBST WBmMG.

The conversation that we had the
other day will have satisfied you, as I
hope, upon the principal point, which
was that Jesus Christ can have, here
upon ihe earth, but one church only,
and I believe that it is as clear as it
is that the Scripture is printed, that
this church does not exist unless it be
what is called the Boman Catholic
Church.

I believe that there is no need of
your troubling yourself with entering
upon a sea of particular disputes, since
the principal, and in truth the only and
simple question, consists in ascertain-
ing where this diurch is which, in the
two creeds, we profess to believe in.
We declare, in the two creeds, that
we boJieve in only one catholic and
apostolic church, and it does not be-
long to each individual member to
believe everything that comes into his
head according to his fancy; but it
belongs to the church to whom on
earth Jesus Christ has left the power
of governing us in matters of ftdth,
and has made these creeds to serve us
as a rule.

It would be a most unreasonable
thing to make laws for a country, and
then to permit the inhabitants to be the
interpreters and the judges. For then,

Ist Menudn krU$ <U sa JUatnTT. «.. ^IS.

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598

CkaHsi IL and Bis Son,

eacb indiTidnal if onld be a judge in his
own canse, and oonseqnentlj, there
would be no standard whereby to dis-
tinguish justice from injustice. Can
we then suppose that God has aban-
doned us to such uncertainties as to
give us a rule for our conduct, and
then to permit each individual to be
his own judge? I demand of evety
honest man if this be not the same
diing as following our own imagina-
tions, or of making use thereof in the
interpretation of Scripture?

I could wish that some mie would
show me in what passage the power of
deciding upon matters of faith is
given to each individual. Jesus
Christ has left this power to his
Charch, even for the remission of sins,
and he has left his spirit there. This
power has been « exercised since his
resurrection, first by the apostles in
their creed, and many years after by
the Council of Nice, where the creed
was made that bears its name.

By the power which has been re-
ceived of Jesus Christ, the ~Holy
Scripture itself was judged many years,
after the apostles, in determining which
were the canonical books and which
were not. If we had the power then,
I would like to know how it has come
to be lost, and by what authority men
can separate themselves from this
Church. The only pretence I have
ever heard advanced is because the
Church has fallen into error, interpret-
ing the Scripture after a forced man-
ner and contrary to its true sense,
and that it has imposed on us articles
of faith which are not authorized by
the word of God. I would like to
know who is to be the judge of al>
this, whether it is the whole Church
whose succession has continued up to
to-day without any interruption, or is
it to be the individuals who have
excited schisms for their own in-
terest?

This is the true copy of a paper
which I have found in the private
chest of the deceased king, my broth-
er, written by his own hand.

James B.

SECOKD WBITINO.

It is a most sad thing to see the in-
finite number of heresies which have
spread themselves over this nation.
Each one believes himself as compe-
tent a judge of the Scripture as the
apostles themselves. And no wonder,
for that part of the nation which has
most resemblance to a church does
not dare employ the true arguments
against ihe other sects, through fear
lest they should be turned against
themselves, and they should thus find
themselves confounded by their own
proper arguments. Those of the An-
glican Church, as it is called, are will-
ing enough to be regarded as judges in
matters spiritual They dare not,
however, positively assert that their
judgment is without appeal. For it
would be necessary for them to assert
that they are infallible, which they
dare not pretend, or to avow that whiU
they decide upon in matters of con-
science ought not to be followed fur-
ther than as it accords with the judg-
ment which each one may make in
his own mind«

If Jesus Christ has left a church
fa^re on earth, and if we were all at
one time in this church, how, and by
what authority, are we separated from
it? If the power of interpreting
Scripture resides in the brain of each
individual, what need have you of a
church or of churchmen? Why
did Jesus Christ — ^having given to his
apostles power to bind and to unbind on
earth and in heaven — add that he
ipotdd be with them tiU the end of the
world f These words were not spoken
figuratively nor in the manner of a
parable. Jesus Christ was ascend-
ing into glory, and he left his powef
to his church, until the end of the
world.

For one hundred years we have
known the sad effects of this doctrine,
which takes away from the church the
power of judging without appeal in
matters spiritual What country
could remain at peace if there were
not a supreme judge from whom there

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Fa&er Jwm$ Stuart.

599

could be no appeal? Can any jus-
tice be done where tbe culprits are
their own judges and interpreters of
the law, equally with those who are
set on high to render justice ?

It is to this condition that we are
reduced in England in spiritual
affairs. For the protestants are not-
of the Anglican Church because it is
the true church from which there can
bene appeal; but because the disci-
pline of Uiis church is conformable to
^eirpresent imaginations. And as soon
as it shall run counter or swerve from
it, they will embrace almost the first
congregation of those whose di&cipline
and region accord at that time with
their opinions. Thus, accepting this
doctrine, there is no other church nor
any other interpretation of Scripture
than that which each extravagant in-
dividual shall hit upon in his brain.
I would then like exceedingly to know
of all those who have seriously re-
flected on these things, if the great
work of our salvation ought to rest
on such a sandy foundation as this ?
Has Jesus Christ ever said to secular
magistrates, still less to the people —
^athe wiU hevnth them till the end of
the world f-'^r has he given them
power of pardoning sins? St. Paul
has said in Corinthians — We are
GocPs husbandry, we are Goc^s build-
ing, we are laborers in the house of God
together with God. This shows us
who they are who labor — which is the
field,' which the edifice. In the
whole of this and in one of the pre-
ceding chapters, St. Paul takes great
paii)^ to establish the doctrine that
they (that is to say, the clergy) have
the spirit of God, without which no
one can penetrate the profound rngste^
ries of God; and he concludes the
chapter with this verse, " For who hath
known the mind of the Lord that he
may instruct him f BtU we have the
mind of Ohrist,** If then we consider
merely in the light of probability and
human reason the power that Jesus
Christ left to his church in the gospel,
and which St Paul explains after-
ward so distincily, we cannot believe

that our Saviotir has said all these
things for nothing.

I entreat you to consider, on the
other hand, that those who resist the
truth, and who do not wish to submit
to his church, draw their arguments
from so-called contradictions and far-
fetched interpretations, while at the
same time they deny verities express-
ed in clear and positive words, a thing
so contrary to good faith that it is dif-
ficult to think that they believe what
they say.

Is there any other foundation of the
Protestant Church if it be not this,
that should the civil magistrate judge
it fit, he can summon together such
persons of the clergy, according as he
believes it to be for his interest, for
the time being ; and can change the
form of the church to Presbyterian-
ism or to Independency, and finally
make it just wliat he pleases ? Such
has been the method which they have
pursued here in our so-called English
Reformation, and by the same rule
and by the same autibority it can be
still further diversified and changed
into as many forms and figures as
there are different imaginations in the
heads of men.

This is a true copy of a paper
written by the hand of the late king^
my brother, which I found in hi^ caj^
inet Jambs B.

But why, it may be asked, do we
arbitrarily date from' the epoch of
Father James Stuart's, appearance in
London these papers, otherwise with-
out date, and which were not publicly
known till seventeen y^ars later, in
1685 ? Let us set forth, as briefiy as
possible, the arguments by which we
support our position.

In the first place, we agree with the
English historians that these twoVrag-
ments of controversy are not from the
pen of Charles II. A comparison of
the rugged and often inaccurate
French of his miyesty with that of
the present text, settles this question
at <mce. To whom, then, must we
look for the authorship ? They pro-

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600

CAoHtf IL md EtS$ Sony

eeed from an eedesiadtic, fipom a theo-
logian oonfiultedbj the King of £ng-
lancL The very rorm which they as-
sume argues the teachiag of a master*
But are not these two papers the off-
ering of two authors, of two teach-
ers ? By no means. There is a per^
feet resemblance between them, a per-
feet consanguinity of thought and of
argument. There is the same turn of
mind, the same style, often the same
expressions. Sdll further. The ten*
or of the two pieces, which present in
an abridged and condensed form
many points of doctrine, presupposes
in our opinion a whole series of les-
sons given to the royal disciple. Ob-
serve that, at the beginning of the
first resum^, we have&e phrase ^ the
principal point ;" there were then seo-
ondary points. The peaceful and at the
same time simple, almost familiar tone
of the master on entering upon the
subject, is exactly the tone of a man
who is conyersing neither for the fint
nor for the last time. ** The conversa-
tion'' of which he speaks had not been,
you would say, the only conversation.
Everything, in. fact, .shows that these
two fragments made part of a very
considerable series of religious confer-

But could these conferences, which,
as we have seen, Charles might have
held in all secresy at the end of the
year 1668 and at the commencement
of the year 1669, have taken place
at any other period of his reign ? By
'no means. For the first eight years,
the king himself is our witness, since
we have only to study the terms in
which he complains to Father Oliva
of his lamentable state of spiritual
destitution. After the departure of
the two Jesuits and the conversion of
the Duke of York, the Anglican ha-
tred and bitterness did not cease to
rage about the thrcme of the Catholie
Stuarts. During this second period,
the only name which stands in our
way is that of Father Claude de la
Colombi^re, who sojourned in England
a little more than two years, from 1676
to 1679* Now in this unhappy time,

so great nas the terror which ruled
Charies 11. that, despite his sincere
esteem for the preacher of the Duch-
ess of York, he dared not accord him,
by the very confession of Fath^ de
la Colombiere, more than two or three
audiences, and not one of them secret.
Whence iU follows that these two fii^
mous documents are very probably,
we had ahnost said certainly, the
work of Father James Stuart and
of his learned companion. Beside,
does not such an origin explain the
almost religious care with which
these arid pages of theology were
guarded for nearly twenty years by a
prince to whom history points as the
perfect type of carelessness ? They
called back to him the day when, in
the presence of his mother, who was
no more, and who now prayed for him
in heaven, under the direction of a
saint whose father he was, he had
made his most powerful effort to ab-
jure odious errors ; they remained in
his hand as a consolation for the past,
a light in the future, a pledge of par-
don and of hope in iJbd hour when,
cited before him ^ho judges kings,
he should at last render a severe ac-
count for the scandals of his life and
the deficiencies of his fiiith.

Had the difficulties which these two
devout ecclesiastics were forced to en-
counter been merely spiritual, had it
been a question of logic, history, and
truth, their mission would have been a
fruitftil one. But in actual life events
are seldom simple, tlad history becomes
a problem of complex forces. The
heart of Charles IL led him toward his
God. The pleasures of court life, and
a natural unwillingness to sacrifice his
throne, made him hesitate, fiilter, invent
subtleties. It happened, at this time^
that a wide*spread opinion prevailed
in England, which had not been with-
out its influence on the king. A Cath-
olic, it was claimed, could procure a dis-
pensation from Rome, could disguise
his faith without scruple, and conform
himself externally, at least, to the ritea
of the Anglican Church. Nor was the
British monazdi destitute of a plausible

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Fcdkur Jamei Stuart

091

pveoedent When sojonniing at Paris,
in the days of the Proteetorate, he had
promiBed the venerable Father Oiler to
renounce Protestantism, and Alexan*
der yn., at the urgent instance of the
orownless prince, had authorized him to
oonoeal his abjuration until his affairs
took a more favorable turn. This con-
cession was made in no absolute sense.
It stopped at the limits which the divine
law has fixed for kings as well as for the
humblest of Christians. Unquestion-
aUy, a convert Whose abrupt publica-
tion of a change of faith would subject
him to grave perils ought to use pru-
dence* But in no respect woald this
permission extend so far as that the
disdple should be <^ ashamed of his
Master. In this latter case dissimula-
tion would be a crime.

Yet, in the delicate situation in which
Charles was placed, what was he to
do? The French alliance remained
at this moment a state secret, and was
thus far without result. Much was
anticipated from the war which Louis
Xiy. was about to wage with Hol-
land. Amid the triumph of the con-
federate arms, and the glory which
would redound to his own person, the
English monarch hoped to discover
some means of strengthening the rojal
power and of breaking at last the An-
glican tyranny. Not one of these
tilings, however, had reached the van-
tage point of B.fatt accompli ; not a do-
mestic difficulty which did not subsist
in all its force. In his extremity, the
unfortunate prince naturally returned
to his dreams of an accommodation with
the Pope, of a compromise with the
law of God: and one might say that
circumstances invited it. Had he not
now, in the general of the Jesuits, a
powerful advocate with the sovereign
pontiff? His son, a novice of the fra-
ternity of Jesus, his son, called from
the bosom of Italy and so tenderly re-
ceived — would he not serve in the Vat-
ican as a guarantee for the integrity
of the father? Recourse to the Holy
See, so far as to ascertain the pre-
cautions which would be permitted to
the King of Oreat Britain in order to

avoid exposing hims^f, lug finnily, all
the Catholics of England, to the ex<«
tremest dangers— 4uch was,*we think
the final determination of Charles II
This conjecture, authorized by the
well-known sentiments of the prince
and the whole sequence of facts, is
specially based on a letter which Fath-
er James Stuart will shortiybear to
Rome, and which appears to us scarce*
ly susceptible of any other interpreta*
tion. Beside, one very autiientic fea-
ture in the conversicm of tiie Duke of
York, to which we shall presentiy al«>
lude, falls in so perfectiy with our the-
ory, that it will be excec^lingly diffieolt,
in our opinion, to find any otiier satis-
factory explanation for the ambign-»
ous denouement which the end of this
recital affords.

There are no historical indications
to guide us in ascertaining the attitude
assumed by the two pious queens when
the monarch anfved at this rcsolation*
Probably the princesses partook of the
illusion of the Duke of York and of
most of the Catholics of the court: they
placed an exaggerated hope on the
powerful intervention of the King of
France. Relying upon this, and on
the probable complaisanee of the P<^,
they supported in his unhappy course
the son, the husband, whose safety lay
so closely to their heart.

It would do our two missionaries a
cruel injustice to suppose that they
saw no deeper or clearer. In so ele-»
mentary a question of theology, these
vigorous controversialists, whose lelam-
ing and keen reasonings we have ap*
preciated, could have had but one
opinion — that of their confr^ra Father
Symons, of whom we shall shortly
speak. James Stuart, we may fear»
lessly affirm, ftilfllled respectfully but
firmly the duty of his ministry. He
strove to convince his father that no
pontifical letter would authorize either
king or emperor to reconcile in his
person what the Son of God by his
divine lips had declared etenially irre-
concilable, to be ashamed of him b^
fore men, and yet to find favor in his
sight. Two things aie certaia. Oa

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6(tt

Charieg 11. and HU &m.

the one hand, the holy novice failed to
convince the king ; on the other, filial
love, happilj combined with apostolic
prudence, preserved his zeal from all
bitterness.

Charles persisted in seeking, through
the intervention of Father Oliva, to
draw from Clement E!L impossible
concessions. Despite the recent fa-
tigues of his late voyage, the young
enthusiast offered to be himself the
bearer of his father's despatches. The
proposition was accepted, and Charles
wrote these lines, upon which we have
already commented, and which are un-
fortunately the only source from which
the historian can draw a correct judg-
ment upon the results of the secret
mission completed in 1 668 in the palace
of the kings of England by Father J.
Stuart.

To THE Revebend Father-gbke-

BAX OF THE JeSUIT FaTHEBS AT

Rome (intrusted to the hand of
Mons. de la Cloche, Jesuit at Rome) :
Revebend Fatheb, — ^You are too
necessary for us in the position where
your merit has raised you, not to be
frequently troubled by us, in that condi-
tion where the misfortune of our birth
obliges us to be.

Our very dear and honored son ^1
tell you, on our part, all our proceed-
ings, and as we were perplexed in de-
ciding upon some one who should be
our messenger once again to your rev-
erence touching our affairs, he repre-
sented to us the urgent desire he had
of returning himself to Rome on a
secret embassy from us to you, rev-
erend father — ^which desire we have
granted him, under the - condition that
he come back to London as soon as he
shall have had an interview with your
reverence, and obtained those things
which we entreat of you, and which
our aforesaid very dear and honored
son will explain from us personally,
bringing us, on his return through
France, the reverend father whom he
left there.

At the request of our very dear and
honored son afore-mentioned, who has

represented to us that the place where
he has been received into your fellow-
ship is burdened heavily with debts,
and that there is need of some buildings
and other things, we have arranged
that your house, in which he has been
received, shall obtain from us, as soon.
as possible, a notable sum for the ex-
piation of our offences. Waiting, if it
please you, till your reverence can ad-
vise us of the measures which you will
take for its reception, which shall be
within a year. If you write to us, it
will be by our very dear and honored
son, who will tell your reverence all
our intentions not intrusted to this pa-
per. We are

Chables, King of England.
At Whitehall, London, the 18th
Nov., 1668.

If it happen that our very dear
and honored son be in need of any-
thing, whatever it may be, we beseech
you, reverend father, to attend to it,
and we will keep an account of alL

The sense of the fourth and last let-
ter of Charles IL to Father Oliva
does not appear to us doubtfuL If the
royal disciple of Father Stuart had
shown himself unconditionally and
generously disposed to every sacrifice,
what could have been this business
with the Holy See which he commit-
ted to the £ftther-general? Had no
difficulty existed, the abjuration ought
to have taken place without delay.
For the rest, the Duke of York helps
us. His illusions, his doubts, avowed*
by himself in his memoirs, and which
very probably he shared with his
brother, con&rm, point by point, our
conjectures upon the nature of the ob-
stacles opposed to the self-sacrifice of
the two apostles of Whitehall.

In the closing months of the year
1668, the king renewed his intercourse
with his brother, toward whom he had
been momentarily estranged by the
intrigues of Buckingham. The au-
thor of the Life of James 11. recalls
this fact, and immediately after he
adds:

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FaAtr Jama ShtarL

608

^ It was about ibis time (toward the
commencement of the year 1669) that
his rojal highness, convinoed hitherto
that the English was the only true
church, experienced lively compunc-
tions of conscience and began to reflect
seriously upon his salvation. He
therefore sent for a Jesuit named Sy-
mens, who was reputed a very wise
man, to the end that fie might converse
with him upon this subject. When
the Jesuit made his appearance, the
duke set forth his intention of becom-
ing a Catholic, and spoke with refer-
ence to his reconciliation with the
Church. Afler a long cohversation,
the father told him frankly that he
could not be received into die Catho-
lic Church unless he entirely aban-
doned the Anglican communion. The
duke replied that, according to the be-
lief he had always held, this could be
done by means of a papal dispensa-
tion. He alleged the singularity of
his position, and the advantage which
would inhere to the Catholic religion
in general, and especially to the Cath-
<^C8 of England, if by a dispensation
he could be permitted to follow exter-
nally the rites of the Anglican Church,
until an occasion offered for declaring
himself with greater safety both for his
own person and for the Catholics.
But tiie eood father insisted, saying
that evenuie Pope himself had no right
to grant such a dispensation, seeing
that it was the unalterable doctrine of
the Catholic Church never to do evil
that good might come. The duke
having written upon this subject to
the Pope, received from the Holy
Father confirmation of what the good
Jesuit had told him. Up to tills time
his royal highness had always thought,
following the opinion or at least the
expressed words of the Anglican theo-
Ic^ans, that dispensations of this kind
were readily accorded by the Pope ;
but the remarks of Fr. Symons and
the letter of His Holiness caused the
duke to conclude that it was high time
to make every effort to obtain liberty
to declare himself, that he might no
longer Hve in tbe embarrassmg and

perilous situation in which he then
was."*

What relation does this historical
passage bear to the sojourn of Father
Stuart in London? Notice, in the
first place, that the date, ^ at the com-
mencement of the year 1669," cannot
be taken literally. We shall find
mention, a few lines further on, of a
secret council held Jan. 25, in refer-
ence to ^ a declaration of their Catholi-
cism ;" the Duke of York being already
converted, and the king almost decided
to take, like his brother, the last step.
Now let us suppose that, on the 1st of
Jan., the duke, lutherto a staunch
Anglican, '< experienced lively oom-
punctioos of conscience.'' With his
characteristic caution, he studies into
the Better, and finally comes at the
truth. Then occurs his interview
with Fr. Symons ; next he writes to
the Pope. The Pope sends his deci-
sion. The prince is startled, makes
an irrevocable resolution, and thus* on
the twenty-fifth day of the same month
we find him deliberating with Charles
n. and three of his ministers upon
the political measures necessary to
empower them both to practise freely
the religion of their choice! A
promptness certainly very strange and
inexplicable even in this ^y of ex-
press trains and telegraph wires!
EvidenUy the supposition is impossi-
ble, and the expressions of the writer
must be interpreted very broadly.
Glancing back, it will be observed that
these events followed closely upon the
reconciliation of the two brothers,
which occurred, as the Englist^ histo-
rians inform us, toward tiie end of
1668, during the autumn when Henri-
etta of France, the queen-mother, came
to England in order to bid her chil-
dren a final adieu.

If now we coniront the whole series
of Father Stuarf s proceedings in Lon-
don with the circumstances attending
tiie Duke of York's conversion, these

• " The Life of Jame« the Second, etc., vol. {.,
p.44(M41. London, 1810. Qoarto." [AnerBOV-
eral attempta to find this work, the translator
has been compelled to r6l7 on the French Yor-
•lon.— SD.C.W.]

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Ckarie$ IL md Hk Sony

two categories of iaots, separate in ap«
pearanoe, unite and coalesce bo natn*
mllj that it will be almost impossible
not to recognise their intimate oorrela*
tm, or, so to speak, their perfect
identity.

. Setting oat from Leghorn Oct 14,
the son of Charles IL^ after a vojage
of twenty-fire or twenty-six days, ar-
rives in Uie Thames abo^t Nov. 1, O.
S^ Henrietta of Bourbon, not less
jealous for the salvation of her second
son than for that of the king, hastens
to put the Duke of York in communi-
cation with Father James Stuart and
the emioent ecclesiastic who accompa-
nied him. Our two apostles divide
their days between Charles and his
brother. It is in their school that the
{Mince received those strong lessons
which in the short space of twenty
days overtomed and created anew the
entire structure of his belief. It was
from them that he heard with surprise
that the pretended papal permissions
were onlv a ridiculous fable, and that
the profession of the Catholic £uth
obliged him to sacrifice everything, to
sufier everything, for the eternal life*
Situated as James then was, this dec-
laration was of startling import It
afiected his hopes of the crQwn, his
family, h]| entire future. At this
juncture he consults with Fr. Symons ;
and, still dissatisfied, he resolves to ap-
peal to the Pope. Our argument now
takes form; it speaks to the eye.
Suppose that the courier of the Duke
of York spent twenty-six days each
way in his journey to Borne, and re-
mained only eight in that city ; to have
returned to London six or seven days
before the council of Jan. 25, he would
have had to quit England the 19th or
20th of Nov* And Uiese are the very
dates for the departure of the novice
of St Andrew, upon the close of the
eonferences, and ibr his return to the
capital of Great Britain after his jour-
ney to Italy ]

Consider the subject in another
Hght According to every English
historian, the facts relative to the con-
version of the Duke of York have

their extreme limits in Nov. 1, 1668,
and Jan. 25, 1669. They cannot be
fixed earlier, nor later. But these
are the precise points at whid^ the
apostolic mission of Father Stuart at
the court of Whitehall commences
and ends. Examine this in detail,
measure the time necessary to in-
struct and convert a heretic, lb carry
a message to Eome, to confer with
the Pope, to return to London— there
is not a feature which does not present
a coincidence almost mathematicaL

The novice of St Andrew lefi be-
hind him in France the priest whose
co-operation had been so useful, and on
his return to Rome he made known to
the father-gene^l the results of his
apostolic lsJk>rs at the court of the
Stuarts. What impression did the
royal letter produce upon Father Oli-
va ? It would not be surprising if he
thought that he discovered, what
many readers will perhaps have felt,
in these brief lines, a reserve, a con-
straint, in perfect contrast with the
joy of a soul that has found, after long
and sad errors, the Way, the Truth, and
the Life.

Chai-les n. also wrote on a matter
completely apart from the reH^ous
question. In a former postscript, the
king had engaged to recompense the
Boman fraternity for all the extraordi-
nary expenses to which they had been
subjected on account of his son. Un-
fortunately, when the year expired,
the funds c^ the civil list were found
empty. It was one of those finandal
crises not unusual under a prince who
never knew the worth of money untU
it was gone. Charles was ther^ore
forced to subscribe to an obligation
payable in six months for the sum of
£800 sterling. This note will ckise
the series of inedited pieces that Fa-
ther J. Stuart has left for two cento*
ries in the hands of Father Paul
Oliva:

» We Charles, by the grace of God
King of England, France, Scotland,
and Ireland, acknowledge ourselves
debtors to the reverend &ther-geiiecal

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FaAer Jameg StuarL

to»

of the Jesuit Fathers to the amonnt
of £800 sterling, Yi&, 800 phtolea
for the maiDtenanoe and journejings
of oar veiy dear and honored son
the Prinee James Stuart^ a Jesuit Hy-
ing under the name of La Cloche, the
which 800 pistoles the said reverend
father-general, Jean Paul Oliya, has
famished him with, and which sum
we acknowledge ourselres indebted
for, and promise to pay him at his
pkttsnrei after six months have pass-
ed from the daj and date, of the said
obligation.

In witness whereof, we have given
both our sign-manual and our ordmaiy
seaL

Chasles, Einf of England,

L. &• France, Sco^Emd, axid Ireland.

Clement IX. was now, for the first
time, informed of the secret move-
ment which was drawing into the
bosom of the Church the posterity of
Maiy Stuart The pontiff received a
letter tronrthe Duke of York, and it
does not appear improl^ble that the
yoang traveller had also some words
to communicate from the king himself:
such at least was the intention of
Charles three months previous. But
whatever was the monarch's desire,
there was only one.oourse open to the
Pope. The Master had said to the
bluest ecclesiastic as to the humblest
disciple, ^ Till heaven and earth pass,
one jot or tittle shall not pass from the
hiw, till all be fulfilled.'' There was
then no response to be made but a
* nan possumtu, tempered by all those
considerations of a charity the most
tender which were fitting upon so im-
portant an issue. And such, as we
know from history, was the nature of
the reply of Clement IX. to the Duke
of York.

The general of the Jesuits, in his
torn, owed thanks for the royal bene-
fiM^ons to the fraternity of Mont Qui*
rinal. This letter, which the common-
est dictates of courtesy would have
enjoined, is not, however, to be found
in the archives of the Jesuits at Borne.
One loves to think that it was written,

that the son of Charles 11. bore it to
Whitehall, but that the author, for
weighty motives, destroyed it to the
last syllable. Fr. Oiiva was a man of
note. He was the chief of a great
apostolic onder; he had grown old
amid important services rendered to
the Church. Italy could justly pride
itself for its omtors ; but in ItaJy itp
self his rank tor eloquence was hi^
He had been official ^ prediaxtemt'* to
four sovereign pontiffs, and the ser-
mons which he has left bdiind still at>
test the vigor, the fire, and the opu*
lence of his rhetoric It was not in
such a nature to leave so significant an
event as the conversion of a great
monarch to the unaided effi>rts of a
novice. Through all the previous
conduct of the mission, he bore a vital
part ; and now when the supreme mo-
ment had come, the king hesitating,
the eternal life of a nation in the
balance, we cannot doubt that he was
moved to write with all the energy
and persuasivenc^ of his being. He
must have seen that somethii^ more
than an Anglican Churdi or a suspi-
cious parliament stood in the way of
the monarch's conversion; that, in
#the scandalous licentiousness of the
English court, there was a stumbling-
blodk equally as great If the father-
general had the courage to mingle
with the language of gratitude a sin-
cere but gentle reproof for these de-
linquencies, it is easy to understand
why not a trace of his message re>
mains to us.

Father Stuart was in haste tore-
turn to England, where at any mo-
ment the great interests which Provi-
dence had intrusted to him might un-
expectedly be compromised. His stay
at Borne was therefore brief. As
soon as he had received the verbal or
written replies of Fr. Oliva, and in ad-
dition (according to our opmion) those
that *the Pope sent to the conrt at
Whitehall, he set out at once on his
return. He quitted Rome never to
return. WiUwnt doubt, in the course
of the following years, he eommuni-
eated by letter with his superior, who

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606

C^arhi JZ and JBU &»,

did not die till 1681, four years be-
fore Charles IL ; but the verj nature
of ihifl correBpondence precluded its
being deposited in the archives of the
society. From this moment, there-
fore, we must rely upon English his-
tory for our details. Fr. Stuart drops
into obscurity'; but the work for
which he labored still gleams above
the darkness.

It was on Jan. 18, 1669, if our pre-
vious calculation be accepted, that the
pretended Prince Henry de Rohan
appears again at the court of London,
bringing with him his old companion
in accordance with the wish expressed
by the king in his last letter to Fr.
Oliva. The pontifical letters, touch-
ing, energetic, full of the wisdom of
God, have then been remitted ; the
emphatic opinions of the general of
the society are known. James Staart
and the French Jesuit have had their
interview with Charles ; they have
aroused anew in his heart those ear-
nest and holy impressions which
swayed him two months before ; and
the venerable Henrietta de Bourbon is
waiting anxiously and in tears the
moment when she may say, in the lan-
guage of the gospel, '^ Now thou dost ^
dismiss thy servant, O Lord, according
to thy word, in peace." Such is the
situation of affairs at WhitehalL Be-
eurring to tlie " Life of James IL**
we find that the historian, afler speak-
ing of the Duke of York, his interview
with Fr. Symons, and his letter to the
Pope, continues as follows :

^This is why his royal highness,
knowing that the king was of the same
mind, and had already opened himself
to Lord Arundel, to Lord Arlington,
and to Sir Thomas Qifibrd, seiz^ an
opportunity to converse with his ma-
jesty on this subject. He found him
fully decided to become a Catholic,
and penetrated with the danger and
the constraint of his position. ' The
king added that he desired to have, in
the cabinet of the duke, a secret in-
terview with the persons we have just
named, in order to consult with them
upon the means which it would be ne-

cessary to employ in order to extend
the Catholic religion in the state.
This interview was fixed for Jan. 25,
the day on which the Church cele-
brates the conversion of St Paul ;

''When they had come together,
the king declared his sentiments upon
matters of religion ; he repeated what
he had said to the duke regard-
ing the embarrassments which he
had experienced in being prevented
from the profession of the faith to
which he was attached, and told them
that he had summoned them to consult
upon the measures necessary to be
employed in the re-establishment of
the Catholic religion in his realm, and
upon the most favorable measure for
declaring himself openly. He re-
marked that there was no time to
lose; that he expected to find great
difficulties in the execution of his pro-
ject; and that for himself he preferred
to enter upon it while, like his brother,
he was in the prime of life, and dupa-
ble of supporting the greatest fatigues,
rather than put it off later, when he
would no longer have the energy to
successfully manage so great a design.
His majesty spoke with much force ;
tears filled his eyes, and he besought
the gentlemen to do all that was fit-
ting wise men and good Catholics.

^ The consultation was protracted,
and the ultimate decision was to act
in concert with France, and to de-
mand the assistance of his very chris-
tian majesty : the house of Austria
being no longer in a oondiUon to co-
operate.**

The Duke of York at once abjured
with great secresy; but did Charles
n. also abjure? Our opinion is that
the two brothers separated from the
Anglican Church at the same time;
and that on the same day, at the foot
of the same altar, in the hands of the
same priest, they made the same pro-
fession of faith. Only one remained
unchangeable in his fidelity. The
other, sincere but feeble, made an hon-
est effort to give his country liberty
of conscience, vras defeated at evexy
point by the united mass of Uie £ng-

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FaOer Jaami Stuart

607

liflh iactionB, and finallj fell back upon
dissimulations and hypocrisies. It
was Fr. Stuart who presided at this
abjuration — a fact which the follow-
ing considerations prove.

On the 5th of Jan., 1685, Fr. Hud-
dleston, an English Benedictine, and
a chaplain to tiie queen, summoned,
says Lingard, in the absence of a for-
eign ecclesiastic in London, adminis-
tered at eyening the last sacraments
to the king without demandiug from
him that act which should have pre-
ceded all others — abjuration. Charles
throughout the rest of the night had
fhU consciousness, and it would be
perfectly absurd to suppose that neith-
er Fr. Huddleston, a priest for twen-
ty-five or thirty years, nor any of the
queen's almoners, nor the Duke of
York, as well as the other Catholics
juresent, nor the sick man himself,
should have thought, for five hours,
of satisfying this most necessa-
ry of all conditions for admitting
one among the children of the true
Church.

Clearly, then, Charles had made his
abjuration before his last illness.
Studying the sequence of his reign,
we remsurk that the year 1G69 closes
the period of «calm which the broth-
er of James II. enjoyed. Immediate-
ly after the French alliance exasper-
ated the nation ; and the rage and
fiiiy of Anglicanism were excited by
the known conversion of the Duke
and the Duchess of York, by that of
Sir Thomas Clifford, by the second
marriage of the Duke with the prin-
cess of Modena, by aU that movement
of Catholic activity the signs of which
mnltiplied around the palace of the
Staarts. Presently persecution began
anew, and Charles, incapable of hold-
ing head against the storm, yielded

in everything ; he signed the decrees
of proscription, he permitted the flow
of innocent blood. What priest, in
such a conjuncture, would have con-
sented to receive his abjuration ? But
in Jan., 1669, the presence of Henri-
etta of Bouibon, the pious joy of all
that royal family, the hope which
might reasonably be founded on the
probable influence of Fr. James Stu-
art, united in urging forward so desir-
able a consummation. Charles, whose
good fiuth we cannot justly suspect
without satisfactory proof, — Charles
persuaded himself that, assisted by the
French monarch, and supported by
his brother the duke, there was no
domestic coalition which could defeat
him, and he brought over the rest to
his opinion by that seductive elo-
quence which, with him, was almost
irresistible. The priest doubtless had
many fears; but the priest,* when
there was the appearance of security,
inclined toward indulgence, and on
the present occasion so many reiterat-
ed assurances, so many moving sup-
plications, so many marvellous advan-
tages in perspective, finally disarmed
him. I^othing in the duke's account
prejudices this conclusion. His deli-
cate sense of family honor, the re-
proach which would have attached to
Charles and ultimately to all the
Stuarts if the act were known, the
reticence necessary to maintain regard-
ing the king's eldest son— each and
all explain the silence of that prince.
Beside the offer to take the sword in
hand, and to run the chances of a
long and perilous civil war, would in-
dicate less a future step than a step
in the pasL In our opinion, therefore,
the council of Jan. 25 followed the
abjuration of Charles rather than pro-
ceded it.

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608

The Afioraia of Genmno.

From Tiie Aigoqr.

THE mPIORATA OF GENZANO.

Ie* you are ever in Rome at CorpUB
Cbriati (a thing not likely to happen,
by the way, as it must fall in the
months when norlherners shun the
Campagna) do not let anything induce
you to miss the Infiorata of Genzano
— the gem of village festivals. "We
were fortunate enough to witness it
last year, the first time it has been
celebrated since the troubles of 1848.

All Borne turned out to assist at iU
Many days before every available
vehicle and beast had been bespoken,
and ^Nthere was a demand.

Our mount, " Master Pietro," of half
Italian, half English race, as his name
symbolizes, c^jue to fetch us punctu-
ally at the unearthly hour of seven —
to get his work done ere the noontide
heat« He had carried us through
many lovely scenes before, and his
hardy qualities adapted him well for
the three days' excursion we intended
to make of it, through a land where
hay is scarce and oats almost unattain-
able. But we knew he had one idio-
syncracy, of kicking violently at the
approach of any mule — a frequent
customer in the neighborhood of Rome
— and as the crowded state of the road
on that day would render it particu-
larly unsuited for such pranks, we
elected to travel along the solitary Ap-
pian Way. It was a brilliant morning
of early June. A light trot soon
brought us to the grand old Arch of
Drusus. We could not help stopping
to admire the play of light and shade
on its time-worn stones, and t)irough
the fairy tracery with which nature
loves to deck art. It could not have
appeared more worthy of admiration
the first day that^— oldest of triumphal
arches — ^its noble proportions were
completed, and the imperial father saw

immortalized in it the triumphs of liis
son. The ^ stem round tower of other
days " demanded another pause. Oft-
en as we had passed it before, the ro-
mance with which '< the Childe*s " spec-
ulations have invested it make it ever
an object of fresh interest If it be the
ol^ect of ^ huge tombs " to set all pos-
terity wondering about their tenants,
the tomb of Caecilia Metella certainly
has fulfilled its mission. Who passes
the massive structure and does not
long to know something about the lady
to whom, nearly two thousand years
ago, this lasting memorial was raised?
The ground-plan is a square of seventy
feet, and the walls are twenty-five feet
thick. In the small interior space thus
formed, Caecilia's ashes reposed in a
white marble sarcophagus. The in-
scription is of the simplest description
— ^^^Caecilias Q. Cretici F. Metaelle
Crassi ;" in the neighborhood even her
name is untold, and the tower is only
called the "Capo di Bove," from the
ornaments of the frieze.

We pushed on vigorously for a mile
or two, and then came patches of the
old Roman pavement, to stop Master
Pietro's cantering, and give leisure to
be again examining the tombs on either
hand ; Utile temples erected to house
ashes — their own ruins now the sab-
ject of fostering care — ^and to set one
wondering how mortal horses ever
pranced, or ran, or drew weights over
those stony blocks. " Let us hope **
they were not left for an uncovered
pavement, but that they served for the
foundation of a coating of tufa, or some-
thing equally grateful to weary hoofs.

The hzards, bewildered with our
clatter, shot madly across our path,
and "the merry brown hares came
leaping" from their retreat^ defying

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The ^jUrata of Gfenxano.

609

with tlieir swiftness tihe vain attempts
. oi OUT braye little lnpino to run them
to ground. We were thankful they
all escaped with their lives, so blithe
and gaj among the tombs. Some
ten miles of this, and then a mile
through a newlj-mown field, the fra*
grant hay most tantalizing to our prob*
ably breakfastless steeds. Some of
our party knew a cut through Duke
Torlonia's ground which was to save
us a mile or two, but in anticipation
o£ the festive crowd an iron chain had
been made to bar the passage. It was
an easy leap for Master Fietro, how-
ever, and for one or two of his compan-
ions ; the others had to go round. The
rise is steep, and, though in places
rocky, generally good. We pass, on
our rights the ancient town of Bovill»,
and then on our left comes the lovely
lake of Albano, and Castel Grandolfo
with the Popes' modest summer palace.
Another trot brings us to the ^ Galeria
di Sopra,'' a delicious, gently ascending
path, soft as Rotten Row, under the
flickering shade a£ massive ilexes. It
is just the place for a canter, and Mas-
ter Fie(it> evidently thinks so as he
snifiBs the morning air. To our regret
it comes to an end at last, and we wait
behind the sheltering gateway of the
Chigi palace while some of our party go
in and secure beds at rAriocia. We
have allowed little short of three hours
to the seventeen nules, but still we aro
nearly the first to arrive, so we get the
best rooms the Locanda can afford,
and are well satisfied with them and
with our collation of pastry and wine.
Our own hunger satisfied, we determine
to leave Master Fietro an<f liis broth-
ren to their oats (if they can get any),
and we walk on to Genzano. Three
noble bits of viaduct save us the terri-
ble up and down hill through which
our predecessors of a few years ago
had to toiL

During the few minutes we wero in
the hotel, " all the world " has arrived,
and we are soon in the midst of a vast
train of people, all following the same
object, all talking earnestly, and of
ooune very loud. A gun sounds.
VOL. n 89

There is a rush. We are just too late
for the start of the first race. It is a'
fantini. Gaily dressed but clownish
jockeys bestride the contending charg-
ers, without stirrups or saddles, guid-
ing them only by a red woollen rope.
The next is a vuato. The rough but
ready steeds career riderless along the
way lined out for them by the living
hedge of spectators ; and it is hard to
say whether they are first brought to
a stand by the roar which — suppressed
by the very intensity of excitement
during the race — ^bursts into a deaf-
ening peal as they near the goal, or by
the black curtain suspended across their
path, which forms the legitimate *^ rip*
resa dei harheri,** The horse who bias
won the contest by his own unrtdden
impetuosity is decked with flowers and
streamers, and marehed through the
admiring crowds, giving a knowing and
majestic nod to the plumes which form
his crest A file of soldiers escorts
him, and the band agitates his tri-
umphant ^' progress ;" he has borne all
his other honors meekly, but this one
chafes him. As soon as he is marehed
ofi^, the crowd, breaking up as Roman
crowds do into couples, soon manoeu-
vres itself into picturesque groups round
the various stalls of the village fair.
How they enjoy themselves! How
gladsome and light of heart they seem !
— and on what mild conditions. Does
it not do one good to see their easy
contentment? What strange wares
fi>rm the attractions of dark, glancing
eyes and generous purses I Staple com-
modity of the fairs of all the Roman
paesi is the unfailing pork, boned and
rolled, and stufPed with rosemary : we
did wrong not to taste it, for the eager
thousands find it " very good.*' llie
Genzano wine — and the Cesarini and
Jacobini cellars are open to-day — af-
fords a more congenial temptation. It
is a luscious wine, with more body and
more delicate flavor than the gener-
ality of Roman wines, but lacks the
sparkle of the surpassing Orvieto. %
The gay scene is ML of attractive
interest, but, finding a couple of hours
to spare, we trot iMudc to TArioda to

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610

The JnfioTota of Genzano,

dine. Others have adopted the same
course, and the Loecaida is all astir.
What to have is always a difficult
question for the most unfastidious any-
where in the Papal States out of Borne.
A provoking waiter, whoUhinka he
can speak French, and on all occasions
comes out with his one broken sen*
tence, ^Aspetti can peUi momenti^
finds us impracticable, and sends us
the chefde euinne. The chef, with a
profusion of iseimos, assures us there
is no cuisine in the world like his, and
rings the changes on the well-known
names we abominate. Minestra we re-
fuse, it is always water bewitched ; the
leseo is sure to be tasteless and stringy ;
the paetOy the Roman rendering of
maccaroni, underdone and indigestible;
the arrosto, hard and tough — ^we will
none of them. Well^^frtUof If the
oil is good, we have nothing to say
against that ; we allow you excel there.
If something else we must have, we
will take you on your own ground;
bring us an offrthdolce, that is a culin-
ary curiosity with which, after the
paJate has been once annealed to its
compound* of wine, vinegar, bacon, but-
ter, parsley, spices, sugar, oil, choco-
late, and wild boar or porcupine, you
may be always glad to renew acquaint-
ance. The wind-up of peuticcieria and
frtUte we say nothing about ; we know
it is useless to argue against the inevit^
able.

While this repast is preparing, we
are driven to occupy ourselves with a
study of the room and the guests. The
former presents a strange mixture of
primitiveness and pretension : the build
is clumsy, the window-shutters cover
only the glass panes, the fittings are
rude, the floor is bare. But the walls
have been painted in (millions-of-miles-
off) imitation of Raphael's much-sin-
ned-against Loggiel And over the
mantelpiece hangs a landscape, into
which a piece of looking-glass is insert-
ed to represent a lake. The principal
piece of furniture is a large glass cup-
board, in which is stowed away— we
know not for what grand occasion, for
it is not. even brought into use to-day

— a set of common £nglish willow-
pattern earthenware I We cannot but
smile to see our humble friend in sach
grand plight ; and we moralize to our-
selves on the subjectivity of the human
mind, to which its changed estimation
testifies. The angularity of the fall
of the table-cloth ''accuses" a table
composed of a literal ^' board," sup-
ported on tressels ; and though there
are a few chairs, the majority of the
guests have to be content with back-
less benches. At one end of our board
an English artist, not unknown to fame,
and his party are going through the
regular routine of an Italian hotel din-
ner with praiseworthy patience. At
another board sits a large family of
natives, and we forget all note of time
as we watch with astcmished eyes the
masses of pcuta they contrive to stow
away, half-cooked as it is sure to be.
The sight is not new to us, but every
time we see it it has the same attrac-
tion, derived from the reminiscence of
a delicious early surprise such as the
performance of Punch and Judy al-
ways exercises on any number of Lon-
doners. A vacant space near them is
soon filled by another native, a young
exquisite, who appears quite oppressed
by the mild heat we northerners had
been enjoying. Throwing himself at
full length on the bench, he commen-
ces a violent fanning with his handker-
chief; but after a minute or two his
hand requires a cooler instrument, and
he changes it for his hat, which in turn
is exchanged for his dinner-napkin,
and, finally, he completes the opera-
tion with his plate ! At last the one-
sentence-of-French wwter directs his
steps toward our party, but, to the in-
dignation of every individual of it, he
bears the minestra we forbade him to
name. This has been our universal
experience. The Italian mind cannot
take in the idea of the possibility of
dining without broth ; it is useless to
countermand it, it is sure to be sent to
table. We explode, nevertheless, and
desire the dishes we ordered to be
brought without further delay. " As-
petti oon peUi momenii," says Nicolb;

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The Injtoraia of Genzano.

611

and better than, his word this time, it
18 really only un petit moment before
/ we are duly served.

Dinner despatched, wo have still
time to stroll over the neighborhood
before we are wanted at Genzano.
A walk of less than a mile, starting
over the magnificent new viaduct,
takes ns to the straggling paese (we
cannot bring ourselves to call it a
town) of Albano. A good-natured old
fellow, always recoguizable by the ex-
treme whiteness of his stockings, hails
us as we pass, in memory of old ac-
quaintance, and is sure we must want
donkeys ; we cannot refuse him, and
hoping Master Pietro won't see us out
of his stable window, we suffer the
sure-footed bat ignoble substitutes to
take us down the difficult descent
which the viaduct was built to spare
us— so wayward is woman ! But the
viaduct itself has created a reason for
making the descent, as the sight of its
noble proportions amply repays the
journey.

It was completed during the reign
of the present Pope, from the designs
of a local engmeer — one of the Jacob-
in! family. It is formed of " arches
on arches" in three ranges, six on the
lowest tier, twelve in the next, and
eighteen in the highest; they are
each forty- nine feet wide between. the
piers, and sixty feet in height; the
whole length of roadway, including the
approaches, is nearly a quarter of a
mile, and the height to top of parapet
just two hundred feet It is built of
massive blocks of peperino, cut to fit
each other without mortar, and the ap-
pearance is solid and grand, worthy of
the models of ancient masonry by
which it is surrounded. There is no
attempt at ornament. The entire cost
was 140,000 scudi (£33,000),» and
the halfpenny toU has already gone
far toward repaying it

* We drove, the other day, under the vladact
of the Brighton Railway for the sake of com-
paring It with onr memory of l^Arlccla, and
were disappointed to find it a Blender brick
affair, for which the meaninglesa display of
atone at the top had not prepared us. It con-
sists of thirty-seven arches, sixty feet high, and
is a little over a quarter of a mile in length.
We were informed its cost was £68,000.

Close under it lies the old ruined
tomb commonly called of the Horatii
and Curiat]4but now determined to be
that of Aruns, son of Porsenna. It has
aU the appearance of being of Etrus-
can work, and the remains are very
peculiar. It is a square structure,
forty Hsix feet every way and twenty
feet high; at the four comers are
the remains of four small cones, one
being nearly perfect ; in the centre is
a cylinder, twenty-three feet across,
made to contain the urn.

Our donkeys carried us bravely up
the rugged h^l, and then we found, to
our regret, we must leave the Chigi
palace, Duke Sforza's infant schools,
and other objects of interest for an-
other visit ; we had only time to get
back to Grenzano. A great deal of
business had been done at the &ir,
and many hearts won by the fair.
The booth-keepers, havuig sold off
their stock, had shut up shop and gone
away, and the merry couples were cir-
culating freely. The rosemaried pork
and Gfenzano wine had given them
strength and vigor and gaiety — ^let it
not be understood that we see any
trace of excess ; all is mirth and good
humor and picturesqueness. At last
^ix o'clock strikes, and, like an army
marshalled by the word of command,
the spontaneous and unanimous will
of the thousands of sightseers brings
them in serried procession up the
broad street, where the Infiorata lies
sparkling and rendering up its varied
and goi^eous reflections to the sun's
rays which bathe it

Beautiful and delicate tribute of a
poetical people ! The occasion is the
festival of the Blessed Sacrament ; and
as it is carried among them in solemn
procession the custom of all Catholic
countries is to strew flowers along the
way ; but here the idea has taken a
development of a surpassing order, if
not unique—as if* no care could be too
great : not only are the most brilliant
flowers plant^ months before, and
collected from distant contributors, but
when the day arrives all these are
made to form the most exquisite mosa*

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612

The Jkfiaraia of Genzano.

iCB. What is a Gobelins carpet to
this weft of nature's own materials I
A cord is drawn up both jides of the
road to keep the flowered centre clear,
and no one thinks of infringing the
slight barrier. The rising ground is
most favorable for displajing in two
lines^ ascending and descending, the
endless yariety of elaborate devices
of tesselation. Costly nuirbles of dif-
ferent hues fitlj pave the basilica;
the glazed aandefot cooled the Mos«
lem's feet at the same time that the j
pleased his eye; the velvet-pile ta-
pestries of British looms carpet the
bleak floors of out northern homes;
and the stiff geometrical tiles, angular
and micomfortable as everything
Gothic is, suit very well to our Gothic
churches. Each and all have their
fitness ; and what is the Infiorata ? It
is the tribute of a simple and poor,
bat imagmative and loving, people
^ preparing to meet their God."

" O earth, grow flowers beneath his feet,
And thon, O Bun, ehlne bright this day t
He comes, he comes,— O heaven on earth I
Oar Josas comes npon his way,"

sings one of their hymns for the occa^
sion. And, poor tillers of the earth,
the only offering they can niake is of
the flowers which " her children are.**
We looked on with an artist's and hu-
manitarian's enjoyment And deli-
cious enjoyment it was I It was the
fresh enjoyment of our childhood
over again to trace the rich mosaic
designs spread before us ; and we pity
him who does not know the enjoy-
ment of the sensation of color. There
were the arms of the Stato Pontificio,
and of the paese, and of the Cesarini
and Jacobmi, with all their bearings
and all their tincture^ and then, as it
were, the arms of the blessed sacra-
ment — ^the symbols under which it is
figured. The herald must find a new
nomenclature ; already he has a sep-
arate one for commonalty, nobility,
and royalty, but now, for a '' greater
than Solomon,** he must devise an-
other. To his ** sol, topaz, or,** he must
add the marigold ; and to his ^^ luna,
pearl, argent,** the lily. , Then came

arabesques in perplexing maces of
tracery; every line true, and every
harmony or contrast of tint faultless.
By a refinement least of aU to be ex-
pected, in the centre of some of the
compartments a tiny fountain had
been introduced, ^flinging delidous
coolness round the air, and verdure
o*er the ground.** Nothing that poeU
have fistbled of fairyhuid or paradise
ever exceeded it in imaginative laxn-
riance.

** O what a wilderness of flowers I
It seemed as though from all the bowon
And fairest fields of all the year
The mingled spoils were scattered her*.
The oathway like a garden breathes

Wfth the rich bads that o'er it He,
As if a shower of fairy wreaths

Had fkllen upon it from the sky*"

A crowd of Romans is not sur-
rounded by a savory atmosphere.
We are never in one without finding
that the thing Cleopatra exceedingly
feared had fallen upon i

"In their thick breath.
Bank of groee diet, shall we be endoiidad.
And forced to drink their vapor."

Their baths are things of the past;
their picturesque costume looks as if it
were never renewed during a whole
life ; their houses are dingy, and bare,
and comfortless ; yet we have before
us the proof that they possess a deli-
cacy of both feeling and taste which
it would be impossible to find surpass-
ed anywhere.

Meantime the procession from the
church approaches, and a hush suc-
ceeds the merry dhi which has stun-
ned us so long; the last pertinacioas
« JEeco I xiganr and " Aequafre9ca F*
is sung out And in their harsh nasal
intonation the appropriated hymns
are begun by the priests and taken up
by the whole population, very mudi
after the fashion of a horse running
away; without any regard fcHr time
and very little for tune, but with a
heartiness and earnestness whicli we
try to persuade ourselves ought to
compensate for the ^ skinning** of oar
ears. The untidy choristers precede
and follow in due numbers, and the
quaint confraternities, in vanoua
dresses, bearing unwi€Jdy» misshapen

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Broadeasi 7%y Seed.

613

banners, waddle and hobble behind.
Slovenly men with unwashed hands
carry great yellow tapers, and a rag-
ged urchin runs by the side of eadi
catching the droppings into a piece of
stiff paper. The whole thing is dis-
enchanting and disedifying; but we
see BO plainly the impression that
they think they are doing their best
reflected from so many hundred
beaming countenances, that we end
by exhausting our squeamishness, and
learn to look on the Genzanese modes
of devotion from their own standing-
point By the time it has taken to
effect this, however, the procession
has regaiiied the church, where we
find it impossible to penetrate, and so
we torn to take a Islsi look at the In- '
fiorata. Alas ! it has all vanished, as
completely as if it had been the ema-
nation of fairyland it appeared to be.
As soon as the procession had passed
the people broke in, eager to possess
themselves of the flowers as a sort of
relic From what we saw of the
process of undoing, it appeared that
the mosaics were not composed of
whole flowers, except in some instan-
ces where their form adapted them to

form special designs, but the generali-
ty were made with shred petals, by
which means masses of color were
obtained in the most manageable
quantities. There was, in most cases,
a board or oil-cloth for a foundation,
with the patterns marked out in^shalk ;
but the blending of colors seemed to
have been left to the individual taste
of the workers.

We get back to our narrow rooms
at I'Ariccia in time to escape the firing
of the mortdUtti and hoUi (small guns
and crackers) without which an Ital-
hasxfesta is seldom consideredlomplete.

Nicol6 is much disappointed that
we will not again trust to the re-
sources of his cuisine, and exclaims
^AspetH oon petH momerUi" as he goes
in quest of our bed-lamps. While
we wait, we hear our Italian fellow-
diners angrily complaining that mine
host had taken advantage of the
throng of visitors to cheat them of
their due proportion of pasta / The
quantity sent up for four was only the
due mess of one, selon them. Wliat a
spectacle we should have had if it had
been dealt out to them according to
their own measure !

From ChBmben*B JonrnaL

BROADCAST THY SEED.

Bboadcast thy seed I
Although some portion may be found
To fall on uncongenial ground.
Where sand, or shard, or stone may stay
Its coming into light of day;
Or when it comes, some pestilent air
May make it droop or wither there-
Be not difetcouraged ; some will find
Congenial soil and gentle wind,
Refreshing dew and ripening shower,
To bring it into beauteous fiower,
From flower to fruit, to glad thine eyes,
And fill thy soul with sweet surprise.
Do good, and God will bless thy deed^
Broadcast thy seed I

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614

Cbnstanee Sherwood*

From Hie Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD:

AN AUTOBIOaBAFHT OF THE BIXTEEXTH CENTUBT*

BY LADY GBOBGIANA FULUEBTON.

* CHAPTER XXn.

^ Ah, ladies,'' exclaimed Mr. Cob-
ham — ^pleased, I ween, to see bow
eagerly we looked for bis news — " I
promise you the eastern counties do
exhibit their loyalty in a very com-
mendable fashion, and so report
saith her majesty doth think. The
gallant appearance and brave array
of the Suffolk esquires hath drawn
from her highness sundry marks of
her approval. "What think you, my
Lady Trtgony, of two hundred bach-
elors, all gaily clad in white-velvet
cpats, and those of graver years in
black-velvet coats and fair gold
chains, with fifteen hundred men all
mounted on horseback, and Sir Wil-
liam le Spring of Lavenham at their
head. I warrant you a more comely
troop and a nobler sight should not
often be seen. Then, in Norfolk,
what great sums of moaey have been
spent! Notably at Kenninghall,
where for divers days not only the
queen herself was lodged and feasted,
with all her household, council, court-
iers, and all their company, but all
the gentlemen also, and people of the
country who came thither upon the oc-
casion, in such plentiful, bountiful, and
splendid manner, as the like had nev-
er been seen before in these counties.
Every night she hath slept at some
gentleman's seat. At Holdstead Hall
I had the honor to be presented to her
highness, and to see her dance a
minuet. But an unlucky accident did
occur that evening.''

**No lives were lost, I hope?*
Lady Tregony said.

"No lives," Master Cobham an-
swered; "but a very precious fan
which her majesty let drop into the
moatH- one of white and red feathers,
which Sir Francis Drake had gifted
her with on New Year's day. It was
enamelled with a half-moon of mother-
o'-pearl and had her majesty's picture
within it"

"And at Norwich, sir?" I asked.
" Methinks, by some reports we heard,
the pageants there must have proved
exceeding grand."

".Rare indeed," he replied. " On
the 16th she did enter the town at
Harford Bridge. The mayor receiv-
ed her with a long Latin oration, very
tedious; and, moreover, presented
her with a fair cup of silver, saying,
^ Here is one hundred pounds pure
gold.' To my thinking, the cup was
to her likmg more than the speech,
and the gold most of all ; for when
one of her footmen advanced for to
take the cup, she said sharply, ^ Look
to it : there is one hundred pounds.'
Lord! what a number of pageants
were enacted that day and those which
followed! Deborah, Judith, Esther
at one gate; Queen Martia at an-
other ; on the heights near Blanche-
fiower Casde, Eang Gurgunt and his
men. Then all the heathen deities in
turn: Mercury driving full speed
through the city in a fantastic car ;
Jupiter presenting her with a riding-
rod, and Venus with a white dove.
But the rarest of all had been design-

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Constanfie ShenooodL

615

ed by Master Churchyard. Where
her majesty was to take her barge, at
the back-door of my Lord Arunders
town-house, he had prepared a goodly
masque of water-nymphs concealed in
a deep hole, and covered with green
canyas, which suddenly opening as if
the ground gaped, first one nymph
was intended to pop up and make a
speech to the queen, and then an-
other ; and a very complete concert to
sound secretly and strangely out of
the earth. But when the queen pass-
ed in her coach, a thunder-shower
came down like a water-spout, and
great claps of thunder silenced the
concert ; which some did presage to be
an evil omen of the young lord's for-
tunes.''

«r faith,** cried Basil, « I be sorry
for the young nobleman, and yet more
for the poor artificer of this ingeni9us
pageant, to whom his nymphs turned
into drowned rats must needs have
been a distressing sighf

** He was heard to lament ov^er it,"
Master Cobham said, ''in very pa-
thetic terms : ' What shall I say'
(were his words) * of the loss of vel-
vets, silks, and cloths of gold ? WeM,
nothing but the old adage-<r^Man doth
purpose, but God dispose.' Well, the
mayor hath been knighted; and her
majesty said she should never forget
his city. On her journey she looked
back, and, with water in her eyes,
shaked her riding whip, and cried,
' Farewell Norwich !* Yesterday she
was to sleep at Sir Henry Jeming-
ham's at Ck)ttessy, and hunt in his
park to-day.'*

"Oh, poor Sir Henry I" I said
laughing. ^ Then he hath not escap-
ed ^18 dear honor T*

" Notice of it was sent to him but
two days before, from Norwich," Mas-
ter Cobham rejoined ; " and I ween he
should have been glad for to be ex-
cused."

Lady Tregony then reminded us
that supper was ready, and we remov-
ed to the dining-hall ; but neither did
this good gentleman weary of relating
nor we of listening to the various

haps of the royal progress, which he
continued to describe whilst we sat at
meat.

He was yet talking when the
soiind of a horse gallopping under the
windows surpriseid us, and we hod
scarce time to turn our heads before
Basil's steward came tumbling into
the room head foremost, like one de-
mented.

''Sir, sir I" he cried, almost beside
himself; "in Gkxl's name, what do
you here, and the queen coming for
to sleep at your house to-morrow ?"

Methinks a thunder-clap in the
midst of die stilly clear evening
should not have startled us so much.
Basil's face flushed very deeply^;
Lady Tregony looked ready to faint ;
my heart beat as if it should burst ;
Master Cobham threw his hat into
the air, and cried, " Long live Queen
Elizabeth, and the old house of Rook-
wood!"

" Who hath brought these tidings ?"
Basil asked of the steward.

"Marry," replied the man, "one of
her majesty's gentlemen and two
footmen have arrived from Cottessy,
and brought this letter from Loi-d
Burleigh for your honor."

Basil broke the seal, read the mis-
sive, and then quietly looking up, said,
" It is true ; and I must lose no time
to prepare my poor house for her ma-
jesty's abode in it"

He looked not now red, but some-
what pale. Methinks he was thinking
of the chapel, and what it held ; and
the queen's servants now in the house.
I would not stay him ; but, taking my
hand whilst he spoke, he said to Lady
Tregony,

" Dear lady, I shall lack yours and
Constance's aid to-morrow. Will you
do me so much good as to come with
her to Euston as early before dinner
as you can ?"

"Yea, we will be with you, my
good Basil," she answered, "before
ten of the clock."

" 'Tis not," he said, " that I intend
to cast about for fine silks and cloths
of gold, or contrive pageants — God

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616

Ooturianee Skerviood.

defend it I-^-or ranfiack tlie coiuitxy for
rare and costly meats ; bat such hon*
orable cheer and eo much of comfort
as a plain gentleman's house can af-
ford, I be bound to provide for my
sovereign when she deigneth to use
mine house.*^

^ Master Cobham, I do crave the
honor of your company also," he add-
ed, turning to that gentleman, who, with
many acknowledgments of hia courte-
sy, excused himself on the plea that
he must needs be at his own seat the
next day.

Then Basil, mounting his horse
which the steward had brought with
him, rode away so fast that the old
man could scarce keep up with him.

Not once that night did mine eyes
close themselves. JSither I sat bolt
upright in my bed counting each time
the clock struck the number of chimes,
or else, unable to lie still, paced up .
and down my chamber, llie hours
seemed to pass so slowly, more than
in times of deep grief. It seemed so
strange a hap that the queen should
come to Euston, I almost fancied at
moments the whole thing to be a
dream, so fantastic did it appear.
Then a fear would seize me lest the
chapel should have been discovered
before Basil could arrive. Minor
cares likewise troubled me ; such as
the scantiness and bad state of the
furniture, the lack of household con-
veniences, the difficulty that might
arise to procure sufficient food at a
brief notice for so great a number of
persons. Oh, how my head did work
all night with these various thinkings* !
and it seemed as if the morning would
never come, and when it did that
Lady Tregony would never ring her
belL Then I bethought myself of
the want of proper dresses for her
and myself to appear in before her
majesty, if so be we were admitted to
her presence. Howsoever, I found
she was indiffi^rently well provided
in that respect, for her old good gowns
stood in a closet where dust could not
reach them, and she bethought herself
I could wear my wedding-d^ss, which

had come| from the seamstress a few
days before ; and so we should not be
ashamed to be seen* I must needs
confess that, though many doubts and
apprehensions filled me touching this
day, I did feel some contentment in
the thought of the honor conferred on
Basil. If there was pride in this, I
do cry Grod mercy for it. As we
rode to Euston, the fresh air, the eager
looks of the people on the road — for
now the report had spread of the
queen's coming — the stir which it
caused, the puttings up of flags, and
buildings of green arches, stren^en-
ed this gladness. Basil was awaiting
us with much impatience, and immedi-
ately drew me aside.

"I have locked," he said, "all the
books and church furniture, and our
Blessed Lady's image, in Owen's hid-
ing place ; so methinks we be quite
secure. Beds and food I have sent
for, and they keep coming in. Prithee,
dear love, look well thyself to her
majesty's chamber, for to make it as
handsome and befitting as is possible
with such poor means thereunto. I
pray God the lodging may be to her
oontentation for one night."

So I h^ted to the state-chamber —
for so it was called, albeit except for
size it had but small signs of state
about it« Howsoever, with the maids'
Jielp, I gathered into it whatsoever
furniture in the house was most hand-
some, and the wenches made wreaths
of ivy and laurel, which we hung
round the bare walls. Thence I went
to the kitchen, and found her majesty's
cook was arrived, with as many scul-
lions as should have served a whole
army; so, except speaking to him
civilly, and inquiring what provisions
he wanted, I had not much to do
there. Then we went round the
house with Mr. Bowyer, the gentle-
man-usher, for to assign the chambers
to the queen's ladies, and the lords
and gentlemen and the waitipg-women*
There was no lack of room, but much
of proper furniture ; albeit chairs and
tables were borrowed on all sides from
the neighboring cottages, and Ladj

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OontUmce Sherwood,

617

Tregony sent for a store firom her
house. Mr. Bowyer held in his hand
a list of the persons of the court now
journeying with the queen ; Lord
Burleigh, Sir Francis Walsingham,
Sir C&stopher Hatton, Sir Walter
Raleigh, and many other fiimous
courtiers were foremost in it. When
their lodgings were fixed, he glanced
down the paper, and, mine eyes follow-
ing his, I perceived among the minor
gentlemen there set down Hubert's
name, which moved me very much ;
for we did not of a surety know at
that time he did belong ^to the court,
and I^ would fain he had not been
present on this occasion, and new un-
easy thoughts IdQching what had
passed at Sir Francis Walsingham's
house, and the words the queen had
let fall concerning him and me, crossed
my mind in consequence. But in that
same list I soon saw another name
which caused me so vehement an emo-
tion that Basil, noticing it, pulled me
by the hand into another room for to
isk me the cause of that sudden pas-
ion.

*^ BasO," I whispered, ^< mine heart
will break if that murthering Richard
Topcliffe must sleep under your roof."

^'God defend it!" he exclaimed.
But pausing in his speech leant his
arm against the chimney and his head
on it for a brief space. Then raising
it, said, in an altered tone, ^ Mine own
love, be patients We must needs
drink this chalice to the dregs" (which
showed' me his thoughts touching this
visit had l^en from the first less hope-
ful than mine). Taking my pencil
out of mine hand, he walked straight
to the door before which Mr. Bowyer
was standing, awaiting us, and wrote
thoreon Mastej; Topcliffe's name. Me-
thought his hand shook a little in the
doing of it. I then whispered again
in his ear:

^ Enow yon that Hubert is in the
queen's retinue?"

<'No, indeed!" he exclaimed; and
then with his bright winning smile,
*^ Prithee now, show him kindness for
my sake. He had best sleep in my

chamber to-night. It will make room,
and nund us of our boyish days."

The day was waning and long
shadows falling on the grass when
tidings came that her majesty had been
hunting that morning, and would not
arrive till late. About dusk warning
was given of her approach. She
rode up on horseback to the house
amidst the loud cheering of the crowd,
with all her train very richly attired.
But it had waxed so dark their coun-
tenances could not be seen. Her
master of the horse lifted her from
the saddle, and she went straight to
her own apartments, being exceeding
tired, it was said, with her day's sport
and long riding. Notice was given
that her highness would admit none
to her presence that evening. How-
soever, she sent for BasO, and, giving
him her hand to kiss, thanked him in
the customary manner for the use of
his house. It had not been intended
that Lady Tregony and I should sleep
at Euston, where the room did scarce-
ly suffice for the queen's suite. So
when it was signified her majesty
should not leave her chamber that
night, but, after a slight refection, im-
mediately retire to rest, aud her ladies
^likewise, who were almost dead with
fatigue, she ordered our horses to be
brought to the back-door. Basil stole
away from the hall where the lords
and gentlemen were assembled for to
bid us good-night After he had lift-
ed me on the saddle, he threw his arm
round the horse's neck as if for to de-
tain him, and addressing me very
fondly, caUed me his own love, his
sole comfort, his best treasure, with
many other endearing expressions.

Then I, loth to kave him alone
amidst false fnends and secret ene-
mies, felt tenderness overcome me,
and I gave him in return some very
tender and passionate assurances of
affection ; upon which he kissed mine
hands over and over again, and our
hearts, overcharged with various emo-
tionsy found relief in this interchange
of loving looks and words. But, alas f
this bri^ interview had an unthought

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618

CkmHanee Sherwood.

of witness more than good Ladj
Tregonj, who said once or twice,
«Ck)me, children, be^ir yourselves,"
or « Tut, tut, we should be off;'* but
still lingered herself for to pleasure
us. I (£anced to look up, whilst Ba-
sil was fastening mj horse's bit, and
by the light of a lamp projecting from
the wall, I saw Hubert at an open
window right over above our heads.
I doubt not but that he had seen the
manner of our parting, and heard the
significant expressions therein used;
for a livid hue, and the old terrible
look which I had noticed in him be-
fore, disfigured his countenance. I
am of opinion that until that time
he had not believed with certainty
that my natural, unbiassed inclination
did prompt me to marry Basil, or that
I loved him with other than a conven-
ient and moderate regard, which, if
circumstances reversed their positions,
should not be a hindrance to his own
suit. Basil having finished his man-
agement with my bridle stepped back
with a smile and last good-night, all
unconscious of that menacing visage
which my terrified eyes were now
averted from, but which I still seemed
pursued by. It made me weep to^
think that these two brothers should
lie in the same chamber that coming
night ; th« one so confiding and guile-
less of heart, the other so fuU of
envy and enmity.

I was so tired when I reached home
that I fell heavily asleep for some
hours. But, awaking between five
and six of the clock,' and not able to
rest in my chamber, dressed myself
and went into the garden. Not far
from the house there was an arbor,
with a seat in it Passing alongside
of it, I perceived, with no small terror,
a man lying asleep on this bench.
And then, with increased afiright, but
not believing mine own eyes, but
rather thinking it to be a vision, saw
Basil, as it seemed to me, in the same
dress he wore the day before, but with
his face much paler. A cry burst from
me, for methought perhaps he should
be dead. But he awoke at my scream,

looked somewhat wildly about him for
a minute, rubbed his eyes, and then
with a kind of smile, albeit an exceed-
ing sad one, said,

** Is it you, my good angel ?'*

" O Basil,*' I cried, sitting down by
his side, and taking hold of his chilli
hand, " what hath happened ? Why
are you here P*

He covered his face with his hands.
Methinks he was praying. Then he
raised his pale, noble visage and
said:

^^ About one hour after your depart*
lure, supper being just ended, I was
talking with Sir Walter Ealeigh and
some other gentlemen, when a mes-
sage was brought unto me from Lord
Burleigh, who had retired to his
chamber, desiring for to speak with
me. I thought it should be somewhat
anent the queen's pleasure for the or-
dering of the next day, and waited at
once on his lordship. When I came
in, he looked at me with a very severe
and harsh countenance. < Sir,' he said
in an abrupt manner, ' I am informed
that you are exconununicated for
papistry. How durst you then at-
tempt the royal presence, and to kiss
her majesty's hand ? You — unfit to
company with any Christian person —
you are fitter for a pair of stocks, and
are forthwith commanded not to ap-
pear again in her sight, but to hold
yourself ready to attend her council's
pleasure.* Constance, God onlj
knoweth what I felt ; and oh, may he
forgive me that for one moment I did
yield to a burning reseo^ent, and
forgot the prayers I have so often put
up, that when persecution fell on me
I might meet it, as the early Chris-
tians did, with blessings, not with
curses. But look you, love, a judi-
cial sentence, torture, death methinks,
should be easier to bear than this in-
sulting, crushing, brutal tone, which is
now used toward Catholics. Yet if
Christ was for us struck by a slave
and bore it, we should also be able for
to endure their insolent scorn. Bitter
words escaped me, I think, albeit I
know not very well what I said ; bat

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Cbiutance Sherwood,

619

his lordship turned his back on the
man he had insulted, and left the
iXMQi without listening to me. I be
glad of it now. What doth it avail to
remonstrate against injuries done un-
der pretence of law, or bandy words
with a judge which can compel jou to
silence 7"

" Basil,'' I cried, ** you may forgive
that man ; I cannot''

" Yea, but if you love me, you shall
forgive him," he cried. " God defend
mine injuries should work in thee an
unchristian resentment! Nay, nay,
love, weep not ; think for what cause
I am ill-used, and thou wilt presently
rejoice thereat rather than grieve."

''But what happened when that
lord had left you ?" I asked, not yet
able to speak composedly.

Then he : '^ I stood stock-still for a
while in a kind of bewilderment, hear-
ing loud laughter in the hall below,
and seeing, as it did happen, a man
the worse for liquor staggering about
the court To my heated brain it did
seem as if hell had been turned loose
in my house, where some hours be-
fore — ^ Then he stopped, and again
sinking bis head on liis hands, paused
a little, and then continued without
looking up: "Well, I came down
the stairs and walked straight out at
the front door. As I passed the hall
I heard sotne one ask, ^ Which is the
master of this huge house P and an-
other, whom by his voice I knew to be
Topclifie, answered, ' Rookwood, a
papist, newly crept out of his ward-
ship. As to his house, 'tis modt fit for.
the blackguard, but not for her gra-
cious majesty to lodge in. But I hope
she will serve God with great and
comfortable examples, and have all
such notorious papists presently com-
mitted to prison/ This man's speech
seemed to restore me to myself, and a
firmer spirit came over me. I resolv-
ed not to sleep under mine own roof,
where, in the queen's name, such ig-
nominious treatment had been award-
ed me,' and went out of my house, re-
citing those vers'es of the Psalms, '
God, save m^in thy name, and in thy

strength judge me. Because strangers
have risen up against me, and the
strong have sought my souL' I came
here almost unwittingly, and nbt
choosing to disturb any one in the
midst of the night, lay down in this
place, and, I thank God, soon fell
asleep."

** You did not see Hubert ?" I timid-
ly inquired*

" No," he said, « neither before nor
after my interview with Lord Bur-
leigh. I hope no one hath accused
him of papistry, and so this time ho
may escape."

"And who did accuse you?" I
asked.

" I know not," he answered ; " we
are never safe for one hour. A dis-
contented groom or covetous neighbor
may ruin us when they list"

" But are you not in danger of be-
ing called before the council ?" I said.

"Yea, more than in danger," he
answered. "But I should hope a
heavy fine shall this time satisfy the
judges ; which, albeit we can ill afford
it, may yet be endured."

Then I drew him into the house,
and we continued to converse till good
Lady Tregony joined us. When I
briefly related to her what Basil had
told me, the color rose in her pale,
aged cheek ; but she only dasped her
hands and said,

" God's holy will be done."

" Constance," Basil exclaimed,
whilst he was eating some breakfast
we had set before him, " prithee get
me paper and ink for to write to Hu-
bert."

I looked at him inquiringly as I
gave him what he asked for.

"I am banished from mine own
house," he sai J ; " but as long as it is
mine the queen should not lack any-
thing I can supply for her comfort
She is my guest, albeit I am deemed
unworthy to come into her presence ;
I must needs chai'ge Hubert to act the
host in my place, and see to all hos-
pitable duties."

My heart swelled at this speech.
Methought, though I dared not uttei

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620

Otmtkmee Sherwood.

my thinking for more reasons than
on«, that Hubert had most like not
waited for his brother's licence to as-
sume the mastership of his house.
The messenger was despatched, and
then a long silence ensued, Basil
walking to and fro before the house,
and I embroidering, with mine eyes
often raised from my work to look to-
ward him. When nine o'clock struck
I joined him, and we strolled outside
the gate, and without forecasting to do
so walked along the well-4nown path
leading to Euston. When we reached
a turn of the road whence the house is
to be seen, we stopped and sat down
on a bank under a sycamore tree. We
could discern from thence persons go-
ing in and out of the doors, and the
country-folk crowding about the win-
dows for to catch a glimpse of the
queen, the guard ever and anon push-
ing them back with their halberds.
The numbers of them continually in-
creased, and deputations began to ar-
rive with processions and flags. It
was passing strange for to be sitting
there gazing as strangers on this tur-
moil, and folks crowding about that
house the master of which was ban-
ished from it At last we noticed an
increased agitation amongst the people
which seemed to presage the queen's
coming out Sounds of shouting pro-
ceeded from inside the building, and
then a number of men issued from the
front door, and pushing back the
crowd advanced to the centre of the
green plot in front and made a circle
there with ropes.

" What sport are they making ready
for ?" I said, turning to BasiL

" God knowedi," he answered in a
despondent tone. Then came others
carrpng a great armed-chair, which
they placed on one side of the circle
and other chairs beside it, and some
country people brought in their arms
loads of fagots, which they piled up in
the midst of the green space. A pain-
ful suspicion crossed my mind, and I
stole a glance at Basil for to see if the
same thought had come to him. He
was looking another way. I cast

about if it should be possible on i
pretence to draw him off from that
spot, whence it misgave me a sorrow-
ful sight sboold meet his eyes. But at
that monient both of us were aroused bj
loud cries of " God save the queen !"
^Long live Queen Elizabeth!" and
we beheld her issue from the bouse
bowing to the crowd, which fiUed the
air with their cries and vociferous
cheering. She seated herself in the
armed-chidr, her ladies and the chief
persons of her train on each side of
her. On the edge of this half-circle
I discerned Hubert The straining
of mine eyes was very painful;
they seemed to bum in their sockets.
Basil had been watching the forth-
coming of the queen, but bis sight was
not so quick as mine, and as yet
no fear such as I entertained had
struck him.

<< What be they about T he said to
me with a good-natured smile. Before
I could answer — ^"Good God!" he
exclaimed in an altered voice ;. ^' what
sound is that?" for suddenly yelk and
hooting noises arose, soch as a mob do
salute criminals with, and a kind of
procession issued from the front door.
"What, what is it?" cried Basil,
seizing my hand with a convulsive
grasp; "what do they carry? — not
Blessed Mary's image ?"

"Yea," I said, "I see Topdiffe
walking in front of them. They will
bum it There, th^re— they do lift it
in the air in mocKery. Oh, some peo-
ple do avoid and turn away; now
they lay it down and light the fagots."
Then I put my hand over his eyes for
that he should not see a sort of danoe
which was performed around the fire,
mixed with yells and insulting gestures,
and the queen sitting and looking on.
He forced my hand away ; and wb^i
I said, "Oh, prithee, Basil, stay not
here— come with me," he exclaimed-

" Let me go, Constance ! let me go I
Shall I stand aloof when at mine own
door the Blessed Mother of Grodis
outraged ? Am I a Jew or a heretic
that I should endure fhis sight and not
smite tliis queen of earthj^ which dareth

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Oonstance Sherwood.

621

to insalt the Qaeen of SaintB ? Tea,
if I should be torn to pieces, I will not
snfTer them to proceed."
' I cluiiS to him afinghted, and cried
oat, ^ Basil, 70a shall not go. Oar
Blessed Lady forbids it ; jour passion
doth blind you. You will offend Grod
and lose your soul if you do. Basil,
dearest Basil, 'tis human anger, not
godly soiTow only, moves you now.**
Then he cast himself down with his
fiioe on the ground and wept bitterly ;
which did comfort me, for his inflamed
countenance had been terrible, and
these tears came as a relief.

Meantime this disgusting scene end-
ed, and the queen withdrew; after
which the crowd slowly dispersed,
smooldering ashes akme remaining in
the midst of the bumt-up grass. Then
Basil rose, folded his arms, and gazed
on the scene in silence. At last he
said:

^ Constance, this house shall no
longer be mine. God knoweth I have
loved it well since my infancy. More
dearly still since we forecast^ to-
gether to serve God in it. But this
scene would never pass away from
my mind. This outrage hath stained
the home of my fathers. This people,
whose yells do yet ring in mine ears,
can no longer be to me neighbors as
heretofore, or this queen my queen.
God forgive me if I do m in this. I
do not cnrse her. No, God defend it 1
I pray that on her sad deathbed — ^for
surely a sad one it.mustbe— she shall
cry for mercy and obtain it ; but her
subject I will not remain. I will com-
pound my estate for a sum of money,
and will go beyond seas, where God
is served in a Catholic manner and his
Holy Mother not dishonored. Wilt
thou follow me there, Constance ?'
f I leant my head on his shoulder,
weeping. ** O, Basil,** I cried, "I can
answer only in the words of Ruth :
* Whithersoever thou shalt go, I will go ;
and where thou shalt dwell, I also will
dwell Thy people shall be my peo-
ple, and thy God my God.'"

He drew my arm in his, and we
walked slowly away toward Faken-

ham. Wishing to prepare his mind
for a possible misfortune, I said:
**We be a thousand times happier
than those which shall possess thy
lands."

"What say you?" he quickly an-
swered ; ^ who shall possess them ?"

** God knoweth," I replied, afraid to
speak further.

^ Good heavens !" he exclaimed :
" a dreadful thought cometh to me ;
where was Hubert this morning ?"

I remained silent

^ Speak, speak ! O Constance, God
defend he was there !"

His grief and horror were so great
I durst not reveal the truth, but made
some kind of evasive answer. To this
day methinks he is ignorant on that
point

The queen and the court departed
from Euston soon after two of the
dock; not before, as I since heard,
the church furniture and books had
been all destroyed, and a malicious
report set about that a piece of her
majesty's plate was missing, as an ex-
cuse for to misuse the poor servants
which had showed grief at the destruc-
tion carried on before their eyes.
When notice of their departure reach-
ed Banham Hall, whither we had re-
turned, Basil immediately went back
to Euston. I much lamented he
should be alone that evening, in the
midst of so many sad sights and
thoughts aa his house now should
afford him, little forecasting the event
which, by a greater mishap, surmount-
ed minor subjects of grief.

About six of the clock, Sir Francis
Walsingham, attended by an esquire
and two grooms, arrived at Lady Tre-
gon/s seat, and was received by her
with the courtesy she was wont to ob-
serve with every one. After some
brief discoursing with her on indiffer-
ent matters, he said his business was
with young Mistress Sherwood, and
he desired to see her alone. There-
upon I was fetched to him, and
straightway he began to speak ^f the
queen's good opinion of me, and that
her highness had been well contented

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622

(hnstanee Sherwood.

with mj behaTior when I had been
admitted • into her presence at his
house ; and that it should well please
her majesty I should marry a faithful
subject of her majesty's, whom she
had taken into her favor, and then she
would do us both good.

I looked in a doubtful manner at
Sir Francis, feigning to misapprehend
his meaning, albeit too clear did it ap-
pear to me. Seeing I did not speak,
he went on :

^ It is her majesty's gracious desire,.
Mistress Sherwood, that you should
marry young Rookwood, her newly
appointed servant, and from this time
possessor of Euston House, and all
lands appertaining unto it, which have
devolved upon him in virtue of his
brother's recusancy and his own recent
conformity."

" Sir," I answered, " my troth is
plighted to his brother, a good man
and an honorable gentleman, up to this
time master of Euston and its lands ;
and whatever shall betide him or his
possessions, none but him shall be my
husband, if ten thousand queens as
great as this one should proffer me
another."

** Madam," said Sir Francis, "be
not too rash In your pledges. I should
be loth to think one so well trained in
virtue and loyalty should persist in
maintaining a troth-plight with a con-
victed recusant, an exceeding malig-
nant papist, who is at this moment in
the hands of the pursuivants, and by
order of her majesty's council commit-
ted to Norwich gaol. If he should
(which is doubtful) escape such a sen-
tence as should ordain him to a last-
ing imprisonment or perpetual banish-
ment from this realm, his poverty must
needs constrain him to relinquish all
pretensions to your hand: for his
brother, a most learned, well-disposed,
commendable young gentleman, with
such good parts as fit him to aspire to
some high advancement in the state
and at court, having conformed some
days, ago to the established religion
and given many proofs of his zeal and
sincerity therein, his brother^a estates,

as is most just, have devolved on him,
and a more worthy and, I may add,
irom long and constant devotion and
fervent humble passion long since en-
tertained for yourself, more desirable
ci^ndidate for your hand could not
easily be found."

I looked fixedly at Sir Frauds, and
then said, subduing my voice as much
as possible, and restraining all ges-
tures:

"Sir, you have, I ween, a more
deep kjtiowledge of men's hearts and
a more piercing insight into their
thoughts than any other person in the
world. You are wiser than any other
statesman, and year wit and sagaci^
are spoken of aU over Christendom.
But methinketh, sir, there are two
things which, wise and learned as yon
are, you are yet ignorant of, and these
are a woman's heart and a Catholic's
faith. I would as soon wed the mean-
est clown which yelled this day at
Blessed Mary's image, as the future
possessor of Euston, the apostate Hu-
bert Rookwood. Now, sir, I pray you,
send for the pursuivants, and let me
bo committed to gaol for the same
crime as my betrothed husband, (xod
knoweth I will bless you for it."

"Madam," Sir Francis coldly an-
swered, "the law taketh no heed of
persons out of their senses. A frantic
passion and an immoderate fanaticism
have distracted your reason. Tune
and reflection will, I doubt not, recall
you to better and more comfortable
sentiments ; in which case I pray you
to have recourse to my good offices,
which shall ever be at your service."

Then bowing, he left me ; and when
he was gone, and the tumult of my
soul had subsided, I lamented my ve-
hemency, for metbought if I had been
more cunning in my speech, I could have
done Basil some good ; but now it was
too late, and verily, \£ agiun exposed
to the same temptation, I doubt if I
could have dissembled the ^indignant
feelings which Sir Francis's advocacy
of Hubert's suit worked in me.

Lady Tregony, pitying my unhappy
plight) proposed to travel with me to

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Coiutanee Sherwood*

628

London, wbere I was now desiroas to
return, for there I thought some steps
might be taken to procure Basil's re-
lease, with more hope of success than
if I tarried in the scene of our late
happiness. She did me also the good
to go with me in the first place to Nor-
wich, where, hj means of that same
governor to whom Sir Hammond I'Es-
trange had once written in my father's
behalf, we obtaiaed for to see Basil for
a few minutes. His brother's apos-
tasy, and the painful suspicion that it
was by his means the secret of Owen's
cell at Euston had been betrayed, gave
him infinite concern ; but his own im-
prisonment and losses he bore with
very great cheerfulness ; and we en-
tertained ourselves with the thought
of a small cottage beyond seas, which
henceforward became the theme of
such imaginings as lovers must needs
cherish to keep alive the fiame of hope.
Two days afterward I reached Lon-
don, having travelled very fast, and
only slept one night on the road.

It sometimes happens that certain
laisfortunes do overtake us which, had
we foreseen, we should well-nigh have
despaired, and misdoubted with what
strength we should meet them; but
God is very merciful, and fitteth the
back to the burthen. If at the time
that Basil left me at four of the clock
to return to Euston, without any doubt
on our minds to meet ihe next day, I
should have known how long a parting
was at hand, methinks all courage
would have failed me. But hope
worketh patience, and patience in re-
turn breedeth hope, and the while the
soul is learning lessons of resignation,
which at first would have seemed too
hard. At the outset of this trouble, I
expected he should have soon been
set at liberty on the payment of a fine ;
but I had forgot he was now a poor
man, well-nigh beggared by the loss of
Lis inheritance. Mr. Swithin Wells,
one of the best friends he and myself
had — ^for, alas ! good Mr. Roper had
died during my absence — ^told me that,
when Hubert heard of his brother's
arrest, he fell into a great anguish of

mind, and dealt earnestly with his
new patrons to procure his celease, but
with no effect. Then, in a letter
which he sent him, he offered to remit
unto him whatever moneys he desired
out of his estates ; but Basil steadfast-
ly reiused to receive from him so much
as one penny, and to this day has per-
sisted in this resolve. I luive since
seen the letter which he wrote to him
on this occasion, in which this resolu-
tion was expressed, but in no angry or
contumeHouR terms, freely yielding
him his entire forgiveness for his o^
fence against him, if indeed any did
exist, but such as was next to nothing
in comparison of the offence toward
God committed in the abandonment of
his faith ; and with all earnestness be-
seeching him to think seriously upon
his present state, and to consider if the
course he had taken, contrary to the
breeding and education he had receiv-
ed, should tend to his true honor, repu-
tation, contentment of mind, and eter-
nal salvation. This he said he did
plainly, for the discharge of his own
conscience, and the declaration of an
abiding love for him.

For the space of a year and two
months he remained in prison at Nor-
wich, Mr. Wells and Mr. Lacy fur-
nishing him with assistance, without
which he should have lacked the nec-
essaries of hfe; leastways such conven-
iences as made his sufferings toler-
able. At the end of that time, it may
be by Hubert's or some other friend's
efforts, a sentence of banishment was
passed upon him, and he went beyond
seas. I would fain have then joined
him, but it pleased not God it should
be at that time possible. Some
moneys which were owing to him by
a well-disposed debtor he looked for
to recover, but till that happened he
had not means for his own subsistence,
much less wherewith to support a
wife in howsoever humble a fashion.
Dr. Allen (now cardinal) invited him
to Rheims, and received him there
with open arms. My father, during
the last years of his life, found in him
a most dutiful and affectionate son,

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6S4

(Jonikmce SherufootL

who doaed his eyes with a trae filial
reverence. Our love waxed not for
this long separation less ardent or less
tender ; onlj more patient, more ex-
alted, more inwardly binding, now so
mnch the more outwardly impeded.
The greatest excellency I found in my-
self was the power of apprehending
and the virtue of loving his. If his
name appear not so frequently in this
my writing as it hath hitherto done,
even as his. visible presence was lack-
ing in that portion of my life which
foUowed his departure, the thought of
him never leaves me. If I speak of
virtue in any one else, my mind turns
to him, the most perfect exemplar I
have met with of self-foigetting good-
ness ; if of love, my heart recalls the
perfect exchange of affection which
doth link his soul with mine ; if of joy,
the memory of that pure happiness I
found in his society ; if of sorrow, of
the perpetual grief his absence did
cause me ; if of hope, the abiding
anchor whereon I rested mine during
the weary years of separation. Yea,
when I do write the words faith, hon-
or, nobility, firmness, tenderness, then
I think I am writing my dear Basil's
name.

CHAPTER xxm.

Thb year which followed Basil's ar-
rest, and during which he was in the
prison at Norwich, I wholly spent in
London ; not with any success touch-
ing the procuring of his release, as I
had expected, but with a constant
hope thereof which had its fulfilment
later, aibeit not by any of the means I
had looked to. I shared the while
with Muriel the care of her now aged
and very infirm parents, taking her
place at home when she went abroad
on her charitable errands, or employed
by her in the like good works when
my ability would serve. A time
cometh in most persons' lives, when
maturity doth supplant youthftilness.
I say most persons, because I have no-

ticed that there are some who never do
seem to attain unto any maturity of
mind, and do live and die with the
same childish spirit they had in youth.
To others this change, albeit real, is
scarcely perceptible, so gradual are its
effects ; but some again, either from a
natural thoughtfidness, or by the influ-
ence of circumstances tending to sober
in them the exuberance of spirits which
appertaineth to early age, do wax
mature in disposition before they grow
old in years ; and this befel me at that
time. The eager temper, the intent de-
sire and pursuit of enjoyment (of a
good and innocent sort, I thank God)
which had belonged to me till tiien,
did so much and visibly abate, that it
caused me some astonishment to see
myself so changed. Joyful hours I
have since known, happy days where-
in mine heart hath been raised in ador-
ing thankfulness to the Giver of all
good ; but the color of my mind hath
no more resembled that of former
years, than the hues of the evening
sky can be likened to the roseate flush
of early morning. The joys have
been tasted, the happiness relished,
but not with the same keenness as
heretofore. Mine own troubles, the
crowning one of Basil's misfortune,
and what I contmued then to witness
in others of mine own faith, wrought
in me these effects. The life of a
Catholic in England in these days
must needs, I think, produce one of
two frames of mind. £ither he will
harbor angry passions, which religion
reproves, which change a natural in-
dignation into an unchristian temper
of hatred, and lead him into plots and
treasons ; or else he becomes detached
from the world, very quiet, given to
prayer, ready to take at Grod's hands,
and as fix>m him at men's also, suffer-
ings of all kinds; and even those > as
yet removed from so great p^ection
learn to be still, and to bethink them-
selves rather of the next world than
of the present one, more than even
good people did in old tunes.

The Only friends I haunted at that
time were Mr. and Mrs. S within Welb*

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C^iutanee SherwoocL

625

In the Bnmmer of that year I heard
one daj, when in their company, that
Father £dmund Campion was soon to
arrive in London. Father Parsons
was then lodghig at Master George
Gilbert's house, and much talk was
ministered touching this other priest's
landing, and how he should be con-
ducted thither in safety. Bryan Lacy,
Thomas James, and many oUiers, took
it by turns to watch at the landing-
place where he was expected to dis*
embark. Each evening Mr. Wells's
friends came for to hear news thereof.
One day, when no tidings of it had yet
transpired, and the company was leav-
ing, Mr. James comes in, and having
shut the door, and glanced round the
room before speaking, says, with a
smile,

** What think you, sirs and ladies ?"

** Master Campion is arrived," cri^s
Mistress Wells.

" God be praised I" cries her hus-
band^ and all giving signs of joy do
gather round Mr. James for to hear
the manner of his landing.

« WeU," quoth he, « I had been
pacing up and down the quay for well-
nigh five hours, when I discerned a
boat, which (Grod only knoweth where-
fore) I straightway apprehended to be
the one should bring Master Campion.
And when it reached the landingr
place, beshrew me if I did not at once
see a man dressed in some kind of a
merchant suit, which, from the marks
I bad of his features from Master Par-
sons, I inade sure was the reverend*
fother. So when he steps out of the
boat I stand close to him, and in an
audible voice, * Grood morrow, Ed-
mund,' says I, which he hearing, turns
round and looks me in the fistce. We
both smile and shake hands, and I
lead him at once to Master Gilbert's
house. Oh, I promise you, it was
wlih no small comfort to myself I
brought that work to a safe ending.
But now, sir," he continued, turning
to Mr. Wells, " what think you of this ?
Nothing will serve Master Campion
but a place must be immediately hired,
and a spacious one also, for him to be*
VOL. n. 40

gin at once to preach, for he saith he
is here but for that purpose, and that
he would not the pursuivants should
catch him before he hath opened his
lips in En|land; albeit, if Grod will
grant him for the space of one year
to exercise his ministry in this realm,
he is most content to lay down his life
afterward. And methinks he con-
siders Almighty God doth accept this
bargain, and is in haste for to begin."

"Hath Master Gilbert called his
friends together for to consider of it ?"
asked Mr. Wells.

" Yea," answered Mr. James. " To-
morrow, at ten of the clock, a meeting
will be held, not at his house, for
greater security, but at Master Brown*8
shop in Southwark, for this purpose,
and he prayeth you to attend it, sir,
and you, and yoii, and you," he con-
tinued, turning to Bryan Lacy, Wil-
liam Gresham, Godfrey ^uljambe,
Gervase Pierpoint, and ftilip and
Charles Bassett, which were all
present.

The next day I heard from Mrs.
Wells that my Lord Paget, at the in-
stigation of his friends f/hich met at
Mr. Brown's, had hired, in his own
name, Noel House, in the which one
very large chamber should serve as a
chapel, and that on the feast of St. Pe-
ter and St. Paul, which fell on the
coming Sunday, Father Campion
would say mass there, and for the first
time preach. She said the chief
Catholics in London had combined for
to send there, in the night, some vest-
ments, some ornaments for the altar,
books, and all that should be needful
for divine worship. And the young
noblemen and gentlemen which had
been at her house the night before, and
many others also, such as Lord Vaux,
WilUam and Richard Griffith, Arthur
Cresswell, Charles Tilvey, Stephen
Berkeley, James Hill, Thomas de Sal-
isbury, Thomas Pitzherbert, Jerom
Bellamy, Thomas Pound, Richard
Stanyhurst, Thomas Abington, and
Cliarles Arundel (this was one of the
Queen's pages, but withal a zealous
Catholic), lukd joined themselves in a

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626

Conttance Sherwood.

company, for to act, some aa sacristans
of this secret chapel, some as messen-
gers, to go round and gh^e notice of
the preachments, and some as porters,
which would be a very we%ht7 office,
for one unreliable person admitted into
that oratory should be the ruin of all
concerned.

Muriel and I, with Mr. Wells, went
at an early hour on the Sunday to
Noel House. Master Philip Bassett
was at the door. He smiled when he
saw us, and said he^supposed he need-
ed not to ask us for die password.
The chamber into which we went was
so large, and the altar so richly adorn-
ed, that the like, I ween, had not been
seen since the queen had changed the
religion of the country.

Mass was said by ^Father Campion,
and that noble company of devout gen-
tlemen aforementioned almost all com-
municate^ thereat, and many others
beside, an ladies not a few. When
mass was ended, and Father Campion
stood up for to begin his sermon, so
deep a silence reigned in that crowded
assembly — for the chamber was more
full than it could well hold — ^that a pin
should have been heard to drop.
Some thirsting for to hear Catholic
preaching, so rare in these days, some
eager to listen to the words of a man
famous for his learning and parts,
both before and after his conversion,
beyond any other in this country. For
mine own part, methonght his very
countenance was a preachment When
his eyes addressed themselves to
heaven, it seemed as if they did
irerily see Grod, so piercing, so awed,
so reverent was their gaze. He took
ifor his text the words, " Thou art Pe-
ter, and on this rock I will build my
;church, and the gates of hell shall
not prevail against it." My whole
soul was fastened on his words ; and
albeit I have had but scant occasion
to compare one preacher with another,
I do not think it should be possible for
a more pathetic and stirring eloquence
to flow from human lips than his who
(that day gave God's message to a suf-
iering aad persecuted people. I had

Mot taken mine eyes off his pale and
glowing fooe not for so much as one
instant, until, near the close of his
discourse, I chanced to turn them to a
place almost hidden by the curtain of
an altar, where some gentlemen were
standing, concealing themselves from
sight. Alas ! in one instant the fervent
glowing of my heart, the staid, rapt in*
tentness with which I had listened, the
heavenward lifting up of my soul, van-
ished as if a vision of death bad risen
before me. I had seen Hubert Rook-
wood's &ce, that face so like^-oh,
what anguish was that likeness to me
then! — ^to my Basil's. No one bat
me could perceive him, he was so hid
by the curtain; but where I sat it
opened a little, and disclosed the stern,
melancholy, beautiful visage of the
apostate, the betrayer of his own
brother, the author of our ruin, the de-
stroyer of our happiness. I thank
Grod that I first beheld him again in
that holy place, by the side of the al-
tar whereon Jesus had lately descend-
ed, whilst the words of his servant
were in mine ears, speaking of love
and patience. It was not hatred, God
knoweth it, I then felt for Basil's
brother, but only terror for all pres-
ent, and for him also, if peradventure
he was there with an evil intent.
Mine eyes were fixed as by a spell
on his pale face, the while Father
Campion's closing words were uttered,
which spoke of St. Peter, of his crime
and of his penance, of his bitter tears
and his burning love. " If,* be med,
^ there be one here present on whose
soul doth lie the guilt of a like sin ;
one peradventure yet more guilty.than
Peter ; one like Judas in his crime ;
one like Judas in his despair--<to htm
I say, There is mercy for thee ; there
is hope for thee, there is heaven for
thee, if thou wilt have it. Doom
not thyself, and Gk>d will never
doom thee." These or the like words
(for memory doth ill serve me to re-
call the fervent adjurations of that
apostolical man) he used ; and, lo, I
beheld tears running down like nun
fimn Hubert^s eyes-Hut unchecked, re*

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Oonrtance Shenoood*

627

hement torrent which seemed to defy
all lestiaint. How I blessed those
tears I what a yearning pitj seized me
for him who did shed them! How
IloDged to clasp his hand and to weep
with him I I lost sight of him lirhen
the sermon was finished ; but in the
street, when we departed — ^which was
done slowly and by degrees, for to
avoid notice, four or five only going
ont at a time-— I saw him on the other
side of the pavement. Our eyes met ;
he stopped in a hesitating manner, and
I also doubted what to do^ for I
thought Mistress Wells and Muriel
woidd be averse to speak to him.
Then he rapidly crossed over, and
said, in a wlusper:

*^ Will you see me, Constance, if I
come to you this evening ?*

I pondered ; I feared to quench, it
might be, a good resolve, or precipitate
an evil one by a refusal ; and building
hopes of the former on the tears I had
seen him shed, I said :

" Yea, if you come as Basil's broth*
er and mine."

He turned and walked hastily away.

Mistress Wells and Muriel asked
me with some afiright if it was Hu-
bert who had spoken to me, for they
had scarce seen his face, although from
his figure they had judged it was him $
and when I told them he had been at
Noel House, " Then we are undone P
the one exclaimed; and Muriel said,
"We must straightway apprise Mr.
Wells thereof; but there should be
hopes, I think, he came there in some
good disposition."

^ I think so too," I answered, and
told them of the emotion which I had
noticed in him at the close of the ser*
mon, which comforted them not a lit-
tle. But he came not that evening ;
and Mr. Wells discovered the next
day that it was Thomas Fitzherbert,
who had lately arrived in London,
and was not privy to his late con-
formity, which had invited him to come
to Noel House. Father Campion cob-
tinoed to preach once a day at the least,
often twioe, and sometimes thrice, and
▼ery marvelkras effects ensued. £ach

day greater crowds did seek admit-
tance for to hear him, and Noel House
was as openly frequented as if it had
been a public church.. Numbers of
well-disposed Protestants came for to
hear him, and it was bruited at the
time that Lord Arundel had been
amongst them. He converted many
of the befft sort, beside young gentle*
men students, and others of idl condi-
tions, which by day, and some by night,
sought to confer with him. I went to
the preachments Ils often as possible.
We could scarce credit our eyes and
ears, so singular did it appear that one
should dare to preach, and so many to
listen to Catholic doctrine, and to seek
to be reooticiled in the midst of so great
dangers, and under the pressure of ty-
rannic laws. Every day some new-
comer was to be seen at Noel House,
sometimes their faces concealed under
great hats, sometimes stationed behind
curtains or open doors for to escape
observation.

After some weeks had thus passed,
when I ceased to expect Hubert should
come, he one day a^ed to see me, and
having sent for Kate, who was then in
the house, I did receive him. Her
presence appeared greatly to displease
him, but he began to speak to me in
Italian; and first he complained of
Basil's pride, which would not suffer
him to receive any assistance from him
who should be so willing to give it

"Would you — " I said, and was
about to add some cutting speech, but
I resolved to restrain myself and by no
indiscreet words to harden his soul
against remorse, or perhaps endanger
others. Then, after some other talking,
he told me in a cunning manner, mak-
ing his meaning dear, but not couch-
ing it in direct terms, that if I would
confonfi to the Protestant religion and
marry him, Basil should be, he could
warrant it, set at liberty, and he would
make over to him more than one-half
of the income of his estates yearly,
which, being done in secret, the law
could not then touch him. I made no
answer thereunto, but fixing mine ^yes
on him, said, in English :

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628

Oonsianee Sherwood,

**' Hubert, wliat should be your opin-
ion of the sermon on St. Peter and St.
Paul's Day?*' He changed color.
^ *• Was it not,'* I said, ** a moving one ?"
Biting his lip, he replied :

^ I deny not the preacher's talenU"

""O Hubert," I exclaimed, «< fence
not yourself with eyasive answers. I
know you believe as a CathoUc"

^ The devils believe," he answered.

^ Hubert," I then said, with all the
energy of my soul, ^ if you would not
miserably perish — ^if you would not
lose your soul — ^promise me this night
to retrace your steps ; to seek Father
Campion and be reconciled." His lip
quivered; methought I could almost
see his good angel on one side of him
and a tempting fiend on the other.
But the last prevailed, for with a bit«
ter sneer he said :

^'Yea, willingly, fair saint, if you
will marry me."

Kate, who till then had not much
understood what had passed, cried out,
** Fie, Hubert, fie on thee to tempt her
to abandon Basil, and he a prisoner."

'' Madam," he said, turning to her,
'^recusants should not be so bold in
their language. The laws of the land
are transgressed in a very daring man-
ner now-a^lays. and those who obey
them taunted for the performance of
their duty to the queen and the coun-
try."

Oh, what a hard struggle it proved
to be patient ; to repress the vehement
reproaches which hovered on my lips.
Kato looked at me afirighted. I trem-
bled from head to foot. Father Cam-
pion's life and the fate of many others,
it might be, were in the hands of this
man, this traitor, this spy. To upbraid
him I dared not, but wringing my
hands, exclaimed:

•'O Hubert, Hubert! for thy moth-
er's sake, who looks dowa on us from
heaven, listen to me. There be no
crimes which may not be forgiven ; but
some there be which if one*doth com-
mit them he forgiveth not himself, and
is likely to perish miserably."

"Think you I know this not?" he
fiercely cried; <* think you not that I

suffer even now the torment yon speak
of, and envy the beggar in the street
his stupid apathy P' He drew a paper
from his bosom and unfolded it. A
terrible gleam shot through his eyes.
^ I could compel you to be my wife."

*^No," I said, looking him in the
&oe, ^ neither man nor fiends can give
you that power. God alone can do it»
and he will not"

" Do you see this p^per ?" he asked.
'^ Here are the names of all the recu-
sants who have been reconciled by the
Pope's champion. I have but to speak
the word, and to-monow they are
lodged in the Marshalsea or the Tower,
and the priest first and foremost"

" But you will not do it," I said, with
a singular calmness. ^No, Hubert;
as God Ahnighty liveth, you will not.
You cannot commit this crime, this
foul murther."

^ If it should come to that," he fierce-
ly cried, " if blood should be shed, cm
your head it will falL You can save
them if you list"

" Would you compel me by a bloody
threat to utter a false vow ?" I said. *^ O
Hubert, Hubert ! that you, you should
threaten to betray a priest, to denounce
Catholics! There was a day — have
you forgot it? — ^when at the chapel at
£uston, your father at your side, you
knelt, an innocent child, at the altar's
rail, and a priest came to you and said,
' Corpus Domini fiostri Jesu CkriwU
custocUat animam tuam ad vitam ater-
nam.* If any one had then told you " —

"Oh, for God's sake speak not of
it!" he wildly cried; "that way mad-
ness doth lie."

"No, no," I cried; "not madnees,
but hope and return."

A change came over his fince; he
thrust the paper in my hand. " De-
stroy it," he cried; "destroy it, Con-
stance 1" And then bursting into tears,
" Grod knoweth I never meant to do it"

" O Hubert, you have been mad, dear
brotiier, more mad than guilty. Pray»
and God will bless you."

"Call me not brother, Constance
Would to God I had been onUf mad!
But it is too late now to think on it"

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.029

"Nay, nay,** I cried, "it never i»
too late."

"Pray for me then," he said, and
went to the door : but, taming sudden-
ly, whispered in a scarce audible man*
ner, "Ask Father CSampion to pray
for me," and .then rushed out.

Kate had now half-fainted, and would
have it we were all gcnng to be killed.
I pacified and sent her home, lest she
should ftight her parents with her
rambling speeches.

' Albeit Hubert's last words had seem-
ed to be sincere, I could not but call to
mind how, after he had been apparent-
ly cut to \he heart and moved even to
tears by Father Campion's preaching,
he had soon uttered threats which,
howsoever recalled, left me in doubt if
it should be safe to rely on his silence ;
so I privately informed Mr. Wells, and
he Master George Gilbert and Father
Parsons, of what had passed between
us. At the same time, I have never
known whether by Hubert's means, or
in any other way, her majesty's coun-
cil got wind of the matter, and gave
out that great confederacies were made
by the Pope and foreign princes for
the invasion of this country, and that
Jesuits and seminary priests were sent
to prepare their ways. Exquisite dili-
gence was used for the apprehensifm
of all such, but more particularly the
Pope's champion, as Master Campion
was called. So in the certainty that
Hubert was' privy to the existence of
the chapel at Noel House, and that
many Protestants were also acquaint-
ed with it, and likewise with his lodg-
ing at Master Elliot's, where not a few
resorted to hiih in the night, he was
constrained by Father Parsons to leave
London, to the no small regret of Cat|||i
olics and others also which greatly ad-
mired his learning and eloquence, the
like of which was not to be found in
any other person at that time. None
of those which had attended the preach-
ments at Noel House were accused,
nor the place wherein they had met
disclosed, which inclineth me to think
Hubert did not reveal to her majesty's
government his knowledge thereof.

About two months afterward BasiFa
release and banishment happened. I
would fain have seen him on his way
to the coast ; but the order for his de-
parture was so sudden and peremptory,
the queen's officers not losing sight of
him until he was embarked on a ves-
sel going to France, that I was depriv-
ed of that happiness. Tfiat he was no
longer a prisoner I rejoiced; but it
seemed as if a aecond and more griev-
ous separation had ensued, now that
the sea did divide me from the- dear
object of my love.

Lady Arundel, whose affectionate
heart resented with the most tender
pity the abrupt interruption of our hap-
piness, had often written to me during
this year4o ui^e my coming to Arun-
del Castle ; " for," said she, " methinks,
my dear Constance, a third turtle-dove
might now be added to the two on the
Queen of Scotland's design; and on
thy tree, sweet one, the leaves are, I
warrant thee, fery green yet, and fu-
ture joys shall blossom on its wholesome
branches, which are pruned but not de-
stroyed, injured but not withered."
She spoke with no small contentment
of her then residence, that noble castle,
her husband's worthiest possession (as
she styled it), and the grandest jewel
of his earldom. For albeit (thus she
wrote) " Kenninghall is larger in the
extent it doth cover and embrace, and
far more rich in its decorations and
adornments, I hold it not to be com-
parable in true dignity to this castle,
which, for the strength of its walls, the
massive grandeur of its keep, the vast
forests which do encircle it, the river
which biftthes its feet, the sea in it« vic-
inity and to be seen from its tower, the
stately trees about it, and the clinging
ivy which softens with abundant ver-
dure the stem, frowning walls, hath
not its like in all England*" But a
letter I had from this dear lady a few
months after this one contained the
most joyful news I could receive, as
will be seen by those who read it :

"My good Constance " (her ladyship
wrote), " I would I had you a prisoner
in this fortress, to hold and detain at

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680

OemUmee Sherwoed.

vay pleaame. Methinks I will present
thee as a recusant, and sue for the
privilege of tbj custody. Verily, I
should keep good watch over Uiee.
There be dungeons enough, I warrant
you, in the keep, wherein to imprison
runaway friends. Master Bayley doth
take great pains to explain to me the
names and old uses of the towers, chap-
els, and buildings within and vril^oat
the castle, which do testify to the zeal
and piety of past generations: the
Ohapel of St Martin, in the keep,
which was the oratory of the garrison ;
the old collegiate buildings of the Col-
lege of the Holy Trinity ; the Maison-
Dleu, designed by Richard, Earl of
Arundel, and built by his son on the
right bank of the river, for the harbor-
ing of twenty aged and poor men, eith-
er unmarried or widowers, which, from
infirmity, were unable to provide for
their own support ; the Priory of the
Friars Preachers, with the rising gar-
dens behind it; the Chapel of Blessed
Mary, over the gate ; that of St. James
ad Leprosos, which was attached to
the Leper's Hospital; and St. Law-
fence's, which standeth on the hill
above the tower ; and in the valley be-
low, the Priory of St. Bartholomew,
built by Queen Adeliza for the monks
of St. Austin. Verily the poor were
well cared for when all these monaster-
ies and hospitals did exist; and it
doth grieve me to think that the mon-
eys which were designed by so many
pious men of past ages for the good of
religion should now be paid to my lord,
and spent in worldly and profane uses.
Howsoever, I have better hopes than
heretofore that he will one day serve
God in a Christian manner. And now,
methinks, after much doubting if I
should dare for to commit so weighty
a secret unto paper, that I must needs
tell thee, as this time I send my letter
by a trusty messenger, what, if I judge
rightly, wiU prove so great a comfort
to thee, my dear Constance, that thine
own grieft shaU seem the lighter for
it. Thou dost well know how long I
have been well-affected to Catholic re-
ligion, increasing therein daily more

and more, but yet not wholly resolved
to embrace and profess it. But by
reading a book treating of the danger
of schism, soon after my coming h^,
I WES BO efficaciously moved, that I
made a firm purpose to become a mem-
ber of the Cadiolic and only true Church
of God* I charged Mr. Bayley to aeek
out a grave and ancient priest, and to
bring him here privately ; for I desired
very much that my reconciliation, and
meeting with this priest ^to that yitent,
should be kept as secret as was possi-
ble, for the times are more trouble-
some than ever, and I would bm have
none to know of it until I caot diadoee
it myself to my l(»d in a prudent man-
ner. I have, as thou knoweth, no
Catholic women about me, nor any one
whom I durst acquaint with this busi-
ness ; so I was forced to go akm^ at
an unseasonable hour from mine own
lodging in the castle, by certain daric
ways and obscure passages, to the
chamber where this priest (whose name,
for greater prudence, I mention not
here) was lodged, there to make my
confession — ^it being thought, both by
Mr. Bayley and myself, that otherwise
it could not possibly be done without
discovery, or at least great danger
thereof. Oh, mine own dear Constance,
when I returned by the same way 1
had gone, lightened of a burihen so
many years endured, cheered by the
thought of a reconcilement so long de-
sired, strengthened and raised, leasts
ways fw a while, above all worldly
fears, darkness appeared light, rough
paths smooth; the moon, shining
through the chinks of the secret pas-
sage, which I thought had shed before
a ghastly light on the uneven^ walls,
How seemed to yield a mild and pleas-
ant brightness, like unto that of God's
grace in a heart at peace. And this
exceeding contentment and steadfast-
ness of spirit have notf— -praise him for
it — since left me ; albeit I have much
cause for apprehension in more ways
than one; for what in these days
is so secret it becometh not known?
But whatever now shall befal me—
pubUc dangers or private sonowB-^my

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Ckmtkmee tSherwood.

681

feet do rest on a rock, not on the shift-
ing sands of human thinkings, and I
am not afraid of what man can do unto
me. Yea, Philip's displeasure I can
now endure, which of aU things in the
world I have heretofore most appre-
hended."

The injBnite contentment this letter
gave me distracted me somewhat from
the anxious thoughts that filled m j mind
at the time it reached me, which was
soon after Hubert's visit. A few days
afterward Ladj Arundel wrote again:

^ My lord has been here, but stayed
only a brief time. I found him very
aJOfectionate in his behavior, but his
spirits so much depressed that I fear-
ed something had disordered him.
Conversation seemed a burthen to him,
and he often shut himself up in his
own chamber or walked into the park
with only his dog. When I spoke to
him he would siuile with much kind-
ness, uttering such words as 'sweet
wife,' or ' dearest Nan,' and then fall
to musing again, as if his mind had
been too oppressed with thinking to
allow of speech. The day before he
Zeft I was sorting flowers at one end
of the gallery in a place which the
wall projecting doth partly conceal.
I saw him come from the hall up the
stairs into it, and walk to and fro in
an agitated manner, his countenace
very much troubled, and his gestures
like unto those of a person in great
perplexity of mind. I did not dare
so much as to stir from where I stood,
but watched him for a long space of
lime witfi incredible anxiety. Some-
times he stopped and raised his hand
to his forehead. Another while he
went to the window and looked in-
tently, now at the tower and the val-
ley beyond it, naw up to the sky, on
which the last rays of the setting sun
were throwing a deep red hue, as if
the world had been on fire. Then
turning back, he joined his hands to-
gether and anon sundered them again,
pacing up and down the while more
n^idly than before, as if an inward
conflict urged thia unwitting speed.
At last I saw him stand still, lift up

his hands and eyes to' heaven, and
move his lips as if in prayer. What
passed in his mind then, Grod only
knowcth. He is the most reluctant per-
son in the world to disclose his thoughts.

" When an hour afterward we met
in the library his spirits seemed some-
wtilt improved. He spoke of his
dear sister Meg with much afiection,
and asked me if I had heard from
Bess. Lord William, he said, was the
best brother a man ever had; and
that it should like him well to spend
his life in any comer of the world
God should appoint for him, so that
he had to keep him company Will and
Meg and his dear Nan, ' which I have
so long ill-treated,' he added, ' that as
long as I live I shall not cease to re-
pent of it; and God he knoweth I de-
serve not so good a wife ;' with many
other like speeches which I wish he
would not use, for it grieveth me he
should disquiet himself for what is
past, when his present kindness doth
so amply recompense former neglect.
Mine own Constance, I pray you keep
your courage alive in your afliictions.
There be no lane so long but it hath
a turning, the proverb saith. My
sorrows seemed at one time without
an issue. Now light breaketh through
the yet darksome clouds which do en-
viron us. So will it be with thee.
Bum this letter, seeing it doth contain
what may endanger the lives of more
persons than one. — ^Thy loving, faith-
ful fi^end,

" Ann, Arundel and Surbet."

A more agitated letter followed this
one, written at different times, and de-
tained for some days for lack of a
safe messenger to convey it.

" What I much fear," so it began,
" is the displeasure of my lord when
he comes to know of my reconcile-
ment, for it cannot, I think, be long
concealed from him. This my fear,
dear Constance, hath been much in-
creased by the coming down from
London of one of his chaplains, who
affirms he was sent on purpose by the
earl to read prayers and to preach to
me and any family ; and on last Sun-

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683

(hMlUmiit Shierwood.

day he came into the great chamber
of the castle, expecting and desiring
to know my pleasure therein. I
thought best for to send for him to my
chamber, and I desired him not to
trouble himself nor me in that matter,
for I would satisfy the earl therein.
But oh, albeit I spoke very comporod-
ly, my apprehensions are very great.
For see, my dear friend, Philip hath
been but lately reconciled to me, and
his fortunes are in a very desperate
condition, so that he may think I have
given the last blow to them by this
act, which his enemies will surely
brave at Think not I do repent of
it. Grod knoweth I should as soon
repent of my baptism as of my return
to his true Church ; but though the^
spirit is steadfast, the flesh is weak,
and the heart also. What will he say
to me when he cometh ? He did once
repulse me, but hath never upbraided
me. How shall I bear new frowns
after recent caresses? — ^peradventure
an eternal parting after a late reun-
ion ? O Constance, pray for me. But
I remember I have no means for to
send this letter. But God be praised,
I have now friends in heaven which
I may adjure to pray for me who
have at hand no earthly ones.''

Four or live days later, her lady-
ship thus finished her letter:

" Grod is very merciful ; oh, let his
holy name be praised and magnified
for ever I Now the weight of a
mountain is off my heart. Now I
care not for what man may do unto
me. Phil has been here, and I
promise thee, dear Constance, when
his horse stopped at the castle-door,
my heart almost stopped its beating,
80 great was my apprehension of his
anger. But, to my great joy and
admiration, he kissed me very ten-
derly, and did not speak the least
word of the chaplain's errand. And
when we did w/ilk out in the even-
ing, arid, mounting to the top of the
keep, stood there looking on the fine
tree6 and the sun sinking into the
sea, my dear lord, who had been
Bome time silent, turned to me and

said, 'Meg has become Catiholic'
Joy and surprise almost robbed mc
of my breath ; for next to his re-
concilement his sister's was what I
most desired in the world, and also
I knew what a particular love he
had ever shown for her, as being his
only sister, by reason whereof he
would not seem to be displeased
with her change, and consequently
he could not in reason be much of-
fended with myself for being what
she was ; so when he ssKid, * Meg has
become Catholic,' I leant my face
against his shoulder, and whispered,
*So hath Nan.' He spoke not nor'
moved for some minutes. Methinks
he could have heard the beatings of
my heart* I was comforted tiiat, al-
beit he uttered not so much as one
word, he made no motion for to with-
draw himself from me, whose head
still rested against his bosom. Sud-
denly he threw his arms about me,
and strained me to his breast. So
tender an embrace I had never before
had from him, and I felt his tears fall-
ing on my head. But speech there
was none touching my change. How-
soever, before he left me I said to hinu
* My dear Phil, Holy Scripture doth
advise those who enter into the ser-
vice of Almighty Grod to prepare
themselves for temptation. As soon
as I resolved to become Catholic, I
did deeply imprint this in my mind ;
for the times are such that I must ex-
pect to suffer for that cause.' 'Yea,
dearest Nan,' he answered^ -^th great
kindness, ' I doubt not thou hast taken
the course which will save thy soul
from the danger of shipwreck, al-
though it doth subject thy body to the
peril of misfortune.' Then waxing
bolder, I said, ' And thou, Phil — * and
there stopped short, looking what I
would speaJic. He seemed to straggle
for a while with some inward difficul-
ty of speaking his mind, but at last he
began, ' Nan, I will not become Cath-
olic before I can resolve to live as a
Catholic, and I defer the former until
I have an intent and resolute purpose
to perform the latter. O Nan, when I

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OtmHanee Skertoood.

ess

think of my vile usage of thee, whom
I should have so much loved and es-
teemed for thy virtue and discretion ;
of my wholly neglecting, in a manner,
my duty to the earl my grandfather,
and mv aunt Lady Lumley ; of my
wasting, by profuse expenses, of great
sums of money in the following of the
courts, the estate which was lefk me,
and a good quantity of thine own lands
also ; but far more than all, my total
forgetting of my duty to Almighty
God — for, carried away with company,
youthful entertainments, pleasures,
and delights, my mind being ^holly
possessed with them, I did scarce
so much OS think of God, or of
anything concerning religion or the
salvation of my soul — ^I do feel myself
unworthy of pardon, and utterly to be
contemned.' ,

" So much goodness, humility, and
virtuous intent was apparent in this^
speech, and such comfortable hopes of
future excellence, that I could not
forbear from exclaiming, 'My dear
Phil, I ween thou wilt be one of those
who shall love God much, forasmuch
as he will have forgiven thee much.'
And then I asked him how long it was
since this change in his thinking, al-
beit not yet acted upon, had come to
him ? He said, it so happened that he
was present, the year before, at a dis-
putation held in the Tower of London,
between Mr. Sherwin and some other
priests on the one part, Charles Fulk,
Whittakers, and some other Protestant
minis tei^s on the other ; and, by what
he heard and saw there, he had per-
ceived, he thought, on which side the
truth and true religion was, though at
the time he neither did intend to em-
brace or follow it. But, he added,
what had moved him of late most
powerfully thereunto was a sermon of
Father Campion's, which he had
heard at Noel House, whither Charles
Arundef had carried him, some days
before his last visit to me. *The
whole of those days,' he said, * my
mind was so oppressed with remorse
and doubt, that I knew no peace, un-
til one evening, by a special grace

of Grod, when I was 'walking alone
in the gallery, I firmly resolved — al-
beit I knew not how or when to ac-
complish this purpose — to become a
member of his Church, and to frame
my life according to it ; but I would
not acquaint thee, or any other person
living, with this intention, until I had
conferred thereof with my brother
William. Thou knowest, Nan, the
very .special love I bear him, and
which he hath ever shown to me.
Well, a few days after I returned to
London, I met him accidentally in the
street, he having come from Cumber-
land touching some matter of Bess's
lands ; and taking him home with me,
I discovered to him my detemination,
somewhat covertly at first ; and after
I lent bim a book to read, which was
written not long ago by Dr. Allen,
and have dealt with him so efiicacious-
ly that he has also resolved to be-
come Catholic He is to meet me
again next week, for further confer-
ence touching the means of putting
this intent into execution, which veri-
ly I see not how to effect, being so
watched by servants and so-called
friends, which besiege my doors and
haunt mine house in London on all
occasions.'

" Tills difficulty, dear Constance, I
sought to remedy by acquainting my
lord that his secretary, Mr. Mumford,
was Catholic, and he could, therefore,
disclose his thought with- safety to
him. And I also advised him to seek
occasion to know Mr. Wells and some
other zealous persons, which would
confirm him in his present resolution
and aid him in the execution thereof.
It may be, therefore, you will soon see
him, and fervently do I commend him
to thy prayers and whatever service
in the one thing needful should be in
thy power to procure for him. My
heart is so transported with joy that I
never remember the like emotions to
have filled it My most hope for this
present time at least had been he
should show no dislike to my being
Catholic; and lo, I find him to be one
in heart, and soon to be so in efiect ;

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684

CkmtUmee Sherwood,

aud the great gap between us, which
so long hath been a yawmng chasm
of despair, now filled up with a re-
newed love, and yet more by a parity
of thinking touching what it most be-
hoveth us to be united in. Deo gror-
Hasr

Here this portion of my lady's
manuscript ended, but these few hasty
lines were written below, visibly by a
trembling hand, and the whole closed,
I ween, abruptly. Methinks it was
left for me at Mr, Wells's, where I
found it, by Mr. Mumford, or some
other Catholic in the earFs house-
hold:

" The inhabitants of Arundel have
presented me for a recusant, and Mi\
Bayley has been committed and ac-
cused before the Bishop of Chichester
as a seminary priest. He hath, of
course, easily cleared himself of this ;
but because he will not take the
oath of supremacy, he is forced to quit
the country. Ue hath passed into
Flanders."

And then for many weeks I had
no tidings of the dear writer, until
one day it was told us that when the
queen had notice of her reconcilement
she disliked of it to such a degree that
presently she ordered her, being then
with child, to be taken from her own
house and carried to Wiston, Sir
Thomas Shirley's dwelling-place, there
to be kept prisoner tOl further or-
ders. Alas ! all the time she remain-
ed there I received not so much as
one line from her ladyship, nor did
her husband either, as I afterward
found. So straitly was she confined
and watched that none could serve or
have access to her but the knight and
his lady, and such as were approved
by them. Truly, as she since told me,
they courteously used her ; but special
care was taken that none that was
suspected for a priest should come
within sight of the house, which was
no small addition to her sufferings.
Lady Margaret Sackville was at that
time also thrown into prison.

CHAPTER XXIT

During the whole year of Lady
Arundel's imprisonment, neUher her
husband, nor her sister, nor her most
close friends, such as my poor un-
worthy self, had tidings from her, in
the shape of any letter or even mes-
sage, so sharply was she watched and
hindered from communicating ^th
any one. Only Sir Thomas Shirley
wrote to the earl her husband to in-
fonn him of his lady's safe delivery,
and the birth of a daughter, which,
much against her will, was baptized
according to the Protestant manner.
My Loid Arundel, mindful c^ her
words in the last interview he had
with her before her arrest, began to
haunt Mr. Wells's house in a private
way, and there I did often meet witJi
him, who bein% resolved, I ween, to
follow his lady's example in aU
things, began to honor me with so
much of his confidence that I had
occasion to discern how true had been
Sir Henry Jemingham's forecasting,
that this young nobleman, when once
turned to the ways of virtue and piety,
should prove himself by so much the
more eminent in goodness as he liad
heretofore been distinguished for his
reckless conduct. One day that he
came to Holbom, none others being
present but Mr. and Mrs. Wells and
myself, he told us that he and his
brother Lord William, having deter-
mined to become Catholics, and appre-
hending great danger in declaring
themselves as such within the king-
dom, had resolved secretly to leave
the land, to pass into Flanders, and
there to remain till more quiet times.

«What steps," Mr. Wells aflked,
^ hath your lordship disposed for to ef-
fect this departure ?"

<' In all my present doings," qnodi
the earl, " the mind of my dear wife
doth seem to guide me. The laai
time I was with her she informed me
that my secretary, John Mumtbrd, i^ a
Catholic, and I have since greatly
benefited by this knowledge. He ia
gone to HuU, in Yorkshire, for to take

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ComUmce Sketwood,

edd

order for oar passage to Flanders, and
I do wait tidings fiom him before I
leave London."

Then^ turning to me, he inquired in
a very earnest manner if mj thinking
agreed with his, that his sweet lady
should be contented he should forsake
the reahn, for the sake of the religious
interests which moved him thereunto,
joined with the hope that when he
should be abroad and his lands confis-
cated^ which be doubted not would
follow, she would be presently set at
liberty, and with her little wench join
him in Flanders. I assented thereun-
to, and made a promise to him that as
soon as ber ladyship should be releas-
ed I would hasten to her, and feast her
ears with the many assurances of ten-
der afiection he had uttered in her re-
gard, and aid her departure ; which
did also Mr. Wells. Then, drawing
me aside, he spoke for some time, with
tears in his eyes, of his own good wife,
as he eaUed her.

^ Mistress Sherwood,*' he said, " I
t^o trust in God that she shall find me
i'Bnceforward as good a husband, to
riy poor ability, by his grace, as she
has found me bad heretofore. No sin
grieves me anything so much as my
offences against her. What is past is
a nail in my conscience. My will is
t o make satisfaction ; but though I
should live never so long, I can never
do so further than by a good desire to
do it, which, while I have any spark
of breath, shall never be wanting."

And many words like these, which
he uttered in so heartfelt a manner
that I could scarce refrain from weep-
ing at the hearing of them. And so
we parted that day ; he with a confi-
dent hope soon to leave the realm ;
I with some misgivings thereon,
which were soon justified by the
event. For a few days afterward
Mr. Lacy brought us tidings he had
met Mr. Mumford in the street, who
had told him—when he expressed sur-
prise at his return — ^that before he
could reach Hull he had been appre-
hended and carried before the Earl of
Huntingdon, president of York, and

examined by him, without any evil re-
sult at that time, having no papers or
auspicious things about him ; but be-
ing now watched, he ventured not to
proceed to the coast, but straightway
came to London, greatly fearing Lord
Arundel should have left it.

" He hath not done so P* I anxious*
ly inquired.

"Nay,'* answered Mr. Lacy, "so
far from it, that I pray you to guess
how the noble ^rl — ^much against his
will, I ween — ^is presently employed."
. " He is not in prison ?" I cried.

" God defend it !" he replied. " No ;
he is preparing for to receive the
queen at Arundel House ; upon no*
tice given him that her majesty doth
intend on Thursday next to come
hither for her recreation."

"Alack I" I cried, "her visits to
such as be of his way of thinking bode
no good to them. She visited hka and
his wife at the Charterhouse at the
time when his father was doomed to
death, and now when she is a prisoner
her highness doth come to Arundel
House. When she set her foot in
Euston, the whole fabric of my happi-
ness fell to the ground. Heaven shield
the like doth not happen in this in-
stance; but I do greatly apprehend
the issue of this sudden honor confer-
red on him."

On the day fixed for the great and
sumptuous banquet which was prepar-
ed for the queen at Arundel House, I
went thither, having been invited by
Mrs. Fawcett to spend the day with
her on this occasion, which minded
me of the time when I went with my
cousins and mine own good Mistress
Ward for to see her majesty's enter-
tainment at the Charterhouse, wherein
had been sowed the seeds of a bitter
harvest, since reaped by his sweet
lady and liimself. Then pageants had
charms in mine eyes; now, none —
but rather the contrary. Howsoever,
I was glad to be near at hand on that
day, so as to hear such reports as
reached us from time to time of her
majesty's behavior to the earl. From
all I could find, she seemed very well

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contented; and Mr. Mumford, with
whom I was acquainted, came to Mrs.
Fawcett's chamber, hearing I was
there, and reported that her highness
had given his lordship many thanks
for her entertainment, and showed
herself exceeding merry all the time
she was at table, asking him many
questions, and relating anecdotes
which she had learnt from Sir Fulke
Greville, whom the maids-of-honor
were wont to say brought her all the
tales she heard ; at* which Mrs. Faw-
cett said that gentleman had once de*
clared that he was like Robin Good-
fellow ; for that when the dairy-maids
upset the milk-pans, or maicle a romp-
ing and racket, they laid it all on
Robin, and so, whatever gossip-tales
the queen's ladies told her, they laid it
aU upon him, if he was ever so inno-
cent of it.

«Sir,*' I said to Mr. Munrford,
*< think you her majesty hath said
aught to my lord touching his lady or
his lately-born little daughter ?"

"Once," he answered, "when she
told of the noble trick she hath played
Sir John Spencer touching his grand-
son, whom he would not see because
his daughter did decamp from his
house in a baker's basket for to marry
Sir Henry Compton, and her majesty
invited him to be her gossip at the
christening of a fair boy to whom she
did intend to stand godmother, for that
he was the first-bom child of a young
couple who had married for love and
lived happily ; and so the old knight
said, as he had no heir, he should
adopt this boy, for he had disinherited
his daughter. So then, at the font, the
queen names him Spencer, and when
she leaves the church, straightway re-
veals to Sir John that his godson is
his grandson, and deals so cunningly
with him that a reconciliation doth
ensue. Well, when she i*elated this
event, my lord said in a low voice, * Oh
madame, would it might please your
majesty for to place another child, now
at its mother's breast, a first-born one
also, in its father's arms ! and as by
your gracious dealing your highness

wrought a reconciliation between a €a^
ther and a daughter, so likewise now
to reunite a parted husband from a
wife which hath too long languishcMl
under your royal displeasure.' "

"What answered her grace?* I
asked.

"A few words, the sense of which I
could not catch," Mr. Mumford an-
swered ; " being placed so as to hear
my lord's speaking more convcnienrly
than her replies. He said again,
'The displeasure of a prince is a
heavy burden to bear.' And then,
methinks, some other talk was minis-
tered of a lighter sort. But be of good
heart. Mistress Sherwood; I cannot
but think our dear lady shall soon be
set at^ liberty."

Mr. Mumford's words were justi-
fied in a few days ; for, to my nn-
speakable joy, I heard Lady Arun-
del had been released by order of
the queen, and had return^ to Arun-
del Castle. It was her lord him-
self who brought me the good tid-
ings, and said he should travel
thither in three days, when his al^
sence from court should be less noted^
as then her majesty would be at Rich-
mond. He showed me a letter he
had received from his lady, the first
she had been able to write to him
for a whole year. She did therein
express her contentment, greater, she
said, than her pen could describe, at
the sight of the gray ivied walls, the
noble keep, her own chamber and its
familiar furniture, and mostly at the
thought of his soon coming ; and that
little Bess had so much sense alreai^,
that when she heard his name, noth-
ing would serve her but to be carried
to the window, ** whence, methiaks/*
the sweet lady said, ^ she doth see me
always looking toward the entrance*
gate, through which all ray joy will
speedily come to me. When, for to
cheat myself and her, I cry, * Hark
to my lord's horse crossing the bridge,'
she coos, so much as U> say she is
glad also, and stretcheth her arms
out, the pretty fool, as if to welcome
her unseen father, who, methioks^

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687

when lie doth come, will be no
stranger to her, so often doth she
kiss the picture which hangeth about
her mother^s neck."

But, alas! before the queen went
to Bichmond, she sent a command that
mj Lord Arundel should not go anj-
whither out of his house (so Mr. Mum-
fold informed me), but remain there
a prisoner ; and mj Lord Hunsdon,
who had been in former times his £9^
therms page, and now was his great
enemj, was given commission to ex-
amine him about his religion, and ako
touching Dr. Allen and the Queen of
Scots. Now was all the joy of Lady
Arundel's release at an end. Now
the sweet cooings of her babe moved
her to bitter tears. "In vain," she
wrote tome then, "do we now look
for him to come I in vain listen for the
sound of his horse's tread, or watch
the gateway which shall not open to
admit him I I sigh for to be once
more a prisoner, and he, my sweet
life, at liberty. Alas! what kind of a
destiny does this prove, if one is &ee
only when the other is shut up, and
the word ' parting* is written on each
page of our lives ?"

About a month afterward^ Hr.
Mumford was sent for by Sir Giristo-
pher Hatton, who asked him divers
dangerous questions concerning the
earl^ the countess, and Lord William
Howard, and also himself — such as,
if he was a priest or no ; which indeed
I did not wonder at, so staid and rev-
erend was his appearance. But he
answered he never knew or ever
heard any harm of these honorable
persons, and that he himself was not
a priest^ nor worthy of so great a dig-
nity. • He hath since told me that on
the third day of his examination the
queen', the Earl of Leicester, and divers
others of the council came into the
house for to understand what he had
confessed. Sir Christopher told them
what answers he had made; but they,
not resting satisfied therewith, caused
him, after many threats of racking
and other tortures, to be sent prisoner
|o the Gate-house, where he was kept

for some months so close Aat none
might speak or come to him. But by
the steadfastness of his answers he at
last so cleared himself, and declared
the innocency of the earl, and his wife
and brother, that they were set at
liberty.

Soon after her lord's release, I re-
ceived this brief letter from Lady
Arundel:

" Mine c?^ good CoNSTANOEy—
I have seen my lord, who came here
the day after be was set free. He
very earnestly desires to put into exe-
cution his reconeihation to the Church
now that his troubles are a little over-
past. I have bethought myself that,
since Father Campion hath left Lon-
don, diligence might be used for to
procure him a meeting with Father
Edmonds, whom I have heard com-
mended for a very virtuous and reli-
gious priest, much esteemed both in
this and other countries. Prithee, ask
Mr. Wells if in his thinking this
should be possible, and let my lord
know of the means and opportunities
thereunto. I shall never be so. much
indebted, nor he either, to any one in
this world, my dear Constance, as to
thee and thy good friends, if this inter-
view shall be brought to pass, and the
desired effect ensue.

" My Bess doth begin to walk alone,
and hath learned to make the sign of
the cross ; but I warrant thee I am
sometimes frightened that I did teach
her to bless herself, untQ such time as
she can understand not to display her
piety so openly as she now doeth.
For when many lords and gentlemen
were here last week for to consider
the course her majesty's progress
should take through Kent and Sussex,
and she, sitting on my knee, was no-
ticed by some of them for her pretty
ways, the clock did strike twelve;
upon which, what doth she do but
straightway makes the sign of the
cross before I could catch her little
hand? Lord Cobham frowned, and
my Lord Burleigh shook his head;
but the Bishop of Chichester stroked

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638

Cbnstontfe Sherwood,

her head, and sud, with a smile,
* Honi soit qui malypense f for which
I pray God to bless him. Oh, but
wliat fears we do daily live in I I
would sometimes we were beyond
seas. But if my lord is once recon-
ciled, methinks I can endure all that
may befal us. Thy true and loving
friend,

^ Ann, Abundsl and Surbet.^

I straightway repaired to Mr. Wells,
and found him to be privy to Father
Edmonds's abode. At my request, he
acquainted Lord Arundel with this
secret, who speedily availed himself
thereof, and after a few visits to this
good man's garret, wherein he was
concealed, was by him reconciled, as I
soon learnt by a letter from his lady.
She wrote in such perfect contentment
and joy thereunto, that nothing could
exceed it. She said her dear lord had
received so much comfort in his soul
as he had never felt before in all his
life, and such directions from .Father
Edmonds for the amending and order-
ing of it as did greatly help and fur-
ther him therein. Ever after that
time, from mine own hearing and ob-
servation, his lady's letters, and the
report of such as haunted him, I
learnt that he lived in such a manner
that he seemed to be changed into an-
other man, having great care and vig-
ilance over all his actions, and addict-
ing himself much to piety and devo-
tion. He procured to have a priest
ever with him in his own house, by
whom he might frequently receive
the holy sacrament, and daily have
the comfort to be present at the holy
sacrifice, whereto, with great humility
and reverence, he himself in person
many times would serve. His visits
to his wife were, during the next
years, as frequent as he could make
them and as his duties at the court
and the queen's emergencies would al-
low of; who, albeit she looked not on
him with favor as heretofore, did
nevertheless exact an unremitting at-
tendance on his part on all public oc-
casions, and jealously noted every ab-

sence he made fitmi London. Each
interview between this now loving
husband and wife was a brief space o^
perfect contentment to both, and a re-
spite from the many cares and trou-
bles which did continually increase
upon him ; for the great change in his
manner of life had bred suspicion in
the minds of some courtiers and
potent men, who therefore began to
think him what he was indeed, but of
which no proof could be alleged.

During the year which followed
these haps mine aunt died, and Mr.
Congleton sold his house in Ely
Place, and took a small one in Gray's
Inn Lane, near to Mr. Wells's and
Mr. Lady's. It had no garden, nor
the many conveniences the other did
afford; but neither Muriel nor myself
did lament the change, for the vicinity
of these good friends did supply the
place of other advantages ; audit also
liked me more, whilst Basil lived in
poverty abroad, to inhabit a less
sumptuous abode than heretofore, and
dispense with accustomed luxuries.
Of Hubert I could hear but scanty
tidings at that time— only that he had
either lost or resigned his place at
court? Mr. Hodgson was told by one
who had been his servant that he had
been reconciled; others said he did
lead a very disordered life, and haunt>-
ed bad persons. The truth or falsity of
these statements I could not then dis-
cern ; but methinks, from wliat I have
since learnt, both might be partly true ;
for he became subject to fits of gloom,
and so dtscomfortable a remorse as
almost unsettled his reason ; and then,
at other times, plunged into worldty
excesses for to dro¥ni thoughts of the
past He was frightened, I ween, or
leastways distrustfol of the society of
good men, but consorted with Galho-
lics of somewhat desperate character
and fortunes, and such as dealt in
plots and treasonable schemes.

Father Campion's arrest for a very
different cause--*ftlbeithis enemies did
seek to attach to him the name t>f tnu-
tor— occurred this year at Mrs. Yates's
house in Worcestershire, and conster-

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639

nated the hearts of all recasants ; hot
when he came to London, and speech
was had of him by many amongst
them which gained access to him in
prison, and reported to others his
great courage and jojfbUiess in the
midst of suffering, then, methinks, a
contagious spirit spread amongst
Catholics, and conversions followed
which changed despondency into re-
joicing. But I will iftt here set down
the manner of his trial, nor the won-
derful marks of patience and constan-
cy which he showed under torments
and racklngs, nor hiB interview with
her majesty at my lord Leicester's
house, nor Uie heroic patience of his
death; for others with better know-
ledge thereof, and pens more able for
to do it, have written this martyr's life
and glorious end. But I will rather
relate such events as took place, as it
were, under mine own eye, and which
are not, I ween, so extensively known.
And first, I will speak of a conversa^
tion I held at that time with a person
then a stranger, and therefore of no
great significancy when it occurred,
but which later did assume a sudden
importance, when it became linked
with succeeding events.

One day that I was visiting at
Lady Ingoldsby's, where Polly and
her husband had come for to spend a
few weeks, and much company was
going in and out, the faces and names
of which were new to me, some gen-
tlemen came there whose dress at^
tracl^ notice from the French fashion
thereof. One of them w;as a young
man of very comely appearance and
pleasant manners, albeit critical per-
sons might have judged somewhat
of' the bravado belonged to his atti-
tudes 'and speeches, but withal tem-
pered with so much gentleness and
courtesy, that no sooner had the eye
and mind taken note of the defect
than the judgment was repented of.
What in one of less attractive &ce
and behavior should have displeased,
in this youth did not offend. It was
my hap to sit beside him at *supper,
which lasted a long tune; and as his

behavior was very polite, I freely con-
versed with him, and found him to be
English, though from long residence
abroad his tongue had acquired a
foreign trick. When I told him I
had thought he was a Frenchman, he
laughed, and said if the French did
ever try to land in England, they
should find him to be a very English-
man for to fight against them ; but in
the matter of dinners and beds, and the
liking of a dear sunny sky over above
a dim cloudy one, he did confess him-
self to be so much of a traitor as to
prefer France to England, and he
could not abide the smoke of coal
fires which are used in thb country.

** And what say you, sir," I answer^
ed, ^ to the new form of smoke which
Sir Walter Raleigh hath introduced
since his return from the late discov-
ered land of Virginia ?"

He said he had learnt the use of it
in France, and must needs confess he
found it to be very pleasant Mon-
sieur Nicot had brought some seeds of
tobacco into France, and so much lik-
ing did her majesty Queen Catharine
conceive for this practice of smoking,
that the new plant went by the name
of the queen's herb. " It is not gen-
tlemen alone who do use p pipe in
France," he said, ''but ladies also.
What doth the fair sex in Enghind
think on it ?"

" I have heard," I answered, " that
her mi^esty herself did try for to
smoke, but presently gave it up, for
that it made her sick. Her highness
is also reported to have lost a wager
concerning that same smoking of to- <
bacco."

<*What did her grace betT the
gentleman asked.

" Why, she was one day," I replied,
** inquiring very exactly of the vari-
ous virtues of this herb, and Sir Wal-
ter did assure her that no one under- ,
stood them better than himself, for he
was BO well acquainted with all its
qualities, that he could even tell her
majesty the weight of the smoke of
every pipeful he consumed. Her
highness upon this said, ^Monsieor

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640

CbntUmee Sherwood.

Traveller, 70a do go too far in patting
on me the license which is allowed to
Buch as return from foreign parts;'
and she laid a wager of many pieces
of gold he should n6t be able to prove
his words. So he weighed in her
presence the tobacco before he put it
into his pipe, and the ashes afler he
had consumed it, and convinced her
majesty that the deficiency did pro-
ceed from the evaporation thereof.
So then she paid the bet, and merrily
told him < that she knew of many per-
sons who had turned their gold into
smoke, but he was the first who had
turned smoke into gold.' "

The young gentleman being amused
at this story, I likewise told him of
Sir Walter's hap when he first return-
ed to England, and was staying in a
friend's house : how a servant coming
into his chamber with a tankard of
ale and nutmeg toast, and seeing him
for the first time with a lighted pipe in
his mouth pufiing forth clouds of
smoke, fiung the ale in his face for to
extinguish the internal conflagration,
and then running down the stairs
alarmed the family with dismal cries
that the good knight was on fire, and
would be burnt into ashes before they
could come to his aid.

My unknown companion laughed,
and said he had once on his travels
been taken for a sorcerer, so readily
doth ignorance imagine wonders.
" Near unto Metz, in France," quoth
he, " I fell among thieves. My money
I had quilted within my doublet, which
they took from me, howsoever leaving
me the rest of my apparel, wherein
I do acknowledge their courtesy, since
thieves give all they take notj but
twenty-five French crowns, for the
worst event, I had lapped in cloth,
and whereupon did wind divers-col*
ored threads, wherein I sticked nee-
dles, as if I had been so good a hus-
band as to mend mine own clothes.
Messieurs the thieves were not so
frugal to take my ball to mend their
hose, but did tread it under their feet.
I picked it up with some spark of joy,
and I and my guide (he very sad, be*

cause he despaired of my ability to
pay him his hire) went forward to
Chalons, where he brought me to a
poor ale-house, and when I expostu-
latedy he replied that stately inns were
not for men who had never a penny
in their purses; but I told him that
I looked for comfort in that case more
from gentlemen than clowns ; where-
upon he, sighing, obeyed me, and with
a dejected an^ fearful countenanoe
brought me to the chief inn, where he
ceased not to bewail my misery as if
it had been the burning of Troy ; till
the host, despairing of my ability to
pay him, began to look disdainfully oa
me. The next morning, when, he be-
ing to return home, I paid him his
hire, which he neither asked nor ex-
pected, and likewise mine host for
lodgings and supper, he began to talk
like one mad for joy, and professed I
could not have had one penny except
I wero an alchemist or had a familiar
spirit."

I thanked the young gentleman for
this entertaining anealote, and asked
him if France was no I a very disquiet-
ed countiy, and nothing in it but wars
and fighting.

"Yea," he answered; "tut men
fight there so merrily, that it appears
more a pastime than aught else. Not
always so, howsoever. When French-
man meets Frenchman in the fair
fields of Provence, and those of the
League and those of the Religion — Grod
confound the first and bless the last I
—engage in battle, such encounters
ensue as have not their match for
fierceness in the world. By my troth,
the sight of dead bodies doth not ordi-
narily move me; but the valley of
Allemagne on the day of t&e great
Huguenot victory was a sight the like
of which I would not choose to look
on again, an I could help it."

"Were you, then, present at that
combat, sir ?" I asked.

"Yea," he replied; "I was at that
time with Lesdigui^ros, the Protestant
general, whom I had known at Ia
Bochelle, and beshrew me if a more
valiant soldier doth livQ, or a worthi^

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641

aoal in a gtalwart frame. I was
•fitanding by bis side wben Tourres
the batcher came for to urge him, with
hislthree hundred men, to ride over
the field and slay the wounded pa-
pists. * No, sir,' quoth the general, < I
fight men, but hunt them not down.'
The dead were heaped many feet
thick on the plain, and the horses
of the Huguenots waded to their
haunches in blood. Those of the Re-
ligion were mad at the death of the
Baron of Allemagne, the general of
their southern churches, brave cas-
tellane, who, when the fight was done,
took off his helmet for to cool his
burning forehead ; and Ip, a shot sent
him straight into eternity."

^ The Catholics were then wholly
routed ?" I asked.

''Yea,'* he answered; ''mowed
down like grass in the hay-harvest.
De ViDs, however, escaped. He
thought to have had a cheap victory
over those of the Religion; but the
saints in heaven, to whom he trustied,
never told him that Lesdigui^res on
the one side and d' Allemagne on the
other were hastening to the rescue,
nor that his Italian horsemen should
fail him in his need. So, albeit the
papists fought like devils, as they are,
hia pride got a fall, which well-nigh
killed liim. He was riding frantically
back into the fray for to get himseU*
slain, when St. Cannat seized his bri-
dle, and called him a coward, so I
have heard, to dare for to die when
Iiis scattered troops had need of him ;
and BO carried him off the field.
D'Oraison, Janson, Pontmez, hotly
pursued them, but in vain ; and all the
Protestant leaders,except Lesdigui&res,
returned that night to the castle of
Allemagne for to bury the baron."

^ sort of shiver passed through the
young gentleman's frame as he uttered
these last words. ,

" A sad burial you then witnessed ?*
I said.

" I pray God," he answered, "nev-
er to witness ^nother such."

" What was the horror of it ?" I
asked.

VOL. IL 41

" WouW you hear it?" he inquired.

" Yea," I said, " most willingly ; for
methinks I see what you describe."

Then he : " If it be so, peradven-
ture you may not thank me for this
describing ; for I warrant yon it was
a fearful sight. I had lost mine horse,
and BO was forced to spend the night
at the castle. When it grew dark I
followed the officers, which, with a
great store of the men, also descend-
ed into the vault, which was garnished
all round with white and warlike sculp-
tured forms on tombstones, mo^it grim
in their aspect; and amidst those
stone imager, grim and motionless,
the soldiers ranged themselves, still
covered with blood and dust, and
leaning on their halberds. In the
midst was the uncovered coffin of the
baron, his livid visage exposed to
view — menacing even in death.
Torches threw a fitful, red-colored
light over the scene. A minister
which accompanied the army stood
and preached' at the coffin's head, and
when he had ended his sermon, sang
in a loud voice, in French verse, the
psalm which doth begin,

* Do foDd de ma pens^e,
Da fond de tons enuals,
A toi I'est adresB^
Ma clamear Jour et nolt.*

When this singing began two soldiers
led up to the tomb a man with bound
hands and ghastly pale face, and, when
the verse ended, shot him thi^gh the
head. The corpse fell upon the
ground, and the singing began anew.
Twelve times this did happen, till my^
head waxed giddy and I became faint
I was led out of tHat vault with the
horrible singmg pursuing me, as if I
should never cease to hear it."

"Oh, 'tis fearful," I exclaimed,
" that men can do such deeds, and the
while have 6od*s name on their lips."

"The massacre of St. Bartholo*
mew," he answered, " hath driven those
of the Religion mad against the pa-
pists."

" But, sir," I asked, " is it not true
that six thousand Catholics in Langue-
doc had been mnrtheied inoold bloody

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Otmtiemee SBkerwoocL

and a store of them in other places,
heiore that massacre ?"

^'Haj be so^** he answered in a
oareless tone. ^'The shedding of
Uood, except in a battle or lawful
duel, I abhor ; but Terily I do hate
papists with as great a hate as any
Huguenot in France, and most of all
those in this country — a set of knav*
ish traitors, which would dethrone the

Sueen and sell the reahn to the
ipaniards."

I could not but sigh at these words,
for in "this young man's countenance a
quality of goodness did appear which
made me grieve that he should utter
these unkind words touching Catho*
lies. But I dared not for to utter my
thinking or disprove his accusations,
for, being ignorant of his name, I had
a reasonable fear of being ensnared
into some talk which should show me
to be a papist, and he should prove to
be a spy. But patience faiiled me
whai, after speaking <tf the clear light
of the gospel which England enjoyed,
and to lament that in Ireland none
are found of the natives to have cast
off the Roman religion, he said :

** I ween this doth not proceed from
their constancy in religion, but rather
from the lenity of Protestants, which
think that the conscience must not be
forced, and seek rather to touch and
persuade than to oblige by fire and
sword, like those of the south, who
persecute their own subjects differing
from them in religion."

""Sir," I exclaimed, «this is a
strange thing indeed, that Protestants
do lay a claim to so great mildness in
their dealings with recusants, and yet
such strenuous laws against such are
framed that they do live in fear of
their lives, and are daily fined and
tormented for their profession."

" How so ?" he said, quickly. ** No
papist hath been burnt in this eoun*
try."

**No, sir," I answered; "but a
store of them have been hanged and
cut to pieces whilst yet alivCt"

** Nay, nay," he cried, ** not for their
religion, but for their many treasonsJ*

«Sir,"I answered, « their lel^ion
is made treason by unjust laws, and
then punished with the penalties of
treason; and they die for no other
cause than their faith, by the some
token that each of those which have
perished on the scaffold had his Hfe
offered to him if so he would torn
Protestant"

In the heat of this aigoment I had
forgot prudence ; and some lyikindly
ears and eyes were attending to my
speech, which this young stranger
perceiving, he changed the subject of
discourse-— I ween with a charitable
intent — and merrily exclaimed, ^ Now
I have this .day transgressed a wise
resolve."

** What resolve?" I said, ^ also
to retreat from dangerous subjects.

'"This," he answered: "^th&t after
my return I would sparingly, and not
without entreaty, relate my journeys
and observations."

"Then, sir," I replied, ^^methinkg
you have contrariwise observed it, for
your observations have been short and
pithy, and withal uttered at mine en-
treaty.'*

"> Nothing," he said, ^ I so much fear
as to resemble men — and many such
I have myself known — wh?^ have
scarce seen the lions of the Tower and
the bears of Parish Garden, but they
must engross all a table in talking of
their adventures, as if they had passed
the Pillars of Hercules. Nothmg
could be asked which they could not
resolve of their own knowledge."

" Find you, sir," I said, " much va^
riety in the manners of French people
and those you see in this countiy ?"

He smiled, and answered, ^We
must not be too nice observers of men
and manners, and too easily praise
foreign customs and despise oar o^
"^not so much that we may not offind
others, as that we may not be oor-
* selves offended by others. I will yield
you an example. A Frenchman, be-
ing a curious observer of ceremonious
compliments, when he ,hath saluted
one, abd began to entertain hhn with
speech, if he chance to espy another

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648

man, witb whom he hath vexr grpai
busineBS, yet will he not leaye the first
man without a solemn excuse. But
an "RtigiiplimflT^ discoursing with any
man — ^I mean in a house or chamber
of presence, not merely in the street —
if he spy another man with whom he
hath eocasion to speak, will suddenly,
without any excuse, turn from the first
man and go and converse with the
other, and with like negligence will
leave and take new men for discourse;
which a Frenchman would take in ill
part, as an argument of disrespect.
This fiishion, and many other like
niceties and curiosities in use in' one
country, we must forget when we do
pass into another. For lack of this
prudence I have seen men on their re*
torn home tied to these foreign mai^
ners themselves, and finding diat oth«
ers observe not the like toward them,
take everything for an injury, as if
they were disrespected, and so are
often enraged."

^ What think you of the dress our
ladies do wear ?* I inquired of this
young traveUer.

He smiled, and answered :

^ I like our young gentlewomen's
gowns, and their aprons of fine linen,
and their little hats of beaver; but
why have they left wearing the French
sleeves, borne out with hoops of whale-
bone, and the French hood of velvet,
set with a border of gold buttons and
pearls ? Methinks English ladies are
too fond of jewels and diamond rings*
They scorn plain gold rings, I find,
and chains of gold."

** Yea,** I said, ^ ladies of rank wear
only rich chains of pearl, and all their
jewels must needs be oriental and
precious. If any one doth choose to
use a simple chain or a plain-set
brooch, she is marked for wearing old*
feshioned gear."

** This remindeth me," he said, " of
a pleasant fi9d>le, that Jupiter sent a
shower, wherein whosoever was wet
became a fool, and that all the people
were wet in this shower, excepting
one philosopher, who kept his study ;
but in the evening coming forth into

the market-place, and finding that ail
the people marked him as a fool, who
was only wise, he was forced to pray
for anotiier shower, that he might be-
come a fool, and so live quietly among
fools rather than bear the envy of his
wisdom."

With this pleasant story our eon
versation ended, for supper was over,
and the young gentleman soon went
away. I asked of many persons who
he should be, but none could tell me.
Polly, the next day, said he was a
youth lately returned from France
(which was only what I knew before),
and that Sir Nicholas Throckmorton
had written a letter to Lady Ingoldsby
concerning him, but his name she had
forgot. O what strange haps, more
strange than any in books, do at times
form the thread of a true history !
what presentiments in some cases,
what ignorance in others, beset us
touching coming events L

The next pages will show the ground
of these refiections.

CHAPTEB ZXT*

Onb day that Mrs. Wells was some-
what disordered, and keeping her
room, and I was sitting with her, her
husband came to fetch me into the
parlor to an old acquaintance, he
said, who was very desirous for to see
me. ""Who is it?" I asked; but he
would not tell me, only uniled; my
foolish thinkiqg supposed lor one in-
stant that it might be Basil he spoke
of, but the first glance showed me a
slight figure and pale countenance,
very different to his whom my witless
hopes had expected for to see, albdt
without the leastshadow of reason. I
stood looking at this stranger in a
hesitating manner, who perceiving I
did not Imow Ifim, held out his hand,
and said,

^ Has Mistress Constance forgotten
her old playfellow?"

*^ Edmund G^nings !" I exclaimed,
suddenly guessing it to be him*

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Conttance Sherwood.

"Yea,"* he said, "your old friend
Edmund."

<<Mr. Ironmonger is this reverend
gentleman's name now-a-dajs," Mr.
WellB said; and then we all three sat
down, and bj degrees in Edmund's
present face I discerned the one I re-
membered in former years. The same
kind and reflective aspect, the pallid
hue, the upward-raised eye, now with
less of searching in its gaze, but more,
I ween, of yearning for an unearthly
home.

" O dear and reverend sir,** I said,
^ strange it doth seem indeed thus to
address you, but God knoweth I thank
him for the honor he hath done my
old playmate in the calling of him un-
to his service in these perilous times."

" Yea," he answered, with emotion,
'< I do owe him much, whidi life itself
should not be sufficient to repay."

"My good father,"- 1 said, "some
time before his death gave me a token
in a letter that you were in England.,
Where have you'^been all this time ?"

" Tell us the manner of your landing "
quoth Mr. Wells; "for this is the
great ordeal which, once overpassed,
lets you into the vineyard, for to work
for one hour only sometimes, or else
to bear many years the noontide heat
and nipping frosts which laborers like
unto yourself have to endure."

" Well," said Edmund, "ten months
ago we took shipping at Honfleur, and,
wind and weather being propitious,
sailed along the coast of England,
meaning to have landed in Essex;
but for our sakes the master of the
bark lingered, when we came in sight
of land, until two hours within night,
and being come near unto Scar*
borough, what should happen but
that a boat with pirates or rovers in
it comes out to surprise us, and shoots
at us divers times with muskets I But
wo came by no harm ; for the wind
being then contrary, tKe nwster turned
Ins ship and sailed back into the main
sea, where in very foul weather we re-
mained three days, and verily I
thought to have then died of sea-sick-
ness; which ailment should teadi a

man humility, if anything in this
world can do it, stripping him as it
does of all boastfulness of his own
courage and strength, so that he would
cry mercy if any should offer only to
move him."

"Ah!" cried Mr. WeUs, laughing,
'< Topcliffe should bethink himself of
this new torment for papists, for to
leave a man in this plight until he ac-
knowledged the queen's supremacy
should be an artful device of the
devil."

" At last," quoth Mr. Genings, " we
landed, with great peril to our lives,
on the side of a high cliff near Whitby,
in Yorkshire, and reached that town
in the evening. Going into an inn
to refresh ourselves, which I promise
you we sorely needed, who should we
meet with there but one Radcliff ?"

" Ah ! a noted pursuivant," cried
Mij* Wells, " albeit not so topping a
one as his chief."

"Ah I" I cried, " good Mr. WeUs,
that is but a poor pun, I promise you.
A better one you must frame before
night, or you will lose your reputa-
tion. Tlie queen's last effort bath
more merit in it than yours, who, when
she was angry with her envoy to'
Spain, said, ' If her royal brother had
sent her a goose-man,* she had s^it
him in return a man-goose.' "

Mr. Genings smiled, and stud:

"Well, this same Radclifftook an
exact survey of us all, questioned us
about our arrival in that place, irhence
we came, and whither we were going.
We told him we were driven thither
by the tempest, and at last, by evasive
answers, satisfied him. Then we aU
went to the house of a Catholic gentle-
man in the neighborhood, which was
within two or three miles of Whitby,
and by him were directed some to one
place, some to another, according to
our own desires. Mr. Plasden and I
kept together ; but, for fear of suspi-
eion, we determined at last to separate
also, and singly to commit ourselves
to the protection of Grod and his good
angeh. Soon after we had thus re^

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645

solved, we came to two lair beaten
wajSy the one leading north-eaat, the
other south-east, and even then and
there, it being in the nighty we stopped
and both fell down on oar knees and
made a short prayer together that God
of his infinite mercj would vouchsafe
to direct us, and send us both a peace-
ai»le passage into the thickest of his
vineyard."

Here Mr. Genings paused, a little
moved by the remembrance of that
parting, but in a few minutes ex-
claimed:

^ I have not seen that dear friend
since, rising froia. our knees, we em-
braced each other with tears trickling
down our cheeks ; but the words he
aaid to me then I shall never, me-
thinks, forget. ^Seeing,' quoth, he,
^we must now part through fear of
oar enemies, and for greater security,
farewell, sweet brother in Christ and
most loving companion. God gpant
that, as we have been friends in one
college and companions in one weari-
some and dangerous journey, so we
may have one merry meeting once
again in this world, to our great com-
fort, if it shall please him, even
amongst our greatest adversaries ; and
that as we undertake, for his love and
holy name's sake, this course of life
together, so he will of his infinite
goodness and clemency make us par-
takers of one hope, one sentence, one
death, and one reward* And also as
we began, so may we end together in
Christ Jesus.' So he ; and then not
being able to speak one word more
for grief and tears, we departed in mu-
tual silence ; he directing his journey
to London, where he was bom, and I
northward."

"Then you have not been into Staf-
foidshire ?" I said-

** Yea," he answered, " later I went
to liichfield, in order to try if I should
peradventure find there any of mine
old friends and kinsfolks."

" And did you succeed therein ?'' I
inquired. •

" The only friends I found," he an-
swered, with a melancholy smile,

^ were the gray cloisters, the old ca-
thedral walls, the trees of the close;
the only familiar voices which did
greet me were the chimes of the tow-
er, the cawing of the rooks over mine
head as I sat in the shade of the tall
elms near unto the wall where our
garden once stood." '

^ Oh, doth that house and that gar-
den no more exist ?" I cried.

" No, it hath been* palled donfn, and
the lawn thereof thrown into the
dose."

" Then," I said, " the poor bees and
butterflies must needs fare badly. The
bold rooks, I ween, are too exalted to
suffer from these changes. Of Sher-
wood Hall did you Lear aught, Mr»
Genings?"

^ Mr. Ironmonger," Mr. Wells said«
correcting me.

« Alas I" Edmund replied, « I da«id
not so much as to approach unto it, al-
beit I passed along the high road not
very far firom the gate thereof. But
the present inhabitants are famed for
their hatred unto recusants, and like
to deal rigorously with any which
should come in their way."

I sighed, and then asked him how
long he^ had been in London.

"About one month," he replied.
" As I have told you. Mistress Con-
stance, all my kinsfolk that I wot ol
are now dead, except my young broth-
er John, whom I doubt not you yet do
bear in mind— -that fair, winsome, mis-
chievous urchin, who was carried to
La Bochelle about one year before
your sweet mother died."

" Yea," I said, " I can see him yet
gallopping on a stick round the parlor
at Lichfield."

" 'Tis to look for him," Edmund
said, " I am c<Mne to London. Albeit
I fear much inquiry on my part touch-
ing this youth should breed suspicion,
I cannot refrain, brotherly love solic-
iting me thereunto, from seeking him
whom report saith careth but little for
his soul, and who hath no other rela-
tive m the world than myself. I
have warrant for to suppose he should
be in London ; but these fpar weeks,

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Oon$tam€ SB^trwxxL

with useless dUigetiee, I have made
search for him, leaving no place un-
sought where I could suspect him to
ahidc ; and as I see no hopes of sue-
cess, I am resolved to leave the city
for a season."

Then Mr. Wells proposed to carry
Edmund to Kate's house, where some
friends were awaiting him; and for
some days I saw him not again. But
on the next Sunday evening he came
to our house, and I noticed a paleness
in him I had not before perceived. I
asked him if anything had disordered
him.

"Nothing,* he answered; "only
methinks my old shaking malady doth
again threaten me ; for this morning,
walking forth of mine inn to visit a
friend on the other side of the city,
and passing by St Paul's church,
when I was on tibe east side thereof, I
felt suddenly a strange sensation in
my body, so much that my face glow-
ed, and it seemed to me as if mine
hair stood on end ; all my joints trem-
bled, and my whole body was bathed
in a cold sweat. I feared some evil
was threatening me, or danger of be-
ing taken up, and I looked back to
see if I could perceive any one u>
be pursuing me; but I saw nobody
near, only a youUi in a brown-colored
cloak ; and so, concluding that some
afiection of my head or liver had seis-
ed me, J thought no more on it, but
went forward to my intended place to
say mass.**

A strange thinking came into mine
,head at that moment, and I doubted if
I should impart to him my sudden
fancy.

" Mr. Edmund," I said, unable to
refrain myself^ " suppose that youth in
the brown cloak slKmld have been
your brother I"

He started, but shaking of his head
said:

" Nay, nay, why should it have been
him rather than a thousand others I
do see every day ?"

"Might not that strange effect in
yourself betc^en the presence of a
kinsmaa?"

"Tnt, tut, lifistress Constance,* lie
cried, half kindly, half reprovingly;
" this should be a wild &ncy lacking
ground in reason."

Thus checked, J held my peace, bat
could not wholly discard this thought.
Not long after— <m the very morning
before Mr. Genings proposed to de-
part out of town<--I chanced to be
walking homeward with him and some
others from a house whither we had
gone to hear his mass. As we were
returning along Lndgate Hill, what
should he feel but the same sensations
he had done before, and whidi were
indeed visible in hjUn, for his limbs
trembled and his fitce tamed as white
as ashes I

" Yoa are sick," I said, for I was
walking alongside of him.

" Only affect^ as that other day,"
he answered, leaning against a poet
for to recover himself

I had hastily looked back, and, lo
and behold I a youth in a brown cloak
was walking some paces behind as.
I whispered in Mr. Genings's ear;

" Look, Edmund ; is tiu9 the youth
you saw before ?"

" O my good Lord !" he cried, turn-
ing yet more pale, " this is strange in-
deed I After all, it may be my broth-
er. Go on," he said quickly; "I
must get speech with him alone to d]»-
•cover if it should be so."

We all walked on, and he tarried
behind. Looking back, I saw him
accost the stranger in the brown doak.
And in the afternoon he came to teU
ns that this was verily John Geninga,
as I had with so little show of reasoa

"What passed between yoa?" I
asked.

He said :

"I courteously saluted the yoang
man, and inquired what countryman
he was ; and hearing that he was a
Staffordshireman, I b^an to conceire
hopes it should be my brother ; so I
civilly demand^ his name. Methooght
I should have betrayed myself at onoe
when he answered Genings ; but as
qni^y as I could, I t(^ Urn I

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OoMianee Skerufood.

647

his kinsman, &nd was called Iron-
monger, and asked him what had be-
come of his brother Edmund. He
then, not suspecting aught, told me he
had heard that he was gone to Rome
to the Pope, and was become a notable
papist and a traitor both to God and
his country, and that if he did return
he should infallibly be hanged. I
smiled, and told him I knew his bro-
ther, and that he was an honest man,
and loved both the queen and his
country, and God above alL ^But
tell me,' I added, < good cousin John,
should you not know him if you saw
him?' He then looked hurd at me,
and led the way into a tavern not far
off, and when we were seated at a
table, with no one nigh enough to
overhear us, he said: ' I greatly fear
I have a brother that is a priest, and
that you are the man,' and then began
to swear that^if it was so, I should dis-
credit myself and all my friends, and
protested that in this he would never
follow me ; albeit in other matters he
might respect me. I promise you
that whilst these harsh words passed
his lips I longed to throw my arms
round his neck. I saw my mother's
face in his, and his once childish love-
liness only changed into manly beauty.
His young years and mine rose before
me, and I could have wept over this
new-found brother as Joseph over his
dear Benjamin. I could no longer
conceal myself, but told him truly I
was his brother indeed, and for his
love had taken great pains to seek
him, and begged of him to keep secret
the knowledge €^ my arrival ; to which
he answered : * He would not for the
world disclose my return, but that he
desired me to come no more unto him,
for that he feared greatly the danger
of the law, and to incur the penalty of
the statute for concealing of it.* I saw
this was no place or time convenient
to talk of religion ; but we had much
e(Hiversation about divers things, by
which I perceived him to be far from
any good affection toward Catholic
rel^on, and persistent in Protestant-
ism, wiUiout any hope of a prasent re-

covery. Therefore I declared unto
him my intended departure out of
town, and took my leave, assuring him
that within a month or little more I
should return and see him again, and
confer with him more at large touching
some necessary affiiirs which concerned
him very much. I inquired of him
where a letter should find him. He
showed some reluctance for to give me
any address, but at last said if one waa
left for him at Lady Ingoldsby's, in
Queen street, Holbom, he should bo
like to get it."

Afler 'Mr. Genings had left, I con-
sidered of this direction his brother
had given him, which showed him to
be acquainted with Polly's mother-in-
law, and then remembering the young
gentleman I had met at her house, I
suspected him to be no otlier than
John Grenings. And called back to
mind all bis speeches for to compare
them with this suspicion, wherein they
did all tally; and some days after-
ward, when I was walking on the Mall
with Sir Ralph and Polly, who should
accost them but this youth, which
they presently introduced to me, and
PoUy added, she believed we had
played at hide-and-seek together when
we were young. He looked somewhat
surprised, and as if casting about for
to call to mind old recollections ; then
spoke of our meeting at Lady In-
goldsby's ; and she cried out,

<^0h, then, you do know one an-
other?" •

" By sight," I said, " not by name."

Some other company joining us, he
came alongside of me, and began for
to pay me compliments in the French
manner.

« Mr. John Genings," I said, " do
you remember Lichfield and the close,
and a little; girl, Constance Sherwood,
who used to play with you, before you
went to La Bochelle ?*

'^Like in a dream," he answered,
his comely face lighting up with a smile.

« But your brother," I said, " was
my chiefest companimi then ; for at
that age we do always aspire to the
notice of auoh as be older than cond^

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64S

Ckm»Ume€ SherwootL

ieend to Bach as be jounger than our-
eel res."

When I named his brother a elond
darkened his face, and he abruptly
turned awaj. He talked to Polly
and some other ladies in a gay, jesting
manner, but I could see that ever and
anon he glanced toward me, as if to
scan my features, and, I ween, com-*
pare them with what memory depicted ;
but he kept aloof from me, as if fear-
ing I should speak again of one he
would fain forget.

On the 7 th of November, Edmnnd
returned to London, and came in the
evening to Kate's house. He had
been laboring in the country, exhort-
ing, instructing, and exercising his
priestly RinctioDS amongst Catholics
with all diligence. It so happened
that his friend, Mr. Plasden, a very
virtuous priest, which had landed with
him at Whitby, and parted with him
soon afterward, was there also; and
several other persons likewise which
did usually meet at Mr. Wells's
house ; but, owing to that gentleman's
absence, who had gone into the coun-
try tor some business, and his wife's
indisposition, had agreed for to spend
the evening at Mr. Lacj's. Before
the company there assembled parted,
tlie two priests treated with him where
ihej should say mass the following
day, which was the Octave of All Saints.
They agreed to say their matins to-
gether, and, by Bryan's advice, to cele-
brate it at the house of Mr. Wells,
notwithstanding his absence ; for that
Mistress Wells, who could not con-
veniently go abroad, would be exceed-
ing glad for to hear mass in her own
lodging. 1 told Edmund of my meet-
ing with his brother on the Mall, and
the long talk ministered between us
some weeks ago, when neither did
know the oth^s name. Methought
in his countenance and conversation
that night there appeared an unwonted
consolation, a sober joy, which filled
me almost with awe. When he wish-
ed me good-night, be added, ^ I pray
you, my dear child, to lift up your
iBoul to .heaven ere yon sleep and when

you wake, and recoiumend to heaven
our good purpose, and then come and
attend at the holy sacrifice with the
crowd of angols and saints which do
always assist thereat" When the
light faintly dawned in the dull sky,
Muriel and I stole from our beds,
quietly dressed ourselves, and slipping
out unseen, repaired as fi^st as we
could, for the ground was wet and
slippery,' to Mr. Wells's house. We
found assembled in one room Mr.
Genings, Mr. Plasden, another priest,
Mr. White, Mr. Lacy, Mistress WeUs,
Sydney Hodgson, Mr. Mason, and
many others. Edmund Genings pro-
ceeded to say mass. There was so
great a stillness in the room a pin
should have been heard to drop. Albeit
he said the prayers in a very low
voice, each word was audible. Mine
ears, which are very quick^ were
stretched to the utmost. Each sound
in the street caused me an inward
flutter. Methought, when he was
reading the gospet I discerned a
sound as of the hall-door opening, and
of steps. Then nothing mop for a
little while; but just at the moment
of the consecration there was a
loud rush up the stairs, and the
door of the chamber burst open. The
gentlemen present rose from their
knees. Mistress Wells and I contrari-
wise sunk on the ground. I dared not
for to look,, or move, or breathe, but
kept inwardly calling on God, then
present, for to save as. I heurd the
words behind me : *^ Topcliffe ! keep him
back !" '^ Hurl him down the stairs !**
and then a sound of scuffling, falliiig,
and rolling, followed by a moment's
silence.

The while the mass went forward,
ever and anon noises rose without;
but the gentlemen held the door shut
by main force all the time. They kept
the foe at bay, these brave men, each
word nttered at the altar resounding,
I ween, in their breasts. O my Grod,
what a store of suflering was heaped
into a brief space of time ! What a
viaticum was that communion then re-
ceived by thy doomed priest I ^Doaph

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649

ne^ non ium dignuB** he thrice said,
aad then his Lord rested in his souL
"'Deo gratiasr* None could now
profane the sacred mysteries ; none
could snatch his Lord from him* ^ Ite
missa eft/^ The mass was said, the
hoar come, death at hand. All re*
Bistance then ceased* I saw Topclifle
hastening in with a broken head, and
threatening to raise the whole street.
Mr. Flasden told him that, now the
mass was ended, we would all yield
ourselTes prisoners, which we did;
upon which he took Mr. Genings as he
was, in his vestments, and all of us,
men aad women, in coaches he called
for, to Newgate. Muriel and I kept
dose together, and,widi Mistress WelLs,
were thrust into one celL Methinks
we should all have borne with cour-
age this misfortune bi^ for the think-
ing of those without — Muriel of her
aged and infirm father; Mistress
Wells of her husband's return that
day to his sacked house, robbed of all
its church furniture, books, and her
the partner of his whole life. And I
thought of Basil, and what he should
feel if he knew of me in this fearful
Newgate, near to so many thieves and
wicked persons ; and a trembling
came over me lest I should be parted
from my companions. I had much to
do to recall the courageous spirit I
had heretofore nurtured in foreseeing
such a hap as this. If I had had to
die at once, I think I should have
been more brave; but terrible fore-
bodings of examinations^-r-perchance
tortures, long solitary hours in a loath-
some plac^---caused me inward shud-
derings; and albeit I said with my
lips over and over again, " Thy wOl
be done, my God,'' I passionately
prayed this chalice might pass from
me which often before in my presump-
tion — I cry mercy for it — ^I had al-
most desired to drink. Oh, often
have I thought since of what is said
in David's Psalms, '< It is good for me
that thou hast humbled me." From
my yoimg years a hot glowing feeling
had inflamed my breast at the men-
tion of suffering for conscience' sake.

and the words « to die" had been very
familiar ones to ^my lips ; " rather to
die," "gladly to die," *< proudly to
die;" alas, how often had I uttered
them! O my God, when the foul
smells, the faint light of that dreadful
place, struck on my senses, I waxed
very weak. The coarse looks of the
jailers, the disgusting food set before
us, the filthy pallets, awoke in me a
loathing I could not repress. And
then a fear also, which the sense of my
former presumption did awaken.
"Let he that thinketh he standeth
take heed lest he fall," kept running in
mine head. I had said, like St. Peter,
that I was ready for to go to prison
and to death ; and now, peradventure,
I should betray my Loi^ if too great
pain overtook me. Muriel saw me
wringing mine hands ; and, sitting
down by my side on the rude mattress,
she tried for to comfort me. Then, in
that hour of bitter anguish, I learnt
that creature's fall worth. Who
should have thought, who did not then
hear her, what stores of superhuman
strength, of heavenly knowledge, of
divine comfort, should have flowed
from her lips ? Then I perceived the
value of a wholly detached heart, sur^
rendered to God alone. Young as
she was, her soul was as calm in this
trial as that of the aged resigned
woman which shared it with us. Mine
was temp(!6t-tossed for a while. I
could but lie mine head on Muriel's
knee and murmur, " Basil, O Basil !"
or else, ** If, after all, I should prove
an apostate, wliich hath so despised
others for it !"

*• 'Tis good to fear," she whispered.
" but witiial to trust. Is it not writ-
ten, mine own Constance, * My strength
is sufficient for thee P and who saith
this but the Author of all strength —
he on- whom the whole world doth
rest ? He permitteth this fear in tliee
for humility's sake, which lesson thou
hast need to learn. When that of
courage is needed, be not aflnghted ;
he Jwill give it thee. He bestoweth
not graces before they be needed."

Then she minded me of little St;

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CJMMtaiM Sh$rw0odL

Agues, and related passages cf her
life; bat mostly spoke of the cress
and the passion of Christ, in such
pierdog and moYing tones, as if visi-
bly beholding the scene on Calyary,
that the storm seemed to subside in
my breast as she went on.

« Pray," she gently said, "that, if it
be God's will, the extremity of human
suffering should fall on thee, so that thy
love for him should increase. Pray that
no human joy may visit thee again, so
that heaven may open its gales to thee
and thy loved ones. Pray for Hu*
bert, for the queen, for Topciiffe, for
every human soul which thou hast
ever been tempted to hate; and I
promise thee that a great peace shall
steal over thy soul, and a great strength
shall lift thee up."

I did what she desired, and her words
were pipphetic. Peace came before
long, and joy too, of a strange unearth-
ly sort* A brief foretaste of heaven
was showed forth in the consolations
then poured into mine heart. When
sinee^ have desired for to rekindle fer-
vor and awaken devotion, I recall the
hours which followed that great anguish
in the cell at Newgate.

Late in the evening an order came for
to release Muriel and me, but not Mrs.
Wells. When this dear friend under^
stood what had occurred, she raised her
hands in fervent gratitude to God, and
dismissed us with many blessings.

The events which, followed I will
briefly relate. When we reached
home Mr. Congleton was very sick;
and then began the illness which end-
ed his life. Kate was almost wild with
grief at her husband's danger, and we
fetched her and her children to her
father's house for to watch over them.
Chi the next day all the prisonei^
which had been taken at Mr. Wells's
house (we only having been released
by the dealings of friends with the
chief secretary) were examined by
Justice Young, and returned to prison
to take their trials the next session.
Mr. Wells, at his return finding his
house ransacked and his wife carried
away to prison, had been forthwith to

Mr. Justice Yonng for to expostulate
with him, and to demand his wife and
the key of his lodgings ; but the justice
sent him to bear the rest ^wnpaaj,
with a pair of iron bolts oif' his legs.
The next day he examined him in
Newgate; and upon Mr. WeUs aay-
ing he was not privy to the mass be-
ing said that day in his house, but wish-
ed he had been present, thinking his
name highly honored by havmg so
divine a sacrifice offered in it, the jus-
tice told hhn **• that though he was not
at the feast, he should taste of Che
same."

The evening I returned home from
the prison a great lassitude overcame
me, and for a few days increased so
mudi, joined with pains in the bead
and in the limbs, that I could scarcely
think, or so much as stand. At last
it was discerned that I was sickening
with the small-pox, caogfat, methinka,
in the prison ; and this was no snuJl
increase to Muriel's trouble, who had
to go to and fro from my chamber to
her father's, and was forced to send
Kate and her children to the country
to Sir Ralph Ingoldsb/s house; but
methinks in the end this proved fi>r
the best, .for when Mr. Lacy was,
with the other prisoners, found gnilty,
and condemned to death on the 4th of
December, some for having said, and
the others for having heard, mass at
Mr. Wells's house, Kate came to Lon-
don but for a few hours, to take leave
of him, and Polly's care of her after-
ward cheered the one sister in her
great but not very lasting affliction,
and sobered the other's spirits in a
beneficial manner, for since she hadi
been a* stayer at home, and very care-
ful of her children and Kate's also,
and, albeit very secretly, doth I bear
practise her religion. Mr. Ckmgletan
never heiurd of his son-in-law and hia
friend Mr. Wells's danger, the palaj
which affected him having numbed
his senses so that he slowly sunk in
his grave without sufiering dT body or
mind. From Muriel I heard the
course of the triaL How many bitter
words and scoflb were osed by IIm

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651

judges and others upon the bench, par-
ticularly to Edmund Genings, because
of his youth, and that he angered them
with his arguments I The more to

' make him a scoff to the people, they
vested him in a ridiculous fool's coat
«rhich they had found in Mr. Wells's
hoase, and would have it to be a vest-
ment It was appointed they should
all die at Tyburn, except Mr. Genings
and Mr. Wells, who were to be exe*
cated before Mx. Wells's own door in
Gray's Inn Fields, within three doors of
our own lod^ng* The judges, we
were tol3, after pronouncing sentence,
began to persuade them to conform to
the Protestent religion, assuring them
thi^ by so doing they should obtain
mercy, but otherwise they must cer-
tainly expect to die. But they all an-
swered ^ that they would live and die
in the true Roman and Catholic feith,
which they and all antiquity hod ever
professed, and that they would by no
means go to ^iBtk Protestant churches,
or fer one moment think that the
c;aeen could be head of the Church in
£piritaals«" They dealt most urgently
with Edmund Genings in this matter
of conformity, giving him hopes not
only of his. life, but idso of a good liv-
ing, it he 'would renounce his faith ;
but he remained, Grod be praised, con-
stant And resolute; upon which he
was dirust into a dark hole within the
prison, where he remained in prayer,
without food or sustenance, till the
hour of his death. Some letters we
received from him and Mr. Wells,
which have become revered treasures
and almost relics in our eyes. One
did write (this was Edmund) : " The
comforts which captivity bringeth are
so manifold that I have rather cause
to thank God highly for his fatherly
dealings with me than to complain of
any worldly misery whatsoever. Cus-
tom hath caused that it is no grief to
me to be debarred from company, de-
siring nothing more than solitude.
When I pray, I talk with God — ^when
I read, he talketh with me ; so that I
am never alone." And much more in
ihat strain* Mr. Wells ended his let-

ter thus: ^'I am bomid with gyves,
yet I am unbound toward God, and
&r better I account it to have the body
bound than the soul to be in bondage.
I am threatened hard with danger of
death ; but if it be no worse, I will not
wish it to be better. God send me
his grace, and then I weigh not what
flesh and blood can do imto me. I
have answered to many curious and
dangerous questions, but I trust with
good advisements, not offending my
conscience. What will come of it
God only knoweth. Through prison
and chains to glory. Thine till
death." This letter was addressed
to Basil, with a desire expressed
we should read it before it was .sent
to him.

On the day before the one of the
execution, Kate came to take leave of
her husband. She could not speak
for her tears ; but he, with his usual
composure, bade her be of good com-
fort, and that death was no more to
him than to drink off the caudle which
stood there ready on his table. And
methinks this indifferency was a joint
effect of nature and of grace, for none
had ever seen him hurried or agitated
in his life with any matter whatsoever.
And when he rolled Topdiffe down
the stairs and fell with him — for it
was he which did this desperate action
*-his face was as composed when he
rose up again, one of the servants
who had seen the scuffle said, as if he
had never so much as stirred from his
study ; and in his last speeches before
his death ft was noticed that his utter-
ance was as slow and deliberate, and
his words as carefully picked, as at any
other time of his lifb. Ah me ! what
days were those when, hardly re-
covered from my sickness, only
enough for to sit up in an armed-chair
and be carried from one chamber to
another, all the talk ministered about
me was of the danger and coming
death of these dear friends. I had a
trouble of mine own, which I be truly
ashamed to speak of; but in this nar-
rative I have resolved above all things
to be truthful ; and if I have ever had

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CbfMfcMM Sherwood.

occasion, on the one hand, to relate
what should eeem to be to mine own
credit, on the other also I desire to ac-
knowledge my weaknesses and imper-
fections, of which what I am about to
relate is a notable instance. The
8mall*pox made me at that time the
most deformed person that could be
seen, even after I was recoTcred;
and the first time I beheld mj face in
a glass, the horror which it gave me
was so great that I resolved Basil
should never be the husband of one
whom eveiy person which saw her
mast needs be afiHghted to look (m;
but, forecasting he would never give
me up for this reason, howsoever his
inclination should rebel against the
kindness of his h«art and hja true af-
fection for me, I hastily sent him a
letter, in which I said I could give
him no cause for the change which
bad happened in me, but that I was
resolved not to marry him, acting in
my old hasty manner, without thought
or prudence. No sooner had I done
BO than I grew very uneasy thereat,
too late reflecting on what his suspi-
cions should* be of my inconstancy,
and what should to him appear faith-
less breach of promise.

It grieved me, in the midst of such
grave events and noble sufferings, to
be BO concerned for mine own trouble ;
and on the day before the execution I
was sitting musing painfully on the
tragedy which was to be enacted at
our own doors as it were, weeping for
the dear friends which were to suffer,
and ever and anon chewing the cud of
my wilful undoing of mine own, and
it might prove of Basil's, future peace
by my rash letter to him, and yet
more rash concealment of my motives*
Whilst I was thus plunged in grief
and uneasiness, the door of my cham-
ber of a sudden opened, and the ser-
vant announced Mr. Hubert Rook-
wood. 1 hid my face hastily with a
veil, which I now did generally use,
except when alone with Muriel. He
came in, and methought a change had
happened in his appearance. He
locked Bomewbat wild and disordered,

and his face fhished as one used to
drinking.

^ Constance,'* he said abruptly,
'^ tidings have reached me which
would not suffer me to put off this
visit A man coming from France
hath brought me a letter from Basil,
and one directed to you, which he
charged me to deliver into your hands.
If it tallies with that which he doth
write to me — ^and I doubt not it must
be so, for his dealings are always open
and honoraUe, albeit' often rash — ^I
must needs hope for so much happi-
ness from it as I can scarce cro^t
to be possible after so much soff^-
ing.

I stretched out mine hand for Ba-
sil's letter. Oh, how the tears gushed
from mine eyes on the reading of it !
He had received mine, and having
heard some time before from a friend
he did not name of his brother's pas-
sion for me, he never misdoubted but
that I had at last yielded to his solici-
tations, and given him the love which
I withdrew from him.

Never was the nobleness of lus na«
ture more evinced than in tliis letter;
never grief more heartfelt, combined
with a more patient endurance of the
overthrow of his sole earthly happi-
ness ; never a greater or more forgiv-
ing kindness toward a faithless crea-
ture, as he deemed her, with a linger-
ing care for her weal, whom he must
needs have thought so ill deserving of
his love. So much sorrow without re-
pining, such strict chaiges not to marry
Hubert if he was not a good Catholic
and truly reconciled to the Church.
But if he was indeed changed in thia
respect, an assent given to this mar-
riage which had cost him, he said,
many tears and many prayers for to
write, more than if with his own
heart's blood he had traced the words ;
but which, nevertheless, he freely
gave, and prayed God to bless us
both, if with a good conscience we
could be wedded ; and God forbid he
should hinder it, if I had ceased for to
love him, and had given to Hubert^-
who had already got hb birthright—

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dmiUuice Skerwood.

also a more precious treaaore, the
heart once his own.

*' What doth your hrother write to
you ?^ I coldly said ; and then Hubert
gave me his letter to read*

Methinks he imagined I concealed
my fiice from some sort of shame ; and
God knoweth, had I acted the part be
supposed, 1 might well haye blushed
deeper than can be thought of*

This letter was like unto the other—
the most touching proof of love a
man could give for a woman. For-
getting himself, my dearest Basil's
only care was my happiness ; and firm
remonstrances were blended with
touching injunctions to his brother to
treasure every hair. of the head of one
who was dearer to him than all the
world beside, and to do his duty to
God and to her, which if he observed,
he should, mindless of all else, for ever
bless him.

Wh^n I returned the missive to
him, Hubert said, in a faltering voice,
" Now you are free — ^free to be mine
— ^free before God and man.''

" Yea," I answered ; " free as the
dead, for I am henceforward dead to
all earthly things."

•* What 1" he cried, startled ; '*your
thinking is not, God shield it, to be a
nun abroad?^

"Nay," I answered; and then,
laying my hand on Basil's letter, I said,
^ If I had thought to marry you, Hu-
bert ; if at this hour I should say I
could love you, I ween you would leave
the house affrighted, and never return
to it again."

"Is your brain turned?" he impa-
tiently cried.

" No," I answered quietly, lifting my
veil, " my face only is changed."

I had a sort of bitter pleasure in
the sight of his surprise* He turned
as pale as any smodc.

"-Oh, fear not," I sai<^ " my heart
hath not changed with my face. I
am not in so meny a mood, God
knoweth, as to torment you with any
such apprehensions. My love for Ba-
sil is the same; yea, rather at this
hour, after these noble proofe of his

love, more great than ever. Now you
can discern why I should write to him
I would never marry him."

Hiding his face in his hands, Hu-
bert said, " Would I had not come hera.
to embitter your pain ?"

" You have not added to my sorrow,"
I answered; "the chalice is indeed
full, but these letters have rather light-
ened than increased my sufferings."

Then concealing again my f&ce, I
went on, *• O Hubert, will you come
here to-morrow morning ? £[now you
the sight which from that window shall
be seen ? Hark to that noise ! Look
out, I pray you, and tell me what it is."

He did as I bade him, and I mark-
ed the shudd^ he gave* His face^
pale before, had now turned of an
ashy hue.

" Is it possible ?' he said ; " a scaf-
fold in front of that house where we
were wont to meet those old friends !
O Constance, are they there to die ?
— ^that brave joyous old man, that kind
pious soul his wife ?"

" Yea," I answered ; " and likewise
the friend of my young years, good
holy Edmund Genings, who never did
hurt a fiy, much less a human crea-
ture. And at Tyburn, Bryan Lacy,
my cousin, once your friend, and Syd-
ney Hodgson, and good Mr. Mason,
are to suffer."

Hubert clenched his hands, ground
his teeth, and a terrible look shot
through his eyes. I felt affrighted at
the passion my words had awakened.
" Cursed," he cried, in a hoarse
voice,— ^* cursed be the bloody queen
which reigneth in this land 1 Thrice
accursed be the tyrants which hunt ua
to death! Tenfold accursed such as
lure us to damnation by the foul baits
they do offer to tempt a man to lie to
God and to others, to rain those he
loves, to become loathsome to himself
by his mean crimes I But if one hath
been cheated of his soul, robbed of the
hope of heaven, debarred from his re-
ligion, thrust into the company of
devils, let them fear him, yea, let
them foar him, I say* Revenge is not
impossible. What shall stay the

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eM Setigned.

hand of Bach a man? What shall becomes terrible. How should he be

goard those impious tempters if many to .be dreaded who doth despair of

such should one day league for to heaven !*'

sweep them from earth's face ? If one With these wfld words, he left me.

be desperate of this frorkL's life, he He was gone ere I could speak.

TO BB OOXTUIOJBD.

From Gluuabertt's Joimal*

RESIGNED.

When mj weary spinning's done.
And the shades of eve grow deep.
And by the bright hear^tone
The old folk sit asleep ;
Hy heart and I in secret talk, when none can see me weep.

Ofttimes the driving rain.
And sometimes the silent snow.
Beat on the window-pane^
And mingle sad and low
With the hopes andfearsi the smUes and tears, of a time kmgy long ago ;

Till they act the tales they tell,
And a step is on the floor,
And a voice I once loved well
Says : ^< Open me the door.**
Then I turn with a chill from the mocking wind, which whispers ^ Nevermore P-

To the little whitewashed room
In which my days are spent ;
And, journeying toward the tomb,
My companions gray and bent.
Who haply deem their grandchild's life not joyouB, bat content.

Ah me I for the suns not set,
For the years not yet begun,
For the days not numbered yet,
And the work that must be done,
Before the desert path is crossed, and the weary web is spun I

Like a beacon in the night,
I see my iirst grey hair ;
And I scarce can tell aright
If it is from age or care,
For time glides silent o'er my l^e, and leaves no landmark there.

But perchance 'tis for the best.
And I must harder strive^
If life is little blest.
Then not for life to live.
For tfaougha heart has nought to taka, it may have much to give.

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ScdnU 0/ the Demri. 055

And thej are old and poor.
And bread is hard to win.
And a guest is at the door
Who soon must enter in,
And to keep his shadow from their hearth, I daUy toil and spin.

Mj sorrow is their gain, /
And I show not by a tear
How mj solitude and pain
Have bought their comfort dear.
For the storm which witecked mj life's best h(^ has left me stranded here.

But I hear the neighbors saj.
That the hoar-glass runs too fast,
And I know that in that glad day,
When toil and sorrow are past,
The fiibe and true shall receive their due, and hearts cease aching at last

From The Month.

SAINTS OF THE DESERT.

BT THE BBV. J. H. NEWKAN. D.D.

1. A sportsman fell in with Abbot
Antony, when pleasantly conversing
with his brethren, and was scandalized.

The old man said : ^ Put an arrow
on the string, and bend your bow.**
He did so.

Then Antony said: ''Bend it
more;" and he bent it more.

Antony said : ^ More stilL" He
answered : ^ I shall break it**

Then said Antony : ^This will be*
hi the brethren, if their minds are
always on the stretdi.

2. It is told of Abbot Arsenius,
how he was used to remun all night
without sleep.

Then, when morning broke, and he
needed rest, he used to say to sleep :
Come, you good-for-nothing.

Then he took a nap, as he sat ; and
soon woke up again.

8. A brother said to Abbot Theo-
dore, ^ Say some good word to me,
for I am perishing.'^ #

He answered: I am in jeopardy
myselfy and what can I say to thee f

4. A brother said to Abbot Pastor :
^ I have done a great sin ; give me a
three years' penance." The abbot
answered; ^It is too much."

The brother said, ^ Give me a
vear." The old man said again, " It
is too much."

The brothers round him asked,
« Should it be forty days ?" Still he
answered, " It is too much."

For, said he, whoso doth penance
with his whole heart, and never does
the sin again, is received by Grod even
on the penance of three days.

5. A brother had sinned, and the
priest bade him leave the church.

Bessarion rose, and went out wiA
him, saying : And I too am a sinner.

& Abbott Macarius said: Nev«r
Aide an erring brother angrily ; for
you are not bid save another's soul at
the loss of your own.

7. Abbot Nilus said : If you would
pray as you ought, beware of sad*
ness ; else you will run in vam.

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656

Up and Iknm Otmi^tu

From All The T«ar Bound.
UP AND DOWN CANTON.

Cahton is a genuine Chinese citj,
and one of the most extraordinary
places in the world. There are four
American steamers which plv between
Hong-Kong and Canton. Thej are
fast commodious vessels, in fact float-t
ing hotels, such as plj on the large
American rivers. The voyage occu-
pies about eight or nine hours. Of
these, five or six are on the open sea,
sheltered mostly under the lee of pre-
cipitous bluffs and lofty rocky islets ;
and the rest, from the " Bocca Tigris,"
up the Canton river. The fog in the
winter season lies so dense over the
flats and extensive swamps bordering
the river that steamers have to pro-
ceed with great caution^ going ^ dead
slow," and sounding the steam-whistle,
while the little fishing-junks, which
are sure to be scattered by dozens in
the way^ eagerly beat their gongs, to
make known their whereabout. As
the steamer ascends the river, a noble
stream, some five or six miles broad
near the mouth, slie gets gradually
clear of the fog. The wide marshy
fiats, and the bold rocks on the left
bank, crowned with' odd-looking
Ciiinese stone batteries, come into
view, to be succeeded by paddy-fields,
sugar-cane cultivation, orchanls, gar-
dens, roads, and villages, that become,
on both banks, more and more numer-
ous, until they blend with the vast
suburbs of Canton. Charming little
pagodas, and fanciful buildings, paints
cd and carved, the residences of man-
darins, peep from the shadei of groves,
and every village is surmounted Ify
'two or more lofty square towers, the
nature of which puzzles a stranger,
until he is told they are pawnbrokers*
shops. These shops are so fashioned
for the greater security of the articles
pledged, because the broker is made

heavily re8|M>nsibl6 for their safe-
keeping. The security is meant to
be not only against thieves, but ako
against fire. Half-way to Canton, on
the right, or west bank, is a little Eng-
lish settlement at the town of Wham-
po. It consists of some ship-chand-
lers' stores, warehouses, and a dock
for repairing vessels which discharge
their cargoes here, being unable to
proceed higher up the stream. YTham-
po is, in. fact, the seaport of Canton,
and was a flourishing place as such
till Hong-Kong diverted the trade.
From Whampo upward, the river be-
comes more and more crowded with
junks and Chinese boats. Some of
the junks, men-of-war, differ from the
rest only in being larger, and in hav-
ing several unwieldy guns on their
decks, mounted on uncouth carriages :
in many instances with their muzzles
not pointed through portholes, but
grinning over the bulwarks at an
angle of forty-five degrees, like huge
empty bottles.

When the steamer has slowly and
cautiously threaded her way among
these numerous vessels, and dropped
anchor, the i-ush of ^ tanka4>oats'^
round her is astonishing. These are
broad bluff crafts, something of the
size and shape of the sampans, but
impdled chiefiy by women; one
sweeping, the other sculling with »
large steering oar* They close round
the ship in hundreds, yelling, scream*
ing, struggling, and fighting for the
gangways, till every passenger or ar-
tide of light freight has left^ The
wolnen are warmly and comfortably
dressed in dark-blue linen shirts and
wide drawery with red and yeQow
bandanas round their heads and faces.
They are often young and good-look-
ing, with bright laughing eyes, white

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657

teeth, and jolly red cheeks. They are,
unlike the ** flower-boat" girls, honest
and well condacted. Their boats are
roofed over,' with snug neat cabins
nicely painted, and bedizened with
flowers, old-fashioned pictures, and
looking-glasses. A low cushioned
bench runs round three sides, and the
passenger sits down pleasantly enough,
looking through the entrance, and
face to face with the sturdy nymph,
who, with a " stamp and go," is row-
ing him along, while at the stem, be-
hind his back, another lusty Naiad
steers him on his way.

The river divides the great city into
two parts; that on the left bank,
which is by far i^^ larger, being Can-
ton, and the opposite smaller town
" Honan." On the Ilonan side, a few
European gentlemen atill live iiud
carry on business, as branches of sev-
eral fii-ms in Hong-Kong; but the
principal European quarter is a fine
level plain on the Canton side, pre-
senting to the river a revetted wall.
A pretty church and some handsome
houses, including the British con-
sulate, have been ali"eady completed
within the land, which is called the
'* Shdmcen." It adjoins the portion
formerly allotted for the Hongs, or
warehouses and offices of foreign
(European) merchants, which were
burnt down by the Chinese mob be-
fore the last war.

At ten in the morning, one day in
tlie month of February, I started from
the Honan side, under the guidance of
a Chinese cicerone, who spoke a lan-
guage somewhat better than the gib-
berish known by the name of " pigeon"
(business) English, to explore the
city of Canton. We crossed the river
in a tanka-boat, and after threading,
jostling, and pushing our way through
swarms of small craft in every variety,
landed at the custom-house stairs,
close to a small office in which pre-
sides ^n English Amctionary, in the
pay of the Chinese government.
The strand is • crowded ii^ith mean
dirty hovels, in which, and about
the muddy road, and on board in-
voL. n. 42

numerable boats, packed closely along
the bank, men, women, and children,
filthy and ragged, were crowding in
swarms. We passed a short way up
the strand, by some large shops,
crammed with clothing and ship
chandlery, and, striking inland, tra-
versed an open space, scattered with
the relics of the European Hongs
burnt before the last war (a space,
by-the-by, which Europeans have al-
together deserted, preferring the
" Sh^een" land, and which the
Chinese government appear unwilling
to resume, so that it remains altogeth-
er untenanted). We then entered
the bazaar, or strictly commercial
portions of the town.

The day was unusually sultry for
the time of year ; the streets (so to
call passages of six or seven feet
width), entirely paved with flag- stones,
were muddy and greasy from rain
that had fallen the day before. The
air was stagnant from the confinement
of closely packed and overhanging
houses, and heated by swarms of peo-
ple hurrying to and fro, while an in-
supportable stench from sewers, neg-
lected drains, and putrid fish and flesh,
with a horrible odor of stale cabbage
water, pervaded the suffocating at-
mosphere. J became faint at times,
fatigued and heated beyond endurance,
so that my estimate of the extent of
this enormous labyrinth through which
I plodded for four hours before I
could get a sedan-chair, is one rather,
of the feelings than of the judgment
I walked — stepping now and then
into shops, to examine them more
closely — and rode in a sedan-chair up
one street and down another, from
about half-past ten in the morning un-
til four in the afternoon, /and had to
leave unvisited about half the bazaar,
to get a hasty glimpse of a few tem-
ples, gardens, and mandarin-houses
before dusk.

The streets are flagged, and about
six or seven feet broad. They appear
to be innumerable, crossing each
other at right angles at every two or
three hundred yards. The houses

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on each side are narrow-fronted, bat
extendmg considerably to the rear.
There are no windows, for the centre
of each front is, open, merely consist-
ing of carved and painted framework,
like the proscenium of a theatre, and
displajing the contents of the shop on
each hand, like side scenes. The
back is closed by a large panelling, in
which figures of gods, men, animals,
and fiowers are painted, with a vast
deal of gilding and finery. In short,
each shop looks like a little theatre.
A few houses have upper stories,
reached, by pretty carved and balus-
traded stairs. And as every article
for which space can be found is
hung up for display, both inside the
shop and around its front, the spec-
tator, as he enters the bazaar, feels
as if he were diving into an ocean
of cloths, silks, flags, and flutters.

My guide was a sharp fellow, who
thoroughly knew all the sights of
Canton. As he had been often em-
plo^ied as cicerone by the ship cap-
tains, he immediately put me down
as one of that jolly fraternity, fre-
quent intercourse with whom had
given a slightly nautical twang to
bis discourse. We had not gone fiur
before he addressed me, '*I say,
cappen: you come along o' me and
see jewelers* shops. Here's first-
rate shop — number one jeweler this
chap— -cappen want to buy anything?
Heave along !'* The jewelers' shops
were numerous, and I saw many very
beautiful specimens of carving and
filigree-work. Some of the shops
sold articles of* European design,
others miniatered only to tlie niUive
beauty and fashion of Canton. These
contained many articles of considera*
ble beauty and real taste. The most
notable were the " bird's feather orna-
ments," which consist of gold or gilt
head combs, brooches, ear-rings, and
the like, on which are firmly fixed,
with glue, strips of the bright blue
feathers of the kingfisher (Halcyon
Smymensis), cut into small patterns,
through which the gold ground ap-
pears; the whole effect being ex*

actly like that of enamel work. The
kingfisher is not, I think, found in
Chma, but is imported in great num-
bers from Burmah and India. I
asked the price of one skin lying on
the counter, and was told half a
dollar (two shillings and threepence).
The bird was probably procured in
India for three-halfpence. Ivoiy
shops are in great number, but the
Chinese ivory yields, in my opinion,
to that of the Japanese. I went into
several porcelain shops, and saw in
each ten or a dozen languid-lo(^ing
youths painting away, slowly and
laboriously, at leaves, flowers, insects,
and so forth, on plates. Each lad
had a small bowl of one color, and
when he had painted in all the parts
of the design intended to be of that
color, he passed the pbte on to his
neighbor, who added his color, and
BO on all round the room till the
pattern was completely colored. Tlie
result is stiff and mechanicaL There
is no attempt at artistic effect, noth-
ing like the beautiful pictures paint-
ed in the factories at Worcester or
Dresden. Dyers and weavers are
numerous. The silk shops are the
finest in the bazaar, but their eon-
tents are excessively dear, and are
not very good. Indeed, the Canton
silks are considered by the Chinese
themselves to be, inferior to those
made in the northern provinces of
the empire* I have seen silk dresses
and pieces from Pekin brought into
India via Nepaul, of a quality which I
was assured by a competent judge
could not be procured at Canton. This
was five-aod-twenty years ago, and it
is possible that our present widely
different connection with China may
have introduced a better article into
Shanghae, which is so near Pekin.
But the Chinese were very jealous
formerly about exporting their finest
silks, and tliose I allude to were
brought by the members of a mission,
sent every three years with a tribate
fit>m Eathmandoo ta the Emperor of
China, as afnendly return present from
the emperor to the Bi^ah of NepaoL

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659

The Chinese shopkeepers are fat
oomfortable-looking fellows, with pleas-
ant, good-humorej^ces. They showed
me their curiosities very willingly, and
none the less oonrteoosly exchanged a
wniling « chin-ghin** with me if I left
tlie shop without purchasing anything.
Tea-shops are numberless. They
are piled up with chests such as we
see in England, and with open baskets
of coarse and inferior tea for the poor.
The cheapest kind is made in thin
round cakes or large wafers, strung
upon slips of bamboo. It partially
dissolves in hot water, and is flavored
with salt by those who drink it. Of
this form of brick tea I have never
seen any mention in the books pub*
lished by travellers.

There are poulterers' shops, with
fowls roasted and raw ; and there are
vegetable sellers' stalls, and fish in
baskets, dead and not over-fresh, or
alive in large tubs of water. They
were all of die carp family, including
i^hos, mirgals, and kutlas, so familiar-
ly known in India, also several species
of the siluroids, called vulgarly ^ cbU
Ml," The fish brought from the sea
are salted and sun-dried, and, with
strong aid from immense festoons of
sharks' fins, set up a stench that it is
not easy to walk through.

Afler inspecting shops and elbow-
ing and being elbowed in the crowd
till afternoon, when I was ready to
drop with heat and fatigue, my pilot
steered me to a smaU square, flagged
with stone, on which the sun shone
fiercely. He called it ^Beggars'
square," and told me that all the des-
titute and abandoned sick in the city .
crawled, if they could, to this spot, be-
cause those who died there received
burial at the expense of govern-
ment While he spoke, my eyes were
fixed upon some heaps of dirty tatter>
ed clothes on the ground, which pres-
ently began to move, and I discovered
to my horror three miserable creatures,
lean and covered with odious filth, ly-
ing in different stages of their last
agony on the bare stones, exposed to
tbs burning rays of the sun. They

came here to die, and no one heeded
them, or gave them ir drop of water,
or a morsel of food, or even a little
shelter from the noontide glare. I
had seen shocking things of this sort
in India, but nothing so horrible. To
insure a climax of disgusts, my guide
led me straight to a dog butcher's
shop, where several of the nasty fat
oily carcases of those animals were
l^fiAging for sale. They had not been
fiayed, but dangled there with their
smooth shining skins, which had been
' scalded and scraped clean of hair, so
that at first I took them for sucking-
pigs. There were joints of dog, ready
roasted, on the counter, and in the
back of the shop were several cages
in which live dogs were quietly sitting,
lolling their tongues out, and appear-
ing very unconcerned. I saw several
cats also, in cages, looking very de-
mure; and moreover I saw custom-
ers, decorous and substantial-looking
householders, inspect and feel the
dogs and cats, .and buy those which
they deemed fittest for the table. The
cats did not like being handled, and
mewed loudly. '' What cappea think
o' that ?" said my guide. ^ Cappen
s'pose never eat dog ?-— dog veiy good,
very fat, very sofL Oh, number one
dinner is dog I" ^'And are cats as
good?" I asked. ^'Oh, Chinaman
chowchow everything. Chowchow
plenty cat. Chinaman nasty beast, I
think, cappen, eh ?" My cicerone had
been so lone mixed up with European
and American ship captains and mis-
sionaries, that he had learnt to suit
his ideas to his company, if his ideas
had not actually undergone great mod-
ification, as is the case in Lidia with
those educated natives of the present
dav known to us as specimens of
« Young Bei^"

Before quitting the bazaar, I was
ushered into two gambling-shops.
These are licensed by the Chinese
government, the owners paying a con-
siderable tax. Both were tolerably
fiill of players, and in both the same
kind of game was being played — a
simple one enough, if I understood it

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Uf catd Down Canton.

A plajer staked a pile of cash or dol-
lars ; the croifpier staked a similar
one ; and then another member of the
establishment dipped his hand into a
bag and drew out a handfiil of coant-
ers ; if they were in even fours, the
bank won ; if they were uneven, the
player won, and the croupier's stake
was duly handed over to him — rather
ruefully, it struck me, by the banker,
who sat on the counter raised above
the rest. This game appears about
as intrinsically entertaining as pulling
straws ; but I may have overlooked or*
misunderstood parts of it of a more in-
tellectual nature. In the first house I
visited, the players were of the lower
class, and the stakes were copper cash.
One man, quite a youth, left the room
evidently cleaned out; his look re-
vealed it, and I suppose he went away
to the opium shop, the usual consola-
tion of a Chinaman under the circum-
stances. As we entered the second
gambling-house, my guide informed
me, " Tliis rich house. Number one
fellow play here— mandarin chap.*'
And truly I saw in the room goodly
piles of dollars heaped up before a
better-dressed assembly. The game
appeared to be the same, and money
changed hands rapidly. I *^ chin-
chinned" to tlie banker and to the
company, and was civilly allowed to
look on. The room led through a fil-
igreed doorway to another apartment,
where cakes, loaves, tea, and pipes
were spread out, and where long-tailed
gentlemen were lounging and discuss-
ing the news of the day.

Being in want of cash,^and having
only dollar notes with me, I asked my
guide what I should do ? He straight-
way led me to a money-changer's,
where I was at once furnished with
change for my notes at par. As this
was an unusual accommodation, I ask-
ed the reason of such generosity, and
was informed that the dollars given
me were all light, and that the chang-
er would obtain full-weight dollars for
the notes by-and-by. I was assured,
however, that in all the shops the dol-
lars I had received would be received

at the full value ; and this I found to
be the case. All the time I was in
the money-changer'9, I saw three or
four people telling, examining, and
stamping dollars. So de&oed and
mutilated does the coin become by
bearing the " chop" or mark of every
banker or dealer into whose posses-
sion it passes, that it as nearly as pos-
sible returns to that state of bullion
which the Chinaman prefers to minted
coin. As it was, the only small
change I could procure for a dollar
was in fragments of silver; in the
weighing out of which I was of course
at the mercy of the shopman.

A chair having been with great dif-
ficulty procured for me, and another
for my guide, we were about emerging
from the bazaar when I had the
honor of meeting a mandarin and
suite. My bearers had just time to
squeeze inln the entrance of a side-
alley, when the cavalcade was down
upon us. Funny-looking soldiers
with spears and muskets indiscrimi-
nately, musicians and drummers or
tom-tom beaters, and an amazing fi.g-
ure in red and gold apparel of a loose
flapping cut, with a sword in his hand,
mounted upon an inexcusable pony —
a Chinese Rosinante. In the centre
of this cortege the mandarin was borne
along, a placid fat dignitary, in a
richly embroidered purple velvet and
golden dress, seated in a gaudy sedan.

It was a great relief to emerge from
the crowded bazaar, pass through the
gateway in the massive city wall, and
proceed through comparatively airy
lanes to one or two Chinese gentle-
men's houses and gardens, which my
guide most unceremoniously entered,
marshalling me in without a word of
introduction or apology, and making
me feel rather ashamed of myself.
These dwellings, as well as the joss-
houses or temples, have been so often
described, that I will not ikiflict them
again on the reader. Not the slight-
est objection was raised by the priests
to my exploring every part of the
temples, the vergers showing the al-
tars, the various images, the cloisters

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661

and refectories, with great alacrity,
and extending their hands afterward
for a fee. The onlj undescribed fact
connected with these worthies which I
waa informed of is, that they sell their
finger-nails to any foreigner desirous
of purchasing such curiosities. These
nails are suffered to grow uncut, and
attain a length of three or four inches,
looking remarkably unlike finger-nails,
and forming curiosities much coveted,
said my guide, by foreign gentlemen
and ^ cappens." Among- other religi-
ous edifices I yisited a Mohammedan
temple, a singular jumble of Islamism
and Buddhism. Extracts from the
Koran wore an odd appearance em-
blazoned on Chinese architecture.
There were no priests visible here;
only children and begging old women.

"Want of time prevented my visiting
the camp or barracks of the Chinese
soldiers, on the heights outside the
eastern suburbs of the town. A large
garden, attached to a temple on the
Honan side, was the only other object
I had time that day to inspect. The
garden was principally stocked with
orange-trees, also loquats and lycheen,
hundreds of which were on sale for
the benefit of the good fathers, who are
supported by the produce of the gar-
den and the contributions of the piously
disposed. On each side of the centre
walk, beyond a little dirty pond, was
a shed, with shelves, on which were
ranged pots containing the ashes of
the priests (" priests' bones," my guide
irreverently called them) ; their bod-
ies, after decease, undergoing increma-
tion in an adjoining pit. Names, ages,
and dates of decease are duly preserv-
ed, cut into slabs of stone on the con-
cave &Ge of a semicircular screen of
masonry in the garden. Before leav-
ing the garden I was not a little sur-
prised by the appearance of a verit-
able magpie, identical, a^ it seemed to
me, with our British bird, that I had
oot seen for many years.

After guiding me safely to my
quarters — for so labyrinthine is every
part of Canton and Honan that it
would be hopeless to attempt to find

one's way alone — ^my pilot left: me and
departed to his own home, which was,
he told me, on the Canton side. The
language he spoke is, as may be gath-
ered from the specimens here given,
not the ordinary " pigeon English" of
Chinese servants ; a style of gibberish
which it is lamentable to think has be-
come the ordinary channel of commu-
nication with aU Chinamen. These
sharp and intelligent people would
soon learn to speak and understand
better English than such sentences a^
"You go top-side and catchee one
piecee book" — "You tell those two
piecee cooly go chow-chow, and come
back chop-chop." (Go up-stairs and
fetch a book — Tell those two coolies to
go to their dinner, and return quickly.)
The good effects of the tuition afforded
by schoolmasters and misisionaries in
China are much marred by the jargon
used conventionally, with irrational
adherence to defect, in all ordinary
transactions of business, by piasters
and mistresses in intercourse with their
servants, and bycommerdal men with
their native assistants.

About seven hours' run, in one of
the American steamers before mention-
ed, carries the passenger from Canton
to Macao. The mouth of the river is
cleared in four hours, and the rest of
the voyage is over an open sea, which,
with a fresh southerly breeze, is rather
rough for a fiat-bottomed steamer : the
islands to eastward, though numerous,
being too remote to check the swell of
the Chinese ocean. After running for
about an hour along the bold rocky
peninsula at the point of which Ma-
cao is built, the steamer rounds in, and,
entering a partially land-locked har-
bor between the town and some rocky
islets to its south, anchors in smooth
water. The town has a quaint pictur-
esque look. Its old-fashioned houses
extend to the water's edge. They are
all of stone or brick, covering the face
of the bold coast: the heights of which
are crowned by castles, forts, batteries,
and convents, and from whose ancient
walls the last rays of a setting sun were
&ding as wo entered the harbor. The

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Cfkutardwry Ahbeyy Past ctnd Pruent.

inhabitants are endrelj Portagaese,
Chinese, and a breed between the two.
The jealousj of the Portuguese gov-
ernment effectually excludes foreign-
ers from settling; a miserable policy,
by which trade is almost extinct, the
revenue being derived chiefly from li-
censing of gambling-honses. In &ont
of the house of the governor I saw a
guard of soldiers. They wore able-
bodied, ^mart-looking young feUows
in neat blue uniforms, detailed from a

regiment in the fort These soldiers,
and a few half-castes, looking like our
office keranies in India, together with
some strangely dressed females, in ap-
pearance half aya,.half sister of char-
ity, were all that I saw of the Portu-
guese community. The non-militaiy
'Portuguese looked jaded and lazy,
almost every man with a cheroot
in his mouth. The town, indeed,
struck me as a very *^ Castle of Indo-
lence.*'

Abridged from The Dnbltn Unl'veraity Magazine.

GLASTONBURY ABBEY, PAST AND PRESENT.

Okb of the most subtle operations
of time is the tendency it has to trans-
form the facts of one age into the
phantasies of another, and to cause
the dreams of the past to become the
realities of the present. Far away
in the remote distance of history,
when a lonely monk in his cell mused
of vessels going without sails and car-
rioges without horses, it was a dream
— a mere dream, produced probably
by a brain disordered by over study,
long vigils, and frequent fasts, but
that dream of the thirteenth century
has become the most incontrovertible
fact of the nineteenth, a fact to whose
influence all other hitherto immova-
ble facts are giving way, even the
great one, the impregnability of the
Englishman's castle ; for we find that
before the obstinate march of one of
these railway facts a thousand Eng-
lishmen's castles fall prostrate, and a
thousand Englishmen are evicted,
their avocations broken up, and them-
selves turned out upon the world as a
new order of beings— outcasts with
compensation.

The monastic life, so commonly re-
garded in these later timos as a phan-
tasy, was once a fact, a great univer-
sal fact ; it was a fact for twelve or
thirteen centuries ; and when we re-

member that it extended its influenoe
from the sunny heights of Palestine,
across Europe, to the wild, bleak
shores of western Ireland ; that it did
more in the world for the formation
and embellishment of modem civili-
zation than aU the governments and
systems of life tliat accompanied it in
its course ; that the best portions of
ancient literature, the materials of his-
tory, the secrets of art, are the pearls
torn from its treasure-^ouse, we may
form some idea of what a fact the
monastic life must have been at one
time, and may venture to assert that
the history of that phase of existen6e,
as in frock and cowl it prayed, and
watched, and fasted ; as in its quiet
cloisters it studied, and copied^ and
labored ; as outside its walls it min-
gled its influence with the web of hu-
man destiny, and as in process of
time, becoming wealthy and powerfol,
it degenerated, and went the way of
all human things — ^we say that the
history of the development of this ex-
tinct world, however defective the ex-
ecution of that history may be, will
include in its review some of ^
most interesting portions of our na-
tional career, wiU fumbh a clue to
many of the mazes of historical spec-
ulation, or at least may be suggestiTe

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663

to Bome more able intellect of a
coaree of investigation which has been
yerj little followed, and a. mine of
troth which to a great extent still re-
mains intact.

At a time when laws were badlj
administered, and the conntiy often
torn by internal contentions, and al«
ways subject to the yiolence of ma-
raudeiB, it was absolutely necessary
that there should be some asylum for
those thoughtful, retiring spirits who,
unable or unwilling to take part in the
turmoil of the times, were exposed to all
its dangerous vicissitudes. In an age,
too, when the country possessed no lite-
rature, the contemplative and the learn-
ed had no other means of existence
than by retiring to the cloister, safe
out of the reach of the jealous super-
stition of ignorance and the wanton
barbarity of uncouth violence. The
monastery then was the natural home
of these beings — ^the deserted, the op-
pressed, the meek spirit who had been
beaten in the world's conflict, the un-
timely bom son of genius, the scholar,
t.ie devotee, all found a safe shelter
and a genial abode behind the friendly
walls of .these cities of refuge. There,^
too, lay garnered up, as a priceless
hoarding for future ages, the sacred
oracles of Christianity, and the res-
cued treasures of ancient lore ; there
science labored at her mystic problems ;
and there poetry, painting, and music
were developed and perpetuated; in
fine, all that the irorld holds as most
excellent, all that goes toward the
foundation and adornment of modem
« society, treasured up in the monastery
as in an ark, rode in safety over the
dark flood of that mediaeval deluge
until the waters subsided, and a new
world appearing from its depths, vio-
lent hands were laid upon those costly
treasures, which were torn from their
hiding-places and freely scattered
abroad, whilst the representatives of
those men who, in silence and with
prayer, had amassed and cherished
them, were branded as useless idlers,
their homes broken up, and them-
eelvee dispersed, with no mercy for

their errors and no gratitude for their
labors, to seek the scanty charities of
a hostile world. Beside being the
cradle of art and science, the monas-
tery was a great and most efficient
engine for the dispensation of public
charity. At its refectory kitchen the
poor were always cheerfully welcom-
ed, generously treated, and periodi-
cally relieved ; in fine, the care of the
poor was not only regarded as a sol-
emn duty, but was undertaken with
the most cheerful devotion and the
most unremitting zeal. They were
not treated like an unsightly social
disease, which was to be cured if pos-
sible, but at any rate kept out of
sight ; they were not handed over to
the tender sympathies of paid reliev-
ing ofiicers, nor dealt^th by the mer-
ciless laws of statistics, but they were
treated gently and kindly in the spirit
of the Great Master, who when on
earth bestowed upon them the larger
share of his sympathy, who, in the
tenderness of his pity, dignified pov-
erty and sanctified charity when he
declared that << inasmuch as ye have
done it unto the least of these my
brethren, ye have done it unto me.**
Whatever may have been the vices of
the monastic system or the ^rrors of
its ritual, its untiring charity was its
great redeeming virtue.

It will not perhaps be an unfitting
introduction to our investigation into
*the rise and influence of diis system
upon our national life if we resusci-
tate from the grave of the past one of
these great monasteries, the oldest and
most powerful which sprang up in our
country, and which, compared with
others at the time when they fell be-
fore the great religious convulsion of
the sixteenth century, had, in the
midst of general corruption, main-
tained its purity, and suffered less
from its own vices than from the de-
generacy of the system to which it
belonged, and of which it was the
most distinguished ornament We
shall endeavor to portray the monas-
tery as it was in all its glory, to pass
through its portals, to enter reverently

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664

GlcLiUmbury Abbey, PaH and Present

into its magnificent church, to listen
to its goi^eous music, to watch its
processions, to wander through its
cloisters, to yisit its domestic domains,
to penetrate into the mjsteries of its
refectory, the ascetic simplicity of its
dormitory, the industry of its school-
house and fratery, the stores of its
treasury, the still richer stores of its
library, the immortal label's of its
Scriptorium, where they worked for
so many centuries, uncheered and un-
rewarded, for a thankless posterity,
who shrink even now from doing them
justice; we shall visit the gloomy
splendors of its crypt, wander through
its grounds, and marvel at its strange
magnificence. Afler having thus gaz-
ed, as it were, upon the machine it-
self in motion, #e shall perhaps be
the better enabled subsequently to
comprehend the nature and value of
its work.

In the early part of the sixteenth
century the ancient abbey of Glas-
tonbury was in the plenitude of its
magnificence and power. It had been
the cynosure for the devotees of all
nations, who, for nearly eleven centu-
ries, flocked in crowds to its fane— to
worship at its altars, to venerate its
relics, to drink in health at its sacred
well, and to gaze in rapt wonder at
its holy thorn. And even now, in
these later days, though time has
wasted it, though fierce fanaticism has
played its cannon upon it, though
ruthless vandalism in blind ignorance
has despoiled many of its beauties, it
still stands proud in its ruined gran-
deur, defiant alike of the ravages of
decay, the devastation of the icono-
clast, and the wantonness of the igno-
rant Although not a single picture,
but only an inventorial description, is
extart of this largest abbey in the
kingdom, yet, standing amidst its si-
lent ruins, the imagination can form
some faint idea of what it must have
been when its aisles were vocal with
the chant of its many-voiced choir,
when gorgeous processions moved
grandly through its cloisters, and
when its altars, its chapels, its win-

dows, its pillars, were all decorated
with the myriad splendors of monas-
tic art. I^assing in at the great west-
em entrance, through a lodge kept bj
a grave lay-brother, we find ourselves
in a little world, shut up by a high
wall which swept round its domains,
inclosing an area of more than sixty
acres. The eye is arretted at once
by a majestic pile of building, stretch-
ing itself out in the shape of an im-
mense cross, from the centre of whose
transept there rises a high tower.
The exterior of this building is pro-
fusely decorated with all the weird
embellishments of medieval arL
There, in sculptured niche, stands the
devout monarch, sceptred and crown-
ed ; th« templar knight, who had fall-
en under an oriental sun fighting for
the cross ; the mitred abbot, with his
crosier ; the saint with his emblem ;
the martyr with his palm ; scenes
from Sacred Writ ; the apostles, the
evangelists ; petrified allegories and
sculptured story ; and then, clusterhig
around and intertwining itself with
all these scenes and representations of
the world of man, were ornamental
devices culled from the world of na-
ture. A splendid monument of the
genius of those mediffival times whose
mighty cathedrals stand before us now
like massive poems or graven history,
where men may read, as it were from
a sculptured page, the chivalrous do-
ings of departed heroes, the long tale
of the history of the Church — of her
woes, her triumphs, her martyrs, and
her saints — a deathless picture of act-
ual existence, as though some heaven- •
sent spirit had come upon the earth,
and with a magic stroke petrified into
the graphic stillness of stone a whole
world of life and living things. The
length of the nave of diis church, be-
ginning from St Joseph's chapel
(which we shall presently notice, and
which was an additional building) up
to the cross, was 220 feet, the great
tower was 40 feet m breadth, and tiie
transepts on either side of it each 4o
feet in length, the choir was 150 feet;
its entire length from east to west was

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665

420 feet ; and if we add the append-
ed St Joseph's chapel, we have a
range of building 530 feet in length.

Turning from the contemplation of
this external grandeur, we come to a
structure which forms the extreme
west of the abbey — a cliapel dedicated
to St. Joseph of Arimathea. The en-
trance on the north side is a master-
piece of art, being a portal consisting
of four semicircular arches, receding
and diminishing as they recede into
the body of the wail, the four fasdae
profusely decorated with sculptured
representations of personages and
scenes, varied by running patterns of
tendrils, leaves, and other natural ob-
jects. The first thing that strikes the
attention upon entering is the beauti-
ful triarial-mullioned window at the
western extremity, with its semicircu-
lar head ; opposite, at the eastern end,
another, corresponding in size and de-
coration, throws its light upon the al-
tar. On both the north and south
sides of the church are four uniform
windows, rising loftily till their sum-
mits nearly touch the vaulting; un-
derneath these are four sculptured
arches, the panelling between them
adorned with painted representations
of the sun, moon, stars, and all the host
of heaven ; the flooring was a tesselat-
ed pavement of encaustic tiles, each
bearing an heraldic device, or some
allegorical or historical subject. Be-
neath this tesselated pavement is a
spacious crypt, eighty-nine i^ei in
length, twenty feet in width, and ten
feet high, provided with an altar, and
when used for service illuminated by
lamps suspended from the ceiling. St.
Joseph's chapel, however, with its
softly-colored liglit, its glittering pan-
els, its i*esplendent altars, and its elegant
proportions, is a beautiful creation;
but only a foretaste or a prelude of
that ftill glare of splendor which
bursts upon the view on ascending the
flight of steps leading from its lower
level up to the nave of the great ab-
bey church itself, which was dedicated
to St. Mary. Arrived at that point,
the spectator gazes upon a long vista

of some tour hundred feet, including
the nave and choir ; * passing up
through the nave, which has a double
line of arches, whose pillars are pro-
fusely sculptured, we come to the cen-
tral point in the transept, where there
are four magnificent Gothic arches,
which for imposing grandeur could
scarcely be equalled in- the world,
mounting up to the height of one hun-
dred feet, upon which rested the great
tower of the church. A portion of
one of these arches still exists, and
though broken retains its original
grandeur. In the transept running
north and south from this point are
four beautifully decorated chapels, St.
Mary's, in the north aisle ; Sl An-
drew's, in the south; Our Lady of
Loretto's, on the north side of the
nave ; and at the south angle that of
the Holy Sepulchre; another stood
just behind the tower, dedicated to St.
Edgar: in each of these are altars
richly adorned with glittering appoint-
ments, and beautifid glass windows,
stained with the ^figures of their
patron saints, the apostles, scriptural
scenes or episodes from the hagiology
of the Church ; then, running in a
straight line with the nave, complet-
ing the gigantic parallelogram, is the
choir, where the divine office is daily
performed. The body is divided into
stalls and seats for the abbot, the of-
ficers, and monks. At the eastern ex-
tremity stands the high altar, with its
profusion of decorative splendor,
whilst over it is an immense stained-
glass window, with semicircular top,
which pours down upon the altar, and
in fact bathes the whole choir, when
viewed from a distance, in a sea of
softened many-colored light The
flooring of the great church, like that
of St. Joseph's, is composed of encaus-
tic Norman tiles, inscribed with Scrip-
ture sentences, heraldic devices, and
names of kings and benefactors. Un-
derneath the great church is the crypt
— a dark vault divided into three com-
partments by two rows of strong mas-
sive pillars, into which, having de-
scended from the church, the spectator

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666

Gkutonhuty Albey, Peal and Pre$ent

enters ; the light of his torch is thrown
back from a hundred different points,
like the eyes of serpents glittering
through the darkness, reflected from
the bright gold and silver nails and
decorations of the coffins that lie piled
on all sides, and whose ominous shapes
can be just faintly distinguished.
This is the weird world, which exerts
a mysterious influence over the hearts
of the most thoughtless — ^the silent
world of death in life ; and piled up
around are the remains of whole gen-
erations long extinct of races of can-
onized saints, pious kings, devout
queens, mitred abbots, bishops, nobles
who gave all their wealth to lie here,
knights who braved the dangers of
foreign climes, the power of the
stealthy pestilence, and the scimitar of
the wild Saracen, that they might one
day come back and lay their bones in
this holy spot There were the gilded
coffins of renowned abbots, whose
names were a mighty power in the
world when they lived, and whose
thoughts are still i^ad with delight by
the votaries of another creed — ^e sil-
ver crosiers of bishops, the purple
cloth of royalty, and the crimson of
the noble — ^all slumbering and smol-
dering in the dense obscurity of the
tomb, but flashing up to the light once
more in a temporary brilliancy, like
the last ball-room effort of some aged
beauty — ^the aristocracy of death, the
coquetry of human vanity, strong even
in human corruption. Amongst the
denizens of this dark region are —
King Arthur and his queen Guinever,
Coel n., grandfather of Constantino
the Great, Kentwyn, king of the
West Saxons, Edmund I., Edgar and
Ironsides, St, David of Wales, arid St
Gildas, beside nine bishops, fifteen ab-
bots, and many others of note. Reas-
cending from this gloomy cavern to
the glories of the great church, we
wander amongst its aisles^ and as we
gaze upon the splendors of its choir,
we reflect that in this gorgeous tem-
ple, embellished by everything that
art and science could contribute, and
sanctified by the presenoe of its holy

altar, with its consecrated host, its
cherished receptable of saintly relics,
and its sublime mysteries, did these
devout men, seven times a day, for
centuries, assemble for prayer and
worship. As soon as the clock had
tolled out the hour of midnight, when
all the rest of the world was rocked in
slumber, they arose, and flocked in
silence to the church, where they re-
mamed in prayer and praise until the
first faint streaks of dawn began to
chase away the constellations of the
night, and then, at stated intervals
through the rest of the day, the ap-
pointed services were carried on, so
that the greater portion of their lives
was spent m this choir, whose very
walls were vocal with psalmody and
prayer. It was a grand offering to
the Almighty of human work and hu-
man life. In that temple was gather-
ed as a rich oblation everything that
the united labor of ages could create
and collect ; strong hands had dug out
its foundations in the bowels of the
earth, had hewn stubborn rocks into
huge blocks, and piled them up high
in the heavens, had fashioned them
into pillars and arches, myriads of
busy fingers had labored for ages at
its decoration until every colunniy
every cornice, and every angle bore
traces of patient toil ; the painter, the
sculptor, the poet, had all contributed
to its embellishment, strength created
it, genius beautified it, and the ever-
ascending incense of human contrition,
human adoration, and human prayer
completed the gorgeous sacrifice wluch
those devotees of mediaeval times of-
fered up in honor of him whose mys-
terious presence they venerated as the
actual and real inhabitant of their holy
of holies.

Retracing our steps once more to
the nave, we turn to take one linger-
ing glance at the scene : and here the
full beauty and magnificence of the
edifice bursts upon the view, the eye
wanders through a perfect stony forest
whose stately trees, taken at some
moment when their tops, bending to-
ward each other and interladng ti^em*

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Ghtstonhiry Ahbe^j PaH and Pn$mL

667

selves, had been petrified into the nat-
ural beauty c^ the Grothic arch ; here
and there were secluded spots where
the prismatic light fit>m painted win-
dows danced about the piUars like
straggling sunbeams through the thick
foliage of a forest glade. The clusters
of pillars resembled the gnarled bark
of old forest trees, and the grouped
ornaments of their capitols were the
points where the trunk itself spread
off into limbs and branches; there
were.grores and labyrinths running
far away into the interior of this
sculptured wood, and towering high in
the centre were those four kings of
the forest, whose to{» met far up in
the heavens — the true heart of the
scene, from which everything diverged,
and, with which everything was in
keeping. Then, as the spectator
stands, lost in the grandeur of the
spectacle, gazing in rapt wonder at
the sky-painted ceiling, or at some
fantastic gnarled head grinning at
him from a shady nook, the passing
whim of some mediaeval brain — ^a
f jiint sigh, as of a distant wind, steals
along those stony glades, gradually
increasing in volume, until presently
the full, rich tones of the choir burst
forth, the organ peals out its melodi-
ous thunder, add every areh and every
pillar vibrates with undulations of
harmonious sound, just as in the storm-
shaken forest every mighty denizen
bends his massive branches to the
fierce tempest-wind, and intones his
deep response to the wild music of
the storm. Before the power of that
music-tempest everything bowed, and
as the strains of some Gregorian chant
or the dii*ge-llke melody of some pen-
itentiid psalm filled the whole building
with its pathos, every figure seemed to
be invested with life, the mysterious
harmony between the building and
its uses was nuinifested, the painted
figures on the windows appeared to
join in the strain, a celestial chorus of
apostles, martyrs, and saints; the
statues in their niches threw back the
melody ; the figures reclining on the
tombs seemed to raise their clasped

hands in silent responce to its power,
as though moved in their stony slum-
ber by a dream of solemn sounds ; the
grotesque figures on the pillars and in
nooks and comers chanted the disso-
nant chords, which brought out more
boldly the general harmony; every
areh, with its entwined branches and
sculptured foliage, shook with the
stormy melody : all was instmct with
sympathetic life, until, the Airy of the
tempest dying away in fitful gusts,
the last breeze was wafled, the paint-
ed forms became dumb, the statues
and images grew rigid, the-folii^ was
still, all the sympatibedc vitality faded
away, and the sacred grove fell into
its silent magnificence.

Attached to the great chureh were
two offices — ^the sacristy and chnreh
treasury. In the former were kept
the sacred vestments, chalices, etc., in
use daily ; and in the latter were kept
all the valuables, such as sacred relics,
jewels and plate not in use, with mi-
tres, crosiers, cruces, and pectorals;
there was also a conf^sional for those
who wished to use it before going to
the altar. The care V>f these two
offices was committed to a monk elect-
ed by the abbot, who was called the
sacrist Coming out of the church
we arrive at the cloisters, a square
place, surrounded by a corridor of
piUars, and in the centre of the enclo-
sure was a flower-garden — ^this was
the place where the monks were ac-
customed to assemble at certain hours
to walk up and dowd* In pne of the
alleys of the cloister stood the chap-
ter-house, which, as it was the scene
of the most important events in their
monotonous lives, deserves a descrip«
tion. In this spot the abbots and
officers of the monastery were elected,
all the business of the house as a
body was discussed, faults were openly
confessed, openly reproved, and in
some cases corporal punishment was
awarded in the presence of the abbot
and whole convent upon s<Mne incor-
rigible offender, so that, beside being
an assembling room, it was a court
of complaint and correction. One

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668

Glastonbury Aibey, Past and PresenL

brother could accase anoOier openly,
when the matter was gone into, and
justice done. In all conventual insti-
tutions it was a weekly custom, and in
some a daily one, to assemble in the
chapter-house after one of the morn-
ing services (generally after primes),
when a sentence from the rule was
read, a psalm sung, and business at-
tended to. It was also an envied
burying-place ; and the reader, as he
stood at his desk in the chapter-house
of Glastonbury Abbey, stood over the
body of Abbot Chinnock, who himself
perfected its building, which was com-
.menced in 1803 by Abbot Fromont
In the interior, which was lit up by
a magnificent stained-glass window,
there were three rows of stone
benches one above another. On the
Boor there was a reading-desk and
bench apart; in a platform raised
above the other seats was the abbot's
renowned elbow-chair, which extra-
ordinary piece of monastic workman-
ship excited so much curiosity at the
great Exhibition of 1851. In the
middle of the hall was a platform call-
ed the Judgment, being the spot where
corporal punishment, when necessary,
was inflicted ; and towering above all
was a crucifix, to remind the brethren
of the sufferings of Christ In an-
other aUey of the cloisters stood the
fratery, or apartment for the novices,
which had its own refectory, common
room, lavatory, and dormitory, and
was governed by one of the priors.
Ascending the staircase, we come to
a gallery in which are the library, the
wardrobe, the common house, and the
common treasury. The library was
the first in England, filled with choice
and valuable books, which had been
given to the monastery from time
to time in its history by kings, schol-
ars, and devotees of all classes ; many
also were transcribed by the monks.
During the twelfth century, although
even then of great renown in the
world, it was considerably augmented
by Henricus Blessensis. or Henry of
Blois (nephew of Heniy I. and broth-
er of Stephen), who was abbot This

royal scholar had more books tran-
scribed during his abbacy than any of
his predecessors. A list is still ex-
tant — " De Ubns quos Henricus fynt
trcnucribere," in which are to be found
such works as Pliny " De NcUuraU
Historia" a book in great favor ai
that time ; ^' Originem super JSpistolas
Patdi ad Romanos^ " Vitas Gasor
rum" ^ Augustinum de TrinitaU"
etc

Here, too, as in every monastic li-
brary in the kingdom, was that old fiik-
vorite of conventual life, and still fa-
vorite with many a lonely student,
^ Boethius de GonsolaHone Philoso-
phies^ and many a great work from
the grim solitude of a prison cell,
cherished, too, as the link which con-
nected the modem Latinists with
those of the classic age. Housed up
in that lonely comer of the island, the
Glastonbury library was the store-
house of all the learning of the times ;
and as devotees bent their steps from
all climes toward the Glastonbury
relics and the Glastonbury shrine, »o
did the devotees of genius lovingly
wander to the Glastonbury library.
Leland, the old gossipping antiquarian,
has testified to its gk>ry, and given us
an amusing account of the reverential
awe with which he visited it not long
before the fatal dissolution of the mon-
astery. In the preliminary observa-
tions to his " Collectanea de Rebus
Britcmnicis"* he has put the follow-
ing upon record : — *^ £ram aliquot ab
hincannis Glessobui^i Somurotrignm
ubi antiquissimum simul et famosis-
simum est totius insulas nostras casno-
bium, animumque longo studioram la-
bore fessum, favente Ricardo Whit-
ingo,t ejusdem loci abbate, recreabam
donee novus quidam cum legendi turn
discendi ardor me infiammaret Sa-
pervenit autem ardor iUe citius opin-
ione ; itaque statim me contuli ad bib-
liothecam non omnibus perviam at
sacras sanctas vetustatis reliquias qaa-
rom tantus ibi numems quantus doUo

* ''Collect R^b. Brit." vi., page 87, Hefirnc's
edition,
t Richard Whiting, the lait Abbot

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GUistonhury Abbey, Pott and Present.

669

alio facile Britonniie loco diligentis-
sime eYoIverem. Vix certo limen in-
traveram cum antiquissimorum libro-
rum yd solas conspectus, religionem
nescio an staporem, animo incuteret
meo, eaqae de causa pedem paululum
sistebam. Deinde salutato loci nu-
mine per dies aliquot onmes forulos
curiosissime excussi.*'

But attached to the library was a^
department common to all the Bene-
dictine monasteries, where, during
long centuries of ignorance, the mate-
rials of modem education were pre-
served and perpetuated ; this office
was called the scriptorium, or domus
anHquariorum. Here were assem-
bled for daily labor a class of monks
selected for their superior scholarship
and writing ability ; they were divid-
ed into two classes, the anitquarii and
the librarii : the former were occupied
in making copies of valuable old
books, and the latter were engaged in
transcribing new ones, and works of an
inferior order. The books they copied
were the Scriptures, always in pro-
cess of copying j missals, books for
the service of the Church, worka on
theology, and any of the classics that
fell into their hands. St. David, the
patron saint of Wales, is said to hare
devoted much time to this work, and
at the period of his death had begun
to transcribe the gospel of St John
in letters of gold with his own hand.*
The instruments used in the work of
the scriptorium were pens, chalk, pum-
ice-stone for rubbing the parchment
smooth; penknives, and knives for
making erasures, an awl to make dots,
a ruler and inkstand. The greatest
care was taken by the transcriber, the
writing was always beautifully clear,
omissions were most scrupulously
noted in the margins, and all interlinea-
tions were mentioned and acknow-
ledged. In an old manuscript belong-
ing to the Carmelites, the scribe adds,
** I have signed it with the sign follow-
ing, and tiade a certain interlinea-
tion which says ^redU^ and another

• Girakhta Oam^m. in vitd Davidis Angl,
Sac, U.y 685.

which says ^ordinis* and another which
says * ordini,' and another which says
• circaJ *' So great was the care they
took to preserve the text accurately,
and free from interpolations. In these
secluded studies sprang up that art,
the most charming which the middle
ages have handed down to us, the art
of illumination, so vainly imitated by
the artists of the present day, not from
want of genius, but from want of some-
thing almost indescribable in the con-
ception and execution, a tone and pre-
servation of color, and especially of
the gilding, which was essentially pe-
culiar to the old monks, who must have
possessed some secret both of combi-
nation and fixing of colors which has
been lost with them. This elaborate
illumination was devoted to religious
books, psalms, missals, and prayer-
books ; in other works the first letters
of chapters were beautifully illuminat-
ed, and other leading letters in a lesser
degree. The scribe generally left
spaces for these, as that was the duty
of another; in the spaces were what
were called " leading letters," written
small to guide the illuminator; these
guide-letters may still be detected in
some books. So great was the love
of this art, that when printing dis-
placed the labors of the scribe, it was
customary for a long time to have the
leading letters left blank for illumina-
tion. Such were the peculiar labors
of the scriptorium, and to encourage
those who dedicated their time to it, a
special benediction was attached to the
office, and posterity, when satirizing
the monastic life, would do well to re-
member that the elegance of the satire
may be traced back again to these la-
bors, which are the materials for the
education and refinement of modem
thought ; we got our Bible from them,
we got our classics from them, and had
not such ruthless vandalism been ex-
ercised by those over-zealous men who
effected their dispersion, it is more than
probable that the learned world would
not have had to lament over, the lost
Decades of Livy. It is the peculiarity
of ignorance to be barbarous. There

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670

GlaUonhury Jhbey^ Past and Prueni.

18 very little difference between the
feeling which prompted a Caliph Omar
to bum the Alexandrian Library or a
Totila to destroy the achierements of
Roman art ; and the feeling had only
degenerated into the barbarity, with-
out the bravery, when it revived again
in the penon of our arch-iconociast,
Cromwell, of charch-devastating mem-
ory, who, however great his love of
piety many have been, must have had
a thorough hatred of architecture. The
care of ^e library and the scriptorium
was intrusted to the librarian. The
next department in the gallery was the
lavatory, fitted up with all the appli-
ances for washing ; and adjoining this
room was one arranged for shaving, a
duty to which the monks paid strict
attention, more especially to preserve
the tonsure. The next room was the
wardrobe, where their articles of cloth-
ing and bedding were stored, and in an
inner chamber was the tailory, where
a number of lay brethren, with a vo-
cation for that useful cratt, were con-
tinually at woi^ making and repair-
ing the clothes of the communitj.
These two rooms and the lavatory
were in charge of the'camerarius, or
chamberlain. The last abbot who sat
in the chair of Glastonbury was, as
we sliall see, elevated from this hum-
ble position to that princely dignity.
The common room was the next office, '
and this was fitted up with benches
and tables for the general use of the
monks ; a fire was also kept burning
in the winter, the only one allowed for
general purposes. The last chamber
in the corridor was the common treas-
ury, a strong receptacle for ready
money belonging to the monastery,
charters, registers, books, and accounts
of the abbey, all stored up in iron
chests. In addition to being the
strong room of the abbey, it had an-
other important use. In those uncer-
tain times it was the custom for both
nobles and gentry to send their deeds,
family papers, and sometimes their
plate and money, to the nearest mon-
astery, where, by permission of the ab-
boty they were intrusted to the care of

the treasurer for greater security ; in the
wildest hour, when the castle was giv-
en up to $re and sword, the abbey was
always held in reverence; for, inde-
pendently of its sacred character, it
was endeared to the people by the free-
handed charity of its almonry and re-
fectory kitchen. Retracing our st^ps
along the corridor, and ascending an-
other flight of stairs, we come to the
dormitory, or dortoir, a large passage
with oeUs on either side ; each monk
had a separate chamber, very small,
in wliich there was a window, but no
chimney, a narrow bedstead, furnish-
ed with a straw bed, a mattress, a bol-
ster of straw, a coarse blanket, and a
i^ag ; by the bedstead was a prie-Dieu,
or desk, with a crucifix upon it, to
kneel at for the last and private devo-
tions; another desk and table, with
shelves and drawers for books and pa-
pers ; in the middle was a cresset, or
stone-lantern, with a lamp in it to give
them light when they arose in the
middle of the night to go to matins ;
this department also was under the
care of the chamberlain. . One more
chamber was called the infirmary,
where the sick were immediately re-
moved, and treated with the greatest
attention; this was in the charge of
an officer called the infirmarius. We
now descend these two flights of stairs,
issue from the cloisters, imd, bending
our steps to the south-west, we come
to the great hall, or refectory, where
the whole convent assembled at meals.
At Giaotonbury there were seven long
tables, around which, and adjoining
the walls, were benches for the monks.
The table at the upper end was for
the abbot, the priors, and other heads,
the two next for the priests, the two
next for such as were in orders, bat
not priests, and such as intended to
enter into orders ; the lower table on
the right hand of the abbot was for
such as were to take orders whom the
other two middle tables could not hold,
and the lower table on the left of the
abbot was reserved for the lay breth-
ren. In a convenient place was a
pulfut, where one of the monks, at the

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GUutonbufy Ahbey^ Past cmd PreienL

671

appointmekit of the abbot, read por-
tions of the Old and New Testament
in Latin every day during dinner
and sapper. The routine of dinner,
as indeed the routine of aU their
meals, was ordered by a system of
etiquette as stringent as that which
prevails in the poorest and smallest
German court of the present day.
The snb-prior, who generally presided
at the table, or some one appointed
by him, rang the bell ; the monks,
having previously performed their
ablutions i« the lavator}", then came
into the great hall, and bowing to
the h^h table, stood in their places
till the sub-prior came, when they
resumed their seats; a psahn was
sung, and a short service followed by
way of grace. The sub-prior then
gave the benediction, and at the end
they uncovered the food, the sub-prior
beginning ; the soup was then handed
round, and the dinner proceeded; if
anything was wanted it was brought
by the cellarer, or one of his assist-
ants, who attended, when both the
bringer and receiver bowed. As soon
as the meal Was finished the cellarer
collected the spoons ; and so stringent
was the etiquette, that if the abbot
dined with the household (which he
did occasionally) he was compelled to
carry the abbot's spoon in his right
band and the others in his left ; when
all was removed the sub-prior ordered
the reading to conclude by a *< Tu
antem,'' and the reply of " Dei gra-
tias ;" the reader then bowed, the re-
maining food was covered, the bell
was rung, the monks arose, a verse of
a psalm was sung, when they bowed
and retired two by two> singing the
" Miserere."

A little further toward the south
stood the guest-house, where all visi-
tors, from prince to peasant, were re-
ceived by ^e hospitaller with a kiss
of peace, and entertained. They were
allowed to stay two days and two
nights ; on the third day after dinner
they were expected to depart, but if
not convenient they could procure an
extension of their stay by application

to the abbot This hospitality, so
generously accorded^was often abused
by sons of donors and descendants of
benefactors, who saddled themselves
and their retinues upon the 'monas-
teries frequently, and for a period
commensurate with the patience of
the abbot ; and to so great an extent
did this evil grow that statutes were
enacted to relieve the abbeys so op-
pressed. Not far from the refectory,
toward the west, stood the albbot's pri-
vate apartments, and still further to
the west the great kitchen, which was
one of the wonders of the day ; its
capacity may be ims^ned when we
reflect that it had frequently to pro-
vide dinner for four or five hundred
guests; but the arrangements and
service of the kitchen deserve notice.
Every monk had to serve as hebdom
adary, or dispenser, whose duty it was '
to appoint what food was to be dressed
and to keep the accounts for the week.
Upon taking office he was compelled
to wash the feet of the brethren, and
upon yielding it up to the new heb-
domadaiy he was obliged to see that
all the utensils were clean. St. Ben-
edict strictly enjoined this rule upon
them, in order that, as Christ their
Lord washed the feet of his disciples,
they might wash each others' feet, and
wait upon each others' wants. The
Glastonbury kitchen is the only build-
ing which still remains entire ; it was
built wholly of stone, for the better
security from fire ; on the outside it is
a four-square, and on the inside an
eight-square figure; it had four
hearths, was twenty feet in height to
the roof, which ran up in a figure of
eight triangles; from the top hung
suspended a huge lantern.* Attach-
ed to the kitchen was the almonry, or
eleemosynarium, where on Wednes*
days and Fridays the poor people of
Glastonbury and its neighborhood
were liberally relieved. This duty
was committed to a grave monk, who

* strangle vlciBsitades of kitchens— In 1667 this
OlABtonbitry AbbeT kitchen was hired by the
QoAken ae a meetine-hoaae ; In the fhlnesa of
tune, where monaBtlclsm cooked Ita mntton
Qnakardom wtX in triumph.

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672

Glastonhufy Ahbey^ Past and Present.

was called the almoner, or eleemosy-
nariusy and who had to inquire after
the poor and sick. No abbots in the
kmgdom were more liberal in the dis-
chai'ge of these two duties of their
office, hospitality and almsgiving, than
the abbots of Glastonbury. It was
not an unusual thing for them to en-
tertain 500 guests at a sitting, some
of whom were of the first rank in the
country, ajid the loose charge of riot-
ous feasting which has been thought-
lessly made against the monastic life
by hostile historians becomes modified
when we recollect that in that age
there were scarcely any wayside inns
in the country, and all men, when
travelling, halted at the monastery
and looked for refreshment and shel-
ter as a matter of right ; neither had
that glorious system of union work-
houses been thought of, and therefore
the sick and the poor fell at once to
the care of the monastery, where they
were cheerfully relieved and tenderly
treated. Last, but not least, was the
department for boys — another little
detached community, with its own
school-room, dormitory, refectory, hall,
etc. One of the monks presided over
them. They were taught Christian
doctrine, music, grammar, and, if any
showed capacity, the subjects neces-
sary for the university. They were
maintained free, and had to officiate in
the c^^urch as choristers ; a system
maintained almost to the letter up to
the very present moment William
of Malmesbury records that in the
churchyard of Glastonbury Abbey
stood some very ancient pyramids
close to the sarcophagus of King
Arthur. The tallest was nearest the
church, twenty-six feet in height, con-
sisting of five stories, or courses ; in
the upper course was the figure of a
' bishop, in the second of a king, with
this inscription — ^her. sexi. and
BLisvYERH. In the third the names

WEMORESTE, BANTOMP, WENETHEGN.

In the fourth — hate, wvlprede, and
EANFLEDE. In the fiflh, and last, the
figure of an abbot, with the following
inscription — loqwor, weslielas

and BREGDENE, SVYELTVES HVTINQ-

endes, and berne. The other pyra-
mid was eighteen feet in height, and
consisted of four stories, whereoa
were inscribed in large letters hedde
Episcopus bregorred and beory-
VALDE. William of Malmesbury could
give no satisfactory solution to the
meaning of these inscriptions beyond
the suggestion that the teord brbg-
DENE must have meant a place then
called " BrentacnoUe," which now ex-
ists under the name of Brent Ejiowle,
and that beorwalde was Beorwald,
the abbot after Hemigselus. He con-
cludes his speculation, however, with
the sentence — :"Quid haec significcnt
non temere difiinio sed ex suspicione
colligo eorum interius in cavatis lapi-
dibus contineri ossa quorum exterius
leguntur nomma."*

The man who ruled over this min-
iature world, with a state little short of
royalty, was endowed with proportion-
ate dignities ; being a member of the
upper house of convocation and a
parliamentary baron, he sat robed
and mitred amongst the peers of the
country ; in addition to his residence
at the abbey he had four or five rural
retreats at easy distances from it, with
parks, gardens, fisheries, and every
luxury ; his household was a sort of
court, where the sons of noblemen
and gentlemen were sent to be trained
and educated. When at home he
royally entertained his 300 guests,
and when he went abroad he was at-
tended by a guard of 100 men. The
rent-roll of the monastery has been
computed to amount to m6re than
£300,000 per annum, which in these
days would be equal to nearly half a
million. Up to the year 1154 lie
ranked also as First Abbot of Eng-
land, and took precedence of all
others; but Adrian the Fourth, the
only Englishman who ever ascended
the papal chair, bestowed that honor
upon the Abbot of St. Albans, where
he had received his education. The
church, and different offices which
clustered round it, formed a kingdom,
* GoUel. Malma. Hist. GJutoiL

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QUulionbuiry Mbey^ Pott and PretmL

678

07er which he raled with absolute
power. This description of the build-
ii^ and adjuncts of the abbey maj
not be inaptly closed by ^giving a
^etch of the outline of a monastic
day, which will assist the reader to
ftMrm a deafer idea of the monastic
tife« At two in the morning the beU
tolled for matins, when eyery monk
arose, and after perfonning his pri-
Tate devotions hastened to tibe chnrch,
and took his seal;. When all were
assembled fifteen psalms were sung,
then came the noctnm, and more
psalms ; a short interval ensued, duiv
ing which the chanter choir and those
who needed it had permission to re-
tire for a short time if they wished ;
then followed lauds, which were gen-
erally finished by six A.M., when the
bell rang for prime; when this was
fimshed the monks continued reading
till seven o^dock, when the bell was
rung and they returned to put on their
day clothes. Afterward, the whole
convent having performed their abln-
tjcms and broken their fast, proceeded
again to the church, and the bell was
rung for tierce i^t nine o'clock. Af-
ter tierce came the morning mass, and
as soon as that was over they marched
in procession to the chaptei^house for
business and correction of faults.
This ceremony over, the monks work-
ed or read till sext, twelve a.m., which
service concluded, they dined ; then
followed the hour's sleep in their
clothes in the dormitory, unless any 6f
them preferred reading. Nones com-
menced at three p jc, first vespers at
four, then work or reading till second
vespers at seven, afterward reading
till collation ; then came the service of
complin, confession of sins, evening
prayers, and retirement to rest about
nine p.m .

That was the life pursued at Glas-
tonbury Abbey, according to the Ben-
edictine rule, nom the time of its es-
tablishment there until the dissolution
of the monastery, nearly ten centuries.
With our modem training and predi>-
lections, it is a marvel to us that men
eoold be found willing to submit to

VOL. u 48

such a monotonous career — ^t^i houre
a day spent in the church, be^nning
in the middle of the night, winter and
summer. And yet the monastery
was always full. We read (rf no
breaking up of institutions for want
of devotees, and we are driven to the
conclusion that in the age when the
monastic life was in its power and
purity these men could have been
actuated by none other than the mo-
tive of strong religious fervor — a fer-
vor of which we in modem times have
neither conception nor example. The
operation of the influence of that
life upon the history of these islands
can only be contemplated by watching
it in the various phases of its action
upon the politics, literature, and art
by which it was surrounded, and for
that purpose we have selected this
oldest and grandest specimen of Eng-
lish monastidsm, so fmntly described,
the mother Church of our country, m
whose career so brilliant, so varied,
and so tragically ended, we hope to
be able to show wherein was the
glory, the weakness, and the ruin of
the system, as it rose, flourished, and
fell in England.

We have endeavored to conjure up
from the shadowy realms of the past
some faint representation of what
Glastonbury Abbey was in the days
of its glory ; let us now transfer our-
selves i^m the age of towered abbeys,
wandering pilgrims, monks, cloisters,
and convent bells to this noisy, riot-
ous, busy time in the year of grisiee
1865 — ^from the Glastonbury Abbey
of the sixteenth century to the Glas-
tonbury Abbey of to-day.

It is only within the last ten years
that the deep slumber of that quiet
neighborhood has been disturbed by
the noise and bustle of this busy life-—
that a railroad has gone out of its way
to upset the sedate propriety of eccle-
siastical Wells, or the peaceftil repose
of monasterial Glastonbury ; hitherto
the stillness and quiet of that lovdy
country was the same as when mass
was sung in the superb cathedral of
the one place, and llie palmer or the

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674

GUutonbunf AVbeyy Pott and PruetU.

penitent bent his steps to the holy well
of the other. But alas 1 the life of
the nineteenth centniy has broken in
upon it; the railway has dashed
through that beautiful valley with its
sacrilegous march ; and at Wells^ the
cathedral of Ina, with its matchless
front, studded with apostles and mar*
tjTS, kings, bishops, knights, and mys-
tic emblems, vocal as it were with his-
tory, now frowns upon the conten-
tions of two rival companies ; whilst
at Glastonbury there is a railway sta-
tion erected almost over the very bones
of the saints. Alighting from this, we
make our way to the ruins ; but as we
go, will just view their past history.
After the dissolution of the abbey
there was an effort nuide to restore it
in the time of Mary, but unavailingly ;
from that period it was allowed to fall
into decay. It is difficult to estimate
whether the hand of man or the hand
of time has been busier about its spoli-
ation. At the period of Cromwell,
who loved to worship God in the ^' ug-
liness of holiness," it must have been
nearly entire, but that hero could not
pass the town without putting a shot
through those unoffending ruins in the
name of the Lord, which act, how-
ever appropriate as an expression of
Puritan feeling, was sadly detrimental
to the architecture of Glastonbury
Abbey. Then in 1667, as we have al-
ready alluded to, the Quakers got pos-
sessicm of the kitchen, hired at a nom-
inal rent, paid in hard Quaker money
— ^that glorious kitchen, sanctified by
so much saintly cookery — ^for their
grim assemblies. There is a great
deal of what is aptly called the '^ro-
mance" of history in this fact if we
only had time to think about it — ^that
it should come to this, monasticism
with its princely jiead, its grand relig-
ions life and ceremonies, its pain|ing
and staining, its chanting and inton-
mg, itself in all its glory, driven from
the face of the country, and modem
Quakcrdom sitting silent in its ruined
kitchen waiting to be ^' moved." It
has suffered much, also,fTom the gross
v andalism of the people themselves.

Naturally a simple people, they of
course knew nothing of antiquarian-
isnu although that science is irrever-
ently said to master many simples
among its votaries. For years then
it was their practice to use the mate-
rials of the abbey for building pur-
poses, and it is not difficult to find scat-
tered for miles around the country, in
farmhouses and even in hovels, por-
tions of sculpture over doorways and
fireplaces which speak of medieval
worionanship. But a worse degrada-
ti<Mi still befel the place, and the walls
which at one time would have been
regarded as invested with the odor
of sanctity, and even now are sacred
to US' as a priceless historical monu-
ment, were actually sold as materials
for mending the roads, to the lastiDg
shame of overseerdom and the powers
that were at Gkstonbuiy. But the
day for building huts or mending
roads with ecclesiastical sculpture is
gone, and the little that remains of
Glastonbury Abbey has found its way
into the hands of diose who appear to
know how to preserve it, and have the
intention to do so. After all this de-
cay and vandalism very little is left
of the old abbey — some portions of
St. Joseph's church with the crypt —
some walls of the choir of the great
church ; the two east pillars of the
tower, forming a grand broken arch, a
lasting memento of the original splen-
dor ; there are portions, abo, of some
of the chapels and the abbot^s kitchen,
the most complete of all. The eye is
at once arrested by the portals of Sl
Joseph's church, which sdU remain in
a tolerable state of preservation, suffi-
cient to enable one to form an idea of
what a triumph of decorative art they
were. Nothing could be more pro-
fusely ornamented than the northern
portal; it was composed of semi-dicn-
lar arches, receding in succession and
diminishing in sice as they recede into
the body of ihe building ; the exterior
arch being about twelve feet by eleven,
and theinteriorninefeetbysiz. The
four fasciae are covered with scnlptor-
ed representations supposed to be oom-

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Glagtanbury Alheyy Pott and Preient

675

memoradons of rojal and noble peo-
ple connected witL the monasteiT^ —
saints, pilgrims, and knights. The
fbnns graven on these fa8cia3 are inter-
preted in Warner's History of Glas-
tonbnrj to represent the following sub-
jects. The uppermost fascia is aJmost
obliterated, though still showing a run-
ning pattern of tendrils and leaves in-
terspersed with figures of men and ani-
mals ; toward the centre the sculp-
ture is much mutilated, though some-
thing can be traced like the effigj of a
person in long robes seized on the
shoulder by a furious animal. Be-
yond him are indistinct remains of
three or foc^r upright figures, and the
rest is filled up by foliage. The sec-
ond fascia is made up of eighteen sep-
arate ovals, each of which contained a
distinct subject ; the two first are de-
faced ; the third contains a person ap-
parently kneeHng; the fourth, a fe-
male with a head-dress sitting on a
conch; the fiflh, a female on horse-
back; the sixth, a man on horseback ;
the seventh, a crowned personage on
horseback ; the eighth, the body of a
deceased person stretched on a couch,
with a canopy over it, the corpse cov-
ered, and the head resting on a pillow ;
nine and ten the same ; eleven, a
knight in a coat of chain armor, with
a pointed shield charged with the
cross, indicative of a crusader;
twelve, a regal personage with a flow-
ing beard and in long robes, crowned,
and sitting on a throne ; thirteen, a
knight in chain armor falling from his
horse as if wounded ; fourteen, a fig-
ure li^e the former, the right arm
stretched out and holding a sword
which impales an infant ; fifleen, the
upright figure of a female with a veil,
apparently in male costume ; sixteenth,
another body stretched out on a couch ;
seventeen, unintelligible; eighteen, a
figure of a pilgrim. The intervals
between all these ovals are sculp-
tured into foliage. There can be- very
little doubt that the subjects contained
in these ovals were the representations
of monarchs, knights, persons, and
events connected with the history of

the abbey. The fourth fascia is much
mutilated; but Warner thinks it re-
ferred to some act of munificence, from
the canopied couch it displays, with a
figure recumbent upon it and repre-
sentations of angels guarding it. The
portal toward the south was on a
similar plan to tha northern, but with
five instead of four fascice. One, two»
and five are covered with finely chis-
eled foliage ; the third is plain ; the
fourth only partially, worked. Ac-
cording to the authority already men-
tioned, the only two ovals which are
complete represent in the first the cre-
ation of man, and in the second
the eating of the fruit. In the
former is to be seen an upright
figure with a nimbus or glory round
its head, designating the Almighty
in the act of ^ling man into being,
and at his feet is man himself. In
the latter there is the tree with
Satan behind it, and Adam and Eve
sitting with the apples. The appear-
ance of these two portals, independent
of the interest lent them by Warner's
speculations as to their import, is very
striking. In their perfection they
must have been masterpieces of that
exquisite taste and minute labor which
the men of that age devoted to the
embellishment of the church. Taking
the ruins in a mass, it would be diffi-
cult to find anywhere such a specimen
of broken grandeur. Standing upon
the spot at the extreme east, where
was the high altar of the church, the
eye wanders down a grand vista of
some five hundred feet, relieved in the
midst by that 'solitary, magnificent,
broken arch towering up high in the
air, with rich festoons of ivy hanging
about it in lavish luxuriance like the
tresses of some gigantic beauty, and
far down in the distance are the
crumbling remains of St Joseph's
chapel, the gem of the whole, with its
arched windows and profuse decora-
tion, the tops of its walls covered over
with straggling parasites, which curl
over its brow like the scanty locks of
sere old age. And as we reflect that
this sacred spot was the cradle of our

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676

Qhilonhur^ AJtbey, Pott and Pre$mU.

Christianity; that this building was
the mother of our Qiarch ; that far
bock in the bjgone ages of barbarism
vagrant mis^onaries wandered footp-
sore and worn to this veiy spot;
planted with their own hands the
cross of Christ ; built up with those
hands the rude rush-covered shed
which served as the first temple rais-
ed to God in these islands; spent
their lives here in preaching that good
tidings to a benighted pagan people,
laid their bones down by the side of
the woriit of their hands, and left their
mission to their successors ; that in
process of time this little community
became a mighty power, and that
rush-covered shed a splendid temple,
whose history is collateral with that of
the country for nearly twelve centu-
ries, and now it lies all battered and
broken, cnimbling away and wasting
like human life itself— ^the mind
shrinks appalled at the thought of the
vicissitude which brought about so
compile a ruin.

'* O who thy rnine sees, whom wonder doth not

SU
With oior sTMt fithen* pompe, deyotion, and

their BklU?
Thon more than moiiall power (this Jadgment

rightly waid)
Then present to assist at that foundation

laid;
On whom for this sad waste, should Justice

lay the crime ?
Is there a power in fhte Y or doth it yield to

Umef
Or was this error snch that thon oonld^st not

protect
Those buildings which thy hands did with their

seal erect ?
To whom dld*Bt thou commit that monument

to keepe ?
That snffereth with the dead their memory to

aleepe.
When not great Arthnr^s tombe, nor Holy Jo-
seph's graye, •
From sacrilege had power their sacred bones

to save :
He who that Qod-in-Man to his sepulchre

brought,
Or he which for the Ihlth twelre fkmons

battles fought :
What ? did so many Kings do honoir to that

place
For avarice at last so Tilely to defhce ?" *

In the neighborhood of the town is
a hill known all over the world by the
name of Wearyall Hill, so called (ac-
cording to the chronicles) because St.
Joseph and his companiims sat down
here to rest themselves, weary with

* Drayton's PolyolUon

their journey. As the l^end goes
St. Joseph is said to have stuck hk
staC in the earth and left it there,
when lo 1 it took root, grew, and con-
stantly budded on Chnstmas Day !
This was the legendary origin of tiie
fiuvfamed holy thorn. Up to the
time of Queen Elisabeth it had two
trunks or bodies, and so continued un-
til some nasal psahn-spoiler of Cram-
well's ^ crew^ exterminated one, leav-
ing the other to become the wonder of
all strangers, who even then b^^ to
flock to the place. The blossoms of
this remaining branch of the holj
thorn became such a curiosity that
there was a general demand for them
from all parts of the world, and llie
Bristol merchants, then very great
people in their '^ line,'' turned this re-
lic of the saint into a matter of com-
mercial speculation, and made goodly
sums of money by ezportittg the blofr-
sums to foreign countries. There are
trees from the branches of this iiioni
growing at the present moment in
many oif the gardens and nurseries
round about Glastonbury, nay, all
over England, and in various parts
of the Continent The probability
is, as suggested by CdQinson in hia
<< History of Somerset," that the
monks procured the tree from Pal-
estine, where many of the same sort
flourish.

In the abbey church-yaid, on the
north side of St Joseph's chapei;
there was also a wahiut tree which,
it was said, never blosscHued before
the feast of St Barnabas (the 11th
June). This is gone. These two trees,
the holy thorn and the sacred walnut,
were held in high estimation even
long after the monasteries had disap-
pewed from the land. Queen Anne,
King James, and many of the nofaili^
of the realm are said to have given
large sums of money for cuttings from
them ; so that the ^odor of sanoti^
dung about the old walls of Glaston-
bury long after its ^oiy had departed;
nay, ev^ the belief in its mixaeafous
waters lingered in the pc^nlar mind,
and was even revived by a singnlaT

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ObfUmbmy JMey^ Pagt and JVeidiit

677

ineideiit ao kte as^the year 1751.
The curcamstanoes are somewhat aa
follows }— One Matthew Chancellor, of
North Wootton, had been sufiermg
irom an asthma of thirty yean' stan£
ing, and on a certain night in the au-
tmnn of 1750, having had an unnsiial-
Ij violent fit of coughing, he fell
asleep, and, aecording to the deposi-
tions taken npon his oath, dreiuned
that he was at Glastonbury, some-
where above the chain gate, in a horse
tniek, and there found some of the
clearest water he ever saw in his life ;
that he knelt down and drank of i^
and upon getting up, fancied he saw
some one standing before him, who^
pointing with his finger to the stream,
thus addressed him : ^ If you will go
to the freestone shoot, and take a
dean glass, and drink a glassful fatt-
ing seven Sunday mornings following,
aiMl let no person see you, you will
find a perfect cure of your disorder,
and then make it public to the world.^
He asked him why he should drink it
only on Sunday mornings, and the
person replied that ^ the world was
made in six days, and on the seventh
day God rested from his labor, and
blessed it : beside, this water comes
out of the holy ground where a great
many saints and martyrs have been
buried." The person also told him
something about Christ himself being
baptized, but this he could notdis-
tmctly remember when he awoke.
Impelled by this dream, the man kept
the secret to himself, and went on the
Sunday morning following to Glaston-
bury, which was three miles from the
place where he lived, and found it ex-
actly according to his dream ; but be-
ing a dry time of the year, the water
did not run very plentiftiUy ; however,
dripping his glaiss three times in the
pool beneath the shoot, he managed
to drink a quantity equal to a glass-
Ad, giving Grod thanks at the same
time. This he continued to do for
seven times, according to the injuno
tioti of the dream, at Uie end of which
period he had entirely lost his oom^
plamt. The effect of this stoiy is re-

markable. As soon as it was noised
abroad, thousands of people of all
sects came flocking to Glastonbury
from every quarter of the kingdom to
partake of the waters of this stream.
Every inn and house in the town, and
for some distance round, was filled
with lodgers and guests; and it is
stated upon reliable authority that
during the month of May, 1751, the
town contained upward of ten thou-
sand strangers. Even to thb day,
there is a notioa amongst the peas-
antry, more especially the old wo*
men of hath sexes, that the water is
good for the ^ rheumatiz."

After the scenes of violence, the
ruthless vandalism, which this old
abbey has gone through, it cannot be
a matter dT surprise that so little re-
mains of all its grandeur ; but it is a
fact much to be lamented^ because, as
it was in its time one of the grandest
ecclesiastical edifices in .the country,
so, if it had been preserved intact
like its old rival, the cathedral at
Wells, it would have been one of the
most important and valuable items
in the monumental history of Eng-
land; that broad page where every
nation writes its own autobiography ;
how valuable we find it in our re-
searches as to the life of bygone
times ; and yet how little do we ap-
pear to do in this way as regards our
own fame ; how little do we cultivate
our monumental history. One of the
most lasting evidences of greatness
which a country can leave behind it
tor the admiration and instrucfticm of
posterity, is the evidence of its na^
tional architecture — its architecture
in the fullest sense of the term, not
its mere roofe and walls, but the acts
which it writes upon those walls, its
statues and monuments. There are
only two agencies by which national
fame can be perpetuated — ^literature
and art. The pen of the historian or
the poet may give the outline of na-
tional manners and the description of
national achievements, but art, as it
exists in the extant monuments of the
architectmte of that naition, gives the

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678

Gkutonhury Alhey^ Pati and Present.

repreBentation of the actual life aB it
was, fiUfi up the outline, and presents
us with something like the substance :
it does not describe, but illustrate ; it
is, in fact, the petrified manifestation
of the very life itself. We have read
much about the splendor of those ex-
tinct dvilizatious of the Pharaohs, and
of the marvels of Babylonish grandeur,
but what a fiood of light was thrown
upon our dim conceptions by the re-
suscitated relics of a buried Nineveh 1
In Grecian poets and Grecian his-
torians we make the acquaintance of
the heroes and the heroism of that
heroic existence ; but in the Elgin
marbles we see the men and the deeds
in all their natural grandeur, petrified
before us in the graphic sublimity of
motionless life. To come a little
nearer our own times and to the mother
of our civilization, what a confirmation
of the historic tradition of the Rome
of our studies have we found under
that hardened lava which for centuries
lias formed the tombstone of Hercular
nenm and Pompeii. What vivid illus-
trations of Roman life and Roman
manners are continually being discover-
ed in those buried cities ; and so of
every nation and time it is its history
which narrates its glory, but it is its
architecture alone which must illus-
trate and confirm it There is no fear
of the present age of our country leav-
ing no evidence of its power behind it
That evidence is written in indelible
characters deep even to the very
bowels of the earth itself, through the
heart of mountains, over broad rivers,
across plains, its scroll has been the
broad bosom of the country, upon
which it has engraven its character
truly with a pen of iron ; but there is
a danger that we shall leave very little
monumental history behind us in our
architecture. ♦ • • ♦

Protestantism, too, was an iconoclast
as regards Catholicism, but it content-
ed itself with desecrating temples,
pulling down altars, tearing away
paintings, but it substituted nothing in
their place ; it would admit of no al-
lurements in the Church bat that of

genuine piety, a^d supplied no attrac-
tions for the liiougfatless, the careless,
the unbelieving, but its bare walla and
cold ministrations. This feeling is
now undergoing a marked change ; we
are beginning to see that plainness in
externals may conceal a considerable
amount of pride and worldliness, and
thus Quakers are leaving off their
curious garb, and Methodists are build-
ing temples ; it is beginning to dawn
upon men's minds, at last, that ugliness
is one of the most inappropriate sacri-
fices man can offer to lus God, that as
in the olden times the patriarchs used
to offer up the first-fruits of the field,
so in these later times we should oflfer
up the first-lruits of our achievements ;
the choicest productions of art, science,
and evory form of human genius should
h# presented to him who is the God
of all humanity. As we raise up
temples to his honor and glory, where
we may come with our supplications
for his mercy, our adoration of his
power, where we may bring our purest
thoughts, our noblest hopes, our
highest aspirations, and our best emo-
tions ; so let us decorate that temple
with the best works of our hands as
we hallow it with the best feelings of
our hearts. The reason given by
Solomon for exerting all the power
and wealth of his kingdom to decorate
the temple was simply, ^ This house
which I build is great, for great is our
God above all gods;"* and the ap-
proval and acceptance of it by him for
whom it was built is recorded in his
own words : '< Now mine eyes shall be
open, and mine ears attent unto the
prayer that is made in this place, for
now have I chosen and sanctified this
house, that n^y name may be there (or
ever, and mine eyes and mine heart
shall be there perpetually." And that
we may not go to the other extreme,
as some churches have done and 'do
in our day, and imagine that if vre
decorate our temple with all the choic-
est offerings we can bring it is enough,
and God will be satisfied with the
mere offering, there is, following im-
*tGliroii.lLlli.

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CRattanlbunf Ahbeyy Pa$i (md Prnent

679

mediately apoa his gracious acceptance
and approval of Solomon's temple,
the solemn warning in his own words :
^ But if je torn away and forsake my
statates and my commandments, which
I have set be£[>re you, and shall go
and serve other gods, and worship
them, then will I pluck them up by
the roots out of my knd which I have
given them ; and this house which I
have sanctified for my name will I cast
oat of my sight, and will make it to be
a proverb and a byword among all
nations. And this house which is h^h
shall be an astonishment to every one
that passeth by it, so that he shall say,
^ Why hath the Lord done this unto
this land and unto this house T And
it shall be answered, ' Because they
forsook the Lord God of their fathers,
which brought them forth out o^the
land of Egypt, and laid hold on other
gods, and worshipped them and served
them; therefore hath he brought all
this evil upon tlTem."'* That is the
canon of church building as ordain-
ed by God himself—omake the church
as grand an offering as you can, but
keep the ritual pure — ^fill the temple
with all the emblems of his glory, but
remember that it is he only who is to
be worshipped. Such is the teaching
of revelation; and now we turn to
natore, that boundless temple which
God has built up to himself with his
own hands. Had he been a God of
mere utility instead of a God of beauty
and gloxy ; had he only considered the
bare convenience and accommodation
of the human race, a proportionate
amoont of dry land in one place, and

• % Chron. tU. 15, m^.

a proportionate amount of water in
another, would have sufficed to meet
all human wants ; there was no
practical need for the variegated as-
pect, of natural scenery, of hill and
dale, mountain and valley, of rippUng
stream and sweet-smelling flowers;
but the world of nature was built for
something higher than the mere dwell-
ing place of man. It was built as a
temple in which he should honor his
God, and which was therefore filled
with a myriad of beauties to excite
his admiration, to please his eye, to
fill his soul with gratitude and joy,
and to raise his heart to that God who
has given him such a beautiful home,
fiimished not only with the means of
supplying his necessities, but embel-
lished with the choicest beauties of
creative power. What is nature bat
a gorgeous temple, laid out and deco-
rated by the hand of Grod himself,
with its broad pavement tesselated
with endless varieties of verdure,
with mountain altars which Christ
himself loved to frequent and hallow
with his prayefs, its long aisles fretted
with luxurious foliage pillared with
tall trees, which bend their tops to-
gether in the matchless symmetiy of
nature's arch, all vocal with the deep-
toned music of rushing waters, and
melodies warbled by the unseen song-
sters of the air, spanned over with the
boundless blue ceiling of heaven itself,
lit up by day with the sunshine of his
majesty, and at night by the stars
placed there with his own hands ?

L^t us, whilst we endeavor to get
at the truth of history, appeal also to
revelation and nature.

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680 Oity AspiraiHm$.

From Tbe St. Jamei jfagmrine.

CITY ASPIRATIONS.

Oh, not in the town to die I

With its restless trampling to and froy
And its traffic-hubbub above, below.

And the whirling wheels that hurry by.

And the chimney forests, blacken'd and high-*

Ohy mercy I not in a town to die !

In a town I may live, and striye, and toil, j

And grow a part of the lirinff turmoil ;

A cog-wheel in a machine ^men.

Turning to labor again and again,

Doing my work with the multitude,

With a spirit wean'd, and a heart subdued,

Pausing sometimes, in a moment of ease,

To yearn and sigh for a meadow breeee,

For the whispering rustle of summer trees,

And the dreamy murmur of golden bees,

And the field-path margined by many a flower.

And the village church with its grey old tower ;

Yet still, for sake of my babes and thee.

Sweet wife, I may work courageously;

May bide in a town, and with iron will

Go laboring on in the hubbub still.

Where the wheels of the man-machine ever spin,

Money, and money, and money, to win.

But to di0 In a, town, in turmoil and smoke,
'Mongst houses, and chimneys gaunt &Qd higb.

When the silken cord of the soul is broke,
Methinks the vi^rs so heavy would lie.
It scarce could soar, as it should, to the sky.
Oh, live as I may, to brook it I'll try-
But, mercy ! not in a town to die 1

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Tke Faculty of BoarU in the Time of MoUire.

681

From Tbe Mentli.

THE FACULTY OF PARIS IN THE TIME OF MOLlfeHK

Ih a former number we gave a
slight sketch of the laws and etiquBttes
of the old French Medical Facaltj*
The state of things there described
was already on the wane when Mo*
hi^re dealt it a blow, from the effects
of which it never recovered. But
there is one diaracteristic<^ the position
of the medical body which is inherent
in its very nature, and is likely to be
as enduring as the world itself, allow-
ing for the modifications of varying
times and changing manners. So
long as our poor humanity shall be
subject to disease and deatii, so long
will medicine and its scientific admm-
istration be esteemed a necessity.
Some, indeed, judge both to be well-
nigh nnmiti^ted evils; but at any
rate, if evils, they are necessary evils ;
and even the greatest nulers at the
doctor and his drugs are pretty sure
to send for him in the hour of* danger,
lean on him for hope, and swallow hia
potions. The medical man thus ob^
tains an exceptional position. He is
introduced into the sanctuary of the
&mily, sees us in our unguarded mo*
ments, receives our confidence, and
often wins our friendship. He never
comes as a judge or a censor. We
feel at our ease with him. Our esteem
for him is personal, and independent of
all considerations of rank or fortune.
He is a stranger to all the conflicting
interests which divide parties from
each other, and can visit persons of
all shades of opinion and of views the
most oppo^te, whether of religion or
politics, without causing the shadow
of an ofience. From all this it results
that the doctor is often admitted to the
closest intimacy by men oocnpying
the highest positiDns. Hence the foot-
ing of quasi-equality accorded, often to

the obscure son of .^Iseulapius, raised
by his profession to a post of dignity
and benevolent authority, which, while
it obtains for him consideration and
respect, clashes in nothing with the so-
cial importance of the patient. It was
so, in a certain degree, in the seven*
teenth century, when classes were di-
vided much more widely than at pres-
ent, and reverence for birth and rank
much stronger ; and we have numer-
ous instances of the friendship subsist-
ing between doctors and the highest in
the land«

It is true that the medical faculty
did actually number amongst its mem-
bers men who had undoubted claims
to nobility ; and we find from Lar-
roque's Traite de la Noblesse that doc-
tors, as distinguished from apotheca-
ries and surgeons, were held not to
derogate from their rank by the prac-
tice of medicine. But further, the
medical profession was held to confer
a species of nobility ; for of nobility
there were reckoned to be three sorts
— ^nobility of race, nobility of royal
concession, and personal nobility, such
as in peculiar cases we find conferred
on the whole bourgeoisie of certain
towns. This distinction ofiended no
one, as it expired with its recipient,
on whom while living it conferred
many practical advantages, such as
exemption from taxation. In Paris
this circumstance was of small mo-
ment, because, as members of the
university, the doctors enjoyed all
manner of imraunlLies. But in the
provinces it was difierent. In the
south of France, in particular, these
privileges were energetically claimed
on the ground of the honoi^ of the pro-
fession, and they were traditionally re-
ferred to Roman times. Mofitpellier

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682

The Faeukjf of F^xrii in the Time of MMre.

was full of these reminiscences of the
past, and in Dauphine the nobilitj of
the doctors was even transmitted from
&ther to son. At Ljons it was re-
membered that Antonius Musa had
cured the Emperor Augustus, and had
received a gold ring for himself and
his successors in the art. ^Accipe
annulum aureum, in signum nobilitat-
is ab Augusto et Senatn Romano med«
ids ooncessae," were the words used in
the aggregation of a doctor hj the
college of that city.

The misfortune was that there must
of necessity be some contrast between
this theoretical nobility and the prac-
tical life of the physician. He must,
if he would gain his living, go from
house to house indiscriminately, and
receive his pay from all classes, like
the butcher or the baker. The doc-
tors endeavored to smooth over this'
anomaly by affecting considerable
state. They might be seen threading
the streets of Paris mounted on mules,
in large wigs and with ample beards.
The mule gave an almost episcopal
air. ^The beard is more than half
the doctor," says Toinette, in the Ma-
lade Jmagtnaire, When the fashion-
able 6u6naut took to a horse, it raised
quite a scandal, which Boileau has
commemorated :

''Ga6naat, snr son cheral, en pasunt m^'^dft-
bouse."

Many, not satisfied with this degree of
state, paid their visits in the long ma-
gisterial robe, with scarlet hose and
band, the famous rabtxt, to which Pas-
cal wittily alludes when he says,
^ Who could place any confidence in
a doctor without a rc^ T' Not only
were the doctors careful to uphold
their dignity by these forms, but the
Paris Faculty was extremely jealous
in maintaining its exclusive position.
Its members not merely refused, as
was natural, to meet in consultation
any of the host of quacks with which
the capital swarmed, and who found
frequent access to the houses of the
great lords and ladies, often as scep-
tical in regard to orthodox practition-
ers as they were credulous in the ex«

treme of the pretensions of these heret-
ical interlopers, but they likewise
stood aloof from men as respectable
as themselves — the honorable doctors
of Montpellier, of whom perhaps a few
words anon. In the meantime we
will take a hasty glance at the members
of the Paris Faculty apart from their
official life ; for they were men after
all, and did not always figure in wig
and gown. They nui^t have had their
private as well as public existence;
but it is a more difficult task to obtain
a sight of them en deshabiUe.

In history, of course, it were vain
to seek anything bey^jnd the record of
public events ; and even the contem-
porary memoirs of the ageof the Grand
Monarque tell us more about the court
and its festivities, the rSunione of the
wits of the day, and the current gos-
sip and scandal of the hour, than about
the ordinary domestic life of any class,
particularly of such as ranged below
the aristocratic level. We are too apt
to believe, from the revelations that
are made in the light literature of the
time, that the brilliant surface of the
Augustan age of France concealed a
general mass of corruption in Uie
higher classes, and of misery in the
lower. But this would be a false con-
clusion. The bourgeoieief as a body,
were complete strangers to the fer-
ment of ambition and intrigue so rife
in the upper strata of society. They
had their own interests, their own pur-
suits, and were in the main an indus-
trious and worthy class, sufficiently in-
dependent to be able often to regard
those above them with a secret, and
npt always undeserved, contempt. To
confine ourselves, however, to the doo-
tors. Two courses were open to them.
They might shut themselves up within
the round of their own immediate occu-
pations and studies, andlimit themselves
to the social circle of thei» coUeaguea
and compeers. Tiie faculty, as we
have seen, was a little community in
itself, with its own traditions, laws, dis-
tinctions, glories. Here, satisfied with
their moderate gains, the doctors
might preserve Sieir independence

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The^ FacuUy of Paris in the Time of MbUire.

683

and live in all secoritj and honor ; or,
on the other hand, thej might try
their fortune in the world and seek the
favor of the great The enterprise in-
volved a certain loss of liberty and a
corresponding detriment to that nice
delicacy of feeling which is the guar-
dian of severe probity. There were
doctors of both kinds ; those of the first
class were by far the most namerous.
The others were the richest ; but the
esteem in which they were held by
their brethren was in the inverse ra-
tio to the wealth acquired by this com-
promise of dignified independence.

The illustrious dean, Guy Patin,
who enjoyed an immense reputation
in his day, furnishes an example of
the life of voluntary isolation and of
practical activity systematically con-
fined to professional or scientific sub-
jects. He is now remembered chiefly
for that on which he probably least
valued himself — ^his epistolary corre-
spondence, never designed for publica-
tion, but which is extremely interest-
ing, not only as a record of events
great and small, the memory of which
has long passed away, but for the
freshness both of ideas and style for
which it is remarkable. These letters
exhibit Guy Patin as an apparent
compendium of contradictions^ — a be-
liever in medicine, a sceptic in almost
all else ; obstinately tenacious of the
privileges of the faculty, but full of
liberal, and even republican, aspira-
tions ; confident in the steady advance
of science, but always railing at mod-
em times and extoUing the past Yet
there is a clue to many of these seem-*
ing contradictions; Giiy Patin was a
dean. Before he was dean, you felt
that he would be dean ; later, he has
been dean. He has studied minutely
all the details of the organized institu-
tion to which he is indebted for all
that he is — he has made its spirit and
doctrine his own ; for the faculty has
a doctrine. The experimental method
is newer in medicine than in the other
sciences. In the seventeenth century
we find in its place simple observa-
tion guided by ^eory ; w^ch theory

was no other than that of the fiither
of medicine, Hippocrates — ^viz., that
nature tends to a cure, and that dis-
ease is but an outward manifestation
of a salutary efibrt of the vital organi-
zation to counteract the destructive
causes at work. The physician's part
waa to aid this process rather than to
interfere with it This view, we may
observe, is finding iavor anew in cer-
tain quarters in our own day ; and we
may perhaps be allowed humbly to ex-
press an instinctive leaning toward any
theory of which the practical result
might be a system of comparative non-
intervention. But this by the way.
Certaioly Hippocrates's fimdameptal
principle did not deter medical practi-
tioners of the olden time from much
painful interference with the workings
of nature under the plea of assistance ;
a course to which their elaborate doc-
trine concerning the humors of the
body — which, however, they did not
derive from Hippocrates, but of which
the germ exists in the other great au-
thority, Gralen — ^much contributed.

The period we are considering was
one of transition. Men felt the need
of progress ; and this feeling evoked
a number of medical adventurers — the
revolutionists, as we may call them, of
medicine. Placed between two oppo-
site systems — ^the one resting on tra-
dition and on principles, at any rate,
in great measure sound; the other
calling itself progress, but having
nothing to allege save a number of
vague aspirations and anticipations,
some genuine discoveries mingled with
much baser metal, and half-truths ob-
scured by palpable error — can we
wonder that the faculty should be
tempted to confound all novelties in
one sweeping act of reprobation, and
intrench itself in a state of obstinate
opposition? Guy Patin shared this
feeling, though not to excess. He
was no enemy, as we have said, to a
wise and safe progress ; but he had
the shallowness and narrowness which
bel(Higs to a certain range of clever-
ness. He was not the man to accept
anything new which it required

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684

The FacuUy of Paris in the Time of MbUire.

breadtb, elevation, and compTOhen-
siTeneas of mind to discern. He had
also his £&vorite theory of simplicitj ;
and this made him suspidoos of aught
which seemed at yariance therewith*
He looked askance, for instance, at
Harvej and the circulation of the
blood. We have said that Guy Pa-
tin was a sceptic, yet he was not an
unbeliever. His language certainly is
often extremely irreverent ; but just as
he sometimes speaks in terms bonLering
on modem liberalism, while all the
time, by his attachment to medical
traditions, to the faculty, and to mon-
archy, he is securely anchored in re-
spect for antiquity and authority, so is
it as regards religion, and we must
not conclude iirom his free expressions
that he is a decided freethinker. Nev-
ertheless it must be confessed that he
betrays a very uncatholic mind and
temper ; and as we cannot believe
that he stood alone in this respect, it
may serve as an indication of the
spirit of many of his order, and of the
prevalence of opinions which were
later to bear such bitter fruit.

Guj\ Patin was content with his
sphere ; he had no desire to overstep it.
His friends and intimates were from
amongst lus own medical brethren, or
they were members of the legal and
magisterial body* By marriage he
was connected with the latter class ;
and moreover there was always a
dose analogy of manners and senti-
ments betwixt the medical body and
the nohUsse de rohe. To his friend-
ship with the President de Thou,
brother to Cinq Mars' unfortunate ac-
complice, we may attribute much of
his animosity to the minister Riche-
lieu. Guy Patin is, in short, a system-
atic grumbler, a regular frondeur ;
but it is chiefly in talk and specula-
tion. He is in reality no revolution-
ist. Speaking of his frequent social
meetings with two lawyer friends, he
observes: ''Our conversation is al-
ways gay. If we talk of religion or
of state afiairs, it is always histor-
ically, without dreaming of either re-
formation or sedition* We converse

chiefly on Kteraiy sabjects* With a
mind thus recreated, I return home^
where, after some little converse with
my books, or with the recoid of some
past consultation, I retire to rest."

Such was the honoxabie position of
an independent member of the fiicnl'-
ty. But what was the oonditioD' and
social estimate of those who sought
the favor of the nobility? Undoubt-
edly their standmg was much infeiior
to that which they came to occupy a
hundred years latere— thanks to die
spread of the utilitarian spirit, whidi
raised all the positive sdencea into
high esteem. In the dghteenth cen-
tury fine ladies had their pet phyai*
dan, as they had their philosophic or
poetic protigi ; but in the seventeentii
a great personage thought he conferred
much honor on a doctor by seeking a
cure at his hands. The nobles were
glad, it is true, to have their familiar
physician ; though the physcian, if he
had any self-respect, must have felt
that he paid rather dear iw admissioa
to this familiarity, not to speak of tlie
actual large sums by which, in the
case at least of princes of the blood-
royal, they had to buy their offices.
But we are here chiefly speaking of a
less aspiring class, who angled for the
casual good graces of the aristocratic
order. See how Madame de Sevign^
speaks of the doctors, whom she is
always consulting and always unmerw
cifully quizzing. See her matidoos
pleasure when she can g(^ four or
five together to discuss her bile, her
.spleen, her humors, when she would
ply them with questions and contrive
to make them contradict eadi other.
She talks of the profession as a hum*
bug, yet she never passes through a
town without consulting what sbd
calls ^the chief ignoramuses of the
place.'' She consults them, and theo
turns them into ridicule. They know
this, and take their legitimate reraage
in high charges. But strange to say,
although so contemptoous toward the
privileged doctors, Madame de 8»-
vign^ has quite a weakness for ail
quads or xmliceased dabbieia ia tbQ

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The Faeul^ of Paris in the Time of JUd»re.

685

art, and is eyen credokms in their re-
gard. HoweveTy it would seem that
aeienoe with this lively lady is not the
sole requirement. ^Mj dear/' she
saysi speaking of a certain elegant
Signor Antonio, an Italian son of
.^culapius, ^' he is twenty-eight years
old, with die most beautiful and
charming face I ever saw. He has
Madame de Mazarin's eyes, and his
teeth are perfection. The rest qf his
face is what you might conceive Ri-
naldo's to have been, with large black
curls, altogether making the prettiest
head in the world. He is dressed
like a prince, and is a thorough bon
gargcn.^* We are a long way off the
wigs and rabaUy it will be seen ; but
we have got a clue to the secret. It
is the mddecin ban jargon Madame de
Sevign^ is in search of. She finds
him at the bathsr-^« eatix. He has
none of the pedantry, possibly little of
the science, of his Paris brethren of
the faculty. He is a man of the
world, and can sacrifice to the graces.
Medically, his part seems restricted
to drenching and dosing his patients
with hot water. Tired of court
amusements, they fiy to the douche
lind the vapor-bath to e^Epel those in-
ward vapors of which Frenchwomen,
and indeed our own great-grand-
mothers, complained so much. Ma-
dame de Sevign6 goes through this
ordeal perseveringly ; but she has her
alleviations. "My doctor" — ^this is
another pet bon gargon — ^\a very
good. Instead of resigning myself to
two hours' 6nntM, inseparable from la
euerie (the sweating process) I make
him read to me. He knows what
life is ; he has no trickery about him ;
he deals with medicine like a gentle-
man {en gakaU homme) ; in short, he
amuses me."

At court the doctors had more seri-
ous trials. Beside the task of pleas-
ing this or that capricious and exact-
ing patron, they had to beware of dis-
pleasing twenty others. The princes
of the blood shared with the sover-
eign the right to choose iheir own
physician from any quarter they

pleased, who became forthwith invest-
ed ipio facto with all the privileges of
the Paris faculty. Possibly, to make
a little display of authority, they
would often decline selecting him
firom the honored precincts of the Rue
de la Bdcherie, and perhaps take a
doctor of Montpellier. Hence inter-
minable jealousies. Then the doctors
would sometimes be drawn into mix*
ing themselves with party polltios,
and get into the Bastille; but this
was their own fault. To escape the
shaft of ridicule was more difficult
It appears certain that in V Amour
Midecin Moli^re ventured upon sa*
tirizing four of the court physicians
under assumed names; and this in
the presence of the king himself, be-
fore whom the piece was played.
Possibly Louis, whose docility to his
physicians stands in remari^able con-
trast with his 10% distance toward
others, might not be sorry to indulge
occasionally in a laugh at his masters^
or have a brief fling of independence^
like a truant schoolboy. Of his ha-
bitual bondage to their authority w^
have the record in a journal of the
royal health, magnificently bound in
folio and besprinkled wUhJleurs-de^iSf
which has been preserved. It was
begun in 1652 at the desire of the
boy-sovereign himself— -who thus gave
early tokens of his methodical tastes-—
and it was kept up till four years pre-
vious to his death, when it suddenly
ceases, possibly because even the pen
of flattery became unable to disguise
the approaches of inevitable death.
The whole is in the handwriting of
Louis' three successive physicians,
Valot, Daquin, and Fagon* No man,
it is said, is a hero to his vakt de
chambre ; still leas, we may imagine,
to his apothecary. That the king
should have to submit to aU those
medical appliances whidi in Moli^re's
pages are recorded in such plain terms
was perhaps a necessity — judged at
least to be so; but that etiquette
should require that the whole court
should be r^^ularly apprised of all
these details, is a litde surprismg.

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686

The Facutts of Paris in ike Time of MdUire.

The diary is, however, interlarded
with no small amount of flattery.
Yalot inaugurates his office, for in-
stance, by a memoir on the king's
temperament, which was that of
which ''heroes are made;'' and all
is in the same adulatory and
stilted style. But the writer is
by no means unsparing of self*
laudation. It is with much evident
self-complacency that he registers for
the benefit of posterity the different
remedies with which ** heaven inspir-
ed him" to prescribe for the preserva-
tion of a health so precious. '' Plas-
ter for the king," "potion for the
king," and so on, figure in large
characters. He can also play the
prophet, and announce coming meas-
les, dysenteries, etc, from which the
king i$ tobe exempt There are tem-
porary interruptions to Yalot's abso-
lute rule; these were the seasons
when Louis was campaigning; the
monarch on these occasions despised
the care of his health, and threw
physic to the dogs. The doctor
groaned and remonstrated, but was
fain to await the close of the cam-
paign to resume his authority and
make up for lost time. He died in
his office. His nephew and succes-
sor, Daquin, was a Montpellier doc-
tor and a converted Jew. He was
a clever man of moderate science.
But he entered on his charge in
difficult days. A gouty prince, sub-
ject to melancholy, and desirous to
abate nothing of his customary at-
tention either to business or amuse-
ment, is not an easy patient to man-
age. Beside, the royal valetudinarian
met with sundry accidents while un-
der this physician's care. T>aquin
was an accomplished courtier, and
even improved upon Valot in the art
of flattery. From him we learn the
remarkable fact that ^ the king is sub-
ject, like other men, to catc^ cold.**
With all his tact, Daquin did not es-
cape disgrace. Perhaps he made too
undisguised a display of his acquisi-
tive disposition ; indeed, he was a no-
torious beggar. It is related that one

day Louis, being informed of the
death of an old officer, expressed re-
gret, saying that the man had been to
him a &ithful servant, with the merit,
rare in a courtier, of never having
asked for anything. While making
this observation, he- fixed his eyea
pointedly on Daquin. The physician,
no way disconcerted, naively said,
''May one venture to inquire, sire,
what your majesty gave him ?" The
king was silenced, for the bashful
courtier in question had never received
any royal favor whatsoever. Daquin
was dismissed in 1693. He had ask-
ed for the archbishopric of Tours for
his son. He had so often offended, if
offence it were considered, in making
bold requests, that it is hardly likely
that this application was the real
cause of his disgrace. It was proba-
bly rather the consequence of the
kmg's rupture with Mme. de Montes-
pen, to whom Daquin owed his eleva-
tion. It appears that ever since the
king's marriage he had found some
difficulty in maintaining his position,
from which it is natural to infer that
adverse influences were at work ; in-
deed, it was a proUgiy or rather a
friend, of Mme. de Maintenon who
was promoted to fill his place— a
circumstance corroborative of this
supposition. Fagon appears to have
been a very estimable man, and the
attachment and mutual esteem sub-
sisting between him and his patron-
ess, with whom he had first become
acquainted in his capacity of physician
to the Due de Maine, never abated.*
He won the confidence also of Louis,
and the favor he enjoyed while still in
his position of secondary physician
was much increased at the period of
the king's great illness by a trifling
circumstance which made a strong im-
pression on the monarch's mind. One
night all the surgeons and doctors,

♦ Figon WKS the nephew of Quy de la Broese,
the foander of the JondiAtftf JM, now deTeloped
into the maffniflcentMaseam of Nataral Sctenee,
and bimseiralso an eminent botanist He wan
named proreeeor of bouny at thlseetabliahment
by Valot, who, as flrat phyaiolaa to the king, was
iti tnperintendent.

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The Facuify of Paris m the Time of MoUire.

687

Daqcim included, had ventured to go
to bed. The king liad taken a bouiUon^
and the fever seemed to be subdued.
But Fagon, unobservod by the rest,
sfipped back and took his post in an
arm-chair in the ante-room. He was
thus at hand to comfort and adminis*
ter a iisctne to the sick monarch, whose
fever shortlj returned, and who, al-
beit with the fear of Daquin greatly
before his eyes, ventured to accept the
services of the attentive subaltern.
The tisane sent Louis to sleep, and
made Fagon's fortune. Three months
afterward he was first in command.
He deserved his elevation to an of-
fice which was a post of no slight
honor and profit** He bore his hon-
ors meekly, and was remarkable for
a spirit of disinterestedness as rare
as it was creditable to him. Fagon
closes the list of the court physi-
cians of the seventeenth century, and
indeed carries us on into the eight-
eenth. All reserve being made in his
fikvor, it must be confessed that the
great dramatist's satire was richly de-
served by those doctors of royalty,
whose ambitious manoeuvres, intrigues,
and paltry rivalries were enough to
excite the indignation of any honest
man.

We have seen that the independent
physician, who stood aloof from court-
ing the great, could lead an honorable
and tranquil life ; but it would be a
mistake to conclude that profound
peace reigned within the medical cor-
poration itself. On the contrary, it
was the scene of a bitter internecine
war between the men of the new
id^as, the men of progress, and the
adherents to tradition and the receiv-
ed system. But to excite men's pas-

* The lcing*B physician ranked with the great
officers of the crown, and received orders Trom
the soyerelgn alone, to whom he took an oath of
fidelity; and he became a coant in virtoe of his
office, and transmitted his nobility to his chil-
dren. He was entitled to the same honors and
privileges as the high chamberlain. He was a
ooanciUor of state, and received the nsval emol-
imienU. When he visited the fiicnlty, he was
met at the door by the dean, bachelors, and
beadles, althouffh he himself might not be a
Thrts doctor. He had, beside, very extensive
authority, enjoying a species of medical joriadic-
tton throoghont the kingdom. •

sions ideas must assume a concrete
form, which then becomes at once a
rallying-point and a watchword. Such
in the seventeenth century were the
circulation of the blood and antimony.
Ever since the days of Galen the liver
had been held to be the origin of the
veins, and of those organs by which
bloodis transmitted to the whole body.
Harvey's announcement accordingly
raised a universal commotidn in the
medical world : perhaps his doctrine
would have met with less opposition
but for the discovery of the lacteal
veins by an Italian anatomist. Gas-'
paro Aselli, in the year 1622. These
veins, as most of our readers probably
know, originating in the intestines, re-
ceive and convey thence the products
of digestion — ^the chyle. Imbued
with the doctrine of Galen, and de-
ceived by appearances, Aselli, it is
tnle, believed the liver to be their ul-
timate destination. Immediately there
was one general outcry against these
intrusive vessels : their non-necessity
was put forward as a conclusive ob-
jection — a very common argument, it
may be noted^ with the old doctors.
Beally it was not worth upsetting re-
ceived notions oa their account — ^the
lacteal ^ vessels were superfluous.
Even Harvey, who was among Aselli's
opponents, joined in insisting on this
unsatisfactory reason. ^ It is not ne^
eessaryj* he says, ^'to seek a fresh
channel for the transport of the chyle
in the lacteal veins." It was evident,
he said, that the chyle was carried
from the intestines by the mesenteric
veins.

But in 1649 Pecquet, a French-
man, completed the demonstration, by
showing that the lacteal veins do not
terminate in the liver, but in a reser-
voir, to which his name was given.
Now indeed the liver, and Galen, and
the whole edifice of medicine, were
threatened ; nothing could be deemed
sacred any longer. The liver was
not the origin of the veins, if the
blood careered in a circle, having
neither beginning nor end; and the
chyle didnot go to the liver. ^ Quid

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688

The Faculty of Paris in Urn Time of MoKirt.

de nottrajietmedicina f was the sor-
rowful exclamation of one of the doc-
tors of the Montpellier faculty when
Pecquet had trmmphantly expounded
his discoyery before them. Ah, there
was the difficulty I Quid de noitra
fUt medieina f We are oondemning
our past— an argument which weighs
powerfully against all conrersions.
Nothing can afford stronger eyidence
of the deep conyiction entertained
that the whole existing system was at
stake, than the opposition of a physi-
cian of so much eminence, intellectual
and scientific, as Riolan, whom alone
of all his adyersaries Haryey judged
worthy of a rejoinder. It is astonish*
ing, indeed, to see a man of his stamp
reduced to throw himself on such ar-
guments as the uselessness and d^
gradation of the liver if the new hypo
thesis be admitted ; to find him urg-
ing the impropriety of allowing impure
anelaborated chyle to go straight to
the heart, which under these circum-
stances it must do— thus converting
that noble seat of vital heat into an
ignoble kitchen. And then, once
there, how was the chyle to be got rid
of? A^ absurd list of suppositions
follows, intended to prove, by an ex-
haustive process, the sheer impossibil-
ity of disposing of the chyle after hav-
ing arrived at such an impaao. Br^o,
the chyle tniut go to the liver, in
fact, it cannot go anywhere else with
either reason or propriety. Such are
the contemptible arguments to, which
even superior minds will stoop when
they battle against. evidence. Harvey,
however, found many partisans
amongst the Paris faculty. Guy
Patin, as we have said, was not of
the number: he was not a deep
thinker, and trusted his friend lUolan.
Harvey's followers were called ^dr-
culators." Now ^ curculator*' in Latin
means a charlatan — that is enough for
Guy Patm. The debate ceased with
Riolan's death : the doctrine had been
gradually gaining ground. In 1678
its victory had been achieved when
Louis instituted at the Jardin des
Plantes a special chair of anatomy

for propagating the new disoov*
eries.

The battle about antimony raged
still more fiercely, inasmuch as the
question admitted of less tangible
proof. There is a legend that this
mineral was first exhibited in a pure
state and applied to medical purposes
by Basil Valentine, a Benediciane
monk of Erfurt, in the beginning of
the sixteenth century ; he gave it to
his hogs, who throve marvellously
This is to be attributed to the arseoie
contained in the drug, which fattens
when taken in small qnantilies^-a
fact well known to the peasants of
Styria and Lower Austria. Basil
next gave it to his monks, who fell
sick ; from which he drew the follow-
ing conclusion : *' This metal suits
hogs ; it does not suit monks." Hence
its name of antimony. Thirty years
later Paracelsus took up the study of
antimony, and endeavored to introduce
its use, with that of other minerab, in
medicine. This would have been to
break completely with taradition ; but
Paracelsus was half-cracked, and not
very intelligible. The sixteenth cen-
tury was the age of alchemy, especial-
ly in Germany, where it was ai^ently
pursued, in connection with the occult
sciences, by men who rivalled Para-
celsus in obscurity. In France tran-
scendental chemistry found less fav<»',
and there was early a split between
the pseudo-mystics and the chemists*
The former cultivated astrology ; but
astrology, as an aid to medicine, had
quite fallen into disrepute in the sev-
enteenth century, being abandoned to
low vagabond quacks. Chemistry,
however, was making gradual progress
and striving to establish its place in
medicine. The sympathy manifested
for this science at Mon^Uior was
quite enough to indispose toward it
the faculty of Paris. The absurd
blunders Into which its association
with alchemy had betrayed it in times
past weighed also on its reputation ;
but, above all, the contempt for anti-
quity manifested by its adepts was
calculated to condemn it in the eyes

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The FacuUy of Paris in the Time of MoUire.

•689

of the majority of the physicians,
brought up as they were in reverence
for all that chemistry pretended to
reform or destroy.

There were not wanting, however,
conciliatory spirits, who strove to ef-
I feet a compromise between the past
and the present, and make room for
the new chemical theories in the re-
ceived system. It has already been
observed how Galen's theory of the
humors of the body had been elabor-
' ated: all medical language was ground-
ed upon it.* Disease was the result
of the vitiation of these humors, each
humor having its special morbid pro-
duct To expel this vitiated humor
was the task of the doctor; but why
might not minerals be added to bis
pharmacopoeia, without interfering
with his principles? This seemed
reasonable; and as a matter of theory
the faculty were not unwilling to let
it pass. The difference arose on the
practical question. All were agreed
that the peccant humor was to be ex-
pelled; but the faithful followers of
Hippocrates attached great importance
to awaiting what was called the coction
of the humors. This was the work
of nature, which was employed in
making an effort which the physician
was called only to second, — an efibrt
of which fever was but the symptom.
It was esteemed a yerj nice point to
hit off the proper moment, and not
prevent or disturb the crisis which was
thus preparing: hence the need of
mild measures. Whoever will refer
to the apothecary's bill in the first
scene of Moliere's Malade Uriagi^
naire will see that lenifying, soften-
ing, tempering, and refreshing, were
the avowed objects of the drugs ad-
ministered. Such was Hippocratic
medicine; mild, at least, in theory.
We must make one exception as re-
spects bleeding: these enemies of vio-

* H. Haynand, to whose amufllng work we are
again largelr indebted, notices that mach of this
language Btfll Furvlves in the diction of the com-
mon people. Many of their ideas and forms of
expression still reflect the old doctrine of ha-
morism ; Just as they have retained many words
and idioms now become obsolete in the apper
and more shifting strata of society.

VOL. IL 44

lent measures bled with a vengeance;
they shed torrents of blood. They
bled old men of eighty, and babies two
months, nay, even two days old; and
this " without inconvenience," — so they
said. We presume some of the suf-
ferers survived, — thanks to a 8ttx>ng
constitution. Riolan says that there
are twenty-four pounds of Slood in
the human body, and that twenty can
be lost without eausing death; er^o, it
is keeping within very reasonable
bounds to deprive a man of only the
half of his blood.*

The object of bleeding, of conne,
was the expulsion of the vitiated hu-
mors supposed to be contained in it;
but it is hardly reconcilable with the
doctrine of waiting for their coction to
commence operations by attacking a
disease at once with a lancet Bat
this is one of Gkiy Patin's primary
convictions, as well as of numbers of
his brethren, and they conscientiously
acted on the same. It was otherwise
as respected emetics. Antimony ad-
ministered in the potent quantities then
used was a most frightful emetic No
one in those days thought of giving
infinitesimal doses, or suspected that
what was poisonous in large, might be
salutary in fractional, proportions. It
was reserved for Rasoni to 'discover
that antimony could be thus beneficial-
ly administered. And so the whole
question lay between those who held
as a principle that the peccant humor
was not to be e3cpelled till after coction^
and those who maintained that the
sooner the morbific matter was ejected
firom the system the better.

It is true that the horrible prostra^
tion of strength consequent on this
summary process was sufficient to
alarm men's minds, and furnish a rea-
sonable topic to the opponents of anti-

* The fhmons Guy de la Brosse reftised to be
bled. He called bleeding the remedy of san-

Sfnary pedants, and said he would rather die
in soomit to the operation. ''And he did
die,** says M. Basalis. a brother doctor ; adding,
" The devil will bleed him in the next world, aa
sncha rascal and unbelteyer deserves/* Snch
are the Imprecations hurled at the man who ven*
tored on refhsinff to die in proptr form. Could
Molidre have written anything more sabllmely
comic?

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690 •

The Factdfy of Paris in the Time of MoUh^

nuniy. The quarrel occupied a whole
century; of course we cannot attempt
to go into even its most elementary
details. In 1566, the parliament pro-
hibited the use of this drug. The
year 1666 saw it rehabilitated by the
same body. 'The motive of the first
decree was the report of the faculty
that antimony was an incorrigible
poison. The idea, as we just now ob-
served, that diminutien of quantity
nught effect what was unattainable by
correctives, did not occur to the medi-
cal mind of that day. In 1615 there
was a fresh unanimous decree against
antimony, also indorsed by parliament;
but the scientific world was still on
tiie search for a eorrecHtfe^ and con-
verts, or perverts, were being secretly
made within the very sanctuary of the
fiMsulty. In 1638, the dean, Hardoun
de Saint-Jacques, suddenly published
an incomplete pharmaceutic codex,
which had been in course of prepara-
tion for twelve years. In this dic-
tionary antimonial wine actually fig-
ured in its alphabetical phice. How
had the enemy contrived to creep into
the citadel ? No one could say. This
mcident was the occasion of a deluge
of pamphlets, of which' the very fbnn
and language are, for the most part,
like a dead letter to us. Hippocrates,
Holy Scripture, history, and the fath*
ers, are all called into court. ' Even
the definition of antimony gives rise to
much discussion ; and it is gravely*ar-
gned whether Adam, when conferring
names in Paradise, named this drug,
and if so, what he called it. Even
the troubles of the Fronde did not
check this medical civil war. Anti-
mony had quite a literature of its own.
Guy Patin, of course, was inimical,
but a little cautious while the question
of his deanship was impending. Ailer-
ward he launches out; he hates che-
mistry, he hates antimony, he hates
Gu^naut, who is its warm advocate,
and is beside Cardinal Mazarin's
physician (Guy Patin is always in
political opposition). Gu6naut, he
says, has poisoned his wife, daughter,
and two sons-in-law with this drug;

at last he poisons himsslf, and dies a
martyr to his infatuation. And then
the faculty have twice condemned an-
timony. That is more than enough
for Guy Patin. However, a great
event turned the balance in his favor.
During the campaign of 1658, the
king, then twenty years of age, was
attacked by typhus. Valot had been
absent a few days, sent by Louis, as
the journal tells us, to settle a quarrel
between the physicians and surgeons
who were treating the Marechal de
Ga^telnau for a mortal wound — poor
marshal I He hastened back to his
master, and fell to work vigorously,
sparing neither bleeding nor dosing ;
but the king got worse^ and Guenaut
was sent for. The court-physicians —
Valot, Esprit, Daquin, Yvelin, beside
a local doctor — were all there disputing
over the monarch's sinking body. A
great consultation is now held, pre-
sided over by the cardinal; and he
votes for antimony. It was given.
The king took an ounce, and marvel-
lous are the recorded effects. How-
ever, whether in consequence or in
spite of the dose, he recovered. Louis
was at that time his people's darling
and idol; they adored their young
monarch, and he had been saved by
Guenaut and antimony ! Guy Patin's
embarrassment at this crisis is a little
ludicrous. The dose, he urges in ex-
tenuation, was small ; but he concludes
that, afler all, what saved the king
" was his innocence, his youth and
strength, nine good bleedings, and the
prayers of good people like himself
and others." Defections now became
numerous, and the faculty was in a
false position. . In &ct, most of the
doctors gave antimony in spite of the
two decrees, the last of which inter-
dicted the mention of it. In 1666 the
embargo was finally removed, afler a
tedious and ponderous process, as were
all processes in those days, before the
parliament; and the doctors were
henceforth permitted '' to give the said
emetic wine for the cure of maladies,
to write and dispute about it,"' etc., bat
it was not lawful for persons to take it

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691

without their adTice. The question
had been decided in the facalty by
ninetj*two doctors against ten. The
decree came to sadden the last days of
Goy Patin, and of a few more respect-
able old stagers, who were unable to
advance with their age.

But this internal conflict was not
the only one which the faculty had to
sustain. There was the perennial dis-
pute with the sargeons. Surgery and
medicine are twin sciences, if they be
not rather branches of one and the
same. Hippocrates, Galen, Gelsus,
made no practical distinction between
them; nevertheless, they came to be en«
tirely separated in medisBval practice.
Two causes may be assigned for this :
the first was the quasi^ecclesiastical
character of the medical profession in
early days, whidi render^ the shed-
ding of blood and^ other operations in-
compatible with the position of men
who were either clerics or bound by
derical rules. Still, though they could
not themselves draw blood, they could
prescribe blood-letting and other san-
guinary operations; and this led, of
course, to the existence of another
class, paid to carry out their orders.
But a second and far more enduring
cause was the strong prejudice exist-
ing in feudal times against manual la^
bor aa degrading. In vain might the
surgeons urge that it was absurd to
regard as merely mechanical an occu-
pation which necessitated much scien-
tific knowledge. The university
shared the feelings of the faculty on
this point; and while admitting the
doctors into its fellowship, rejected the
surgeons. Excluded from this frater-
nity of liberal science, the surgeons
gave themselves diligently to profes-
sional study. As early as the four-
teenth century we meet with their
celebrated confraternity, placed under
the patronage of Sts. Cosmas and
Damian, which boasted of its founda*
tion by St. Louis, and which main-
tained its existence for five centuries.
The quarrel with the doctors began in
the middle of the fiQeenth century,
and terminated only on the eve of the

Revolution, when St. Cosmas's College
and the faculty were both alike to
share the universal shipwreck of all
the ancient institutions.

The surgeons had long been in the
habit of availing themselves of the
aid of the barbera in certain ordinary
operations, and bleeding was at last
entirely abandoned to their hands-
Just, however, as the faculty wished
to depress the suigeons,and the latter
were desirous to raise themselves to
an equality with the faculty, so also
the surgeons were resolved to keep
down their servants the barbers, who,
on their part, aspired to rise in the
professionjBd scale. The policy of the
foculiy was to foster their rivalry, and
thus keep a check upon both ; but as
the nearest enemy is always the most
dreaded, the time came when it was
judged prudent to elevate the barbers,
whose very inferiority rendered them
less obnoxious, in order the better to
make head against the surgeons ; and
so the faculty adopted the barbers, in
whom it hoped to find docile clients,
in order to mortify its unsubmissive
children. It magnificently compared
this measure to the call of the Gentiles
and rejection of ungrateful IsraeL
But the barbers held their heads up
now, and requested to study anatomy.
Here was a difficulty. iJniversity
regulations strictly enjoined that all
public lessons should be in Latin ; but
what was the use of talking Latin to
barbers ? So the lecture was to be in
Latin, and the explanation in Fren^^
Apparently to facilitate the compre-
hension of the classic tongue by the
unlearned, the use of that whimsical
Latin which Moli^ has so happily
caricatured then first began. A cle-
ver con^promise was now supposed to
have been effected. A doctor was to
teach in the amphitheatre of the faco
ulty without touching the body; a sur-
geon was to dissect ; the barbers were
to be present, and try to understand.
This was in 1498.

Further concessions followed ; and
in 1505 the faculty allowed the bar-
bers to be inscribed on the dean's

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692

Ths Faculty of Paris in the Time of MoUire.

register, and, ailer passing through
an examination, to be formallj re-
oeiyed as scholars. They paid, how-
ever, for their lessons, and took an
oath never to prescribe an internal
remedj, but to have recoarse to the
doctors for the medical treatment of
their patients. On these conditions
the proudest of scientific corporations
extended its protection to, and even
took into a certain fellowship, a profes-
sion not only humble, but so much
despised, that in Germany at that pe-
riod barbers were not admitted into
any trade corporation. The credit of
the king's barber — an important per-
sonage, who enjoyed familiar opportu-
nities for asking favors — ^had some-
thing perhaps to say to the prosperity
of this trade in France. And the
barbers continued to prosper ; it was
their interest, indeed, to keep well
with the faculty, whose protecting
hand once withdrawn, they would
helplessly fall back under the cruel
bondage of their old masters. But as
time went on, they grew confident.
The troubles of the League unhinged
society, and for some years we find
them neglecting to take the oath of
^fidelity. Meanwhile surgery had at-
tained a proud position, and at the
end of the sixteenth century was
much in advance of the other sciences,
both in its spirit of independent in-
quiry and in experimental practice.

Many eminent names illustrate its
annab at this period. At the head of
the corporation was Ambroise Pare,
the restorer — we might almost say
the creator— of modem surgery. He
had been a barber's boy in his youth,
and still treated his old associates
with much consideration. Perhaps
this honorable notice helped. to turn
their heads a little, for they actually
began to set up school for themselves,
and to maintain theses. This got them
a snub from the fisiculty, and a prohib-
ition from parliament, which recalled
to their recollection the ancient statute
which permitted their intervention
only "/)ro Jurunculis, hocchiis^ et
apoiiumcUibiu** But the time was

past for enforcing such laws ; every
day the barbers more and more eman-
cipated themselves from thraldom ;
and in 1629 they obtained the right of
having their receptions presided over
by the king's bari)er or by his lieu-
tenant.

The surgeons meanwhile had left
no stone unturned to get admission
into the university, to have a recog-
nized right to lecture publicly, and to
receive the chancellor's benediction.
They were several times granted the
king's license to this effect; but the
university disregarded the royal in-
junction, and even set at naught a
Papal bull which, in 1579, recognis-
ed the surgeon's title to the chancel-
lor's benediction. There was a conse-
quent appd comme d'abus from that
Grallican body to the parliament.
Nevertheless, more than one chancel-
lor was found to comply with the
Pope's rescript

Such, then, was the situation of
parties in the beginning of Louie
XIV.'s reign. Three rival eorpora-
tions existed; in principle united, but
mutually independent There was
the faculty, petrified as it were, in its
immobility, demanding from the
others a submission it could not ob-
tain; there was the corporation of
surgeons, intermediary between the
learned bodies and the trading fttmr-
ffeoine, wearing the gown on days of
ceremony, holding examinations, con-
ferring degrees, but keeping shop ;*
and there were the barbers, widi
neither gown nor school, but living at
the expense of the two former classes,
and, by long prescription, freely prac-
tising surgery, and even medicine to a
certain extent The reasons for old
distinctions had passed away — ^noth-
ing remained but inveterate rivalries.
Anatomy was the perpetual theatre for
dissension. The surgeons never had
resigned themselves to the secondary
part allotted to them. They claimed

* They hang np at their windows ms ft slfn
three emblematic boxea, sarmoanted with a
banner bearing the flgnrea of Sta. Coimaa aad
Oamiau.

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693

to teach what they nnderstood at
least as well as their superiors. Bat
how to get bodies ? The dean of the
faculty had an exclusive claim to
those of all executed criminals, and
W3fo% other were procurable. Accord-
inglj, whenever an execution occurred
there was a regular scramble for the
poor wretch's bc^j. The students of
sorgery and the barber-apprentices
assembled on tlie Place de Gr^ve,
where they had no difficulty in finding
recruits amongst the rabble. Scarce-
ly had the executioner done his work,
when these bands, armed with swords
ei^ sticks, rushed on the yet warm
corpse, which was carried off by the
victors to some shop, in which they.
barricaded themselves against the
mariehauuie. Many of these dis-
graceful acts went unpunished.
Sometimes the faculty would de-
spatch an official to daim the body ; he
was always sent about his business;
and then recourse was had to lawA
The report of an unfortunate huissiery
who was actcnr and victim in one of
these scenes, may be seen in a proch'
verbal of the time. He was sent to
seize a body which had been taken to
St. Gosinas's. There he found three
professors (in cap and gown I) giving
ao anatomical demonstration' to a
la^e audience. He was received
with yells, and cruelly beaten. A
force coming to his rescue, the stu-
dents cut up the corpse into bits
rather than let the faculty get it

A conunon interest and a common
hatred of their domineering antagonist
ended by drawing together the two
inferior orders, and finally led to
their reunion. The increasing num-
ber of the barbers, unrestrained by '
any rule, and unrestnunable by any
law, threatened to swamp surgery al-
together ; and so the men of letters
made up their minds to extend the
hand of fellowship to the artisans, and
receive them back, not as slaves any
longer, but as brethren. In 1655
the sui*geons swallowed this bitter
pill; they took upon themselves the
shame of uniting with the barbers.

and the barbei^s entered on the
privileges of the surgeons. Parlia-
ment ratified the contract, and the
feculty was scarcely named in the af-
fair. It was left stranded. Its ser-
vants, whom it had raised from the
dust to do its work and ^ht its bat^
ties, had betrayed it and gone off
with arms and baggage to the enemy's
camp. But it was not long without
perceiving that it might dnw profit
from what seemed a discomfiture.
The surgeons had conferred their
privileges on the barbers ; in return
they had, of course, accepted the lia-
bilities of their new associates. Now
the barbers were bound by contract to
an oath of fidelity, and other obliges
tions of a pecuniary nature, to the fa-
culty. This body accordingly claimed
either that the union effected should
be dissolved, or that both companies
should be subject to the engagements
by which the barbers had bound
themselves. It renewed at the same
time all its former claims of suprema*
cy, and its old prohibitions against
teaching and conferring degrees, but,
above all, against the assumption of
the cap and gown.

Three years did this process last,'
which occupies a voluminous place in
the parliamentary registers. The
surgeons eventually lost their cause;
and that which did not a little contri-
bute thereto was the manifestation of
their own miserable internal dissen-
sions. '* St. Luke has been stronger
than St. Cosmas T excJaimed the tri-
umphant 6ny Patin at the news of
this great victory. Seventy-two doc-
tors went in procession, in grand
costume, to thank the president, La-
moignon, and the avocat-gen^ral,
Talon ; and in order to testify their
special gratitude to the latter, it was
decreed that, having well merited
of the faculty, he and his family
should be attended gratis in perpet-
uity. A magnificent edition of Hip-
pocrates in five folio volumes was
presented along with this decree, in-
closed in a silver box. For several
days not one of the crest-fieillen sur-

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694

Th$ Facul^ of Parts in the Time of MoKire.

geons was to be seen in the streets,
and six of their number, it is said,
fell sick. Gladlj would they now
have dissolved the unhappy misaUi"
anee thej had contracted, but it was
too late. Both barbers and sur-
geons, indeed, alike felt that the de-
^t was final; but on the latter it
must have fallen with the most
crushing seyeritj. Before the close
of the year the chair in which Am-
broise Par6 had sat— the symbol of
departed greatness*— was removed.
They had to pay the impost, take the
oath of fidelity — ^no humiliation was
spared them. Thus forced into a pre-
posterous alliance, which was made
the pretext for its degradation, the
surgical profession languished for
many years. The faculty on this oe-
casion certainly committed its worst
fault. For paltry questions of prece-
dence it retarded for a century the
progress of surgery, which did not
emerge from the inferior position to
which the decree of 1660 had reduced
it until time and necessity led to a
reconstitntion of surgery and shaving
as two distinct professions. It was
then that Louis XV., at the instance
of La Peyronie, created tiie Boyal
Academy of Surgery, which furnished
so many illustrious names to science
in the eighteenth century, and which
would doubtiess have extinguished the
old faculty if the Revolution had not
saved it the trouble by destroying
them both.

Our space forbids us to notice the
other great battle of the faculty during
the period which has immediately
&llen under our consideration — that
which it waged and won against the
Montpellier doctors. But the ) Montpel-
lier school would deserve a notice by it-
self ; and the interest which gathers
round it has been heightened by the
important questions, physiological and
philosophical, connected with its name
in the present day.

A word or two more, and we have
done. When Moli^re was about to
deal the faculty its most grievous
wound, it was triumphant on bXL sides.

Yet, as a system, it was already
doomed to that destruction which had
£&llen on the whole scholastic method
in science prevailing in the middle
ages. Hippocrates, it is true, fur-
nished the text-book of medicine 4 but
it was Hippocrates virtually comment-
ed by Aristotle, as all the old medi-
cal phraseology and medical argumen-
tations abundantiy prove. Much of
the ridicule attached to that venerable
body against which MoHere has
raised an inextinguishable laugh had
its origin in the retention of this lan-
guage, with all the quiddities of the
schools, and of those curious dialectic
exercises which formed the approived
method of mental gymnastics in the
middle ages long afker tiiey had been
discarded everywhere else. The rest
of the ridicule which falls to the due
share of the faculty must be laid to the
account of the scdfishness, pride, and
egotism inherent in human nature^ but
which always strike us more forcibly
when exhibited in a state of things
foreign to current ideas and man-
ners.

Li conclusion, we would point out
what we conceive may be esteemed as a
sound point in the system of that day
— ^its treatment of man as a whole.
There is no divorce with these old doc-
tors between body and souL Modem
medical science has afiected to treat
the body apart from any regard to the
spiritual portion of man's nature.
While allowing the immense progress
made in medicine and surgery in mod-
em times, we cannot but feel that a
serious error was committed in divid-
ing what our fathers deemed insepm^
able. The materialistic errors of the
eighteenth century, and, in particular,
the materialism so prevalent in the
learned medical body, are a standing
comment on the systems whidi made
clear decks of those fundamental prin-
ciples which had come down to us from
the earliest antiquity, and which had
received Ihe sanction of the Christian
schools, in whose teaching physiology
and psychology were always doeely
united ; the study of the soul crowning

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695

that of phjsiblogj. We witneas with
satisfaction a strong reaction amongst
many members x>f the Frendi medical
bodj toward views which harmonize
thoroughly with the old doctrine of the
Aogel of the School, laid down loi^

before thote modem diBOoreries which
are beginning slowly to lead men back,
not to the pedantry of the olden time,
but to those ancient paths from which
our fathers would have deemed it her-
esy to wander

From The Sixpenny Uagaxine.

HANDWRITING.

Men, like trees, hare a curved line
which, touching at the extremities,
forms a figure which is the general es«
timate of their characters. Individu*
al traits are lost in the harmony of
them all. The hand may be delicate ;
the face coarse ; there may be contra-
diction between the eye and the brow,
between the motive power and the ob-
ject desired ; but still the man is aunity
unlike any other man, and yet similar
in original traits.

To tell character by confining one's
self to one exhibition of a faculty, would
be like tiying to tell the climate of a
place by staying there one day. But
in the other extreme, the collecting of
facts proves nothing unless there have
been opportunities for the display of
other qualities than the ones in which
the person is not interested. I, for in-
stance, always dislike making new ac-
quaintanges; I get sulky whenever it
is forced upon me ; that does not prove
that I may not be pleasant enough
when allowed to act as I please.

One man, with no taste for a certain
pmvuit, is forced into it, kept at it, and,
as he gives evidence of dislike, is ac-
cused of being almost a fool. Won-
dei^l that in something else he should
be a proficient at the first attempt.
Yet it is not the doing a thing, but the
getting pay for it, that is difiloalt ; not
the raiding of character, but the ap-
plying it. What value is the being
able to understand why men's hand**
writings vary, save as interesting?

Yet, perhaps, many a reader will
glance over this and be inclined to ac-
quire the skill.

First, does the man write often mod-
erately, or very nicely ? Did he write
in a hurry, or not ? Lastly, is his
temperament nervous or inclined to hb
heavy ?

Bad writing may arise from haste,
nervousness, and want of practice ; bat
the handwriting of the illiterate is in-
trinsically different from that of a nerv-
ous scholar. A man who writes badly
when in haste must be a nervous man;
so scrawly writmg may be reduced to
want of self-command. The man of
business asks of the scholar, "Why
can't you sell your labor and become
rich ?" The scholar may ask, « Why
don't you give your money and write
a book ?" It is as impossible for one
to change as the other. Poverty of
brains can be no more overcome than
poverty of purse. The right plan is
for the two to divide. Money for tal-
ent Ridiculous form<mey to wait for
brains, or brains to be contemptuous
of money. There must be help. Look
at the writing ! That nervous sweep
of the pen is not the characteristic of a
man to sway material matters ; he is
not thick-headed enough; the blows
crush him.

On the other hand, that round, man-
ly, firm chirography, regular as a troop
of horses, indicates outward show, but
there is no brain, sentiment, intense
sensibility behind. A bird is in a quiv-

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696

Hoandwriting,

er of excitement at the least noise, but a
oow stands looking on without the least
alann* Women write small Indo*
lence, affectation, and weakness are
indicated, and indolence is nature's
guard for nervous persons.

Take particular instances. A* is a
man of medium size, high forehead,
hair of the Yankee brownish hue, eyes
deep-set and rather small, nose small,
mouth firm, chin rather weak. Phy-
sically, he is inclined to be of a nerv-
ous, sanguine temperament ; hope large,
caution large; animal propensities
strong. He is a man of business,
writes considerably, generally about
business. His habit of mind exact.
Now, what will be his characteristic
handwriting ? Ask half a dozen dif-
ferent men who are interested in judg-
ing of character, and compare their
answers. His habits of business will
have made his writing to a certain ex-
tent formal. He wD^ have tried to
make it a plain hand. His long prac-
tice in keeping books will have taught
him to be able to write large or small ;
his nervousness will have taught him
to use abbreviations ; hU solidity and
preference for mercantile pursuits will
have made him always more or less
subject to self-command. He writes,
then, not like the man of mere intellect,
to get his thoughts upon paper for
preservation, but for others to read.
He thinks constantly how he will af-
fect others ; how they will understand
him. He employs formal expressions
because they are better understood.
He 6ays, ^ Rec'd three bales goods,"
instead of telling in many words the
same &ct, but writes not obscurely,
but with particular care that they shall
be read.

A lawyer will fill out a writ, and,
save an undulating line,' no one but
the initiated would understand that a
legal phrase was unplied. The man
of business deals with facts. The
facts may be. expressed briefly, in a
formal way, hurriedly, but always with
the Intention of being read. That
some business men do write badly is
nothing to this purpose. I am speak-

ing of the desire in th^n to write
plainly.

Now my man, described, sits down
to tell his correspondent that a certain
lot of goods has arrived, all save one
package. He writes rapidly, exactly,
and with the wish that the others shall
read what he says at once and with-
out mistake. His nervous power would
urge him to haste and carelessness,
but his business education will restrain
him. How will his writing show it?
His mind is not particularly active.
He is not thinking what to say, but to
explain an understood fact I think,
all these circumstances taken into con-
sideration, his letters will be open, frank
regular, round, and well-looking, bat
at the ends of the longest wider, and at
the tops and bottoms of long letters
will be a perceptible twitch as if he
grew there first a little impatient at the
delay.

Boldness and delicacy of handwrit-
ing may not indicate more than straight-
forwardness or caution. A prudent,
secretive man generally writes fine^
generally also boldly. A passimmte
nature is confined, and, unless great
ability dP pencraft is acquired, will
rather betray his interest by weakness
and indecision in his letters than by
excess of power. A fine writer is
either one who holds himself in control
or a thick-headed nobody, a calm, pas-
sionless man, or a mere copyist, for to
pay attention to the mere form, augurs
that the man's mind is not very much
excited by his theme.

Writing full of unnecessary thmsts
and turns betokens a man undedded
and wavering. A direct up and down
style is his who cares nothing for or-
nament — ^prefers comfort with regular-
ity to luxury without. A slovenly
man scrawls his own nature. A timid
man writes oonrniandingly, with un-
equal heaviness of line. Indoleat
men avoid trouble and write smalL A
bold, careless, obstinate man writes
variably, at one time well, at another
ilL Nothing can charm a man, espe-
dally if careless lumself, like neatness
in the letters of a lady.

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AU-HaOow JBm; or, The Test of FuturUy.

697

Vtom The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE ; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY,

BT ROBSBT OUBTIS.

CHAPTER ZXm.

Th£ long-widhed-for day appointed
for this great match had now arrived,
and there was not a man of a hundred
in each parish beside the two leading
men who had not on that morning
taken lus hurl from the rack before he
went to pra jers, inspected it, weighed
it in his hand, to ascertain if the set laj
fair to the sttnpe, as he placed it on the
ground*

Two o'clock in the afternoon had
been appomted for the men to be on
the ground, and punctual to the mo-
ment they were seen in two compact
masses beyond opposite ends of the
common* They had assembled out-
side, and were not permitted t6 strag-
gle in, in order that their approach to^
ward each other, in two distinct bodies,
amidst the inspiring cheers of their re-
spectiTe parties, might have the better
effect. This great occasion had been
talked of for weeks, and was lobked
upon, not only by the players them-
selves, and the two great men at their
heads, but it might be said by the
''public at large," as the most import^
ant hnrling-match which had been pro-
jected for years in that or perhaps any
other district The friends of each
party, beside hundreds of neutral spec-
tators, had already occupied the hills
round what might be called the
arena.

Conspicuous at the head of the Rath-
cash men as they advanced with their
green sleeves amidst the cheers of their
friends, Tom Murdock could be seen
walking with his head erect, and his
hurl slewing over his shoulder. He
kept his right hand disengaged that he

might fulfil the usual custom of giving
it to his opponent, in token of good-
will, ere the game began.

He was undoubtedly a splendid
handsome-looking fellow "that day."
Upwards of six feet high, made in full
proportion. His shirt tied at the throat
with a broad green ribbon, having the
collar turned down nearly to the shoul-
ders, showed a neck of unsullied white-
ness, which contrasted remarkably
with the dark curled whiskers above
it. His men, too, were a splendid set
of fellows. Most of them were as tall
and as well made as himself, and none
were under &Ye feet ten; there was
not a small man among them — the
picked unmarried men of the parish.
Their green sleeves and bare necks,
with their hurls across their left shoul-
ders, as in the case of their leader, elic-
ited thunders of applause from the
whole population of Rathcash upon
the hill to their right.

A deej) ditch with a high grass bank
lay between the common and the spot
where Emon-a-knock and his men had
assembled.

Phil M'Dermott was silent. He was
not yet reconciled to the color which
their leader had chosen. Of course he
could not account for it, but he did not
half like it. To him it looked sombre,
melancholy, and prophetic But Phil
had sense enough to assume a cheer^
fulness, if he did not feel it.

Emon himself, though five feet ten
and a half inches high, was about the
smallest man of his party. In every
respect they equalled, if they did not
exceed, the Rathcash men.

"Come, boys," said Emon; "Torn
Murdock is bringing on his men ; well

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698

AUrHaUow &f0; <ir. The Tut of Fuiuriiy.

have to jump the bank. Shall I lead
the way ?"

** Of course, £mon ; an' bad'luck to
the man of the hundred will lave a toe
on it."

^ No, nor a heel, Phil," fiaid the wit.

'< Stand back, boys, about fifteen
yards," said Emon. ''Let me at it
first ; and when I am clean over, go at
it as much in a line as you can. Give
yourselves plenty of room and don't
crowd."

^ Take your time, boys," whispered
the prophet, " an' let none of us trip or
fidL"

"Never fear, Phil," can through
them all in reply. .

Emon then drew back a few yards ;
and with a light quick run he deared
the bank, giving a slight little steady*
ing-jump on the other side, like a man
who had made a somersault from a
spring-board.

The Shanvilla population— the
whole of which, I may say, was on the
surrounding hills — ^rent the air with
their cheers, amidst which the red
sleeves were seen clearing the bank
like so many young deer. Not a mis-
take was made; not a man jumped
low or short ; not a toe was left upon
it, as the prophet had said — nor a heel,
as the wit had added. It was an en-
livening sight to see the red sleeves
rising by turns about eight feet into
the air, and landing steadily on the
level sward beyond the bank.

The cheers from Shanvilla were
redoubled, and even some of the Rath-
cash men joined.

The two parties were now closing
each other in friendly approach toward
the centre of the field, where they halt-
ed within about six yards of each oth-
er ; Tom Murdock and £mon-a-knock
a tittle in advance. They stei^ped for-
ward, with their right hands a little
extended.

*' Hallo, Lennonl" said Murdock;
^why, you are dressed in silk, man^
and have a cap to match; I heard
nothing of that. I could not afford
^Ik, and our sleeves are plain calico."

^ 8q are ouib, and I could afford

silk still less than you could; but my
men presented me with these sleeves
and this cap, and I shall wear them."

^ Of course, of course, Lennon. But
I cannot say much for the color ; blue
would have looked much better ; and,
perhaps, have been more appropriate."

^ I left that for the girls to Vear in
their bonnets," replied Lennon, sar-
castically. He knew that Winny Cav-
ana's holiday bonnet was trimmed with
blue, and thought it not unlikely that
Murdock knew it also.

They then shook hands, but it was
more formal than cordial; and Mur-
dock took a half-crown from his pock-
et* He was determined to be down
on Emon-a-knock's poverty, for a pen-
ny would have done as well ; and he
said, " Shall I call, or will you?"

"The challenger generally ^ skies,'
and the other calls," he replied.

" Here then !" said Murdock, stand-
ing out into a clear spot, and curling the
half-crown into the air, eighteen or
twenty feet above their heads*

^ Head," cried Lennon ; and head
it was.

It was the usual method on such oc-
casions for the leader who won the toes
to throw the ball with all his force as
high into the air as possible, and, as a
matter of course, as far toward his
opponent's goal as he could. The
height into the air was as a token to
his friends to cheer, and the direction
toward his opponent's goal was con-
sidered the great advanti^ of hav-
ing won the toss.

This was, however, the first occa-
sion in the annals of hurling where
this latter point had been questioned.
£mon-a-knock and Phil M'Dermott
were both experienced hurlers; and
previous to their having taken the hi^
bank in such style, 6rom the field out-
side the common, they had stepped
aside from their men, and discussed
the matter thus :

'' Phil, I hope we'll win (he toss,"
said Emon.

** That we may, I pray. Tou '11 put
the ball a trifle on Uh way if we do^
Emon."

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M-IMaw Eve; or, Th$ TeH of FiOurHif.

699

<<No, Phil, that is the very point I
want to settle with jou. I have always
remarked that when the winner of the
toss throws the ball toward the other
goal, it is always mot by some good
man who is on the watch for it; and
as none of the opposite party are al-
lowed into their ground until ^ the game
is on,' he has it all to himself, and gen-
erally deals it such a swipe as puts it
half-way back over th6 others' heads.
Now my plan is this. If I win ' the
toss,' rU throw the ball more toward
' oar own goal than toward theirs. Let
you be there, Phil, to meet it ; and I haye
little fear that the first puck you give
it will send it double as far into our
opponent's ground as I could throw it
with my hand. Beside, the moment
the ball is up, our men can advance
all over the ground, and another good
man of ours may help it on. What
say you, Phil?"

^ Well, Emon, there 's a grate dale
of raison in what you say, now that I
tliink of it; but I never seen it done
that way afore."

It had been thus settled between
these two best men of Shanvilla ; and
Emon, having won the toss, cast his
eye over his shoulder and caught a
side glance of Phil M'Dermott in posi-
tion, with his hurl poised for action.

Ck)ntrary to all experience and all
expectation, Emon-a-knock, instead of
cas^g the ball from him, toward the
other goal, threw it as high as possible,
but unmistakably inclining toward his
own. Here there was a murmur of disap-
pointed surprise irom Shanvilla on the
hill. But it was soon explained. Phil
M'Dermott had it all his own way for
the first puck, which was considered a
great object. Never had such an ex-
pedient {nunc dodge) to secure it been
thought of before. M'Dermott had full
mom to deal with it. There was no
one near him but his own men, who
stood exulting «t what they knew was
about to come. M'Dermott with the
under side of his hurl rolled the ball
toward him, and curling it up into the
air about a foot above his head, met it
a£ it came down with a puck that was

heard all over the hills, and drove it
three distances beyond where Emon
could have thrown it from his hand.
The object of the backward cast by the
leader had now been explained to the
satisfaclaon of Shanvilla, whose cheers
of approbation loudly succeeded to
their previous murmurs of surprise.

" Be gorra, they 're a knowing pair,**
said one of ihe spectators on the hill.

But I eaxmot attend to the game^
which is now well ^on,*' and tell you
what each party said during the strug^
gle.

Of course the ball was met by Rath-
cash, and put back; but every man
was now at work as best he might,
where and when he could, but not al-
together from under a certain sort of
discipline and eye to their leaders*
Now some fortunate young fellow got
an open at the ball, and gave it a puck
which sent it spinning through the
crowd until stopped by the other par-
ty. Then a close struggle and clash-
ing of hurls, as if life and death de-
pended on the result. Now, again, some
fellow gets an open swipe at it, and
puck it goes over their heads, while a
rush of both parties takes place toward
the probable spot it must arrive at;
then another crowded struggle, and
ultunately another puck, and it is seen
like a cannon-ball on the strand at
Sandymount. Another rush, another
close struggle and clashing of hurls,
and puck, puck ; now at the jaws of
this goal, now at the jaws of that, while
the cheers and counter*cheers re-echo
through the surrounding hills.

It is needless to say that Tom Mur-
dock and Emon-a-knock were conspic-
uous in all these vicissitudes of the
game. No man took the ball from
either of them if he was likely to get
a puck at it in time ; but no risk of a
counter-puck would be run if an oppo-
nent was at hand to g^ve it. This was
the use of the distinguishing colors,
and right curious it was to see the
green and red sleeves twisting through
each other and rushing in groups to
one spot.

After all, Emon's color ^did not

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700

AB'HoBaw Em; or, The TeH of Futurity.

look 80 bad ;^ and ShanviUaheld iheir
own 80 gallantly as the game went on,
that betting — for it was a sort of
Derbj-day with the parish gamblers
—which was six, and even seven, to
fbnr on Rathcash at the oommenoe-
ment, was now even for choice. Ay,
there is one red-haired fellow, with a
small eye and a big one, who shoves
three thimbles upon a board at races,
has offered five fippenny-bits to four
upon ShanviUa ; and well he may, for
Emon and his men had got the ball
amongst them, and Emon's orders
were to keep it close — not to puck it
at all, now that they had it, but to tip
it along and keep round it io a body.
This was quite fair, and would have
been adopted by the other party had
they got the chance.

They were thus advancing steadily
but slowly. The Rathcash men were
on the outside, but found it difficult, if
not impossible, to enter the soUd body
of Shaovilla men, who were advanc-
ing with the ball in the middle of
them toward Rathcash goal

*^ To the front, to the front, boys, or
the game is lost V* roared Tom Mur-
doch, who was himself then watching
for an open to get in at the ball.

Forthwith there was a body of the
greeuHsleeves right before ShanviUa,
who came on with their ball, tip by
tip, undaunted.

Still Rathcash was on the outside,
and could not put a hurl on the balL
It was a piece of generalship upon
the part of the ShanviUa leader not
oflen before thought ot^ and likely to
be crowned with success. The cheers
from ShanvUla on the hills were now
deafening — ^the final struggle was evi-
dently at band. Rathcash on the hiUs
was sUent> except a few murmurs of
apprehension.

"This wUl never do, boysT* said
Tom Murdoch, rushing into the center
of ShanvUla and endeavoring to hook
the baU from amongst them ; but they
were too solid for that, alUiough he
had now made his way within a hurl's
length of Emon.

Emon caUed to his men to stoop in

front tliat he might see the goal and
judge his distance.

** A few yards further, boys,** he
cried, ^ and then open out for me to
swipe : I will not miss either the ball
or the goaL"

'' Steady, Emon, steady a bit r saad
PhU M'Dermott ; ** don't you see who
is, I may say, alongside of you?
Keep it close another bit**

"In with you, men! what are yon
about P* roflj^ Tom Murdoch; and
half a score of the greey-sleeves
rushed in amongst the red. Here the
clashing of hurls was at its hdght,
and the shouts from both sides on the
hiU were tremendous. ShanviUa kept
and defi^ded their baU in spite of
every attempt of Rathcash to pick it
from amongst them ; but nothing like
violence was thought of by either side.

ShanviUa seemed assured of victo-
ry, and such of them as were on the
outside, and could not get a tip at the
baU, kept brandishing their hurls in
the air, roaring at the top of their
voices, " Good boys^ ShanviUa, good
boysT ** Through with it — through
withitr "Goodboysr

Emon looked out. Though he did
not see the stones, he saw the goal-
masters — one red, the other green —
ready expecting the final* puck, and he
knew the spot.

" Give me room now, Phil,'* he
whispered, and his men drew back.

Emon curled the ball into the air
about the height of his head, and
struck it sure and home. As if from
a cannon's mouth it went over the
heads of Rathcash, ShanviUa, and all,
and sped right through the center of
the stones — ^hop— hop— hop-— until it
wan finaUy lost sight of in scMiie
rushes. But another blow had been
struck at the same moment, and
£mon-a-knock lay senseless on the
ground, his face and neck, shirt and
sleeves, all the same color, and that
color was — blood.

Tom Murdoch's hurl had been pois-
ed ready to strike the baU the mo*
ment Lennon had curled it into the
air. Upon tlus one blow the whole

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AU-BaUow Eve; or^ The Te$t of Fahirky.

701

game depended. Emon was rather
sideways to Tom, who was on his left.
Both their blows were aimed almost
simtiltaneoaslj at the ball^ bat Tom's
being a second or two late, had no
ball to hit ; and not being able to re-
strain the impetus of the blow, his
hurl passed on and took Emon's head
above the top of the left ear, raising
a scalp of flesh to the skall-bone,
about three inches in length, and more
than half that breadth.

The cheers of ShanviUa were
speedily quashed, and tliere was a
rush of the red-sleeves round their
leader. Phil ITDermott had taken
him in his arms, and replaced the
loose piece of flesh upon Emon's
skull in the most artistic numner, and
bound it down with a handkerchief
tied under the chin. He could see
that no injury liad been done to the
bone. It was a mere sloping stroke,
which had lifted the piece of flesh
dean froni the skulL But poor
Emon still lay insensible, his whole
face, neck, and breast covered with
blood.

There was some growling amongst
the ShanviUa boys, and those from
the hill ran down with their sticks to
join their comrades with their hurls ;
while the Bathcash men closed into a
compact body, beckoning to their
friends on the hill, who also ran down
to defend them in case of need.

This was indeed a critical moment,
and one that, if not properly managed,
might have led to bloodshed of a
more extended kind. But Tom Mar-
dock was equal to the occasion. He
gave his hurl to one of his men the
moment ho had struck the blow, and
went forward.

" Good heaven, boys, I hope he is
not much hurt!" he exclaimed. '^Bath-
cash should lose a hundred games
before ShanviUa should be hurt."

As he spoke he perceived a scowl
of doubt and rising anger in the faces
of many of the ShanvUla men, some
of whom ground their teeth, and
grasped their hurls tighter in their
hands. Tom did not lose his pres-

ence of mind at even this, although
he almost feared the i*esu]t. He took
Emon by the hand and bid him speak
to him. Phil M'Dermott had ordered
his men to keep back the crowd to
give the sufferer air. Poor Emon's
own remedy in another cause had
been resorted to. Phil had rubbed
his Ups and gums with whiskey — on
this occasion it was near at hand — and
poored a few thimblefuls down his
throat He soon opened his eyes,
and looked round him.

"Thank God I" cried Tom Mur-
dock. "Are you much hurt, Lea«
nonr

The very return to Ufe had already
quashed any cordiality toward Emon
in Tom's heart.

" Not much, I hope, Tom. I was
stunned; that was alL But what
about the game? 1 thought my ear
caught the cheers of victory as I felL'*

"Sothey did, Emon," said JiTDer*
mott; "but stop talking, I teU you.
The game is ours, and it was you
who won it with that last puck."

" Ay, and it was that last puck that
nearly lost him his life," continued
Tom, knowingly enough. " We both
struck at the baU nearly at the same
moment ; he took it first, and my hurl
had nothing to hit until it met the top
of his head. I protest before heaven,
Lennon, it was entirely accldentaL"

"I have not accused you of it's be*
ing anything else, Murdock; don't
seem to doubt yourself," said Emon in
a very low weak voice. But it was
evident he was "coming-to."

StiU the ShanviUa men were grum-
bling and whispering. One of them,
a big black-haired fellow named Ned
Murrican, burst out at last, and
brandishing his huri over his head*
cried out :

" Arrah, now, what are we about;
boys ? Are we going to see our best
man murdered before our eyes, an' be
satisfied wid a piper an' a dance ? I
say we must have blood for blood !"

" An' why not ?" said another* " It
was no accident ; Fm sure of that."

"What baldherdashi" cried a

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709

AU-HaOow Ew; or^ The Test of Ikdurtiy.

third; <^ didn't I see hbn aim the
blow P* And the whole of ShanrilJa
flourished their hurls and their sticks
in the air, clashing them together
with a terrific noise of an onslaught.

Tom Murdock's cheeks blanched.
He feared that he had opened a flood-
gate which he could not stop, and that
if there had not been, there would soon
be, murder. His men stood firm in a
dose bodj, and not a word was heard
to pass amongst them.

" Don't strike a blow, for the life of
yon, bojs r he cried, at the same time
he took back his hurl from the man
to whom he had given it to hold, who
handed it to him, sajing, ^ Here, Tom,
joull be apt to want this.**

The Shanvilla men saw him take
the hurl, and thought it an acceptance
of a challenge to fight* They now
began to jump off^ the ground, crying,
" Whoop, whoop P a sure sign of
prompt action in an Irish row.

At this still more critical moment,
Father Farrell, the parish priest of
Shan villa, who had been sent for fh
all haste ^for the man who was killed,''
was seen cantering across the com-
mon toward the crowd ; and more for-
tunately still he was accompanied by
Father Koche, the painsh-priest of
Rathcash. They were both known
at a glance ; Shanvilla on his ^ straw-
berry cob," and Rathcash on his
« tight little black mare."

It is needless to say that the ap-
proach of these two good men calmed
to all appearance, if not in reality,
the exhibition of angry feeling
amongst the two parties.

" Here, your reverence," said one of
the Shanvilla men to Father Farrell,—
** here's where the man that was hurt
is lying; poor £mon-a-knock, your
reverence."

Father Farrell turned for a mo-
ment knd whispered to his companion,
^ I'll see about the hurt man, and do
you try and keep the boys quiet. I
can see that Shanvilla is ready for a
fight. Tell them that Til be with
them in a very few minutes, if the
man is not badly hurt. If he is, my

friend, I'm a&aid we shall haTe a
hard task to keep Shanvilla quiet.
Gould you not send your men home at
once?"

^ I'll do what I can ; but yon can
do more with your own men than I
can. Rathcash will not strike a bIow»
I know, until the very last moment."

They then separated, Father Far-
rell dismounting and going over to
where Emon-arknock stiU lay in
M'Dermott's arms ; and Father Roche
np toward the Rathcash mien.

^ Boys," said he, addressing them,
'^this is a sad ending to the day's
sport ; but, thank Grod, from what I
hear, the man is not much hurt. Be
steady, at all events. Indeed, yoo
had better go home at once, every
man of you. Won't you take yofor
priest's advice ?"

** An' why not, your reverence ? to
be sure we will, if it comes to that ;
but, plaise Gk)d, it won't At worst it
was only an accident, an' we're toald
it won't signify. We'll stan' our
ground another while, your reverence,
until we hear how the boy is. Sure,
there's two barrels of beer an' a
dance to the fore, by-an'-by."

** Well, lads, be very steady, and
keep yourselves quiet I'll visit the
first man of you that strikes a blow
with condign—"

" We'll strike no blow, your rever-
ence, if we bant struck first Let Fa-
ther Farrell look to that"

<* And so he will, you may depend
upon it," said Father Roche.

The Shanvilla men had great oonfi*
dence in Father Farrell in every re-
spect, and there was not a man in the
parish who would not almost die at his
bidding from pure love of the man,
apart from his religious influence.
They knew him to* be a good physi-
cian in a literal, as well as a moral,
point of view ; and he had been prov-
ing himself the good Samaritan for the
last seventeen years to every one in
the parish, whether they fell among
thieves or not. He had commenced
life as a medical stodent, but had (pru-
dently, perhaps) preferi^ the ChurcJi.

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AU-BaUow Eve ; w^ The Test of Futurity.

708

In memoiy, however, of his early pre-
dilecdons, he kept a sort of little pii«
Tate diBpensaiy behind his kitchen;
and so numerous were the cures which
nature had effected under his mild ad-
yiee and harmless prescriptions, that
he had established a reputation for in*
faUibilitj almosi equal to that subse-
quently attained bj ftoUoway or Mor-
rifiOQ. Never, however, was his med-
ical knowledge of more use as well aa
value than on the present occasion.

Shanvilla grounded their weapons
at his approach, and waited for his re-
port. Father Farrell of course first
felt the young man's pulse. He was
not pedantic or affected enough to hold
his watch in his other hand while he did
so; but, like all good physicians, he
held his tongue. He then untied the
handkerchief, and gently examined the
wound so far as possible without dis-
turbing the work which Phil M'Der-
mott had so promptly and judiciously
performed.. His last test of the state
of his patient was his voice ; and upon
this, in his own mind, he laid no incon-
siderable stress. In reply to his ques-
tions as to whether he felt sick or gid-
dy, Emon replied, much more stoutly
than was expected, that he felt neither
the one nor the other. Father Far-
rell was now fully satisfied that there
was nothing seriously wrong with him,
and that giving him the rites of thQ
Church, or even remaining longer with
him then, might have an unfavorable
efiect upon the already excited minds
of the Shanvilla men. .He therefore
said, smiling, " Thank God, Emon, you
want no further 'doctoring just now ;
and I'll leave you for a few minutes
while I tell Shanvilla that nothing se-
rious has befallen you."

He then leil him, and hastened over
toward his parishoners, who eagerly
met him half-way as he approached.

« Well, your reverence ?" « Well,
your reverence?" ran through the
foremost of them.

**It is well, and very well, boys,"
he replied ; '< I bless Grod it is noth-
ing but a scalp wound, which will not
signify. ;^Pttt by your hurls, and

go and ask the Kathcash girls to
dance."

« Three cheers for Father Farrell!"
shouted Ned Murrican of the black
curly head. Thej were given hearti-
ly, and peace was restored.

Father Farrell then remounted his
strawberry cob, and rode over toward
where Fatiier Roche was with the Rath-
cash men. They were, " in a manner,"
as anxious to hear his opioion of Emon-
a-knock as his own men had been.
They knew nothing, or, if they did,
they cared nothing, for any private
cause of 01-wiU on their leader's part
toward Emon-a-knock. They were
not about to espouse his quarrel, if he
had one ; and, as they had said^ they
would not have struck a blow unless
in self-defence.

Father Farrell now assured them
there was nothing of any consequence
**upon" Emon; it was a mere tip of
the flesh, and would be quite well in a
few days. " But, Tom a-wochal,'' he
added, laughing, " you don't often aim
at a crow and hit a pigeon."

"I was awkward and unfortunate
enough to do so this time, Father Far-
rell," he replied. And he then entered
into a full, and apparently a candid,
detail of how it had happened.

Father Farrell b'stened with much
attention, bowing at him now and
then, like the foreman of a jury to a
judge's charge, to show that he under-
stood him. When he had ended. Father
Farrell placed his hand upon his
shoulder, and, bending down toward
hi^, whispered in his ear, *' Oh, Tom
Murdock, but you are the fortunate
man this day! for if the blow had
been one inch and a half lower, all the
priests and doctors in Connaught
would not save you from being tried
for manslaughter."

" Or murder," whispered Tom's
heart to himself.

By this time Emon-a-knock, with
M'Dermott's help, had risen to his
feet ; and leaning on him and big Ned
Murrican, crept feebly along toward
the boreen which formed the entrance
to the common.

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704 Liquietm.

Father Farrell,peroeiTing the move, ever, had reached the end of the lane,
rode after him, and said, as he passed. Father Farrell came entering back,
that be would trot on and send for saying, ^ AU right, my good lads ;
a horse and cart to fetch him home, there is a jennet and cart coming np
as he would not allow him to walk the lane fbr him.''
any further than . the end of the Emon cocked his ear at the word
lane. Indeed, it was not his inten- jennet ; he knew who owned the only
tion to do so; for he was still scarcely one for miles around. And there inde^
able to stand, and that not without it was ; and the sight of it went well-
help. • nigh to cure Emon, better than any

Before he and- his assistants, how- doctoring he could get.

TO BS OOHnXUSD.

From The Month.

INQUIETUS.

Wb put him in a golden cage

With crystal troughs ; but still he pined

For tracts of royal foliage.
And broad blue skies and merry wind.

We gave him water cool and dear ;

All round his golden wires we twined
Fresh leaves and blossoms bright, to cheer"^

His restless heart : but still he pined.

We whistled and we chirped ; b^t he

Trilled never more his liquid &lls,
But ever yearned for liberty,

And dashed against l^s golden walls.

Again, again, in wild despair,

He strove to burst his bars aside ;
At last, beneath his pinion fair,

He hid his drooping head and died!

And so against the golden bars —

Life's golden bars— oar poor souls smite.

Pining for tracts beyond the stars.
Freedom and beauty, truth and light

Those bars a Father^s hands adorn
. With leaves and flowers— earth's loveliest things-
With crystal draughts ; but still we mourn
With thirsting for the " living springs."

Nor ciystal draughts, nor leaves and flowers,

The exiled heart can satisfy :
We shake the bars ; and some few hours

We droop and pine, and then we die,

We die ! But, oh, the prison-bars

Are shatter'd then: then far away,
We pass beyond the sky, the stara-^

Beyond the^change of night and day.

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A Kingdom Without a King.

706

From Chambers's JooniAl.

A KINGDOM WITHOUT A KING.

LiCHTENSTEiK 18 the name of the
smallest principality in the great Ger-
man " Vaterland/' and this has hitherto
been the most remarkable thing ^hat
could be said about it, for in the great
political world it has as jet played no
part. It appears, however, that its
time has now arrired; and for the
benefit of those who might receive this
bit of intelligence with a sceptical
smile, I subjoin a few words of ex-
planation.

In order fiilly to appreciate this im-
portant question, it will be necessary
to commence by going back into the
past — if not so far as to the Flood, at
least to some part of the twelflh cen-
tury.

It will not do to believe that the
Lichtensteiners are people of vulgar
extraction. True, their ancestors hj^-
ly anticipated that the house of Lich-
tenstein would ever be reckoned among
the reigning families of Europe ; but
this did not affect the nobleness of their
quarterings. The founder of the house
was a lively and enterprising Lombard,
and related to the Este i^ily. He
went to Grermany with the object of
making his fortune, and there he mar-
ried, 1145 A.D., a little princess of the
house of Schwaben. They had not
the slightest fraction of a principality,
but they had plenty of children to
educate and provide for. Their for-
tune was not very large, but, in his
quality of Lombaid, the father exer-
cised the lucrative business of an
usurer, whenever the occasion present-
ed itself. The sovereigns of those
times were often in want of money,
and our Lombard supplied them with
this article, proper security being forth-
coming. When the time of restitution
arrived, it was not always convenient

VOL. II. 45

to the debtors to pay in cash, and the
affair was therefore generally settled
by means of small pieces of land,
titles, or privileges. The Lichtenstein-
ers soon became allied to the greatest
German families. In the year 1614,
the Emperor Matthias ceded to them,
in settlement of their pecuniary claims,
the principality of Troppau, in Schle*
sien. Ten years later, the Emperor
Ferdinand n. added to their posses-
sions the principality of Jagendorff.
Then they obtained the title of " Prince
of the Holy Roman Empire ;" and by
this time they had purchased the dis-
tricts of Yadutz and SchneUenberg,
on the borders of the Rhine, and close
to the Swiss frontier. These posses-
sions form the actual principaJity of
Lichtenstein, which has the smaU town
of Vadutz for its capitaL

The CoDgress of Vienna — contrary
to its principles of mediatization — ^re-
solved, for reasons which' we abstain
from investigating, to maintain Lich-
tenstein as a sovereign and independ-
ent state, and gave it an entire vote in
the Grerman Confederation.

In return for these advantages,
Lichtenstein had to provide a con-
tingent of ninety men and one drum-
mer to the fedeial army. It is im-
portant not to lose sight of these ninety
men and one drummer, for they play
a principal part in the impending
question. The subjects of the princi-
pality of Lichtenstein, according to the
last census, numbered 7,150 ; they are
clever people, of a peaceable disposi-
tion, but impressed with no particular
awe for authorities. They even have
a slight taint of independence, un-
doubtedly owing to the close vicinity
of Switzerland.

A year had scarcely elapsed aftec

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706

A Kingdom Without a IRng.

the' remodelling of the map of Europe
* by the Congress of Vienna, when the
inhabitants of Lichteustein addressed
themselves to their sovereign, John I.,
and declared with rustic frankness
that they had no objection to being
mled by him, since the Congress had
decided it so ; but that they found it
entirely superfluous to pay any civil
list; beside, they were too few in
number to contribute every year nine-
ty men and one drommer to the fed-
eral army. Prince John was an ex-
cellent man, and, moreover, he was
immensely rich. He informed his
subjects that he could do very well
without any civil list ; and as for the
federal contingent, he concluded a
convention with the Austrian govern-
ment, by which the latter undertook to
furnish it together with its own. With
this the loyal subjects declared them-
selves satisfied ; and everything went
on well until the year 1836, when
Prince Aloysius I. ascended the
throne. In the meantime, the natives
of Lichtenstein had made various re-
flections. The conclusions arrived at
were : that a prince, even if paid no-
thing, entails sundry expenses on the
country where he is reigning ; festivals
have to be given, as well as solemn
audiences, illuminations, fire-works, etc.

Accordingly, they sent a deputation
to their new lord and master, and made
it obvious, to him that he must indem-
nify the country for all expenses of
the description alluded to. Aloysius
L was as excellent a monarch as his
predecessor; he admitted the claims
of his subjects, and made an agree-
ment with them concerning an annual
indemnity, which he paid with exem-
plaiy regularity.

The Lichtensteiners had now at-
tained the object of their wishes ; they
led an existence entirely ideal. They
occupied a position unique in Europe,
nay, in the whole world ; for, insteiEul
of paying for government, they actually
were paid for submission to it It
would new be supposed that nothing
in future could disturb the good under-
standing exifttiBg between prince and

people* But alas! that the old saying
should here find its application — ^name-
ly, that he who has got yellow hair,
wants it also to be curled.

John II. became Prince of Lichten-
stein. One fine morning he said to
himself: '^ Since I have no civil list,
nay, since I--<x>nt3*ary to all establish-
ed usages — pay a tribute to my sub-
jects, I ough^ at least to have full lib-
erty to live according to my tastes.
This small capital is a bore« I have
plenty of money ; I will set out for
Vienna !'' No sooner said than done.
John IL built a magnificent palace in
the capital of Austria, and there he
lived in a luxurious stylo. The gov-
ernment of the principality he intrust-
ed to a minister, widi whom he cor-
responded. But when were those
stupid Lichtensteiners to be satisfied?
They put their heads together and re-
solved to send a deputation to their
supreme master in Vienna ; *iand one
particular morning, just as the prince
had got out of bed, a dozen of the
most distinguished among his subjects
made their appearance. Afler the
customary reverences and ceremonies,
the deputation put forth its request
with becoming solemnity, expressing
itself somewhat to the foUowing efiect :
" We don't pay your serene highness
any civil list; on the contrary, your
serene highness pays an annual in-
demnity to us. But your serene
highness is in pdssession of a large
fortune, and spends it in a royal man-
ner, by the which formerly your prin*
cipality benefited. If, now, your se-
rene highness continues to reside in
Vienna, you inflict a serious loss upon
your subjects; and it appears there-
fore to us but just that you should in
future inhabit at least six months of
the year your own capitaL** Several
demands of a po]iti<»d nature were
appended to this petition. John IL
granted their request, and issued, more-
over, a brand-new constitution, with a
parliament of fifteen members, whom
he promised to pay out of his own
pocket.

But what about the ninety men and

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707

the drammer? Well, new the diffi-
culty arises, for they are exactly the
cause of the present dispute.

Austria having long furnished this
contingent, sent, some time ago, a hill
of the resultmg expenses to the prince.
But the prince thought that, as he had
renounc€»i his claims to a civil list,
and even paid his subjects a round
sum every year, it could be no very
heavy burden for the said subjects to
pay their own federal contingent.
Tins the Lichtensteiners obstinately

refuse to do; the prince, on the other
side, tired of so much trofible, has ex-
pressed his intention to abdicate, and
to cede his dominions to Austria. But
against this scheme his people protest
most eneigetically-^hey would rather
belong to Switzerland. Beside, if
Austria annexes Lichtenstein, then
Prussia will regard the transaction
with an envious eye. The prince will
neither pay nor govern. Such is the
present state of things, of which no-
body can predict the end.

From The St. JameB Magazine.

A NOVEL TICKET-OF-LEAVE; OR, MISTAKEN IDENTITY.

** No two things are alike.** Such
is the dictum of science. " Nature,"
say the wise men, "resembles the
charms of Cleopatra, which custom
cannot stale, so infinite is their varie-
ty." Even in so humble a thing as a
flock of sheep there is a personal iden-
tity, and the shepherd of Salisbury
Plain will vow to you that he can
discriminate between the countenances
of each member of his woolly family,
and particularize their features. So
with the herdsman and his drove, the
trainer and his stud. But why pur^
sue the theme? Why dwell upon
these flocks qui p<zssent et ne $e resem'
blent pas f Is it to prove that these
.resemblances are mere fallacies, and
have no real existence; that they
ought to be classed with Sir Thomas
Browne*8 " vulgar errors?" No; but
to lament that whereas each member
of a flock of sheep, of a herd of oxen,
or a stud of horses, carries his individ-
uality so markedly, the privilege is not
more extended in the genus homo. I
solemnly aver that the number of cases
of mistaken identity which have lately
oome to my knowledge is not only as-
tounding, but exceedingly embarrass-
ing; I may add, too, quorum magna

pars .fui; which, being translated,
means, in which I have formed a no
inconsiderable portion of the quorum.
It is no pleasant sensation to know
that your " counterfeit presentment" is
walking the earth ; in fact, it is mon-
strously unpleasant The other day I
felt a heavy hand placed rapidly upon
my shoulder, in the most unceremoni-
ous and familiar of ways, accompanied
with an equally unceremomous and
familiar exclanuition : " Wliy, Per-
kins, old boy, ^u^ are ye? Haven't
seen ye for an age ! Glad to see you
again in London I How are all the
folks at Nottingham?"

How far this familiar stranger would
have gone on in this fluent strain of
amity I know not. It was time to
stop his exuberance of friendship, and
acquaint him with the fact that my
name was not Perkins ; that I had not
come from Nottingham ; and, I fear,
added, in the bitterness and irritation
of the moment, that I had never -been
to Nottingham, and never wished to
go diere. ^Oh, nonsense, Perkins!
I'm not going to be knocked off in that
style. How are Mrs. Perkins and the
chicks?" ^I tell you again, sir, you
are mistaken in your man ; my name

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A Novel Ticket-^f-LeavB ; or, JUisiakm Identity,

is not Perkins.** ** It may not be Per-
kins now, bat it was three months ago;
and whatever your new name may be,
I am not going to be turned off in this
way. Not Perkins ! Why, you can't
get rid of that mole on your cheek with
your new name ; and as to your wig,
old fellow, there never was but that
shade of red I ever saw. Gome,
where shall we dine?' "1 must
plainly tell you, sir," I replied to my
would-be fiiend, **you are carrying
your pleasantry too far ; and if you
do not leave me at once, I will give
you in charge of the police." The
fellow, evidently chagrined, left me to
chew the cud of bitter reflection.
" WeD, well," were his parting words,
" it can't be Perkins after all ; Per-
kins was a jolly good fellow, and this

chap is *' He had by this time

got out of hearing. What an unpleas-
ant rencontre this I I thought to my-
self. Then again the subject took an-
other aspect What if the real, the
true Perkins, should ever be persecut-
ed by my friends as I have been by
one of his ?

And this leads me on to another in-
cident in the same category, which oc-
curred still more recently, and might
have led to very deplorable results.
In fact, I am not sure that the end is
yet. I had business out of town for
a day or two, and returned punctually
at the appointed hour. Whom should
I meet on the platform of the terminus
but Tom Cridlins ! Now Tom is a
great gossip, and an immense favorite
with the ladies. He frequents the
theatres and the operas, conversaziones
and balls, and retails all the news
and scandal of the day to his fair
friends. Well, I met him accidentally
at the terminus ; in an instant he was
full of apologies and excuses. " Hope,
8am, done no mischief; didn't mean
i:, didn't mean it, 'pon honor ; deuced
sorry, hope it's all over." "Why,
what's the matter?" ** Didn't know
you'd gone out of town, you sly dog.
I understand it alL Galled at Mrs.
Sam's yesterday ; told her — didn't do
it intentionally — saw you at the opera

Monday night with Gountess Taras-
cona; magnificent woman; saw at
once made mistake. Why didn't she
tell me you'd gone out of town?
wouldn't have breathed a word. 'Pon
honor, accidentaL" « Opera, Tom ! I
wasn't at the opera ; I have been out
of town since Monday morning; you're
mistaken." " Gapital joke, that. Why,
Sam, think I'm 'flicted with .color-
blindness ? NO} my boy, nothing blinds
me but friendsmp ; wouldn't have said
a word had known you didn't want it."
Need I say what a miserable vista
was opened up before me ? A jealous
wife's jealousy accidentally inflamed
in this innocent manner, and even Tom
Gridlins incredulous. These men of
the world won't believe in — ^in any-
thing.

"Tom," I said, seriously, "this is
very unfortunate ; but you were never
more mistaken in your life. I have
not been at the opera for weeks." Oh
that wicked twinkle of his eye ! " Well,
my boy, / don't want to believe you
were there; disbelieve anything you

like ; only " " Tom, I can stand

this no longer ; I must not be played
with ; you must admit that I was not
at the opera. I can bring the whole
village of Gudgleton to prove an
ci&W." " Glad to hear it, for peace of
home's sake. Mrs. Sam took it very
ill, can assure you ; sony, 'oeedingly
sorry; but really the countess is a
magnificent woman." "Who the devil
cares now about the countess? I
affirm that I have been at Gudgleton
from Monday 4 p.m. till this morning
10 A.M. Left by express, and just ar-
rived." " There's the bell, Sam ; must
say good-bye ; remember me to your
wife; purely accidental; *ceedingly
regret it ; believe every word you say
— ^will back it 'gainst all odds; re-
member me to your wife, and tell her
l believe you, my hoy J*

" Believe me, my boy I" and that's
how Tom Gridlins left me, — light-
hearted and gay-spirited, after having
kindled a torch which Acheron itself
could not quench.

I returned home. Of course Mrs.

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709

Sam was prepared to receive me. In
Tadn I protested; in vain I insisted
that Tom Cridlins was laboring under
an illusion ; I had brought him to oon-
fesa as much. ^ Oh, then, you have
seen him to-daj ; planning and schem-
ing, I suppose, to get up a pack of
contradictions. I understand; but you
are not going to deceive me. Natural
evidence is better than got-np evidence,
and I shall prefer to take Mr. Th(Hnas
Cridlins's fint statement to his second.
There are some things better fresh,
and testimony I tidce to be one of
those things. ' Whatever you and Mr.
Cridlins may choose to concoct, for the
future I shsJl believe what I please to
believe.**

And so on till bedtime. Would
that I could say we had had it out
even then ! At midnight we were
only in the thick of it ; and to acquire
renewed vigor for future assaults, Mrs.
Sam prudently fell asleep.

But what a time for me ! Oh that
I could reverse the hand of the clock
eight-and-forty hours, or push it on
until this trouble had blown over!
Plague on that man, whoever he is,
that looked so like me ! Why was he
at the opera? why was he there with
a fine woman ? Cridlins saw nothing
of the Countess Tarasconar— only seen
her once — ^and his foolish head jumps
to the conclusion it must be the count-
ess. Ass that he is ! Why isn't he
honestly employed, like other people,
instead of idling about on his five
thousand a year, philandering and
making mischief? He can scarcely
count the fingers on his hand, yet he
can create a devil of a row between
man and wife I

Two o'clock struck. I had fallen
into a distempered doze; still it was
somewhat soothing. With the waking
refiection came back, not quite so ex-
cited. After all it might have been
worse. ^I remember reading of a
Bishop of Siena who had a sovereign
antidote against every attack of de-
spondency.

•* When I am disappointed or vexed,
or embarrassed or dissatisfied," he

said, "I look round upon the world
and notice how many hundreds and
thousands are worse off than myself,
and the result invariably is, that
grumbling and vexation take wings
and fiy away, and contentment and
cheerfiilness return and nestle in my
bosom.**

What, thought I, as I lay awake, —
what if, instead of this conjugal con-
tretempsj I had been wrongly seized
for theft and murder, and unable to
prove an aUbtf Such cases have been.
Such cases have been! Why, they
have taken place by scores — ^are tak-
ing place, and will to the end of the
chapter. And my imagination vividly
portrayed the mental agonies of the
innocent convict Memory ransacked
the dusty tomes of history to supply
fresh food for meditation, fresh fuel to
feed my horror. Does not Pliny cite
innumerable instances ? Had not the
twin brothers of Ephesus just cause to
exclaim, each to his unknown counter-
part, in the anguish and bitterness of
his spirit, " Oh, Dromio, Dromio, where-
fore art thou, Dromio?** Does not
the "Newgate Calendar** teem with
cases of men*s lives perjured by fabe
witnesses, or sacrificed to a fkhe tissue
of circumstances? Did not Richard
Coleman and Clinch and Mackley suf-
fer death for crimes of which they
were subsequently proved to be guilt-
less, simply because each was mis-
taken for the '* right man,** who was
not, and never is, in the *' right place.'*
Was not Hoag tried at New York, in
1804, for bigamy,, through a similar
misconception ? And did not Redman
in 1822, and Robinson in 1824, just
escape the gallows by a hair*s-breadth?
And were not these instances enough
to scarify any man's imagination, and
shiver his every nerve ? My " coun-
terfeit presentment** was evidently
wandering about somewhere. What
sort of a character was he ? Did ho
belong to the dangerous classes ? was
he a respectable member of society or
an impostor? was he cunning and
clever, and capable of swindling ? was
he cold-blooded and resolute, capable

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710

A Novel IHcket-of 'Leave ; or, MUtaken IdentUy.

of murder ? was he pasgionate and re-
vengefiil? was he anything and every-
thuig that could lead a man into a vio-
lent scrape?

No wonder the perspiration ran off
my brow as my brain scudded through
the chapter of probabilities and re-
vealed a long gloomy vista of perils.
I bethought me of the police. Should
I make Imown that my "^ counterfeit"
was abroad ''stalking the world
around T* Should I seek the protec-
tion of Scotland Yard, and wani them
if they heard of a robbexy or a, mur-
der, or some other viUanyor felony
committed by a man answering to
my description, that / was not the
culprit? To be forewarned is to bo
forearmed; to tell them tliis might
save loss of time, and spare a world
of trouble, inconvenience, and annoy-
ance. Beside, was it not exactly
what my late friend Richter had
done? Ah! by-the-bye, you didn't
know Richter — thereby hangs a tale.
Richter, -poor fellow, is dead now;
but there is a moral attached to his
life, and we, whose eidola are walk-
ing the earth, may as well extract it*

Richter was a wealthy rentier, liv-
ing in Vienna ; and a thorough Aus-
trian by birth, education, and nature.
Quiet, inoffensive, kindly ; there was
nothing striking about him in person
or position. He never meddled with
that firebrand — politics ; he had never
troubled the most immaculate govern-
ment of the imperial and royal apos-
tolic Kaiser with unseasonable and
unreasonable comments on its virtues
or defects ; he had never violated that
most sacred thing, the concordat;
had never offended lord or prince ;
had hated Hungary, and had always
wished Venice at th^ bottom instead
of on the surface of the sea. He was
a peaceable citizen, obedient to the de-
crees of his sovereign, and pursued the
even tenor of his life with well-bal-
anced footstep, inclining to nothing
that was likely to lead him or his
neighbor into the dark and dreary des-
ert of trouble and vexation. Never-
theless the Nemesis of envy marked

him for her own ; and he was pointed
at during the latter part of his life as
one who could set the vast army of
spies and detectives formed and dis-
ciplined by that arch-polieeman, Met-
temich, at absolute defiance.

It was the custom of Herr Richter
of an afternoon or morning—- as any
one might who had nothing better to
do — ^to stroll up and down the princi-
pal thoroughfares of Vienna, gaze into
its splendid shops, and admire the
beauty and the becrinolined silks and
satins, muslins and grenadines, of the
stately dames of that ancient and quaint
city. One day — ^it was in the summer
of 1849— Herr Richter vr^A JUtning
along the Katner Strasse, and, im-
pelled neither by curiosity nor eovet-
ousness, but • that indefinable some-
thing which ofien dirocts our course
and shapes our conduct without oar
consciousness, stopped before the
« Storr and Mortimer" of the Haps-
burg ci^ital. Why did he thrust him-
self in amongst that band of ragged
gamins, who, with gaping mouth and
burning eyes, were devouring the
splendors of the plate-glass window,
and wistfiilly wishing that that glitter-
ing heap of rings and chains, brooches
and necklaces, cassolettes and lockets,
bracelets and eardrops, emeralds, dia-
monds, pearls, rubies, turquoises, etc.,
were theirs? Why did he mingle
with them? He could not have told
you, nor can I. Only he was there,
and it was- evident his heart, too, was
overflowing, like Mr. Pickwick's, with
the milk .of human kindness. ** Poor
fellows !*' such was his train of thought,
"you can never get any of these
treasures, though you should toil for a
century ;" and then turning away, he
muttered aloud, still continuing his
train of thought, **Any of them might
be mine in a moment if I chose,"*
Wap. he speculating on the iniquitous
force of the Austrian guild laws, or
the false system of political economy
in voguo in Austria ? was he ponder-
ing over the mysteries of meum et tuunif
or endeavoring to solve that profound
problem, ^ La propriei4 i^est lewjlT*

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711

Possibly jesy possiblj no ; but just
at that moment a strong hand was
laid on his shoulder. '^One word
with you, if you please," said a low
musical voice, imperative yet polite.

The invitation was irresistible.
With the utmost complacency Herr
Richter retired with the gentleman
who accosted him underneath one of
those huge gateways, porte-^ocMres,
which foim the entrance of the old
Vienna houses. The stranger then
took a paper from his pocket, and
looking intently, now at its contents,
now at the features of Herr Richter,
opened the conversation in a curt and
peremptory manner :

" Sir, I am under the painful ne-
cessity of requesting you to follow
me."

Herr Richter, incensed, grows res-
tifT.

'* Pray, sir, who are you that dare
— ** and without finishing the sen-
tence he threw himself into an atti-
tude of defence, if not defiance.

"Had you not better give less
trouble?" coolly asked the stranger.
** Am I to call assistance ?"

Rapidly the truth dawned upon the
Herr. The stranger, though clad in
the ordinary attire of a bourgeois, be-
longed to that mysterious body, dread-
ed by every section of the community,
since it received its orders, so it was
universally believed, directly from the
cabinet, or a joint committee of the
holy alliance itself. Yes, he must be
an agent of the secret police.

Herr Richter, however, is not hur-
ried off to the star chamber where
political ofi^enders are dealt with, but
is conducted to the Scotland Yard of
Vienna — the headquartersof the ^cti-
darmerie — ^die central station for crim-
inal suspects. In Austria it is safer
to be classed with common thieves
and felons than to be suspected of
meddling with politics. So the Herr's
mind was materially relieved ; though
ignominious his fate, on perceiving
hjs destination he scarcely felt enrag-
ed at the indignity offered him.

When they had arrived withui the

gloomy precincts of the gaol barracks,
things began to explain themselves.
There was evident satisfaction, not to
say exultation, on the faces of the offi-
cials. The captor was specially grat-
ified; and waving his warrant, as
though it were an honorable trophy,
over the head of his unfortunate prize,
he exclaimed —

"I've captured him at last; Fve
found him and caught him, this prince
of pickpockets !" and he enacted the
passion of triumph so perfectly that
he jeered at and derided in true Teu-
tonic fashion his safe and sound vic-
tim in the most cold-blooded and inso-
lent manner.

" As I was passuig down the Eat-
ner Strasse," continued this self-gratu-
latory detective, "I saw him look-
ing into a goldsmith's shop, noting
every article in the window, and heard
him muttering to himself, with a most
complacent air, ^Any one of them
could be mine in a moment if I
chose.'"

A superior officer was then called,
and the description in the warrant be-
ing read over, there could be no doubt
as to the identity of the prisoner with
the most active and desperate (hief in
Vienna. The personal appearance of
Herr Richter tallied exactly with thp '
written portrait in the possession of
the Polizer-Haus ; type and antitype
could not be more exact.

^ Good heavens !" exclaimed the
alarmed captive, "I the greatest thief
in Vienna! I am Herr Richter, a
gentleman, a man of property, rich
enough to purchase twenty jewellers'
shops. I beg you to be careful how
you proceed further."

" Don't excite . yourself," retorted
the commissioil^r, ^' we shall be care-
ftd enough. You won't catch us giv-
ing you an opportunity of escape."

" DonnerweUer /" ejaculated the
now infuriated rentier ; " tiiis is too
much of a good thing. Just send
round for my banker and he will tell
you who and what I am. I'll sue
you, sir — I'll sue you, sir, as sure as
you are bom," repeated the Herr,

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712

A Nwd Tktet-of-Leave ; or, MgUxken lientUif.

growing more exasperated everj mo-
ment

The superintendent, like most men
of his profession, was well versed in
physiognomy, and could read the fea-
tures of the human face and interpret
their varied expressions. ^ This is
not feigned anger," he said to himself.

The banker was sent for, and iden-
tified the prisoner as his friend Herr
Bichter. As a matter of course the
. wealthy gentleman escaped the grasp
of the Philistines.

On leaving the beetle-browed gate-
way of the police barracks the Herr
breathed freely again, rejoicing that
matters had turned out no worse in
that empire of suspicion and caprice.
He moved along through the principal
thoroughfare of the Austrian capital,
pondering over* his recent unpleasant
adventnre. At length he called a
cab to take him to his club, where he
might drown the indignity of the
morning in a bumper of Tokay or
Johannisberg, and invite oblivion by
devouring a good dinner. Hardly,
however, had he placed his foot on
the step than he was forced deep
down into the vehicle by a mysteri-
ous personage at his back, who, whis-
pering to the driver, " To the police
station T enters the cab also. Speech-
less and aghast as though a spectre
were the intnider, the unfortunate
Herr Richter looked wildly at his
compulsory companion.

" Sir," said the spectre —

" I know all you are going to say,"
feebly remarked the desperate Rich-
ter, cursing his fate.

" Of course you know," sneered the
spectre at his side, who, however, is
no spectre, but a jolly-booking individ-
ual in the prime of manhood. *' Of
course yon know." And with this he
dives his hand into his pocket, and
drags forth the fatal warrant.'

** All right !" groans out the inevit-
able captive, with whom despair was
fast degenerating into recklessness.
''All right, you need not take the
trouble to read every trait. I have
read the account myself. It is very

correct, wonderfully correct, teniblj
correct."

" For a gentleman of your profes-
sion," observed the portly detective,
"you are really very civil. Haifa
doasen 3uch as you would marvellous-
ly improve the manners of our mod-
em chevaliers dHndustrie, X say, old
boy," continued the pleasant thief-
catcher, poking the unresisting Herr
in the ribs, ''you ought to think it
over, and exert yourself to instil a
little politeness into your tribe. Ifus
a large section of the community, yoa
know. If yon get out again, think
over my advice."

The only reply of Herr Richter
was a faint, helpless smile.

Arrived at the station, a general
shout of laughter greeted the captor
and the captured.

Tl^e latter seated himself in a chair,
and, composing his thoughts for a des-
perate harangue, thus addressed the
commissioners present :

^ Gentlemen, here I am again, and
here I am resolved to remain. As it
is, I should not be safe anywhere else
a quarter of an hour until arrested
and taken to the station by aU your
detectives one afler the other. Calcu-
lating from to-day's experienoe, and
forming a moderate estimate of the
rate of locomotion at which I could
proceed under the circumstances, it
would take me a fortnight to get
homo and bury myself from the now
hated gaze of mankind. You will
therefore have the kindness to let me
keep you company and make the per-
sonal acquaintance of each meniber
of your force, who will then, I hope,
be able to recognize me when he sees
me in the streets."

The commissioner-in-chief regretted
that he could not assent to the Herr^s
proposition. ''Impossible! it would
never do, my dear sir," he informed
the astounded lUchter, "for a civilian,
even a man of your respectability and
appearance, to know all tlie detectives ;
the state itself would be endangered*
However," he added very gradonsly,
"I will give yoa a oerdficate, under

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A Novel IHcket-of-Leave ; or, Mistaken TdeniUy.

718

my hand and seal, that jou are not the
man yon have been taken for; and
this will make, I hope, as &r as lies
in my power, the amende honorable J*

« A ticket-of-leave f '

" Comme vous votdezJ*

Poor Richtef surrendered uncondi-
tionally, glad, like the Bishop of Here-
ford, "that he could so get away."
Never from that hour did he lose sight
of that precious " ticket-of-leave," the
prison release of the Austrian Scotland
Yard. He always carried it about
with him as a kind of amulet to charm
away the too active agens de police.
In his last will and testament he in-
serted a special clause, ordermg that
the old leather sheath, containing the
official permit, should be placed in his
coffin.

" Who knows how many a fix it may
yet help me out of?* was written in
the margin with his own hand,

Why should not I, then, do Kke Herr
Bichter ? thought your humble servant,
as he still lay awake. If ever the
dastardly hand of a peeler be laid on
my shoulder, such shall be my first
step. Pshaw 1 why should I not take
time by the forelock? why should I not
go that very morning to Scotland Yard
and acquaint the commissioners that
my counterfeit was at large, and might
commit some fearful atrocity, some
terrible crime, and so beg for a ticket
of recognition — a ticket-of-leave ?

Alas I whilst I was putting on the
breastplate and buckling on my armor
against imaginary foes, I had forgot-
ten the real danger that encompassed
me. Whilst I was congratulating my-
self on the ingenious dispensation I was
to obtain from the police, I forgot that
I had not yet obtained a dispensation
from the partner of my joys and sor-
rows who was calmly reposing by my
side. CJalmly reposing, I say, for
nothing seemed to disturb her. There
are natures, it appears to me, whose
repose notliing can break, and it is ex-
actly that class of natures which can
most easily and effectually disturb the

peace of others. It is a mighty facult}',
and was possessed, a merveiUe, by Mrs.
Sam.

When she woke I meekly broached
my idea of police protection, thereby
intending by a side-wind to establish
my spotless innocence before her.
Granted the necessity of police pro-
tection, the corollary would be that the
story of the opera and the countess was
all a myth. Mrs. Sam let me run the
whole tether of suggestion with sur-
prising complacency. I almost felt I
was triumphant.

"Mr. Samuel — ^, you may be
guilty of whatever folly you please ; it
is nothing strange to you," she began
in her most stately and cutting manner ;
" but if you think of bamboozling me
and throwing me off the scent, you have
mistaken your woman. The herring
to trail across my path must be strong-
er fiavored than the one you have in
hand if you would turn me from the
pursuit Justice I am resolved to have,
and will sifl the matter to the bottom.
It is not yet time to get up, and I wish
to finish my sleep. After breakfast,
with your kind permission (oh the
agony of that irony !) we will together
call on the countess^ She, perhaps,
may be able to explain."

I knew the countess had lefl town ;
but I did not dare to say so, and hypo-
critically assented to Mrs. Sam's pro-
posal. She was furious when she
learnt that the countess was from home.
" How long had she been from home ?*'
" A fortnight," was the testimony of the
butler. " Has she not been in town
since?" "No." "Was she not in
town on Monday ?" " Certainly not."
How freely I breathed as this witness
gave his involuntary and corrobora-
tive evidence in my favor. Mrs. Sam
turned round upon me with an incred-
ulous smile. " I condone it this time,"
she graciously observed as we descend-
ed the steps, w^iich reminded me very
forcibly of tiie verdict of the Cornish
jury — ^^' We find the prisoner no< guilty,
only we advise him not to do it again."

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714

MtceOanif.

MISCELLANY-

An Intermittent Fountain. — ^M. I'Abbe
Laborde, writing to Le9 Mondes^ de-
scribes a simple apparatus for producing
an intermittent fountain. It consists
of an inverted flask fitted wfth a curk,
throogh which pass two tubes of un-
equal length. The longer reaches nearly
to the bottom of the nask, 'and outside
has a length of some twenty inches.
The shorter tube merely pierces the
cork, and does not extend to any length
inside, and outside it ends immediately
in a jet, which can be curved round.
The flask is filled with water, fitted with
the two tubes, and then, with the finger
on the shorter tube, is inverted, plung-
ing the end of the longer tube in a ves-
sel of water. The instrument may now
be fixed in this position, as an intermit-
tent let of water begins to fiow at once,
continuing until the flask is empty. The
column of water in the longer tube will
be seen to be alternately rising and fall-
ing, from which phenomena an expla-
nation has been given of the cause of
the intermittent flow.

On PhoapJuitie Deposits Beeentiy Di&-
eot)ered in North Wales, hy Br. Aug,
Voekker, — An extensive mine, contain-
ing several phosphatic minerals, was
accidentally discovered early last year
by Mr. Hope Jones, of Hooton, Che-
shire, whilst he was searching for other
minerals in the neighborhood of Cwm-
gyncn, about sixteen miles from Oswes-
try. Mr. Hope Jones found the phosphat-
ic mine to be continuous for more than
a mile, and to come within twelve feet of
the surface. It is not far from the clay
slate and lead bearing district of Llan-
grynag. The strata (slaty shale) contain
several beds of contemporaneous fel-
spathic ash and scoriiB, and the usual
fossils of the Llandillo series are found,
but not in great numbers. The strata
are vertical, and run east to west, or,
more correctly speaking, fifteen degrees
north of west (magnetic). A true vein,
or fissure containing vein deposit, par-
tially metallic, divides two phosphatic
deposits. One of them is nearly three
yards in thickness, and embodies phos-

phatic limestone beds, containing from
ten to upwards of thirty-five per cent,
of phosphate of lime. The other, and
more valuable deposit, is a yard and a
half thick, and consists of a black, gra-
phitic shale, largely impregnated with
phosphate of lime. This deposit is free
from carbonate of lime, and much richer
in phosphate of lime than the first-men-
tioned deposit. In specimens taken at
a depth of about twelve feet from the
surface, Dr. Voelcker found from 54 to
56 per cent, of phosphate of lime in
this phosphatic shale. At a greater
depth the shale becomes richer in phos-
phates, and, consequently, more valu-
able. In the deeper specimens the pro-
portions of phosphate of lime amount-
ed to 64| per cent. This phosphatic
mine is readily accessible, and naturally
drainable to a depth of about 500 milea,
and contains many hundred thousand,
if not millions, of tons of valuable
phosphatic minerals. The discovery
of this extensive mine in England ap-
pears to be of great importance to the
English agriculturist, who at the pr^
sent time consumes annually many tons
of phosphatic minerals in the shape of
superphosphate and similar artificial
manures.

Belgian Records, — ^The Royal Histor-
ical Commission of Belgium, which
for some years past has been doing good
service by publishing records and in-
dexes of the documents relating to the
domestic history of Belgium, held its
usual quarterly meeting a few weeks
back. M. Galeshoot presented a copy
of the " Livre des Fiuaataires^"* of John
HI., Duke of Brabant, copies of which
were ordered to be distributed to the
scientific and other bodies entitled to
receive the publications of the commis-
sion. At the same time, M. Plot, chief
keeper of the archives, submitted a
proposal to publish the cliartulary of
the abbey of St. Trond,- which was
founded in the year 660. The docu-
ments of wliich the chartulary is com-
posed are of high interest, and com-
mence in the eighth century. They

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New PubUcatians>

715

throw mnch light on the civil and re-
ligions history, manners and customs,
and institutions of the middle ages.

Btm-Bpot Period, — Professor Wolf, of
Zurich, has undertaken the laborious
work of determining the number of
Sim spots at the different periods when
the planets, more especially Jupiter,
are in perihelion and aphelion. In the
year 1859 he expressed his opinion that
Jupiter determines the leading charac-
ter of the sun>spot curve,* that Saturn
causes small alterations in the height
and length of the undulations, and that
the earth and Venus determine the in-
dentations of the curve. More recently.
^. Carrington and Mr. De la Rue have
returned to the same subject, and the
latter, in conjunction with Mr. Stewart,
has found that when ** the sun or a
part of the solar surface approaches
a planet, the spots disappear, or the
brightness increases." It is the inten-
tion of Professor Wolf to calculate for
every five days a mean relative number
of sun-spots during the period 1811-
1865. He gives the results of a portion
of his labors in showing the connection
of the sun-spot period of 11.11 years
with the revolution of Jupiter between
the years 1805 and 1816. The numbers
given are certainly very remarkable,
foi» whilst only 21 spots were visible
soon after the perihelion of Jupiter in
1809, 64 were seen in 1815 at the time

of the aphelion* The progression of
the numbers is otherwise very remark-
able.

Plastic Wood, — Among new inven-
tions we hear of plastic wood, or rather
of a method by which wood can be
rendered plastic, and so applied to
various novel purposes. The method
consists in forcing dilute hydrochloric
acid, under pressure, into the cells of
the wood, and continuing it a sufficient
time, according to the quality of the
wood operated on. . When completely
saturated with the acid, the wood is
washed in water, and subjected to pres-
sure, which presses the fibres close to-
gether without breaking them, and re-
duces it to about a tenth of its origi-
nal bulk, and the size and form thus
impressed on it remain unaltered. Thus,
if pressed in dies, the details retain all
the sharpness ever afterwards, unless
the wood should get soaked with water.
Wood treated in this way is particularly
well suited for carvings, as it cuts under
the tool almost as easily as cheese ; and
it ihay be made ornamental, for various
dyes can be forced in to color it at the
same time with the acid. But it can also
be made hard as flint and incombustible,
by forcing in a preparation of water-
glass or soluble fiint. From all this, it
seems likely that wood may be employ-
ed in new ways for ornamental and use-
ful purposes.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

The American Republic : Its Consti-
tution, Tendencies, and Destiny. By
O. A. Brownson, LL.D. 8vo., pp.
485. NewYork: P. O'Shea. 1866.

This book, wh*ich was merely an-
nounced in our January number, is the
fruit of Dr. Brownson's mature age,
ripe experience, great learning, and ex-
traordinary intellectual and literary
culture and discipline. It would seem
that' his life-long labors as a philosophi-
cal and critical writer had been sim-
ply a course of preparation for this
crowning achievement, and that noth- *
inc less severe could have trained his
mind to grasp and handle the great
principles involved with such masterly
power, ease, perspicuity, and complete-
ness.

The questions discussed are : Govern-
ment ; the Origin of Government ;
Constitution of Government ; the Unit-
ed States ; Constitution of the United
States ; Secession ; Reconstruction ;
Political Tendencies; Destiny — Politi-
cal and Religious. The argument
throughout is sustained and connected
in such a perfect manner, and the con-
nection between the divisions of the
subiect so thoroughly welded, that it
is impossible to make extracts at all
within the compass of this notice
which would give a correct idea of
the work. It must be read and studied
to appreciate its beauty, scope, and co-
gency.

Government and the origin of gov-
ernment are analyzed and placed on
their historical and metaphysical basis.

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716

New PuNicatians.

The constitution of the United States
is explained in a manner never before
attempted or approached. The rela-
tions of the United States to the states
in the Union, and their relations to her
as a unit, are for the first time made
clear and intelligible, and secession,
while dealt with charitably as respects
individuals and the erroneous premises
honestly entertained by multitudes
both South and North, is logically
proved to be the highest of political
crimes — ^^ state micide.'*'* The consti-
tutional and Christian method of res-
toration is pointed out, and the glorious
destiny of the country painted on the
sky of the future with artistic beauty
and prophetic grandeur.

The style is remarkable for its
strength, density, clearness, and purity.
It supports and carries forward tne im-
mense weight and volume of thought,
argument, and historical and philoso-
phical illustration without apparent ef-
fort, and transmits the author's mean-
ing directly to the intellect, like a ray
of light passing through a Brazilian

Eebble to the retina. If Dr. Brownson
ad done nothing else, his philological
labors would entitle him to the lasting
admiration of every lover of pure Eng-
lish.

We do not expect the work to be
popular in the common sense of the
term, or that it will escape the vitu-
peration of narrow-minded men and
those who have used all their feeble
power in vain to pull down the struc-
ture of constitutional unity. But we
do believe that it will be read and ap-
preciated by a very large class of right-
minded, thinking men South and
North, and exert an immense influ-
ence in the direction of complete re-
conciliation and reconstruction by de-
monstrating the absolutely illogical
character of secession, while it does
justice to the honesty, manhood, cour-
age, military skiU, and fortitude dis-
played by the Southern people. ^ It is
the logical defeat of tne rebellion.
It places Dr. Brownson in the first
rank as a Catholic statesman, doctor of
laws, and fervent, consistent, pa-
triot. He is the citizen who never de-
spaired of the republic. Every man
who wishes to understand the history
and politics of the country must study
this book, and if we are to realize the
destiny distinctly indicated by the
finger of Providence, the principles

which it has established must become
the ruling principles of the states-
men of uie country. The glove is
fairly thrown to the champions of the
various specious and popular forms of
error, falsehood, and fanaticism, both
civil and religious, and they will be
compelled to take it up and defend
themselves successfully or be con-
demned by default in the final ver-
dict of mankind. The typography,
binding, and general execution are
equal to the best London books. ^

Journal of Eugsnib de Git^rin.
Edited by G. 8. Trebutien. 12mo.,
pp. 460. Alexander Strahan, London
and New York.

This very remarkable and most at-
tractive book has already recdved a
lengthened notice in Tm Catholic
World, and we have only to add that
never was there penned a book so full
of the highest and most refined senti-
ment, touching pathos, combined with
so much deep philosophic and poetic
thought. Wnat a pure and innocent
soul IS here revealed 1 Not to the world.
She did not write for it, but for her own
soul, and the soul of her idolized Mau-
rice. He has found renown through
these tear-bedewed pages of a devoled
sister. We read it, yet can hardly be-
lieve it to be, as it is, a real journal.

Her descriptions are full of the inteQ»-
est interest and charming naivety
Here is one on a first communion :

*•'' 29th. What a sweet, simple, pioas,
and touching ceremony! I have only
time to say this, and to declare that of
all the festivals the one I delight in
most is a first communion in a country
district : God bestowing himself simply
on children I Miou, the little Fran-
Qouil de Gaillard, and Augustine were
exquisite, both in innocence and beauty.
How pretty they looked under their
little white veils, when they returned
weeping from the holy table 1 Divine
tears! Children imited to God; who
can tell what was passing that moment
in their souls ? M. le Curg was admir-
able in his unction and gentleness ; it
was the Saviour saying to children,
*Come unto me.* Oh I how lovingly
he addressed them, and then how he
charged, them to have a care of that
white robe, that innocence with which
they were clothed] Poor childrea,

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New PuhUeaHoM,

717

what risks before them I I kept sayinfi:
to myself, * Which of yon will tarnish
it first ?^ They are not going to Paris,
indeed ; bat earth is everywhere soiled,
everywhere evil is found, seduces, and
leads away.^'

That closing sentence was not
thoughtlessly penned. It was for the
eye of that brother whom Paris had se-
duced and led away into error, but who
never read that gentle admonition.
Maurice de Gu6rin died soon after, re-
conciled to the Church, in his last
agony embracing the crucifix; but
£ug6nie continues her journal to Mau-
rice in heaven. Here is a passage which
will, if we mistake not, induce our
readers to procure and read the whole
of this delightful volume. They will
find it, as we have found it, like a rare
and beautiful picture, which, with a
strange selfishness, we desire to be uni-
versally admired, yet wish it were all
our own:

" This woman, this nurse who watch-
ed thee, and held thee in illness for a
year on her lap, has given me a greater
shock than a winding sheet would have
done. Heart-rending apparition of the
past— -cradle and tomb I L^ould spend
the night with thee here in this paper,
6ut the soul needs prayer ; the soul will
do thee more good than the heart.
Each time that my pen rests here, a
sword pierces my heart. I do not know
whether I shall continue to write or not.
Of what use is this Journal ? For whom ?
Alas I and yet I love it as one loves a
funereal urn, a reliquary in which is
kept a dead heart, all embalmed with
sanctity and love. Such seems this
paper, where I still preserve thee, my
so beloved one : where I keep up a speak-
ing memory of thee, where I shall meet
with thee again in my old age — if I live
to be old. Oh ! yes, the days will come
when I shall have no life but in the
past ; that past shared with thee ; spent
beside thee, young, intelligent, lovable,
raising and refining whatever approach-
ed thee; such as I recall thee, such as thou
wert on leaving us. At present I do
not know what my life is, if, indeed, I
do live. Everything is changed within
and without. Oh I my God, now heart-
rending these letters are I They contain
so many tears for mv tears 1 This inti-
mate mend of thme touches me as
would a sight of thyself My dear

Maurice, all thou hast loved are dear to

: me — seem a portion of thee.''

Thb Christian EzAimnsB, Jaonary,
1866.

This is the first number of the new,
or New York, series of this publication,
which is to be issued every two months.
It explains the reason and object of the
change which has been made in the
editorship and place of publication.
The Convention of Unitarians held in
this city a few months ago initiated a
new and important movement in that
denomination. The radical and de-
structive element was put down, and
that party which is in favor of taking a
positive Christian position achieved a
victory. The Exarnvner has been made
their organ, and is to be used in pro*
moting the end they have in view.
The convention solemnly and publicly
recognized our Lord Jesus Christ, under
that title which is indicative of his
character as Supreme Head of the
human race, in spite of the violent op-
position of a few, which was vented m
a very unseemly and vulgar manner,
shocking to the Christian sentiment of
the community. The declaration of
belief is significant of the anirmis of the
movement, and shows it to be a return
to the principle of positive and con-
structive Christianity. The impress of
this idea is visible in the new phase of
the JEhsamineTy and has given it at once
a position far above that which it for-
merly occupied. In its scholarly and
literary tone it is superior to the old
series; but the superiority is more
marked and evident in the exhibition
of a more fixed and earnest purpose
to aim at a definite resnlt, and to
make more positive affirmation of
religious and philosophical ideas. The
writers reco^ize the wide-spread scep-
ticism in intelligent minds as a
lamentable fact, and have turned their
face away from the road of scepticism
and disintegration as one that conducts
only to intellectual, moral, and social
death. They do not profess to have
surveyed the road which leads away
from this "valley of the shadow of
death ;" but they seem to be convinced
that there is one, and to be resolved to
look for it and to try to guide others
in a search for it. It is difficult to say,
in regard to men who allow themselves
BO much latitude in belief, and so great
a liberty of independent theorizing,
what are the fixed doctrines in which
they agree as the fundamental basis of

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718

New PaKeaHfnu.

an anti-sceptical pbilosopky, and what
are merely tentative hypotheses thrown
out for discussion. It appears to us,
however, that there are several sound
principles of Christian philosophy and
doctrine dominating in the articles of
the nnmber before us, and which we
may suppose will hereafter give a cer-
tain unity of character and tendency to
the work. One of these is the affirma-
tion of the pure theistic doctrine, in
contradiction to pantheism, in connec-
tion with a manifest tendency to repu-
diate the sensist philosophy of Hamil-
ton, Hansel, and that class of writers,
and to look for a better one. Another
is a recognition that there is something
in the idea of the supernatural which
is real, and above the sphere of mere
natural science. A third is a principle
of reverence for the Scriptures, and the
religious traditions of the human race,
connected with a disposition to reject
the scepticism of the pseudo-critical
school of Germany. A fourth is an
assertion of the obligatory force of the
Divine Law, and the necessity of cul-
tivating a personal relation to God as
the principle of solid virtue and
morality. There is also a sort of in-
stinctive apprehension that a more
thorough investigation of the difficulties
which science appears to throw in the
way of revealed religion will eventually
produce a more triumphant vindication
of the latter than it has ever had. The to-
pics to be discussed in the Review are the
most real and living questions of the
age in. philosophy and theology. They
will be discussed by men of no mean
pretensions to learning and intellectual
ability, and of superior literary cultiva-
tion. We are glad that they have un-
dertaken the work, and we hope for
good results from it. We have no fear
that they will weaken the reli^ous
belief of those who have a positive,
dogmatic faith in regard to any essen-
tial doctrine of Christianity. The pub-
lic which will be reached by their writ-
ings and sermons, are already familiar
with all the questions and difficulties
they will discuss. They are full of
doubt, and drifting into infidelity. All
the influence which these gentlemen
will gain over them will tend to check
this downward progress, and initiate a
salutary retrogression toward Christian
truth.

Moreover, all discussions of this kind
win stimidate the work of investigat-

ing and exhibiting the doctrine of the
Catholic Church in its relation toward
rationalism. The controversy with or-
thodox Protestantism is finished, and
Protestant orthodoxy has gone where
Ilium formerly went. The real contro-
versy of the day relates to the very
foundation of revelation itselt

Sparb Hours : A Monthly Miscellany
for the Young. Boston : P. Donahoe.
January, 1866.

We have received the first nnmber of
a new magazine with the above title.
It is published by 2t£r. Donahoe, Boa-
ton, IS well printed on fine pap^,
and illustrated with much taste. The
matter, of which there are 64 pages, is
both original and selected, and displays
discrimination and tact on the part of
the editor. It would be well to gire
credit to the source from which the se-
lected matter is taken. This magazine
fills a want long felt by the Catholic
community in this country. Since the
discontinuance of the " Youth's Catholic
Magazine '' we have had no periodical
that gave us any reading for our chil-
dren. We cordially welcome the ad-
vent of ^* Spare Hours'' amongst as, and
trust its subscription list may ^ow
that Catholics do appreciate good read-
ing.

KicHOLAs OF THE Flttb, the Saviour of
the Swiss Republic. A dramatic
poem in five acts. By John Chria-
tian Schaad. 12mo., pp. 144.
Washmgton, D. C. : McGill & Withe-
row. 1866.

This book puiposes to give, in a
dramatic form, an account of the rise
of a dangerous civil dissension which
took place among the brave and relig-
ious Swiss during the invasion of their
country by Charles the Bold, and the •
happy reunion of sentiment by the
wise interposition and holy prayers of
a hermit. How religion, or the' coun-
sels of its ministers, can ever supplant
the arbitrament of the sword or the
stratagems of the politician in the suc-
cessful adjustment of national diflcul-
ties, will not, we think, be so readily
comprehended in our present society,
and chiefiy so because with us tiiere is
no unity of religion, and consequently
a multiplicity of counsels, the prolific
seed itself of discoid. But that it is

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'ihw PvJtiicatiom,

719

possible, as it is enviable, may be seen
by any one wbo will perdse this poem.
Peace wbich nations enjoy is a blessing
of God.. "Unless the Lord keep the
city, he watcheth in vain who keepeth
it." It is not to be wondered at then
that a people thoroughly imbued with
the spirit of faith should look to God.for
help in the day of trial, when the demon
of discord sows the seeds of strife and
disunion amongst them. The thought
which cyidently moved the writer to
compose this work is the same which
has often crossed our own mind during
the late deplorable civil war: that if
our beloved country had been one in
religion, it never would have fallen a
prey to such a fearful and almost fatal
division, or at least would have re-
joiced in a more speedy reconciliation.

MsRBY Christmas. A cantata for
Christmas eve. Affectionately inscrib-
ed to the children of the parish of
St. Paul the Apostle, New York
city. P. O'Shea.

This little brochure contains direc-
tions, with appropriate recitatives
and hymns, for a religious celebra-
tion of Christmas by children, who de-
scribe, in a sort of infantine opera, the
scenes of our Lord's nativity as related
in the gospel. It contains, among other
hymns, soifle of the most beautiful
Christmas carols in the English lan-
guage; and when sung by uie voices
of merry-hearted children must have a
most edifying and pleasing effect. We
are sure it will be welcomed in all our
schools, and at the fireside of many a
Christian family. It was ''performed
with great success before an immense
and delighted audience last Christmas
night in the church of the Paulists, to
the children of whose parish it is dedi-
cated.

The MoirrHLY. Edited at the Univer-
sity of St. Mary of the Lake, Chica-
go, III. Published by J. P. Byrne,
Chicago.

The December number of "The
Monthly" did not reach us until the
first of January. This is rather late,
and we presume is a mistake, as it has
been heretofore promptly on hand.
The number before us completes the
second volume, and is quite interesting.
It contains nine articles, the first being

on " Fenianism and Secret Societies.'^
There are two stories, one just com-
menced and one concluded. The for-
mer, " The Huron Chief," is a tale of
the Catholic missions in the northwest,
and the latter, "From June to Octo-
ber," is by an author not unknown ta
the literary world. The articles in this
magazine are original, and are well writ-
ten. We find in its literary notices the
following hit at a class which we are
sorry to say is but too numerous :

** The mission of a Catholic editor is
something diferent from that of the men-
dicant who stands at a church gate with
a *Hglp-the-poor-blind'man' lab^ upon
hiifCreast. And yet there are those— not
a few — ^who look upon a pitiful subscrip-
tion of three or four dollars a year to a
paper or a magazine in the Ught of an
alms, and actually imagine that they are
performing one of the seven corporal
works of mercy if they can be induced to
subscribe, while, in justice, they are not
paying a thousandth part of the interest
on their lawful debts. Not long ago we
happened to meet with a Catholic gentle
man from New York, and among the dif-
ferent topics of conversation the subject of
literature was brought in. This gave us
the occasion to ask his opinion about
' The Monthly,' to which he replied that
he was unaware of its publication, be-
cause he had never seen it noticed by a
certain romantic sheet of the Quixotic
stamp in that city. He is the type of a
class for whose conduct there is not the
shadow of an excuse. From this we
might draw a general conclusion, and ap-
ply the same course of reasoning to the
case of every Catholic publication in the
country, for it is not rare to find Catholic
families without a Catholic paper or maga-
zine on their tables. Under these circum-
stances, then, it is not surprising that not
a few of them should be strangers to the
existence of the works which they <mglU
to possess, while they may be conversant
with a class of literature whose spirit is
productive either of no good at all or posi-
tively injurious, and hence without either
intellectual or moral benefit."

We wish " The Monthly" a happy
and prosperous year.

Hans Brinkbk, etc. By M. E. Dodge.
12mo., pp. 847. New York : James
O'Kane. 1866.

We could cordially recommend this
well-written story were it not for one
passage relating to auto^ da fe and
the Inquisition. Those who have
diarge of Catholic youth are bound to

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720

New PtMieaHcnt.

be extremely careful what books they
place in their hands, and this becomes
often a cause of perplexity, as there are
so few which are entirely unexceptiona-
ble. Those who write with the express
purpose of inculcating the distinctive
principles of Protestantism are not
amenable to our criticism. But those
who do not write with this intention,
and who merely seek to afford enter-
tainment to the youthful mind with a
modicum of instructive information,
may perhaps consider it worth while to
respect the religion of a lar^e and in-
creasing class of the readmg public.
yWe are not very exacting. We desire
only that books written for the instruc-
tion and amusement of the young pub-
lic at large should contain a sound and
wholesome morality and nothing offen-
sive to. Catholics. We could not desire
a better specimen of this class of books
than the work of our gifted authoress,
which we have read with pleasure, with
the exception of the single passage al-
luded to ; and this might have been left
out without any injury to the purpose
of the story. Those who are disposed
to profit by our hints will find us al-
ways ready to assist the circulation of
their books by our recommendation, if
their literary merit renders them worthy
of it.

A General History of the Catho-
lic Church, from the commencement
of the Christian Era until the present
time. By M. PAbbe J. E. Darras.
First American irom the last French
Edition. With Introduction and
Notes by Archbishop Spalding.
Vol.11. 8vo., pp.627. New York:
P. O'Shea.

The second volume of the history of
the Catholic Church has just appeared,
and it is in every respect in keeping
with the first volume; is well printed
on good paper, and makes a handsome
book.

The Very Rev. Dr. Newman is pre-
paring for uie press a reply to Dr. Pu-
sey's " Eirenicon," lately published in
London. We shall give it to the read-
ers of The Cathplio World at the ear-
liest date.

The Messrs. Sadlier announce the
publication of a new edition of Father
young's " Catholic Hymns and Canti*

cles,*' together with' a complete sodality
manual. It will contain 107 hymns, ar-
ranged for all the different seasons and
festivals of the Church, as well as the
processions, ceremonies, etc.

Messrs. Murphy & Co., of Baltimore*
have in press a new and enlarged edi-
tion of " Archbishop Spalding's Miscel-
lanea." This learned work will be
carefully revised by the distinguished
author, who will add nearly 100 pages
of interesting matter^ embracing among
many other things his "Essay on Com-
mon Schools throughout the World"— his
" Analysis of the Controversy into which
he was forced by Professor Morse, in re-
lation to an alleged saying of Lafay-
ette" — his " Lecture on the Origin and
History of Libraries," and his " Essay
on Demonology and the Reformation."
This new edition will thus embrace
essays, reviews, and lectures on more
than forty subjects, most of them his-
torical, and all of more than ordinary
interest.

BOOKS RECEIVED. .

From Kellt & Piet, Baltimore :
" The Spae Wife, or Queen's Secret, a
story of the Times of Queen Elizabeth,''
by Paul Peppergrass, Esq. 12mo., pp
742. "The Little Companion of the
Sisters of-^Mercy." 82mo., pp 102.

From D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New
York : Parts 6, 6, 7, 8, an^ 9 of "The
Complete Works "of the Brothers Ba-
nim."

From P. O'Shea, New York: "Life
of St. Antony of Padua, of the Order
of Friars Minor," by Father Servas
Dirks, Friar Minor, etc. 12mo., pp 841.
"The Life and Miracles of St. Philomena,
Virgin and Martyr, whose sacred body
was lately discovered in the Catacombs
of Rome, and from thence transferred
to Mugnano, Naples." 12mo., pp 135.

Statuta DioBcesana ab Illustrisslmo et
Reverendissimo P. D. Joanne Baptists
Purcell, Archiepiscopo Cincinnatensi, in
variis Synodis, quae hue usque in
Ecclesia sua Cathedrali vel in Sacello
Seminarii, celebratsB sunt, lata et pro-
mulgata. Una cum Decretis Conciliorum
Provincialium et plenarii Baltimoren-
slum, quibus interfuerunt omnes statunm
Foederatorum Episcopi et Decretis
Conciliorum Trium Cincinnatensium,
Nunc primum in nnum collecta et pub>
lici juris facta. ^ Cincinnati : Published
for the Most Rev. Archbishop of Cincin-
nati by John P. Walsh.

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THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IL, NO. 12— MARCH, 1866.

Trtiudatad from Le CoRMpondint

posmviSM.

A. OOMTE, LITTBi, H. TAINS.

Ah exposition of the rarioas philo-
sophical systems consti*acted in our
times against Christianitj, either as
means of combatting it or as substi-
tutes for it, and showing in the false
assumption with which they all start
the reason of their failure, would be
an interesting and instructive work.
It would be a new hUtory ofvaricfiionSf
and of the impotence of the human
mind -when it assumes to be sufficient
for itself, and the natural complement
to the first, were there a Bossuet to
write it. Now it is a chapter of this
history not yet written, but which one
day will be, that I propose to prepare in
rendering an account here of the posi-
tivbt pMlosophy, of which M. Au-
guste Comte was the inventor, and M.
Littr6 is the learned and fervent de-
fender. To enable my readers to un-
derstand, as well as may be, this pre-
tended philosophy, I will first state
through what accidents and revolu-
dons it has passed, then set forth its
chief formulas, and finally conclude by
passing on them such critical judg-
ment as an impartial examination
Shan suggest.

VOL. n. 46

The founder and chief of the posi-
tivist philosophy, Auguste Comte,
died at Paris in 1858, in the 59th
year of his age. He was bom in
1798 at Montpellier, of Christian pa-
rents ; but, placed early in the lyceum
of that city, he soon lost there, under
the influence of the reigning spirit of
the school, the faith of his childhood.
From the lyceum he went to the
£cqle Polytechnique, in which the
worship of the Convention and revo-
lutionary ideas w^. at that period
held in high honor. We recal these
circumstances, because the childhood
and youth of a man serve to explain
hie mature age.

It does not appear that M. Comte,
on leaving the Polytechnic School, re-
ceived, as is ordinarily the case, any
appointment in the public service,
civil or military — wherefore- we know
not Whatever may have been the
reason, as he was without fortune he
supported himself for several years
by giving lessons in mathematics.
After a whOe, however, he was ap-

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Poiiiiinsnu

' pointed repeater and examiner in the
Polytechnic Sdiool* which position he
held till the rerolation of 1848. His
profession as well as his aptitudes de-
voted him to the study of the exact
sciences ; but he cherished a far high-
er ambitiouy and already aspired to be
the reformer and prophet of the hu-
man race. That this thought, was
early germinating in his mind, is prov-
ed by a pamphlet which he published
in 1822, when only twenty-four years
of age, entitled " Systhne de Politique
Pontivitt^ (System of Positivist
Politics). He subsequently greatly
modified and enlarged it, and his pre-
tensions above all greatly expanded
as he advanced ; but the first idea of
his system, not difficult, however, to
discover, it must be acknowledged
was deposited in that publication^

About this time he became connect-
ed with Henri Claude de Saint-Simon,
and being much younger than the
.founder of Saint-Simonism, he natur-
ally yielded to his infiuence, and be-
came very near being absorbed in the
god of the Rue de Taitbout. But
Auguste Comte could not consent to
that; he would be master not disci-
ple/ and therefore, after having writ-
ten some articles in the Saint-Si-
monian journal, Le Producteur^ he
abandoned the sect, separated 'from
Saint-Simon, and lamented bitterly
the precious time which that deprav^
ed juggler^ as he called him, had
made him lose. After this rupture
he was restored to himself and freed
from all restrcunt ; he could devote
himself to the finishing stroke of the
great work he meditated.* The sol-
emn moment approached. Hitherto
he had only staked out his ground
and sown the seeds, but the synthesis,
the real cerebral unity, to use his lan-
guage, was wanting. Without further
delay he set himself resolutely at work,
and a meditation continued for four^

* M. de Chalftmbert forgets to add that the
caoae of this raptare was preciselv the attempt
of 8a1nt»8imoii, after harlng fliUed to kill him-
self, to found a new religion, which he called
Nauveau ChritticsnUme^ and of which the posi-
tlTe religion professed afterwards by M. Comt«
is only a manifest plagiarism.— Tbaitslatob

score hours brought him to the con-
ception, to the preamble as it were, of
the systemization of the whole posi-^
tive philosophy.* But, alas ! the long
meditation brought with the system
an access of madness. It was slight
at first, he assures us, a simple passing
enfeeblement of the cerebral organs,
resulting from excessive labor; but
the physicians took hold of it, and
then the evil grew so much worse that
it became necessary to shut him up in
a madhouse — ^him who had just dis-
covered the law of the universe ! M.
Littre complains that one of his col-
laborators in the Journal des Dehats
threw up this fact against the doctrine
of his master, and he cites instances
of veiy superior men who have had
similar accidents befal them. This
cannot be denied. No one can say
that he is secure from such cruel at-
tacks; but we may be permitted to
remark that there is here an intimate
correlation between the doctrine and
the mental malady, since both are
produced at the same time and by Hie
same intellectual effort.

Two or three years passed thns,
after which M. Comte, having recover-
ed his health, resumed his labors, and
in 1829 pubHshed the first volume of
his " Cours de Philosophie Positive^ in
which for the first time he gives tlie
principal data of his new theory.
Five other volumes, of eight or nine
hundred pages each, followed at long
intervals, and it was only in 1842
that the work could be completed; not
that ideas were wanting, but money to
pay the printers, as the author himself
tells us. During that time he opened
a course of lectures, in which, und^
pretext of teaching astronomy,* he
essayed to indoctrinate the public in
his principles. Thanks to ^ese sev-^
eral methods, of propagating his views,
he at length succeeded in gaining a

* A neeless labor* for he might haT« learaad it
(torn that dtpraved Jvy^^, Bainv-Simon, who
had reached it as early as 1804. Angnste Comte
never made any advance on his master, bat to
the last remained rather behind him. with an
his pretensions to originality, he was never aojt.
thing more than the oisdple of Salnt-fiimon.—
Trakblatob.

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728

few disciples, not nmneroos, indeed,
bat enough to encourage the hope of
obtiuning more.

Among those who Grata that time
adhered to the positivist doctrine we
must cite M. Etex, an artist, M. Yieil-
lard, a politician who, then unknown,
aflerwaid obtained some note, and, in
fine, M. Littr4, a philologist, a littera^
tear, and a member ^f the Academy
of Inscriptions and Belles-Lettres.
ThiB last espedaUy was an important
recruit, an unhoped-far good fortune
for the new schooL M. Comte (they
who have tried to read him know it
but too well I) was essentially defi-
cient in the art of exphtining and ex-
pressing his ideas* M. Littrd knows
precisely how to write, if not with
brilliancy, at least with method and
clearness. Moreover, lie had under
his influence an important public or-
gan. The Muional, and used it to the
profit of the new philosophy. In
1844, M. Littr^ published in that
journal^ of which he was an editor, a
series of articles ui which he extolled
the positivist philosophy, declared him-
self its disc^le, and carried his com-
plaisance toward the master so far as
to give him the brevet of a man of ge-
nius. However, unknown to him per-
haps, a great transformation was
about to be effected ; the affecHm ele-
ment of the new doctrine, hitherto neg-
lected, was about to make its way to
the light and play its parL

Toward that epoch, M. Comte en-
countered a woman, stiU young, Mad-
ame Glotilde de Vaux, who lived sepa-
rate fron her husband. The misfor-
tunes of this unhappy wife, misunder-
stood and deserted, touched him deep-
ly ; he received her into his house, and
forthwith she became his Beatrix, or,
rather, his Egeria, for it was from her
that he recdved the revelation of the
new dogmas which he hastened to pro-
mulgate to the world. All at once,
under the inspired influence of Mad-
ame Clotilde de Vaux, the positivist
philosophy is changed into a religion,
in which Uie o^fve^twelementdecided-
ly predominaies. With dogma and

morals, worship and the priesthood
are promptly organised. The sover-
eign pontificate t^longed as a matter of
right to M. Comte, and he would no
doubt have willingly shared it with his
holy companion, but she, fllas ! had al-
ready been removed by a premature
death, and he must be resigned to pro-
claim himself alone, high piiest or
sovereign pontiff.

This metamorphosis was so much
the bolder as hitherto one of the prin-
cipal theses of the positivist philoso-
phy had been precisely that the time
for religion was gone, and gone for
ever. It might well startle the adepts ;
but it failed to frighten M. Llttr^, the
most important among them, for we
find him using still The Nationdl and
preaching in its columns, with all the
zeal of the neophyte, the dogmas of
the new religion — ^the religion of hu-
manity. TUs was, it is true, in 1851,
when each day saw bom and die some
new sect, and M. Littr6 and The Na»
tional no doubt judged tlmt, socialism
for socialism, M. Comte's socialism was
worth as much as any other, anl in
fact was more convenient. We are in-
clined, nevertheless, to believe that M.
Littr^ was really smitten and vanquish-
ed (for what is there in the way of
new religions of which a free thinker
is not capable ?), and we are confijrmed
in our beUef because, not content to
aid the establishment of the new
worship with his pen, he actually con-
tributed to it from his purse. The
republic of 1848 was not a good
mother for M. Comte, although he
hailed it with enthusiastic aodama^
tions and pronounced it immortal ; it
despoiled him at once of his means of
subsistence. M. Comte was little rel-
ished by the savans^ and relished
them still less, especially those of the
Academy of Sciences, who had obsti-
nately refused to open their doors to
him. M. Arago, to whom M. Comte
attributed his disgrace, judging, doubt-
less, that there must be some incom-
patibility between the dignity of high
priest and the functioDs of a repeater
and examiner in the Polytechnic

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PonUviim.

School, deprived him of these two em-
ployments, from which he drew his sup-
port. M. Littr^ then came generously
to the aid of his spiritual &ther, and
headed an annual subscription by which
the adepts Aiust provide for the wants
of their pontiff.

While these things were in pro-
gress there came the coup tiPiiai of the
Id of December. M. Gomte bore
this trial with a scandalous resigna-
tion. The faithful, M. Littrd among
others, refused henceforward all ac-
tive concurrence. - But, on another
side he found in M. Yieillard, become
a senator of the new empire, a useful
protector, and, thanks to him, he could
soon resume his preachments. It was,
in fact, all he desired, for he was sin-
gularly free from all political ambi-
tion.

From this moment M. Gomte's re-
ligious zeal only augmented, and his
pen became more active and prolific
thftn ever. From 1851 to 1854 he
published fo«r huge volumes under the
title of ^* &fstime de PoUiimie Positive
ifte /' then a " CaJtickUme Positiviste,**
a " Calendrier PonHviste," and an-
nounced new works for the following
years, when death took him by sur-
prise and cut short his labors. It
cannot be said that his efforts were
crowned with success, and that the
numbers of his disciples was increas-
ii^; on the contrary, solitude was
gathering closer and closer around
him; but his faith was not shaken,
and he remained to the last inll of
confidence in the future. If accident'
ality gave little, he hoped much from
orientalityj and, in 1852, he wrote to
the Emperor Nicholas of Russia, and
to the Sultan of Turkey, to induce
them to undertake to propagate posi-
tivism in their respective dominions,
by representing to them that it was
the only means of salvation that re-
mained to them.

Such is the succinct history of the
positivist philosophy ^ and religion.
The religion, indeed, ended with its
founder, for he declared a short time
before his death that he had found.no

true believer worthy to succeed him
in the pontificate ; but the philoBophy
left disciples who, though thej may
not accept it in all its parts, yet oon-
tinuo to be inspired by its principles.
Not long since they had an oigan in
the Pevue Pkilosophiquey in -which
they showed themselves much divided,
and gravely disc^issed the question
whether it must be a philosophj or a
religion with which they should grati-
fy ti^e human race. They seem, how-
ever, afler the advice of M. Littr6, to
have finally agreed that it is necessary
first of all to reproduce the eighteenth
century ; that is to say, to renew, in
the name of the emancipated fiesh, the
war against the Church and the re-
ligion of the spirit. Events have
seemed to favor them, and instead of
regretting the. suspension of public
liberty, by the establishment of the
new empire, they even greet it as an
advantage, since they remind us that
it was under a similar regime that ihe
encyclopaedic -work of which thej
claim to be the legal heirs was bom,
grew, and prospered. In short, M*
Littr^ published, a short while ago, a
new brochure under the title of "jRartJfc*
de Philosophic Positive^*' in which he
sustains all the principles of his mas-
ter, and vindicates for himself the
honor of having been his most faithful
disciple.

We have joined the names of M. H.
Taine with the names of Messrs. Comte
and Littr6, although he has never open-
ly avowed himself an adherent of their
school. But, beside the identity of
his principles with those of positivism,
the lightness of his philosophical lug-
gage does not permit us to devote to
him a separate study. We know of him
on this subject only by the book entitled
^^Les Philosopheg Frangais du <&*x-n«u-
viime$ih:l^^ (French Philosophers of
the Nineteenth Century), a superficial
work, but agreeable, in which he judges
with wit, sometimes with justice, the
chief representatives of the eclectic
philosophy, and to which he has added
a concluding chapter that gives us an
exposition of his method. It Is to this

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PaMvum.

726

method which we shall, farther on, de-
vote a few words.*

It will readily he perceived that we
cannot even attempt to set forth within
cmr limits the positivist religion and
philosophj in all their details and de-
velopments, and that we must confine
oarselves to their chief points or lead-
ing princtples. We shall take our
analysis firom the works of M. Comte
himself, and from the series of letters
which M. Littr^ formerly inserted in
The NaHoncdy and which he has since
repuhlished in a volmne entitled J?^ro-
lution, Positivism^ (hnservcUisniy Paris,
1851. M. Littr6 has reproduced the
ideas of the master with a fidelity and
disinterestedness rare in a disciple, and
he has over the master the advantage
of style and method.

Positivism assumes as its starting
point that modem society is suffering
from a deeply rooted evil, that it is like
a man in a fever who tosses and turns
in his bed, seeking a position in which
he may rest at ease, and finding none.
Do what it will it can find no stable
position. In vain has it elSected im-
mense progress, for this very progress
turns to its disadvantage. Beside,
what does progress avail if society can-
not enjoy it in order and peace ? But
whence comes this evil, this trouble,
this feverish and sterile agitation?
Evidently it comes from intellectual
and moral anarchy. Nobody any long-
er believes in anything; ibere is no
longer any law, any principle, that unites
all minds in a common symbol ; every
one draws from himself; divided egot-
isms are in mutual conflict, and seek
each other's destruction. If such is the
nature of the malady, the remedy is
obvious. It must be in obtaining a doc-
trine which accepted by all becomes
the doctrine of all, a bond of union for
them, and the principle of peace.

* IC. de Taine has, since thttarticlo was writ-
ten, pobllshed a work on English writers and
literature, which has in certain qoarters been
well spoken of, and which really has some merit,
though of a lighter poiL'-'Tiukujltqsl

But where is this doctrine to be
found? Is it a religious doctrine-
Catholicity, for instance ? The Catho-
lic doctrine, indeed, gave formerly the
result desired, .and realized in the world
an incomparable unify; but it has had
its day ; science has demonstrated the
impossibility of its'* dogmas, and it, in
fact, finds now only here^ and there a
real believer — the great majority have
oeased to believe it. Will Protestant-
ism supply the doctrine needed ? No ;
for Protestantism is only a degenerate
and illogical Catholicism. Will Islam-
ism give it? Islamism has certainly
its grand sides, but its morality is too
defective, and its dogma is hardly loss
repulsive than the Christian. It is,
then, manifest that all existing relig-
ions are impotent for the future to ral-
ly and unite in a common bond the
minds of men. But as religion^ can-
not do it, perhaps philosophy, meta-
physics, can ? Metaphysics is only the
abstract form of religion, resting on the
same basis and sustained by it, and
does nothing but substitute abstract be-
ings that have no reality for the super-
natural beings imagined by religion, and
which science equally rejects. Meta-
physics has, as religion, been indeed
useful, has aided science to show the
inanity of religions dogmas; but, if
useful in the work of destruction, it is
impotent in that of rebuilding, and can
henceforth serve only to perpetuate in-
tellectual anarchy — ^that is to say, only
aggravate the evil instead of curing it.
If, then, the remedy can be found nei-
ther in religion nor in metaphysics,
where can it be found ?

It is to be found in a doctrine which
substitutes for the supernatural beings
of religion, and the abstract entities of
metaphysics, the real beings which
science demonstrates, and the existence
of whichnobody disputes or can dispute.
But how find or how construct such a
doctrine ? The experience of what has
been done in the exact sciences gives
distinctly enough the answer. There
was a time when mathematics, astron-
omy, physics, did not exist, and when
men explained all the phenomena

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PoiMvum.

of nature by ohimerical hjpotheseB.
Now, how has man come forth from
that ignorance ? Bj observing instead
of imagining, as he had hitherto done ;
and in observing phenomena he dis-
covered their laws, and thus, with time
and effort, he sncceeded in creating the
sciences which are called mathematics,
astronomy, nhjsics, chemistry. Can
we doobt, aner this, that by applying
the same method or following the same
process in regard to the science of in-
dividual man, or hiclogy, and the science
of society, or sociologt/, we shall obtain
the same result? And let it not be
said that these sciences are of another
order ; tiie distinction attempted to be
established between them and the ex-
act sdenoes is puerile and unfound-
ed, as science exists only on condi-
tion of being exact, and if not exact it
is no/ science. Biology and sociology
have, it is true, not yet the character
of exact sciences ; but why have they
not ? Simply because they are as yet
in their infancy, as was chemistry two
centuries ago ; because, on the one hand,
tliey have been badly studied, and, on
the other, because they are more com-
plex and less easily mastered. The
difficulties, it is admitted, are therefore
great ; but it is necessary to conquer
them, since the salvation of the world
can be secured on no other condition.

The terms of the problem are now
distinctly stated, together with the
method of its solution. The malady
from which society suffers is intellect-
ual anarchy, and intellectual anarchy
will cease only when we have made of
the sciences of biology and sociology
(it is known what these sciences mean)
sciences as exact as are mathematics,
astronomy, etc ; and to do this it is
only necessary to use the same method
in constructing them that is used
in constructing the so-called exact
sciences.

However, the whole is not yet said.
Observation is, indeed, the true method,
but observation of what? Of moral
phenomena, the operations of the soul ?
But what is the soul ? Who has seen
it ? Certain metaphysicians have, in-

deed, pretended to derive aU scieiioe
from the phenomena of the soul ; bat
this is a gross error ; psychology is an
impossible science. In psychology the
subject, or rather the organ which ob>
serves, is precisely that which is ob-
served — the eye striving to see itself.
To what, then, is observation to be 4^»-
plied ? To the body, to the cerebral or-
gans, and, primarily, to the external
world ; to the inorganic world at .first,
afterward to the organic woild, to min-
erals, plants, animals. The study of
animals is especially serviceable, since
man, at most, has over the animcd only
the advantage of some superior intel-
lectual faculties, and even that advant-
age appears doubtful, observes M*
Comte, if we compare tiie acts of the
mammiferae, the most elevated, with
those of savages, the least developed.

After zoology, the most useful sci-
ence is phrenology, the science whi<^
best teaches us what man really
is. Dr. Gall under this relation has
rendered an immense service, and
created the true science of man. lie
erred, it is true, by too minute detail,
and in wishing to determine at once
the organs of theft, luxury, etc, which
gave fair scope to critidBm ;* but it
would be difficult to resist the aeca-
mulated proofs on which he had es-
tablished his system. In short, sci-
ence is now in the position to give a
classification of eighteen interior iuno-
tions of the brain, or a systematic
tableau of the soul. Thus it is neitb-
er from metaphysics nor from religion,
but from zoology) and, above all, from
phrenology, that we must seek the
knowledge of the laws which govern
intelligence.

However, method alone does not
suffice. There is needed abo a crite-
rion, and here M. Comte confesses
that the difficulty is great

To observe with profit, to be able,
by observation, to abstract from the

* Nothing l8 new under the enn, ears Solomon.
Any one curious on the snhjecl of phrenology
may read, ae M. Oooain has well remarked, in
Plato's THmcttAt^ all that Gall and Sunrsheim,
and their followers, hare really estanlished tn
their pretended science.— IteAXSLaTOii.

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phenomena their laws, we most have
ttn anterior law, a tjpe^law, to serve
as the term of comparison, in like
manner as a standard is necessary to
determine the value of a coin. Now,
what furnishes this type? Observa-
tion ? But this is only to recommence
the * difficulty. The embarrassment
can be relieved only by reasoning
from anal<^, and a historical theory.
Positivism, after all, then, resorts to
reasoning and theorizmg! The sci*
enoes which are firmly seated on posi-
tive realities began in hypotheses, and
it has been by the aid of hypotheses,
ascertained afterward to be false, that
observation has succeeded in discover-
ing the real laws of these sciences I
It must be the same with biology and
sociology. Humanity began by re-
ligion, and religion has passed through
three phases, fetichism,' polytheism,
and monotheism. Religion, truly, is
only a fiction, but a useful fiction, and
even necessary to the development of
humanity. Fetichism, in ofiering
plants to the adoration of man, taught
him to cultivate them ; polytheism, in
creating supernatural beings, gaye
birth to poetry and the ^e arts;
monotheism, in elevating minds, has
fitted them for the culture of science.
Afler religion came metaphysics,
which, by transforming the dogmas
into abstractions, destroyed them ; and,
by destroying them, opened the way
for positivism* Now, what has taken
place for humanity in general must be
reproduced for each man in particu-
lar ; each one of us must pass through
the religious state and the metaphys-
ical state before we can arrive at the
positivist state. Thus, then, in like
manner as it has been by means of
false hypotheses that the real laws of
the science have been discovered, so
by means of hypotheses equally false,
religion and metaphysics, will be dis-
covered the true laws of biology. .

We confess that we do not very
clearly perceive what relation there is
between this theory and the problem
to be solved. The problem is how to
find a criterion by the aid of which

the true may be distinguished from the
false; but this criterion escapes us
still, and we have for it only a second
method superposed on the first, or
history coming to the aid of physiolo-
gy. True, we are not told what bond
connects the two methods, or how we
are to combine them, and from their
combination obtain the type-law; but
we must not be too difficult, and we
forewarn our readers that they must
not look for any real connection, any
logical nexus, between the various
propositions which we are about to
place before them. Beyond the gross
materialism which follows necessarily
from the positivist premises, all is ar-
bitrary and capricious; the master
says it, and he must be believed on
his word, without being asked for rea-
sons, good or bad. Our readers will
judge for themselves if this be not so,
and that they may not accuse us of
exaggerating anything, we shall give
generally textual citations.

After having presented the formula
of its method, or rather of its two
methods, the positivist school pro-
ceeds to the appUcatton and exposition
of the consequences which are derived
from it or them.

In the very outset they assert that
there are no absolute truths, that all
truth is relative ; the true, the good,
the fair, are such only by a provision-
al title; what was virtue yesterday
may be crime to-day, and what is
crime to-day may be virtue to-morrow*
Thus speaks IVL Littr^:

" The positivist philosophy is exper-
imental; \ • . . it is composed
of relative not absolute notions. • •
. . When man, in the beginning of
his scientific career, launched into un-
restricted researches after the absolute,
he had only this way c^n to him;
now another way has been opened,
that of experience and inductioii.
This way cannot conduct the inquirer
to absolute notions, and when we de-
mand them of reason we demand of
her more than she has. The mind of
man is neither absolute nor infinite,
and to try to obtain from it absolute

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I^miivian.

eolations is to go oat of the immuiahU
conditions of human nature."* — LUtriy
dmservcOUmy XevoluUan, and Positive
iim^pp. 5, 38.

If there are no absolute truths,
then there is no God :

^ This condusion," says M. Littr^
^ rests on the decisive results of all
scientific exploration during the long
oourse of the ages, namely, that noth-
ing of what is called first cause is ac-
cessible to the human mind, and the
origin of the world can be explained
neither by many gods nor by one god
alone, neither by nature, chance, nor
atoms. This result, erected into a
principle, gradually takes possession of
modem intelligence, and bears in its
womb the social organization of the fu-
ture of the race. • . If, for a child-
ish and individual satisfaction, the idea
of some theolo^cal being, one or mani-
fold, is retained, it is necessary to re-
duce the conception forthwith to a
nullity, and to purely nominal and su-
pererogatory functions ; for the result
of scientific investigation is, that there
is in the course of things no trace of
miracle or government from above,
and nothing but an unbroken chain of
laws modifiable, within certain limits,
by the action from age to age of man-
kind. As Laplace says, such a being
is henceforth a useless hypothesis."-—
Ib^pp. 279, 298.

The soul has no existence distinct
from that of the body, and therefore
dies with it :

^ This belief (concerning the sor-
vivance of the soul), which might be
true, is not found to be so; sdence
(always science I) has not been able
to establish a single &ct whatever of
a life after death ; and so, like a pond
no longer alimented by inflowing
streams, the opinion of an individual
perpetuity gradually evaporates." — Ib,f
pp. 128.

* M. de Chalambert might bererepW, grantine
man haa no Infinite or absolute notiona^ whicE
no Unite mind can have, it bj no means fol-
lows tbat he has no notions or conceptions of
that which is infinite and absolute, or intuitions
of necessary, eternal, and immntable truth, as
are the first principles of all science, religion,
•ad morals.~TBAHSLATo]i.

There is room for liberty only be-
cause the biok>gical phenomena are
very complex :

^ No sdence," says M. Littr^ (i&,
p. 114), ^< if the phenomenon has no
law, and no power (liberty) if not
complex enough to offer us struggles
duly proportioned to the compHca*-
tion."

It follows from this that the effect
of the progress of science must be to
diminish human liberty, since in pro-
portion as it elucidates questions it
diminishes their complexity.

However, human intelligence must
have an ideal :

^The ideal is its dream and its
worship. Now what will be its ideal?
Humanity itself. Humanity has a
real existence ; it is the great Being,
really a great collective body, having
a regular growth of its own, and pro-
vided, like every individual body,
with temporary organs, which lose their
' activity, wither, and disappear in de-
fault of employment and nutrition"
(t&.,p. 118). ^Formerly, and oonfbnn-
ably to the medium in which they
moved, theology and meti^hysics, its
slave, gave their demonstration of the
divine existence. In like manner
science to-day gives the demonstratioa
of the existence of humanity. It is no
longer possible to mistake the growth
of this ideal — the solidarity of its
most remote past with its most distant
future, and this powerful life of whidi
each man has been, is, and will be an
organ" (»6., p. 288). ^ Humanity is
a real ideal, which it is necessary to
know (education), to love (re%ion),
to embellish (the fine arts), to enridi
(industry), and which therefore holds
our whole existence, individual, do-
mestic, and social, under its suprone
direction" (»6., p. 286).

To love and serve humanity is the
whole positivist moral law. M. Lit-
tr6 says, pp. 291, 292 : <" This moral-
ity is much superior to the morality
of the past, which was founded on
selfishness. The < salvation' of the
theologians is as much a selfish cakn-
lation as the ' enlightened 8elf4ntet>

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729

es^ of the materialists. The materi*
alists say, * Do good : it is for thj in-
terest in this Ufe;* the theologians
say, ' Do good : it is for thy interest
in another life/ Never was there a
more perfect system of selfishness or-
ganized in the world ; and if power-
M instincts, and, it is but justice to
add, sacerdotal wisdom, had not in
part counterbalanced the disastrous
eflfects of such an habitual direction,
individual asceticism and aspiration
to salvation would have dissolved all
social bonds.**

It is, we see, no longer God whom
we are to love and serve, but humani-
ty, and as humanity has few or no re*
wards to bestow, the worship we ren-
der her must needs be disinterested.
Selfishness falls in proportion as the
hope of reward vanishes. [But sup-
pose one does not love and serve hu-
manity, will he sufibr punishment or
lose anything in consequence ? If so,
what becomes of the positivist doc-
trine of the disinterestedness of the
worship of humanity ? — ^Tb.]

Such are the solutions offered by
the positivist philosophy on the princi-
pal points of biology, or the science
of the individual ; we proceed now to
sociology, or the science of society.

Positivism, being at once a philoso-
phy and a religion, must admit and
does admit two distinct societies — ^a
temporal society and a spiritual soci-
ety. We begin with the firsL

TTie a^m of the temporal society M.
Littr6,i5., p. 119, explains in the fol-
lowing manner : *' The historic tradi-
tion itself, without anything forced, ar-
bitrary, fortuitous, or transitoiy, con-
ducts us to the reign of industry. Be-
fore industry the whole past sncces-
siTely falls and disappears. For the
modem man industrial activity is the
only temporal occupation, the only
practical activity. ... If the accession
of the industrial regimen is inevitable,
it is also inevitable that the chiefs of
oar industry should be our temporal
chiefs. We have no need of patri-
cians or of gentlemen to lead us to
war and conquest ; we have no need

of kings or kaisers to concentrate in
their own hands the power of the
sword. Their functions, formerly pre-
eminent, are now without employ-
ment (!). But we have need of direct
tors who can conduct the peaceful la^
bors of industry with firmness and in-
telligence, labors which certainly want
neither complication nor difficulty nor
grandeur. It is to this end that all
temporal power must aspire."

If so, if mdustry is the supremo
and last end of humanity, evidently
nothing is to be changed in the pres-
ent condition of property, and that
the wealth of the rich should be aug-
mented rather than diminished. The
constitution of the family must also
be maintained. The marriage bond'
is, therefore, declared indissoluble ; the
positivist law is in this respect even
more severe than the Christian law,
for, not contented with prohibiting di-
vorce, it even forbids second nup-
tials. In the purely political order the
republican form must obtain.

" I have thought ever since Febru-
ary, 1848," said JVL Littre, in 1850, p.
205, << that the establishment of the
republic is definitive in France, hav-
ing for it the guarantee of manners
. which have ceased to be monarchical,
and after this wholly theoretical point
of view, I have constantly lived, and
engage to live, in security."
* This coufidence, wholly positivist,
has been but poorly justified by
events ; yet there are compensations,
and, in reality, the imperial rigimsy
which has succeeded to the republic,
differs not so much as might be sup-
posed from that which the positivists
themselves wished to establish. The
principal conditions demanded by the
positivist republic are: 1. Free dis-
cussion; 2. The preponderance of
the central power; 3. The rigid re-
striction of the parliamentary or local
power to the vote of the budget ; 4.
In fine, the investment of the growing
power in the hands of proletaries or
working-men.

M. Comte and M. Littru both agree
on all these points ; they both have an

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equal horror of parliamentary govem-
ment, under which, sajs M. Littr^,
power passes into the hands of law-
yers, pettifoggers, and sophists. Both
desire three directors ; hut M. Comte
judges it most suitable to choose three
bankers, beciiuse society is industrial,
and bankers, who are the lessors of the
funds of industry, are in a better position
than others to know its wants. M. Lit*
tre (he was writing in Hie Wational in
1850) preferred three eminent prole-
taries. " What is the proletary," ex-
claims he, " operative or peasant, who,
if he has equal intelligence, that he
should not be as capable as M. Thiers
or M. Gui20t of directing political af-
fairs ?** He concedes, however, that
as a counterpoise to the central prole-
tarian power, the Okamher ofI)epu»
ties should be composed of rich men,
who are tlie best fitted by habit to
vote the budget.

Master and disciple both agree, that
Paris should elect the executive gov-
ernment; and that the rest of the
French people should have the right
to obey. Fear you that from such -m
system despotism must result? M,
Littro reassures you, with his strange
apothegm, ^ what is despotism in our
days but government in the hands of
the retrogi-ade parties 'f That is, des-
potism is simply power in the hands
of those whose ideas are different
from ours ? Could he tell his secret
with a more refreshing simplicity?
He has another word which might ex-
cite some uneasiness. " The philo-
sophical genius of the Convention was
not inferior to its political genius, and,
indeed, they were each the necessary
condition of the other. Positivism is
thetr direct heir. The whole positiv-
ist political theory, therefore, like all
revolutionary theories, ends at last in
this : Below, as the very condition of
its existence, the sovereignty of the
plebs ; above, as the ci-own of the edi-
fice, the dictator.

But we pass to the spiritual society.
We have seen under the infiuence of
what sentiments the positive philosophy
was suddenly transformed into a reli-

gion. Madame Gotilde de Yaux had
the initiative, and inspired, in 1845,
the religious thought of M. Comte.
From that moment it was no longer
the intellect but the heart, no longer
intelligence but love, that predomi-
nated in the positivist schooL The
disciples were transformed with the
master. *' I recognize and profess as
the positivist philosophy requires,"
says M. Littr6, p. 298, '' that this af-
fective side of human nature should
always preponderate over the intellec-
tual side." As soon as it was decided
that religion should take the place of
philosophy, M. Comte proclaimed a
great Being and then a high priest The
great Being, who was none other than
humanity itself, was defined to be
^ the collection of all beings, past, pres-
ent, and to come, that freely concur in
the completion of universal order," or
more briefly, but not more clearly,
'^ the continuous whole of convergent
beings."*

The high priest (le gremd pretre)
was, as we have said, M. Comte him-
self. After this came dogma and
worship. The dogma had already its
principal features in philosophy, and
there was little to be added ; but for
worship, le cuUe, all was to be created.
The fertile imagination of M. C<»nte
prompdy provided for it. He en-
gaged at first in compiling and pub-
lishing a positivist catechism, by the
side of which M. Littr6 gravely tells
us " the Catholic catechi?m is only an
embryo." He afterward constructed
a calendar; he commences the new-
era with the year 1793, and names it
Otfcle of the Great CHsis. The year
is divided into thirteen months of
four weeks each ; the months take the
names of thirteen men of superior
genius ; instead of saying January,
February, we must saj' Moses, Aris-
totle, etc. The days have also the
names of celebrated men, but men of
an inferior order. Several circular
letters from the high priest to the
faithful were dated the 4th of Moses,

• Aatr. Comte, ^^Coun de ToUtigue l^Mitite^

4. 1, p. ao.

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781

Ctli of the Great Cnais, or 6 Archi-
medes, Great Crisis 64.

There waa, or rather was to haye
been, a college of assessor priests — the
number of whom was fixed at twenty
thousand for Europe, one-fourth of
whom were allotted to France ; posi-
tivist savans and poets were to com-
pose the college faculty.

Time and money failed for. the cpn-
struction of a temple for the new
worship, and the apartment occupied
by M. Comte, Rue des Fosses, Mon-
sieur-le-Prince, held temporarily its
place. The faithful congregated there
on appointed days, and every poeitir^
ist believer was required to say
three prayers daily. It was, doubt-
less, in consequence of one of these
pious exercises that M. Littr6 ex-
claimed :

"I have too clearly perceived the
efficacy of this regenerative socialism
in myself and in the little group of
disciples, and the calm content with
which it fills the soul, not to desire to
take part in it. • . . In these
times, when all things seem giving way,
how salutary and sweet to feel ourselves
in communion with the immense exist-
ence which protects us, with that hu-
manity which is the spirit of our
globe, and the providence of succes-
sive generations !*' — M LittrSy ih,, ».
294.

The number of festival daj^ was
considerable; there were fourscore
and one a year. The festival of the
great Being, those of the sun, the
dead, the police, the press, etc. Nine
sacraments were instituted :

1. The Presentation, Th^ parents
present the new-bom child to the
priest, who accepts it, or, in some rare
cases, rejects it. We are not told
what becomes of the new-born child
that is rejected.

2. iiitiation. At fourteen the boy is
delivered to the priesthood, who take
charge of his instruction.

8. Admission. At twenty-one the
adult is admitted to the service of hu-
manity.

4. Destination. Seven years after

the young man is admitted to the spe-
cial office which he is judged capable
of filling.

5. Marriage. Marriage is not per-
mitted after thirty-five in men and
twenty-«ight in women. Three months
continence before the definitive cele-
bration, eternal widowhood, save in
Bome rare cases, of which the high priest
alone is the judge, are enjoined.

6. Maturity, At forty-two the man
is admitted to the full maturity of the
service of humanity.

7. Retirement. This takes place at
sixty-three.

8. Transformation. Perfection is
prepared by repentance.

9. Incorporatum. Burial in a gar-
de n in the midst of flowers.

Once entered into this way, M*
Comte cannot stop, and he even ar-
rives at the Utopia of a virgin mother,
at first hazarded only as a bold hy-
pothesis, but afterward proclaimed as
the synthetic rSsumeof the whole pos-
itivist religion, in which are combined
all its aspects. He was preparing a
special treatise on this grand discovery
when death interrupted him. A word
on this conception of a virgin mother.
Through the indefinite progress of
positivism, the wife may one day come
to conceive without ceasing to be a
virgm, and so universal continence be-
come the supreme law of the positiv-
ist religion, without in other respects
abolishing the social bonds of marriage.

But at least humanity, after so many
efibrts, once elevated to this glorious
state, will henceforth remain in it? M.
Comte thinks not ; he inclines, on the
contrary, to the belief that in spite of .
the positivist virtue, humanity will end
by decreasing and entirely disappear-
ing.

But we have detained our readera
long enough with these sad lucubra-
tions of a sickly brain. We could not
well pass them over in silence, for
they belong to the inteUectual history
of our times, and it seems to us some
useful lessons may be extracted from
them.

We have promised to make known

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the phHoeophical theory of M. H.
Taine, but as the matter is small, tho
exposition maj be short. His theory
maj be reduced to the three following
points: ,

1. The philosopher in the study of
science must be disinterested, and
draw his conclusions after having made
his observations, without disturbing
himself as to their consequences. The

. philosopher, in a word, must set the
man aside, forget that he is a son, a
father, a husband, a citizen, and re-
gard science alone, nothing but science,
with the facts observation furnishes.

2. Observation is the only method,
and observation must be confined ex-
clusively to physical phenomena, which
alone are reaL Metaphysical beings,
notions of the soul, of first cause, are
pure illusions ; consequ^itly nothing
survives the body, and there is no
God, at least no Grod that can be in-
ferred from any observable phenom*

8. The highest synthesis to which
observation can conduce is that there
is a vast assemblage of laws and phe-
nomena which we call nature.

All this resembles positivism too
closely to be separated from it If
we have distinguished it, we have done
so that M. H. Taine should not ac-
cuse us of making him, in spite of
himself, the disciple of a master whom,
perhaps, he does. not wish to own.

Before proceeding to examine this
strange and incoherent system either
in its general principles or in its par-
ticular application, we must reduce to
their first value the two propositions
which we set forth as its preamble, or
rather as its pretext: 1. That mod-
cm society is in want of a doctrine
that unites all intelligences in a com-
mon symbol, and enables them to Uve
in peace and harmony ; and, 2. That
this doctrine cannot be in the future
the Catholic doctrine, though that doc-
trine for a long time in the past filled
its office, for its dogmas are now

known to be irreconcilable with the
discoveries of science.

One of the inost common practices
of the sophistical spirit is not so much
to deny &cts as to distort them, exag-
geratO' their reach, or confuse those
which are distinct This is what our
positivists do in these propositions.
That there is at present much intel-
lectual anarchy, that many souls, hav-
ing lost their faith, or suffered it to be
greatly weakened, refuse to recognize
any law except the law which they
make for themselves, and that thence
results a mental perturbation from
which society sufiers not a little, is a
fact too evident and too lamentable to
be questioned. It is only simple jus-
tice, however, to acknowledge that M.
Comte has the merit of pointing it out
much earlier than the most of his
friends [and Saint-Simon much earlier
than even M. Comte. — ^Tr.] Although
strongly imbued with the revolutionary
spirit he comprehended fhad learned
from Saint-Simon ? — Tr. J as early as
1822 that that spirit, powerful indeed
to destroy, is radically incapable of es-
tablishing anything, and he never
spared the illusion of those who be-
lieved that the principles of the Constit-
uent Assembly of 1789, engrafted on
religious unbelief, could serve as the
basis of the social edifice.

But if the evil denounced is only too
real, it is not necessary to represent it
as greater than it is, or to conclude, be-
cause faith in many souls has grown
feeble, that it has entirely perished,
and is no longer to be found among men.
We know how difficult and how delicate
it is to establish the balance-sheet of
religious society. Appearances are de-
ceptive, and to reach the real facts we
must explore, to the bottom, the con-
sciences of men, which only Grod can
do. However, there are certain ex-
terior circumstances which may enable
us even on this point to approximate
the real facts in the case. It is unde-
niable that there are in all the de-
grees of society men who really be-
lieve and faithfuUy practise rel^on ;
others who believe but practise not ;

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PMUhitm.

78S

and still others who make an open pro-
fession of not believing. The first di-
vision have representatives in every
eociiil clasSy among the poor as weU
as among the rich, m the sciences, in ^
literature, in art, in industry, in poli-
tics. Their faith in general is equally
firm and enlightened, for it has been
thoroughly tried, and has withstood
every attack, both from within and
from without

The second class are more nttme>
ous, at least in the great centres of
population, and form in those centres
the . bulk of society. They believe,
but their faith is weak, or perhaps it
were more proper to say that they
have not faith, but only vague and in-
decisive beliefs, whose level rises or
&lls according to events. They re-
coil alike from avowed apostasy and
from distinct, precise, and 'frank af-
firmation of the truth. As they have
abandoned the practice of their relig-
ion, it may be supposed that they have
lost all belief, but that is far from be-
ing the case, for often the slightest
breath from without suffices to rekin-
dle what seems to be extinct, but is
really only asleep* It is rare, above
all, that at the last moment, when the
passions have been appeased, when
they stand face to fiice with reality
and see it as it is, their last and sol-
emn word is not a word of faith.

The third class, those who make an
open profession of unbelief, are rela-
tively few ; but they make up for their
lack of numbers by their activity and
the powerful means at their disposaL
They fill high positions in the state,
control the greater part of the organs
of publicity, and gain the multitudes
to their side all the more easily be-
cause they excel in the art of caress-
ing popular prejudices and pandering
to popular passions. Beside, their ha-
tred of truth is greater tlugi their
attachment to any doctrine whatever,
and they can, therefore, hold them-
selves free to attack the faith without
being bound to defend anything of
their own against it, or to maintain
any self-consistency in their attacks.

What moves and golems them is not
the desire to ascertain or defend the
truth, but to appear to have inde-
pendence and hardihood of mind, and
to pose themselves as despisers of the
past and precursors of the fiitnre.

But to appreciate the real situation
of things, it is not enough to regard
the present We must sJso consider
the past No society makes itself
such as it is, and every society holds
infinitely more from the generation
that went before than from the exist-
ing generation. Now, as the society
of the past was manifestly a Christian
society, it cannot be that the present
should not remain Christian in tho
greater part of its elements; and in
fiict, notwithstanding the formidable
efibrts that have been made to un-
christianize moderp society, and its
numerous deviations, it is sdll the
Christian spirit that inspires the laws,
manners, and institutions, and so per-
vades the general intelligence that
even those who would attack the
Christian dogmas are constrained, in
order to render their attacks more
effective, to appeal to the very princi-
ples which Christianity has brought to
light and made predominant

Moreover, religious &ith, far from
decreasing, is actually progressing, and,
if it has not yet recovered all the ground
it had lost, its gains since the com-
mencement of the present century
have been far greater than its losses.

It IS not difficult to detect the vice
of the first proposition. It consists in
assuming tluit Christian fidth is dead,
while it has only been lessened ; that
it has lost all authority over the intel-
ligent, while, in fact, it continues to
exercise, directiy or indirectiy, such
an empire over them that its princi-
ples are universally regarded as the
foundation and support of the social
edifice itself.

But not contented with assuming that
Christianity is dead, the positivists go
further, and pretend that it cannot be
restored to life, because its dogmas
are found to be incompatible with the
discoveries of science. This is not

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7S<

PoiiHvUnk

% fact distorted) hot a fiict mrented,
and for which no proof is offisred or
attempted to be offered. We have in
Tain sought in the writings of Messrs.
Comte imd Littr6 even the semblance ,
of a reason of anj sort in snpport of
the allegation. The positivists an-
nounce it, aflinn it, but make no effort
even to prove it, or at most only stam-
mer out by the way the name of
Galileo, as if it had not been a thou-
sand times answered, at first, that the
sacred writers must have spoken the
language of their times, which after
all is still the language of our times ;
afterward that Cbpeniicns dedicated,
in 1545, to Pope Paul III., his great
work, in which he sets forth and de-
fends the new or heliocentric system
of the universe ; that nearly a centu-
ry elided before ^y censure of it
intervened; that Galileo, although
technically condemned, was neither
loaded with chains nor cast into a
dungeon ; in fine— -and it is the import-
ant point — ^that the holy office which
eondemned him, though possessing
great and legitimate authority, is not
the Church, and has no claim to infal-
libility.*

Unable to produce any ^ts to snp*
port their thesis, the positivists resort
to historical induction. They argue
that the sciences have been in a state
of continuous progress for three centu-
ries ; but during the same three cen-
turies they say &ith has been in a state
of ccmtinual decline ; there is, there-
fore, an intimate correlation between
the two &ctSj so intimate that we may

• This was written before the BncTciical of the
■ Holy Father, dated December 8, 18M, otherwise
the noble aathor might have modified his ex-
pression so as not even to aeem to incur its cen-
snre. Wlthoitt raising any qnestion as to the tn-
fiiUibllity of the pontiflcaf congregations when
they render a dogmatic Judgment approved by
the Holy Father, it is evideui that the judgment
rendered in the case of Qalileo was not a dog-
matic Judgment in the understanding of even
Bome herself, for she has since rescinded it, and
has permitted the theory to be tanght in her
schools as science. The Judgment was discip-
linary, not dogmatic, and assuming, tberetbre,
that Galileo held the scientific truth, it offers no
evidence of the incompatibility of Catholic dn^-
ma with science, any more than the condemna-
tion of an unwarrantable insurrection in a mon-
archical oonntry in flivor of democracrr would
prove that the Church la bostUo to liberty.—
TKairsi<ATOB.

assert the former as generating the
latter. But to a legitimate induction,
all the facts * on which it depends
should be carefully observed and re-
ported, which in this case is not done.

It is not true that foithhas declined
in a &tal and continuous manner ; nor
is it true that the sciences have made
their greatest progress in those epoclis
in which faith has most declined. Ask
history. In the beginning of the
sixteenth century occurred Luther's
revolt ; ]( produced in the Christian
world a universal shock. During
several years heresy made every day
new progress, and a part of Europe
was detached from the centre of uni-
ty ; but very soon the movement was
arrested, and before the end of tliat
same century a reaction against it hod
begun, followed by a reli^ous revival
or re-birth which produced one of the
grandest epochs in the history of man-
kind. 'In the eighteenth century a
new attack, more formidable than the
first, is made on faith ; it triumphs,
and seems to be on the point of de-
stroying all truth. Yet from the be-
ginning of the next century a second
religious restoration is effected, of
which it may be as yet too early to de-
termme the full bearing on the future,
but which has already had too serious
results to allow its great importance
to be questioned. Thus out of four
centuries there are two, the sixteenth
and the eighteenth, in which faith has
declined, and two, the seventeenth and
the nineteenth, in which fkith has re-
vived and increased. There is not
then a fatal and continuous march of
faith in a certain direction. There
are two contrary currents that meet
and combat each other, without its be-
ing lawful as yet from the point of
view of science to say which will ulti-
mately triumph.

But at least they are the centitries
of doubt and unbelief in which sd-
enee has made her greatest progress ?
Not at all. Precisely the contrary is
the fact The sixteenth century did
hardly anything for science, but the
seventeenth century, the age of the

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785

Catholic revival, was the age of the
Galileos, the Pascals, the Des Cartes,
the Newtons, the Leibnitses — the age
in which not only philosophy, letters,
the arts, were carried to their highest
degree of splendor, but the great prin-
ciples of modem science were discov-
ered and established — ^principles from
which have resulted all subsequent
discoveries, which, it is well to remark,
have been only an afiair of applici^
tion and patience, not of invention
and genius.

But the positivists insist again that,
granting there is no absolute incom-
patibility between science and faith,
since the masters of science have
been decided believers, and are so
still ; ^granting also that there is no di-
rect relation between the progress ot
sdence and the decline of faith, since
the periods in which science has
grown are not coincident with those in
which faith has diminished— still the
general result of three centuries of
activity is that science has gained
and iaith has lost, and it is difficult,
therefore, to suppose that these two
facts are wholly foreign one to the
other.

TVe reply that if this were pro-
posed as a mere hypothesis, it might
pass, and there would be no inconven-
ience in admitting that the progress of
science may have indirecdy, and so
by way of reaction, had some influence
in weakening religious beliefs. In
all progress, in every increase of pow-
er, there is danger. Man is naturally
weak, and as soon as he feels himself
in possession of a new force he suffers
himself to be dazzled by it, attributes
to himself aU its merits, and soon
comes to believe that he can suffice
for himself, and dispense with all aid
from above. Consider what takes
place in our days. Certainly, it is
impossible to conceive in what respect
steam, chloroform, electricity, or pho-
tography conflicts with any Christian
dogma. Religion, instead of stand-
ing aghast at ti^ese discoveries in the
application of science, applauds them,
uid sees in them new and more effi*

dent means of doing her own work,
of ameliorating the condition of a
large number, dT propagating the Gros-
pel, and drawing closer the bonds of
unity throughout the world. Yet
such is not the impression which they
produce on all minds. Certain per-
sons, at sight of so many marvels, are
so carried away with enthusiasm as
to conclude that man is on the eve of
becoming God. The impression will,
no doubt, soon wear away, but till it
does, the intoxication continues, and
hearts are inflated. In this way sci-
ence-may come to the aid of unbelief;
not by itself, nor by the results it
^ves; but by the presumptuous
confidence with which it too often fills
the mind. As it is not and cannot be
the principal and efficient cause of the
success of unbelief, we must seek
that cause elsewhere, in the unloosing
of the passions, always impatient of
the restraints of faith. History in
fact teaches us that the great revolts
of the intellect are contemporary with
those of the will and the senses ; that
it was in the scandals of the revival
of ancient learning in the fifteenth
century that Protestantism was oon
ceived; tliat more lately it was the
les petits sovpers of the Regency and
under the impure inspirations of the
Pompadours and the Du Barrys that
was spun and woven the conspiracy
against the God of Calvaiy. Modem
unbelief may boast of the independ-
ence it has acquired, but assuredly
not, if it has any self-respect, of its
shamefiil cradle.

So we see that the very prt^xisi-
tions which serve as a pretext to the
positivist system are belied by the
historical facts in the case. Far
fh>m being ready to perish, religion is
eveiy day making new progress, and
none of its dogmas have as yet been
contradicted or weakened by any ot
the real discoveries of science.

The positivist system itself, it will
be recollected, is based on the assump-
tion that no doctrine can henceforUi
obtain the assent of the intelligent,
save on conditioa of bemg positive^

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786

P<mHv%$m.

that 18, as rigidly demonstrable as are
. the physical sciences. Such a theory
hardly needs refuting, so contrary is it
to common sense and the universal
beliefs of the race. But as it has
been set forth at length in a series of
huge volumes, maintained and lauded
in an important political journal,
counts still many adepts, has been re-
called not long since to the public at-
tention by a work written by one of
their number who has the honor of
being a member of the Institute [and
as it is gaining no little ground, under
its philosophical aspect, in Great
BriUin and the United States— Tb.],
it is not permissible to neglect it, and
we feel it necessary, if not to combat
it directly, at least to point out' the
levity and inconsistency of its origi-
nators and adherents, who claim to
be reformers of- the human race, and
with imperturbable gravity pretend
that for six thoosand years mankind
has been the dupe of the grossest eiv
ror, and that before their advent there
were only iUusioa and falsehood in
the world*

The assumption from which the
system proceeds is that the real, the
positive, is restricted to the world of
the senses, or the material universe,
and that what transcends the material
order is for us at least unreal — a the-
sis directly opposed to that of Des
Cartes, who taught that thought is the
phenomenon the most real, thd most
positive of all. Now which is right,
the author of the '^ Discourse on Meth-
od" or M. Comte? No great effort
isjieeded to prove that it is Des
Cartes, and that the existence of spir-
itual phenomena is not only more
certain than that of physical phenom-
ena, but more positive and more easi-
ly proved, because the knowledge of
spiritual phenomena is direct and im-
mediate, while that of sensible phe-
nomena is only indirect and mediate.
All knowledge, rational or sensible, is
a spiritual phenomenon. Matter may
be the occasion or medium of it, but
can never produce it, for it is always
spirit or mind that knows even in sen-

sation or sentiment We may be de-
ceived as to the meaning of the phe-
nomenon, but never as to its existence.*
Nevertheless, after having denied
all the truths or principles which
are the basis of all moral and intel-
lectual life, the poeitivists pretend to
pass from negation to nffirmation,
and undertake in their turn to dog-
matize. But to affirm any doctrine
whatever it needs a methcxl, and we
have shown that on the purely neg-
ative method which they commence
with, they can never legitimately af-
firm anything. What then can they
do? They invent another method*
which they call induction, because
they pretend that it is from the ob-
servation of the facts of history that
they induce or draw their doctrine;
bat the process they adopt has none
of the characters of a real indue-

* Ab a enbjectiye fact, there can be bo doabt
of Its existence : bat this, with all respect to M.
de Chalambert, is nothing to the pnrpoee. All

f phenomena are subjective, and therefore mental,
f /on will, spiritual ; bat is there an objective
spfritaal reality revealed by these eplrltnal phe-
nomena ? This is the qoestlon, and I need not
say it is a question not answerable on the CStr-
teslan principle or method. Few persons out-
side of France regard Des Cartes as worth ciUng
as an authority In philosophy, for, beginning
with thought as a psychological phenomenon, he
never did and never could attain scientifically to
any objective existence, either spiritual or ma-
terial. The error of Des Cartes was in seeking
to settle Uie question of method before set-
tling that of principles ; the principles determine
the method, not the method the principles, as M.
Cousin, misled by his veneration for Des Cartes,
pretends : and the principles are necessarily d
priori^ prior to experience— as without them ex-

Serience is not possible— given, Intuitive, and
lerefore objective. The real existence of the
spiritual or supersensible order, superior to and
distinct from the material. Is certain firom the
demonstrable fsct that the sensible has Its root
only in the supersensible, and the material In
the spiritual, both as to the order of knowle«Ife
and as to the order of being. The author maui-
Uins the truth against the positlvists, but his
reasoning is not conclusive, because he Is mis-
led by tne Cartesian method, which is the
method of the positlvists themselves. Male-
brancbe followed in one direction the Cartesian
method, and lost the material world ; the Abb^
Condlllac followed It In another direetton, and
lost the splritnal world ; the positlvists foUow
it. in both, and lose all reality, and, with Sir
William Hamilton, make truth purely relative ;
that is, subjective, and as pure snl^ectivity is
impossible, thus positivism is positive nihilism.
The author proceeds to refhte, on th^Cartesian
method, the denial by the positlvists of the ex-
istence of spirit, of the absolute, of God, am*
the immortality of the soul ; but as I do not re-
gard his reasoning, though In defence of the
truth, conclusive, f omit It, and pass to hU ex-
hibition of the inconsistencies and absurdities
of positivism, in which he is admirable and per-
lectly anoceMflBl.— TaaKBi.aTOB.

♦

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Poiitwism.

737

To induction ihree things are
neoeaeaiy ;* the principle of causali-
ty, general notions, and particular
facts.*

Experience gives the particular
facts, and, by the aid of the priociple
of causality, we determine by way
of induction their laws ; that is, by
means of particular facts we deter-
mine the general notions hitherto con-
fused and vaguely perceived [that is,
refer them to their respective genera
or species. — Tb.] The positivists, then,
who recognize no principle [of causal-
ity, and deny all general notions or
notions of the general prior to the par-
ticular facts. — ^TB.]can make no induc-
tion, and have no scientific basis, no
logical nexus for their theories, and
are left to the caprices of their own
imagination. Imagination, and imagin-
ation alone, is the new method they
employ.

The human mind, according to the
positivists, is radically incapable of
knowing causes, and if it attempts to
know them it exhausts itself with
fruitless efforts. This is wherefore
they treat as illusions all the causes
which philosophers assign to pheno-
mena. They deny the metaphysical
being, God as cause ; yet they substi-
tute ^e metaphysical being humanity,
and not content with affirming it, they
even define it, both as principle and
cause, to be a great collective beings—
living a life of its own, and advancing
continually through the ages from pro-
gress to progress, and from whom all
individual existences proceed as their
beginning, and to whom they all re-
turn as their end. Nor is this alL

* I transfer the word notion, althoogh no no-
tion iB or can be general, because French writers
freqnently nse it when they really mean not
n&tion^ but the object or thlDff noted. I do not
approre of this nse either in French or English.
We may have notions of the general, bnt not
general notions ; a notion, if yon will, as has
Been provionsly said, of the absolnte (thongh ab-
solnto Is itself a bad term for necessary, eternal,
Immntable, and infloito being), but not absolute
notions. The notion is subjective, the noted is
otjective. To all legitimate induction there is
necessary causality, the general— the univerMl,
as say the schoolmen— and the particular, and
milesB the mind has a priori knowledge or intu-
ition of them, no induction is possible. Thl# is
what the author evidently means, and it is nn-
doabtedly true.— Tbahsiatob.

VOL. 11. 47

Afler having defined this metaphysi-
cal being, they explain it, and pretend
to know what it has been, what it
is, and what it will be — they, who
declare that Plato, Aristotle, St. Au-
gustine, St. Thomas, Des Cartes, and
Leibnitz have done nothing, because
in attempting to penetrate the mys-
tery of human life these master minds
broke against an insolvable problem
— ^they, we say, do not hesitate to
raise the veil, and to give us the com-
plete solution of the far more formid-
able mystery of human destiny.
They know its origin. Humanity has
begun in fetichism; M. Littr^, how-
ever, has discovered, since the death
of his master, that prior to fetichism
there was a state in which man like
the brute sought only to satisfy his
physical wants ,' but he maintains that
at any rate, if fetichism was not the
first it was at least the second state of
humanity. If we ask him what proofs
he has of this, he confesses that if di-
rect facts are demanded he has none ;
but he has arguments, and here is the
way in which he argues :

In America and the unexplored
regions of Africa savage tribes are
found who were and still ''are fetich
worshippers, thsrefare so was it with
all men in the bes^inning ! Such is
the positivist induction.* /

Positivism continues : From fetich-
ism humanity passed to polytheism,
and then from polytheism to monothe-
ism. But it forgets that it is not per-
mitted to take the part for the whole,
and if Europe became Christian afler
having been pagan, it has not been
the same with all the world, for on
one side we find the people Jewish, who*
have always believed in the unity of
God, and, on the other side, we find
many nations still remuning immersed
in the darkness of idolatry. But we
must not be too exacting with the pos-
itivists. They have here really some

* How know the positivists that these sayage
tribes do not represent the degenerate man,
rather than the primitive man— man cut off firom
communion with the central life of humanity,
not man in his first developments t—TiiAii8«

LATOB.

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738

Positivism,

partial facts which thej can nse,
though not legitimateljy as the basis
of an argument.*

As to the YutorCy who can doubt
that humanitj will be positiTist ? Can
any one prove the contrary ? Is not
the future a domain open to oil, and
where each may imagine for himself
the part that pleases him ? And yet,
even in regard to the future, it is ne-
cessary to be circumspect Young as
positivism is, it has had the pain of
seeing more than one of its predic*
tions falsified by the event Ih 1850
M. Littr^ assured us that the race had
arrived at that degree of civilization
that rendered war henceforth impossi*
ble, and that the republic was defini-
tively established in France. What
does he think of either prediction
now ? He would have obliged us if
he had given us his explanations of
these predictions in his last publica-
tion. The first would, perhaps, have
embarrassed him ; the second would
give him less trouble, because the de-
struction of the republic of 1848 by
the empire accords only too well wiUi
the positivist hostility to a i^ally rep-
resentative government

It is useless to press the matter
further. There is in the positivist in-
duction no trace of a rational process,
and positivism in the last analysis is
simply the product of pure imagina-
tion. Moreover, M. Littre is so well
aware of it that he has taken in ad-
vance his precautions against all un-
favorable criticism. It may say what
it pleases, he will not hear or heed it ;
he professes to be a positivist, and
positivist he will live and die. His
decision is made. Beside, no one

* Trntli is older thftn error, and man beean not
In error, bat In the troth, the sole principle of
life and growth. Monotheism preceded, historic
cally, both fetichlsmand polytheism, and the
earliest and most aothentlc historical doca-
ments that we have prove that all the world be-

Kn by believing In and worshipping one God.
lythetsm bears evident traces of a prior re-
ligion which asserted the nnity of God, of being
not a development of fetichism, bat a corraption
ofmonotheism, as positivism bears anmistaka-
ble traces of its being a corraption of Christiani-
ty; a condasive evidence that It never coald
have originated In a society that bad never
Imown and believed the Ghriatiaii religion.^

TmAMSLkTOM,

who has not taken his degree of doc-
tor in the mathematical, astxcnomical,
physical, and chemical sciences, un-
derstands or can understand anything
of positivism, and is incompetent to
its discussion. But if inst^d of op-
posing one is disposed to accept it, he
is very accommodating, and by no
means exacts so laborious and piunful
an initiation. He requires only one
thing — ^namely, the denial of the su-
pernatural order. To be received in-
to the positivist school it is not neces-
sary to affirm or to believe anything
— simple denial suffices.

We must in concluding make a sin-
gle reference to M. Taine. As ifae
positivists, M. Taine denies metaphy-
sics, all metaphysical (spiritual) be-
ings, God, and the human soul, and
like them he substitutes for these
others of his own fashioning. From
Messrs. Comte and Littre he sepa-
rates only on a single pointl To the
cause humanity he prefers the cause
nature. There is no disputing about
tastes. We add merely a word on
one of the fundamental maxims of M.
Taine's method. The philosopher, he
says, must be in the study of science
perfectly disinterested, and even to the
degree of forgetting that he is a la-
ther, a son, a husband, a citissen. He
must take account only of the (acts
furnished by obserration, and in no
respect trouble himself about their
practical consequences. Were the
facts observed to prove that paternal
love, filial respect, conjugal tenderness,
and devotion to one's country are
empty words or dangerous iUnsions,
he must not hesitate to immolate these
sentiments on the altar of reality-~or
science. We do not discuss such a
doctrine. The irreflection of the au-
thor (we can suppose nothing else) is
so great that we need only indicate it.
Does not M. Taine comprehend that
the disKDterestedness or indifSereooc of
the philosopher must consist not in
abjuring the eternal principles of the
just, the true, the gwMl, the beautiful,
afid the noblest sentiments of the human
heart, but simply in silenoing within

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PoiUivitm.

789

bim the voice of prejudice and poBsion,
so as to leave his understanding free
and unbiased ? Knows he not that
to know a fact he must study it first
in himself and in its essence, and
then in its manifold applications?
The chemist asserts a substance only
afVer, having resolved it into its ele-
ments, he has experhnented on it in
aU its efiects; in like mannep, it is
not enough for the philosopher to
have studied a doctrine in its principle,
he must go further, and establish Uiat
in its applications it conforms to the
laws of the just, the true, and the
beautiful. It is, in fact, this accord-
ance that is, all things considered,
the surest test of its truth. The
moral is the counter-proof of the in-
tellectual. M. Taine and his school
recognize^ it is true, no principles an-
terior to facts, and therefore want, as
M. Comte avows, a tjpe-law, a term
of comparison, which maj serve as
the criterion of the judgment of facts
themselves ; but is there a more man-
ifest mark of the falsity of a theory
than that it leaves the human mind
without any means of determining the
significance of phenomena, without a
touchstone to determine whether the
metal be gold or copper ?

But it is time to close. It is assur-
edly a grave fact, and one that merits
more attention than it receives, that a
doctrine so thoroughly materialistic
and atheistic can be produced in our
age, that it can obtain adherents, and
be recognized by important and wide-
ly influential public journals, which,
without openly displaying its flag, in-
sinuate its principles, and strive to in-
fuse it into the minds of their readers.
Yet this fact is nothing new. There
are always atheists in the world;
even in the time of the Prophet King
the impious said : There is no God.
Non est Deus. But we discover in
the positivist system a sign or symp*
torn, if not graver at least more alarm-
ing, in the manifest enfeeblement in our
time of reason, and the rational facul-
ties of the soul, which it supposes.
We know that society is not respon-

sible for all that is said or done in its
bosom, but we know also that peo-
ple are in general treated as they de-
serve to be treated, and that writers,
journalists, and system-mongers, when
they believe they are addressing a
community accustomed to thmk, to
reason, to reflect, and to render an
account to themselves of what is ad-
dressed to them, are on their guard
and weigh carefully what they say.
They may assign bad reasons, but
they will at least assign reasons of
some sort, and take great pains to do
it, as the thing most essential to their
success. There have always been
sophists, but iher sophist of former
times reasoned ; the sophist of to-day
reasons not, he simply imagines. Do
not attempt to reftite him ; he will not
listen to you, for he understands not
the language you speak ; he denies or
affirms with assurance, with audacity,
even at the command of his passions
or his caprices; he seeks not to
convince, but to startle, to astonish,
and neither proves nor cares to prove
anything. Thmgs have come to such
a pass that Voltaire himself, if he
could return, would blush with shame
for his children. He might still smile
approvingly on their blasphemies;
his good sense would be shocked with
the incoherence and extravagance of*
their theories ; and he would say to
them. Continue, my children, to deny,
to crush rinfame, all that is well, but
do have the grace not to attempt to
put an3rthing in place of what you
deny. You are not equal to that, and
can only render yourselves ridicu-
lous.

The evil is very real and Tery
great, but it has already been de-
nounced by an authority so high, and
with so much eloquence, that I need
not any further insist on it. I would
simply add that it calls for a prompt
remedy, since the peril is great and
imminent When faith grows weak in
souls, and reason remams, there is
hope ; for reason well directed leads
back to faith^ since human reason is
the child of the divine reasoUi and

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740

JNain- Werk.

cannot persist in denying her moth-
er; biit when reason in her turn goes,
and leaves only imagination in her
place, there is no ground of hope ;
and everything is to be feared, for
no means of salvation remain. Im-
agination is, indeed, one of the powers
and one of the grandeurs of the hu-
man nund, which it elevates and
adorns ; but if it comes to predomi-
nate alone, without supporting itself

on reason, it loses its virtue and iU
beauty, and is proper only to dazzle,
to pervert, to bewilder and mislead.
It sheds darkness, not light, or if it
emits still some gleams, it is only to
gild with a last and false splendor a
dying civilization. When the barba-
rians thundered at her gates, Rome
still imagined, but she had long since
ceased to reason.
Count Yictob de Chalambebt

From Chmmben't Joamal.

PLAIN-WORK.

^ Thank goodness, Lizzie ! you
were taught to work."

My husband is constantly repeating
this sentiment to me, and I decidedly
agree with him that it is a great cause
for thankfulness. I may say, in pass-
ing, that I don*t believe I should ever
have married my husband at all if I
had not been able to work, for one of
his very first questions to me upon
our becoming acquainted, was as to
what occupation I took most pleasure
in, and upon my answering '^Plain-
^ork," a pleased smile came over his
face. From that moment, he haa
since confessed to me, he made up his
mind that I should be his wife. I am
now the mother of a large family, with
constant demands upon my needle,
and what I should do, if* I had not
early acquired the use of it, I cannot
think. I made a point of teaching my
own girls as soon as ever they became
old enough to handle their needles,
and if they don't ail turn out good
plain-workers, it certainly won't be my
fault.

I look upon occupation as the true
secret of happiness, and surely there
is no occupation so well suited to a
woman, whether she is the wife of a
gentleman or a laborer, as needle-
work. I would encourage the taste
for it as early as possible in a girl, as

I think it has such an influence for
good on her character in making her
womanly and sensible. It has also
tiie effect of producing tidy habits, for
no girl who can thoroughly use her
needle will be content to go about the
house with her frock torn or a rip in
her petticoat ; but, upon the first ap-
pearance of a hole, she will sit down
and carefully mend it. When still
quite young, she works for her doll ; a
little older, for some poor child in the
village, or her own younger brothers
and sisters. In either case, she is
learning to be loving and kind, and
the habit of working for others and
being useful is good for her.

You wish probably to fit your daugh-
ter for her future career in life, and
you naturally look forward to her mar*
riage as the aim and object of your
most ardent desires. I know I do
with regard to my own girls, for, be*
ing a happy and married woman mj-
self, I cannot bear the idea of their
becoming old maids. Well, if yoa
want her to marry, and you desire to
train her to be a good wife, teach her to
work; you are laying the foundation of
much future happiness, and her husband
will bless yon for it. Say she marries
a man not too well off, who is oon»
stantly engaged in his profession, and
she is in consequence foroed to spend

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Plain' Work.

741

many hours of her day alone. This
is very trying to her at first, fresh
from a happy home and the bosom of
a large family. She turns to her nee-
dle as her companion and solace dur-
ing her husband*s absence, and finds
her greatest interest and pleasure in
working for him. She keeps his
clothes in good repair, and he never
finds his socks in holes or his shirts
minus their buttons. Very likely —
and happy I consider it for her if it is
so — his wedding outfit may have been
smalL In that case, she can employ
herself in making him a new set of
shirts; whilst her odd moments may
be profitably spent in knitting him a
set of warm socks against the coming
winter. Depend upon it, he will nev-
er find any shirts that fit him so well,
or any socks so comfortable, as those
made for him by his wife during the
early days of their married life. This
f^vcs her so much occupation during
her day that she has no lime to be
dull or discontented. She gladly puts
away her work when she expects her
husband's return, and she meets him
with a cheerful smile, being happy in
her own mind and feeling that she has .
been praiseworthily engaged. She is
also ready to enter into his interests
and pursuits, in which she finds an
agreeable relaxation.

Then there's the coming baby to
work for. WTiat mother does not re-
member the delights of working for
her first baby ! The care and thought
bestowed first upon purchasing the ma-
terials, then upon cutting them out to
the best advantage, followed by many
months of happy employment in mak-
ing them up. The little articles, when
finished, are carefully put away in a
drawer set aside for the purpose, and
bunches of lavender are placed
amongst them.

The first baby is bom, and others
follow, and the cares of a family come
rapidly upon your child. She now
feels the real use of her needle, and
she learns to thank you accordingly
for the pains you took with her. Not
only can she sew well, but she knows

how to cut out ; and she has such a
first-rate eye, from long practice, that
she can take her patterns from the shop-
windows. She makes the best use of
her powers of observation. That
which makes men good soldiers, doc-
tors, engineers, literary men, firtistB,
and naturah'sts, makes her * a good
plain-worker. In her own line, she is
not to be beaten. Perhaps she is a
little proud of her talent; but sho uses
it to good advantage, and her husband
has the comfort of seeing his children
well clothed, and of finding his bills
comparatively small. Constant prac-
tice has also given her a capital know-
ledge of the value of materials, and she
understands thoroughly the textures of
difierent cotton, linen, and woollen fab-
rics, so that it would be very difficult
to impose upon her. .

I have taken it for granted that
your daughter marries a poor man, as
poor men unfortunately predominate
in this world, and it is always as well
to be prepared for the worst But
her husband may be rich or, at all
events, well enough off to render it
unnecessary that his wife should be a
slave to her needle. You will still
find that you have done your girl no
injury by imposing upon her the early
habit of using that instrument You
have, at all events, given her the
power of superintending her servants,
and seeing that their work is properly
done ; and she will not so easily be
taken m by her dressmaker, or tram-
pled upon by her nurse, who will soon
find out that ^ missis" knows how to
work for her own children, and will
respect her accordingly.

But supposing that your daughter
does not marry at all, still her know-
ledge of plain-work will not be thrown
away upon her. If left poorly off, she
has her own clothes to make and
mend, and if not, surely there are
plenty of claims upon her. There is
her more fortunate sister, who mar-
ried young, and is now a widow, with
six children on her hands — ^think of
the comfort and use her needle may
be to them ! Then her brothers are

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742

IVmn-Warlk.

most of them married with families,
and Aunt Susan's work is invaluable,
If she has no brothers or sisters, bat
is lefl entirely alone in the world, and
so well off that she does not require to
work for herself, let her turn to the
poor, and give them the use of her
needle; she will certainly find a
never-ending field amongst them. By
the time she has worked for aU the
babies in the parish, and helped the
mothers about the clothes for the elder
children, she will find she has occupa-
tion enough for her fingers to keep her
mind happy and interested, and to
prevent her from dwelling upon her
own loneliness. She can also spend
some time profitably in instructing the
girls in the village-school how to cut
out and sew. The ignorance upon these
points in some schools is perfectly la-
mentable. I took a nursery-maid for
my eighth baby straight from a nation-
al school. She was a fine healthy
girl of sixteen. It will hardly be
credited that she could not hold her
needle properly ! She doubled it up
in her hand, and pushed it into her
work in the most extraordinary man-
ner. I tried in vain to teach her by
every means in my power, but if the
knack of holding the needle is not
learned in early life, it is rarely ac-
quired afterward. Although so very
awkward about her work, that girl had
been taught to crochet ridiculous
watch-pockets, and to knit impossible
babies' shoes, with such wonderful
pointed toes that no inftint I ever saw
could get his feet into them. At
length I was obliged to part with her
on this account, though a tidy, active
girl, and satisfactory in many ways.
She is not the only case I have had
in my house of ignorance on the sub-
ject of plain-work. Some of my ser-
vants have been able to sew well
enough, but have not had the remotest
idea of cutting-out and placing their
work. I have often thought, if I had
only time to spare, how much I should
like to teach the rising generation the
little I myself know of the art of plain-
work.

In these days of sewing-machines
people think much less of needle-work
than they did formerly. I don't ap-
prove of sewing-machines myselfl
My husband accuses me of being
jealous of them, but in this he is un-
just to me. I don't approve of them
simply because I think that the work
produced from them — though I grant
that the stitches may be regular
enough— <;annot be compared to good
hand-work, particularly when employ-
ed upon fine materials. I have seen
machine-work in every stage, and
from the very best sewing-machines,
and I never could consider it equal to
good hand-work. I feel convinced in
my own mind that sewing-machines
wiil have their day, and that when that
day is over, plain-work done by hand
will be at as high a premium again
as ever. Even pillow-lace is now
gradually recovering the place it once
occupied in public estimation, and
ft'om which it was temporarily ousted
by lace produced from that unuttera-
ble abomination, the machine, and
which used to be called ^ Nottingham
Jace."

I acknowledge machine-work may
be all very well for cloth clothes, and
useftil in families where there are
many boys ; but my ten children are
mostly girls, and I don't at all covet a
machine. My husband offers me one
periodically, and I as often refuse it
I could not bear to have one in the
house, it would be going so entirely
against my own principles.

It is most important, when a girl is
learning to work, that great care should
be taken with her to prevent her from
acquiring bad habits ; such habits, I
mean, as clicking her needle with her
tliimble, pinning her work to her knee,
biting the end of her thread, and stick-
ing her needle into the fit)nt of her
dress. .These habits once gained will
probably stick to her all her life, and
she will find the greatest difficulty in
overcoming them. It is therefore ad-
visable that she should be taught to
work by her mother, rather than be
left to the instruction of servants. A

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Phin-WarL

743

ladjlike manaer of working is essen-
tial, and should be carefully cultivated^
for work may be executed both neatlj
and rapidly without the acquirement of
anj of these vulgar peculiarities. A
great point to be learned connected
with plain-work, and one that I con-
sider quite indispensable, is the art of
cutting out accurately and without
waste of material. Far too little im-
portance is attached to that branch of
work, and many women go to their
graves without acquiring it, having
been dependent all their lives upon
their servants or some kind friend for
having their work cut out and placed
for them. When this is the case la-
dies ai'e apt to be too much under the
thumb of Uieir ladies' maids or nurses,
who are not slow to profit by their
own superior knowledge, and domi-
neer over their mistresses accord-
ingly.

Where there are a number of the
same articles of clothing to be made,
it is advisable to cut out one garment
first, being careful to take the pattern
in paper, and to complete it before
cutting out the rest of the materiaL
By this means an opinion can be
formed as to whether it fits properly
and any necessary alterations may be
made. The other articles may then
be cut out all together, care being
taken to pin the separate parts to-
gether, to avoid their being mislaid
or any mistakes made. It is no doubt
essential that sewing should be neatly
done, but I think this need not be
achieved at the entire expense of all
rapidity of execution. It really is
perfectly ludicrous to see some women
at their work. They look at each
stitch when completed, and give it a
little approving pat with the top of
the thimble ; and at this rate, though
the neatness of the work may be un-
deniable, still so little is accomplished,
that it is hardly worth the trouble of
doing it at alL Method in plain-work
is also highly necessary, and much
time and labor may be spared by
keeping all the materials in the prop-
er places. If every article when done

with is put away carefully, it is sure
to be forthcoming when again requir-
ed. Thus, there is no time wasted
in searching for a missing reel of cot-
ton, or hunting up a pair of scissors.
The cleanliness of the work is also
thereby kept unimpaired.

The greatest care should be taken
with the pieces of broken needles,
which are too apt lo be lefl carelessly
about the fioor, and which are most
dangerous, especially when there are
any young children in the house. I
must confess, and I do it with shame,
that there was a time when I was not
as careful as I am now. I never
shall forget my husband's indignation
upon coming into my room one day,
where our second baby was crawling
about on the ground, at finding a piece
of a broken needle in her hand, quite
ready to put it in her mouth. I
think he was more angry with me
then than he had ever been before
during our married life. It was cer-
tainly a good lesson to me, for I have
been most careful ever since, and I'll
trouble liim or anybody else to find
a broken needle about my carpet ncic.
Waste should be carefully avoided,
both with regard to ends of cotton and
pieces of materiaL The scraps of the
latter which are too small to be of
any use, instead of being left littered
about the room, should be thrown into
a waste-basket, to be cleared by the
housemaid, and the larger pieces
should be tidily put away. The time
wil} probably come when they will be
required for some purpose or other ;
and if pinned up in a tight bundle
they will not occupy much space in
a drawer or basket kept for the pur-
pose.

I trust I have not ridden my hobby
to death, nor worn out the patience of
my readers, but it is a subject the im-
portance of which I strongly feel. It
must not, however, be supposed that
I advocate the cultivation of work to
the exclusion of more intellectual
pursuits, or that I wish to take the
bread from the mouth of my poorer
sister. I consider a thorough know-

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744

7^ Birthplace of Saini Patrick

ledge of the science of plain-work to
be essential to everj woman, be she
rich or poor, and that in it she will al-
ways find a sphere of usefulness. It
will, if cultivated, turn out for her

own benefit, and the comfort and hap-
piness of those around her, and surelj
it shall be said of her that ^ her chil-
dren arise up, and call her blessed;
her husband also, and he praiseth her."

THE BIRTHPLACE OF SAINT PATRICK.

BY J. CASHEL HOEY.

The question of the birthplace of St
Patrick — a question which has been
debated with considerable learning
and acrimony for several centuries —
has always seemed to me to have an
interest far beyond the rival claims of
clans and the jealous litigation of the
antiquary. It is interesting not mere-
ly because it is in reality a . curious
archseological problem, but also be-
cause it may in some measure afford
a clue to the character of one of the
greatest saints and greatest men of his
own age or of any other — ^a saint who
was the apostle of a nation which he
found all heathen and left all Chris-
tian; who succeeded in planting the
Catholic faith without a single act of
martyrdom, but planted it so firmly
that it has never failed for now 1,400
years, though tried in what various
processes of martyrdom GUxl and man
too well know ; a saint whose aposto-
lafe was the mainspring of an endless
succession of missionary enterprises,
prosecuted with the same untiring zeal
in the nineteenth century as in the
fifth, wherever the vanguard of
Christendom may happen to be found,
whether in Austria, in Gaul, in Switz-
erland, or in Iceland, as now at the
furthest confines of America and of
Australasia. Add to these ordinary
evidences of the supernatural efficacy
of St. Patrick's mission the testimony
which is derived from the peculiar
spiritual character of the people that
he converted. The Irish nation re-
tains the impress which it received

from the hands of St. Patrick in a
way that I believe no other Christian
nation has preserved the mould of its
apostle. If that nation has never even
dreamed of heresy or schism, it is be-
cause, in terms as positive as an ultra-
montane of our own days could de-
vise,* St. Patrick established the su-
preme authority of the Roman Pontiff
as a chief canon of the Irish Church.
Patience in poverty, an innate love
of purity, prodigal alms-giving, and
mutual charities, the practice of heavy
penances and of Ipng fasts, a peculiar-
ly vivid sense of purgatory, and a
strong devotion to the doctrine of the
Trinity, which the saint taught in the
figure of the shamrock — these have
always been the distinguishing charac-
teristics of Irish piety. They were
the peculiar characteristics of the
Christian of the fourth century, who
had not yet learned to live at peace
with the world — who felt that as yet
Christians were in the strictest sense
one family community — who practised
mortification, as if the untamed pagan

** "Qniecanqne caufa ralde diffldllB exorta
ftierit atqne IgnoU cao^tis Scotornm gentis ja-
dicilB, ad cathedram archlepiMopi Hibornensiam,
alQue hujos antlBtitia examinattonem recta
referenda. Si vero in ilia, cnm snia aapientibna,
facile eanari non poterit talia canaa pnedicte
neffotiationie, ad Sedem ApoatoUcam decreviinna
euee mlttendam; id eet, ad Petri ApoatoH cathe-
dram, anctorltatem Romn nrbla habentem." TWa
canon of St. Patrick ia contained in the "Book
of Armagh," the antiquity of which la inatanced
In the text of the present paper. The canon it of
a date early in the iinh century ; and It would be
difficult to ahow ao early, ao emphatic and ao
complete a recognition of ihe Papal authority In
the ecdealaatlaa l^alation of any other luttloiial
church.

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2%e Birthplace of Saint Pairick.

745

Uood were still burning in his veins,
and the great temptation to whose faith
was the heresy of Alios, and the ques-
tion of the relations of the three di-
vine persons. But St. Patrick was
not only a great saint — was not mere-
ly and simply the apostle of the Irish;
he was their teacher and their lawgiv-
er, their Cadmus and Lycurgus as
well. The school of letters which he
founded in Ireland so well preserved
the learning which had become all
but extinguished throughout western
Europe, that your own Al&ed, follow-
ing a host of your nobles and clerics,
went thither to be taught, and Uie
universities of Paris and Pavia owe
their earliest lights to Irish scholars.
The Brehon laws, which ape at last to
be published, by order of Parliament,
a complete code of the most minute
and comprehensive character, were,
according to the evidence of our an-
nalists, carefully revised and remod-
elled by St. Patrick, with the consent
of the different estates of the king-
dom of Ireland ; and there is good
reason to believe that this revision, of
which there is abundant intrinsic evi-
dence, had reference not merely to the
Christian doctrine and the canons of
the Church, but to the body of the
Roman civil law.

It would throw a certain light upon
the character of a saint whose works
were so various and so full of vitality,
if we could arrive at any solid conclu-
sion as to the place of his nativity, the
quality of his parentage, and the
sources of his education. The theory
most generally accepted, and which
certainly has the greatest weight of
authority in its favor, is that which as-
sumes that St. Patrick was born in
Scotland, at Dumbarton, on the Clyde
— the son, as we may suppose, of a
French or British official employed in
the Roman service at that extreme
outpost of their settlements in this isl-
and, where he would have spent his
youth surrounded by a perpetual
clangor of barbarous battle, amid clans
o£ Ficts and Celts syparming across
the barriers of the Lowland. The

opinion that St. Patrick was a Scotch-
man has the unanimous assent of all
the antiquaries of Scotland ; but I am
not aware that any of them has suc-
ceeded in identifying any single locali-
ty named in the original documents
with any place of sufficient antiquity
in or near Dumbarton ; nor could I,
in the course of a careful examination
of the district and the recognized au-
thorities concerning its topography,
arrive at any acceptable evidence on the
subject. I have to add to the Scotch
authorities and pleadings, however,
all the best of the Irish. That St.
Patrick was born in Scotland is the
opinion of Colgan,* a writer whose
services to the history of the Irish
Church cannot be excelled and have
not been equalled. The opinion of
Colgan has overborne almost every
other authority which intervened be-
tween his time and the present The
Bollandistsf accepted it without hesi-
tation ; and I hasten to add to their
great sanction that of the two most
learned antiquaries of the latter days
of Ireland, Dr. John O'Denovan and
Professor Eugene O'Curry. They, I
am aware, were also of Colgan's opin-
ion ; and so, I believe, are Dr. Reeves
and Dr. Todd, whose views on most
points of ecclesiastical antiquities con-
nected with Ireland are entitled to be
named with ^xerj respect

Still it is to be said, on the other
hand, that the opinion that St Patrick
was bom in France has always had a
traditional establishment in Ireland.
It is asserted in one of the oldest of his
lives, that of St Eleran, and indicated
in another, that of Probus. Don
Philip 0*Sullivan Bearret is not the
first nor the last of the more modem
biographers of the saint who has held
that he was of French birth, though
of British blood. But before the time
of Dr. Lanigan, the most acute, the

• CoIganii9, R. P. P. Joannes, " Triadit TTiaU'
matwgoi, teu Divorum Patricii, ColwnbcB^ et BrUh
idiatrium HiUrnUB Patronorum^Acta.''* LoTanii,
1647.

t 'Mc^ai8;zn<;torvm Jfar^'' a Joanne Bollando,
torn. it. Antverplte, 1668.

X D. Philippl o'^SuilevanlBearrilbernl, ^'PatH-
UanaDecat/' Madrid, 1629.

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746

2^ Birthplace of Saint Patrick

most conscientious, and perhaps the
most generally learned of Irish histo-
rians, there appears to have been no
reallj candid and scientific examina-
tion of the original documents and
evidences. Irish scholars were too
angrily engaged in the controversy of
Scotia Major and Scotia Minor to be
seriously regarded when they pro-
posed to remove St. Patrick's birth-
place from the neighborhood of
Glasgoyv to the neighborhood of
Nantes. Until Dr. Lanigan publish-
cd his Ecclesiastical Histor}',* no one
seems to have even attempted to iden-
tify the localities named in the various
original documents which concern the
saint. Dr. Lanigan came to the con-
clusion that he was bom not at Dum-
barton but in France, at or in the
neighborhood of Boulogne-sur-Mer.
I am able, I hope, to perfect the proof
which Dr. Lanigan commenced, and
which, if he had been enabled to fol-
low it up by local research and by the
light lately cast on the geography of
Roman Gaul, would, I am sure, have
come far more complete from his
hands.

I hold, then, with Doctor Lanigan,
and with a tradition which has long
, existed in Ireland, and also in France,
that St. Patrick was born on the coast
of Armoric Gaul ; and that Roman in
one sense by descent — by his educa-
tion in a province where Roman civ-
ilization had long prevailed, where
the Latin language was spoken, and
the privileges of the empire fully
possessed — Roman too by the posses-
sion of nobOity, which he himself de-
clares, and of which his name was a
curious commemorationf — Roman, in
fine, in the connection of his family

* Lanigan, John, D.D. " An EcclcsiaBtical
History of Ireland/^ Dublin, 1820.

t Gibbon eava (''Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire,'*^ v. vi.X"At this period the mean-
est BubJcctB of the Roman empire asaumed the
iiluatriona name of Patriclaa, which by the con-
version of Ireland has been communicated to a
whole nation/* It is soppoBed that the name
was conferred on St. Patrick in consideration of
hiB parting with his nobility for a motive of
'""""ity, as ne mentions in his Epistle to Coroti-
cua. Bnt he was certainly not (he first of the

charity, as ne mentions in his Epistle to Coroti-
cua. Bnt he was certainly not (he first of the
name. Patriclns wab also the name of St. Aogns-
Une'B Catber, bom tallj a century before.

which he testifies with the Roman
government and with the Church, SU
Patrick was a Celt of Gaul by blood.
The fact that the district between Bou-
logne and Amiens was at that time in-
habited by a clan called Britanni has
misled both those who supposed he
must have been born in the island of
Britain and those who held that, if
bom in France, he must have been
bom in that part of it which was sub-
sequently called Brittany.

The original documents which bear
on the point are only two in number
— the " Confession** of St Patrick him-
self, and the hymn in his honor com-
posed by his disciple St. Ficch. Of
the antiquity of these documents we
have evidence the most complete that
can be conceived. Not merely does
written history certify the record of
their age — they have borne much
more delicate tests. The hymn of
St. Fiech is written in a dialect of
Irish that is to the Irish of the Four
Mastei*s as the English of Chaucer is
to the English of Lord Macaulay.
The quotations of Scripture which are
given in the " Confession'* of St. Patrick
are taken from the version according
to the interpretation of the Septuagint,
and not according to the recent ver-
sion of St. Jerome, which had indeed
been just executed in St. Patrick's
time, but had not yet been publicly
received. At the same time, the
" Liber Armachanus," which contains
the original copy of the " Confession,"
contains also St. Jerome's translation
of the New .Testament — thus curious-
ly marking the fact that the date of
the one document by a little preceded
the date of the other. The manu-
script itself has been subjected to a
most curious and rigorous examina-
tion. The authentic signatiure of
Brian, Imperator Hiberaorum, com-
monly called Brian Boroimhe, on the
occasion of his visit to Armagh, car-
ries us back at a bound eight hundred
years in its history; but the scholar
who is expert in the hue of veUnm
and the style of the scribe, will tell us
that the ^ Book of Armagh" was evi-

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1%$ BirAplace of Saint Patritk.

14!t

dandy a book of venerable age even
then. The Rev. Charles Graves,* a
fellow of the University of Dublin,
and a scholar specially skilled in the
study of the Irish manuscripts and
hieroglyphs, published a paper some
years ago in the *' Proceedings of the
£oyal Irish Academy^ on the question
of the age of the " Book of Amagh."
That the version at present preserved
in the library of Trinity CJoUege is a
copy from a far older version he says
there can be no doubt The margin-
al notes of the scribe show that he
found it difficult in many places to
read the manuscript from which he
was transcribing^. But the same
notes, the character of his writing,
and a reference to the Irish primate
of the time under whose authority the
work was undertaken, leave no doubt
that the transcript was executed by a
scribe named Ferdomnach, during the
primacy of Archbishop Torbach, at a
date not later than the year of Our
Lord 807.

Of the "Confession," beside the'
original copy in the " Book of Armagh,"
there are several manuscript versions
of great age in England : two at
Salisbury ; two in the Cotton library ;
one, I believe, at Cambridge; another
very interesting and valuable copy,
that which was used by the Bollandists
in printing their edition of the " Con-
fession," existed until the time of the
revolution in the famous French mon-
astery of St. Vedastus. Fragments
of the precious manuscripts of that
learned congregation are scattered
among the libraries of Arras, of Saint
Omer, of Boulogne, and of Douai;
but among them I could not find aify
irace of ihe missing manuscript of St.
Patrick's " Confession ;" nor could the
present learned representatives of
Bollandus, who were good enough to
interest themselves in my inquiry,
give me any room to hope that it still
exists. It would have been of much
importance to have been able to com-

* Oravee, Her. C, ** On the Age of the Book of
Armagh : Proceedings of the Bojal Iriah Acadp
«iD^,*^T0l.iii^p.8l£

pare the style and the text of the
only existing French copy with the
original in Ireland— especially as that
French copy belonged to the very dis-
trict from which St. Patrick originally
came.

There are four localities designated
in these documents ; three of them in
the « Confession of St. Patrick," and
one in the hymn of St. Fiech. In
the " Confession," St. Patrick says of
himself, '^Patrem habui Calphurnium
Dlaconum (or Diacurionem) qui fuit .
e vico Bonaven-Tabemiee ; villam
Enon prope habuit, ubi ego in c^tptur-
am decidi." The hjmn of St, Fiech
adds that the saint was bom at a
place called Nem-tur.

The ancient « Lives of St Patrick"
cite these localities with little varia-
tion.

The first Life, given in Colgan's col-
lection, and ascribed to St. Patrick
junior, says, ^ Natus est igitur in iUo
oppido, Nempthur nomine. Patricius
natus est in campo Tabumae."

The second Life, which is ascribed
to St. Benignus, is word for word the
same with the first on this point.

The third, supposed to be by St.
Eleran, suggests that he was of Irish
descent through a colony allowed by
the Romans to settle in Armorica;
but that his parents were of Strato
Cludi (Strath Clyde) ; that he was
bom, however, "in oppido Nempthur,
quod oppidum in campo Tabumite
est." This life is of very ancient
date, and shows clearly enough how
old is the Irish tradition concerning
the saint's birth in France.

The fourth Life, by Probus, says :
^ Brito fuit natione . . . de vico
Bannave Tibumise rc^onis, baud pro-
cul a mare occidentali — quem vicnm
indubitanter comperimus esse Ncus-
triffi provinciae, in qua olim ^gantes."
Here, again, we observe the same
confused tradition of the saint's
French origin; for Neustria was the
name in the Merovingian period of
the whole district comprised between
the Mouse and the Loire.
The fiitti and best known life, by

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748

The Birthphce of Saint PalrieL

Joceljn, has it : '^ Brito fait natione in
pago Tabumiaa— ^o quod Romanus
cxercitus tabemacula fi:iLerant ibidem,
secus oppidum Nempthor degens,
mare Hibemico collimitans habita-
tione."

The Bixth Life, by St. Erin, de-
clares that he was ^ de Brittanis Al-
cluidensibus, natas iu Nempthur."

The Breviaries repeat the same
names with as little attempt to fix the
actual localities.

The Breviary of Paris says : " In
Britlania n^tus, oppido Empthoria."
The Breviary of Armagh : ^ In illo
Brittaniae oppido nomine Emptor.^
The old Roman Brfeviary says simply :
" Grenere Brito." The Breviary of
Rheims: "In maritimo Brittanite
territorio.*' The Breviary of Rouen :
" In Brittania Gallicana." The Brev-
iary of the canons of St. John of
Lateran: *'Ex Brittania magna insu-
la.''

It will be observed that in the prin-
cipal of these authorities there is a
concurrence in accepting the locality
called so variously Nemthur and
Empthoria, as well as the second of
the localities, the Tabemiae, named by
St. Patrick himself; and also that
there is no appearance of certainty in
the minds of the writers as to the
exact sites of the places of which
they speak. None of them ventures
to name the exact district or diocese
where Empthoria or the Tabemiae are
to be found.

But certain scholia upon the " Hymn
of St. Fiech," which were for the first
time published by Colgan in the " Tri-
adis Thaumaturgae," boldly lay down
the proposition that "Nemthur est
d vitas in Brittania SeptentrionaH,
nempe Alcluida;" and the name is
also translated as meaning "Holy
Tower.** The same writer, however,
adds in another note that St, Patrick
was not carried into his Irish captivi-
ty from Dumbarton, but from Bou-
logne, where he and his family were
visiting some of their fnends at the
time when the Irish pirates swept
down upon the coast of GauL The

Irish annals say that about the peri»i
of Sl Patrick's captivity, Nial of the
Nine Hostages lost his life on the
Sea of Iccius between France and
England. These long piratical forays
were not uncommon at th6 time.* A
little later, the last of our pagan
kmgs, Dathy, was killed by lightning
near the Rhastian Alps.

Colgan with a curious creduli^ ac-
cepted this improbable solution of the
scholiast, of which it may in the first
place be said that it is incompatible
with the statement of St. Patrick
himself, who declares distinctly that
he was captured at a country house
belonging to his father, near the town
to which his family belonged.

Usher, however, who had equal op-
portunities of studying the original
documents, also adopted this explana-
tion. Several Irish writers, and es-
pecially Don Pliilip O'Sullivan,
vaguely conscious of the tradition of
St. Patrick's French origin, attempted
to reconcile the fact of his being a
Briton with the fact of his birth in
France by the supposition that he
was a Breton of Brittany. This
theory, however, falls summarily to
the ground when it is opposed to the
fact that the province now known by
the name of Brittany was not inhabit-
ed by any tribe which bore the name
in the time of St. Patrick, "The
year 458," says the Benedictine Lo-
bineauf in his learned history of Brit-
tany, " is about the epoch of the es-
tablishment of the Bretons in that
part of ancient Armorica which at
present bears the name of Bretagne."
There was, however, a clan called
Brittani, further toward the north of
France, a clan whose territory Pliny
and the Greek Dionysius Periegetes
had long before designated with accu-
racy : Pliny in these words, " Deinde
Menapii, Morini, Oromansaci juncti
pago, qui Gessoriacus vocatur ; Brit-

* TotQin cam Scotna leroen
MoTlt, et infesto Bpomavlt remige Tethys.

Claudus.

t Loblneao. D. Unl Alexis, '' JOittoin d4 £r§-
tagM:' Paris .IWI.

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Th$ SiHhplaee of SaitU Patrick

749

tani, Ambiani, Bellovaci.'** The
Brittani of the time of St Patrick
are to be found in the country that
lies between Boulogne and Ajniens.
It is there that Lanigan came upon
the first authentic traces of the origin
of our apostle.

He was guided to. his conclusion,
mainly, I think, by the " History of the
Morini," published in the year 1639,
by the Jesuit Malbrancq,t and which
seems strangely to have escaped the
notice of every earlier Irish writer.
In this work, there are two chapters
devoted to the tradition oi the con«
nection of SU Patrick with the see of
Boulogne. Malbrancq relates this
tradition^ which states that previous
to his departure for the Irish mission,
St. Patrick remained for some time
at Boulogne, occupied in preaching
against the Pelagian heresy, to con-
tend with which Saint Germanus and
Lupus had crossed over to Britain.
MfUbrancq refers, in proof of this
fact, to the " Chronicon Morinense," to
the Catalogue of the Bishops of

• Plinli BecQudU " Bistoria ikturalit ; cU
OaUiay^ 1. !▼. The editors of the Dauphin's edi-
tion have a note on the word BrlttauL, which is
-worth quotation. ** Ita llbri omnes. HI inter
Gessoriaccnses Ambianosqne medil. in ora simi-
liter positi, ea loca tennere certo, nbl nunc
oppida Htapnlee, Monetrolinin, Heedinlam, et
aqjacentem aeram, Pontlcam ad Somonam am-
nem. ClnTertos hie Briannos legl mavnlt." See
also the learned essay on the Britons of Armorlca
in the '•^'Ada Sanctorum^ Vitd S. Vnula ;'*
Octobris, vol. ix., p. 108. A glance at the map
will show the close relation of the district
marked by the present towns of Etaples, Mont-
renil, Heedin, and Ponthieu to the localities
named a little farther on. That the Britons of
Great Britain originally came from this district
Is declared in the Welsh Triads, thns : ^ The
three beneficent tribes of the Isle of BriUln.
The first was the nation of the CvmrnrY, who
came with Ha the mighty to the Isle of Britain,
who woQlU not poaaeee nor coaatry nor lands
throogh flghtlnff and persecution, but of eonlty
and in peace; (be second wa^ the stock of the
Lloegrlane. who came from the land of Gwasgwyn
(Gascotgne). and were descended firom the primi-
tive stock of the Cvmmry : the third were the
Brython, and from the land of Llydaw they came,
having their descent from the primary stock of
the Cymmrv." And again, Cynan is spoken of
as lord of Melrlon (prooably a Celtic form of the
word Morini) in Llydaw. Taliessin also men-
tions the Morini Btylhon in his Prif Oyfarck,
Lydaw, Latl nixed Letavia, is one of the early
Celtic names of the country of the Morini, aa
Neustria, in the Life by Probus, was that given
In the MorovlDgian period to the whole prov-
ince between the Meuse and Loire, including
Boulogne of coarse. Pliny mentions Boulogne
itaelf as the Porty» Morinonim BrUtanicut.

t Malbrancq, Jacobus, **/)« Morini^ €t MorinO'
rvmrttmi*** ToniaciNervlonim,168B— lfi64.

Boulogne, and to the ^Life of St.
Amulphus of Soissons." This tradi-
tion is to a certain extent a clue in
tracing the early and intimate con*
nection of St« Patrick with this coun*
try — ^but as yet it is nothing more.

The critical question is, whether
the four names given by St. Patrick
himself, and by St. Fiech, can bo
identified with any localities now
known either in the district of Bou*
logne or any other district in which
toward the close of the fourth century
it is possible to find the conditions of
Roman government and British blood
combined? Before Lanigan there
was, it seems to mc, no serious at-
tempt made to solve this question.
The scholiast whose authoritv was so
unhesitatingly adopted by Golgan and
Usher simply says, ^'Nempthur est
civitas in Brittania Septentrionali,
nempe Alcluid.*' There is not a
word more. He does not attempt to
show how Nempthur and Alcluid are
to be considered as convertible terms.
Nor does he attempt to interpret the
mames of the three localities stated
by St Patrick himself. The same
may be said, in the most sweeping
way, of the biographies and the
breviaries.

I will now read the reasons which
Lanigan gives for identifying Bona-
ven with Boulogne, and Tabemias
with a city very famous in the wars
of the middle ages, long before Arras
had been fortified by Vauban or de«
fended by General Owen Roe (yNeilL
It will be observed that Lanigan does
not attempt to identify the two other
localities Enon and Nempthur. The
former he regarded as too insignifi-
cant, the latter he did not believe had
any existence. I will not say that
his proof with regard to the identity
of Boulogne with Bonaven is conclu-
sive ; but if the whole of his proof
rested on as strong presumptive
grounds, little would remain to be said
on the subject. The second part of it
is, however, in*my humble opinion^
whoUy erroneous. He says :

MColgan acknowledges that there

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750

I%e BirO^hce of Saint Patrick

is an ancient tradition among the in-
liabitants of Annoric Britain that St.
Patrick was bom in their country, and
that some Irishmen were of the same
opinion. He quotes some passages
from Probus and others whence thej
argued in proof of their position, but
omits, through want of attention to
that most valuable document, the fol-
lowing passage of ^St. Patrick's
Confession f ' My father was Calpur-
nius, a deacon, son of Potitus, a
priest of the town Bonavem Tabemiss.
He had near the town a small villa,
Enon, where I became a captive.'
Here we have neither a town Nem-
thor nor Alclnit. Nor will any Brit-
ish antiquary be able to find out a
place in Great Britain to which the
names Bonavem Tabernise can be ap-
plied. Usher, although he had quot-
ed these words, has not attempted to
give any explanation of them, or to
reconcile them with Nemthur.

^ The word Tabemias has puzzled
not only Colgan, but some of the au-
thors of the Lives which he chose to
follow ; for while they lefl out Bona^
vem as not agreeing with Nemthur,
they retained Tabemias, or, as they
were pleased to write it, Tahurnia,
which they endeavored to account for
by making it a district that got its
name from having been the site of a
Roman camp in which there were
tents or tabernacles. Colgan, who
swallowed all this stuff, quotes Jocelin
as his authority for Tabumia being
situated near the Clyde, at the South
Bank. Great authority, indeed I It
is, however, odd that such a place
should be unnoticed by all those who
have undertaken to elucidate the an*
cient topography of Great Britain.
The places of Roman camps in that
country were usually designated by
the adjunct eastrctj whence Chester^ or
eettety in which the names of so many
cities and towns in England termi-
nate.

^ Bonavem, or Bonaven, was in Ar-
moric Graul, bemg the same town as
Boulogne-Bur-Mer in Picardy. That
town was well known to the 1^"iMia

under the name of Gressoriacum ; but
about the reign of Constantine the
Great the Celtic name Bonaven or
Bonaun, alias Bonon, which was Lat-
inized into Bononia, became more
general. According to Bullet, who
informs us that Am, Aven, On, signiiy
river in the Celtic language, the town
was so called from its being at the
mouth of a river ; Ban^ mouth, on or
avon, river. Baxter also observes
that Bononia is no other than Bona-
von or Bonavn, for ax>enj avemj ovon^
aun, are pronounced in the same man-
ner. The addition of TahemuB maiks
its having been in the district of Tar-
vanna or Tarvenna, alias Tarabanna,
a celebrated city not far from Bou-
logne, the ruins of which still rem^n
under the modern name of Terouanne.
The name of this city was. extended
to a considerable district around it,
thence called paguB Tcarhcmnensis^ or
Tarvanensis regio. Gregory of Tours
calls the inhabitauts Tarabannenses.
It is oAen mentioned under the name
of Oivitas Marinarumy having been
the prindf^al city of the Morini, in
which Boulogne was also situated.
Boulogne was so connected with Tar-
vanna that both places anciently
formed but one episcopal see. Thus
Jonas, in his ' Life of the Abbot Eus-
tatius,' written near twelve hundred
years ago, calls Audomarus Bishop of
Boulogne and Tarvanna. It is prob-
able that St. Patrick's reason for des-
ignating Bonaven by the adjunct Ta-
hernia was lest it might be confound-
ed with the Bononia of Italy, now Bo-
logna, or with a Bononia in Aquitain,
in the same manner that, to avoid a
similar confusion, the French call it
at present Boulogne-sur-Mer. Per-
haps it wiU be objected that Tabemia
is a different name from Tarvenna.
In the first place, it may be observed
that, owing to the usual oonunutation
of h for V, and vice versd^ we might
read Tavemich Thus we have aeenk
that Tarvenna was called by some
Tarabanna* To account for the far-
iher difference of the names, nothing
moj^ is required than to admit the

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I%s Birthplace of Saint PaUici.

751

transposition of a sjllable or a letter,
which has frequently occurred in old
words, and particularly names of
places. Nogesia, the name of a town,
becomes Gcnosia. Dunbrittonhas been
modified into Dunbertane, Dunbarton,
Dumbarton. Probus agrees with the
• Confession,' except that, according to
Colgan's edition, for Bonavem Taber-
nia3 he has 'Bannave Tybumiie re-
gionis,' and adds that it was not far
from the Western sea or Atlantic
ocean. Although we may easily
suppose that some errors of transcrip-
tion have crept into the text of Pro-
bus, yet as to Banna ve there is no ma-
terial difference between it and Bon-
avem. Ban might be used for Bm;
and the final m, which was a sort of
nasal termination, as it is still with
the Portuguese, could be omitted so
as to write for Bonavem, or Bonaum
{v and u being the same letter), Bon-
aue. Probus' addition of regionis is
worth noticing, as it corresponds with
what has been said ponceming the
Tarvanensis regio."

I think the proof in this passage
with regard to the word Bonaven is
very strong. The passage which
Lanigan cites from Bexter distinctly
says, " Gallorum Bononia eodem pene
CFt etymo ; quasi dicds Bon-avon sive
Bonaun." The derivation of the word
is clear enough. Avon even in Eng-
land retains its Celtic signification of
a river. But the passage identifying
the Tabemia of Boulogne with Ther-
ouanne is in my opinion altogether
incorrect. Where he accounts for the
change in the structure of the word
by the usual transmutation of b and v,
he overlooks the letter r — ^a letter
which does not melt into the music of
patois by any means so easily.
Again, he hardly lays sufficient stress
on (he fact that the word Tabemia is
invariably understood in all the
scholia, and in all the lives, to mean
the Campus tabemaculorum — the bar*
racks and district occupied by a Ro-
man army. In fine, he conAises
Therouanne, which is at a distance of
thirfy miles firom Boulogney and cer-

tainly did not stand in the relation he
supposes to it, with another city some
twenty miles still further away. But
Malbrancq, who was his chief authority,
does not omit to mention that Ter-
vanna and Taruamia are two abso-
lutely distinct places : Tervanna was
the old Roman name of the town now
known as Saint Pol* — ^Taruannathat
of Therouenne.

It is very possible— I may add to
the proof concerning the word Bona-
ven — that it may have been written
originally Bononen, for Bononenses
Tabemise. Any one familiar with
the form of the letters of the early
Irish alphabet, indeed of almost* all
early manuscript, will readily compre-
hend how easily an o might be writ*
ten for an a, an n for a v, and vice
versd, by a scribe ignorant of the ex-
act locality, and copying from a half-
defaced document Any one who
looks at the form of the letters in the
alphabet of the '•Book of Kells," given in
Dr. O'Donovan's Grammar, will con-
ceive at a glance how this might havo
happened.

Assuming, however, that Lanigan
is correct in his conjecture as to Bou-
logne, I have endeavored to discover
whether the other localities named in
the " Confession" and " Ilymn" can be
identified with localities now existing
within the proper circumscription of
the Roman military occupation around
that city, and of a certain and unques-
tionable antiquity. I need not inform
the academy of the great military im-
portance of Boulogne at the time of
which we treat It was the point
from which Englimd had been invad-
ed* It was the principal military set-
tlement of the Romans in Northern
Gaul. Julian the Apostate had held
his headquarters there shortly before
St Patrick's birth. The country all
around is marked by roads and
mounds, which exhibit the rigid lines
and stem solidity of Roman construc-
tion. I learn from a recent essay by

* " Oomiium TertfonenHum AnnaUi HittoHei^'^
CollMtoreTtauTarpinFanUiuitl. Ord. FSredlcat
I'm.

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753

I%e MrU^^aee of SaifU FtUneL

M« Quenson, an accomplished scholar
of Saint Omer, that eighty-eight differ^
ent works have been written to settle
the site of the Portus Itius, whence
Caesar embarked to invade Britain,
and nineteen different localities as-
signed* Since M. Quenson wrote, M.
de Saulcj has again opened, and this
time I think finally determined, that
controversy. Perhaps I am so far
fortunate that the absorbing zeal with
which this di£Scult problem has been
pursued, in a country of such zealous
scholars, still leaves to a stranger
somewhat to glean, in places far in-
land from the famous port which they
have so long labored to identify.

The localities to which St. Patrick
refers have, I find, all been preserved
with the least alteration of their ety-
mology that it is possible to conceive
in the space of so many centuries ;
and this, I may add, is peculiarly
wonderful in a country where so
many Roman names have, by the
friction of the much mixed dialects of
northern France, been. almost frayed
out of recognition. Who would sup-
pose, for example, taking sopie of the
familiar names of the department, that
Fampoux was the Fanum PoUucis,
Dainville Dianee villa, Lens Elena,
Etaples Stapula, Hermaville Jlermetis
villa, Hesdin Ilelenum, Souchez Set-
hucetum, Surques SurccR, Ervillers
IleriviUa, Tingry Tingriacum ?• And
yet regarding these names there is no
doubt that the modem French is a
corruption of the old Latin form. Of
the localities, which I proceed to des-
ignate, I submit that each has kept its
original name with far less violation
of the ancient word. The Enon, the
NenUhur, the Tahemitd of St. Patrick
are, to my mind, manifest in compari-
son with the majority of a hundred
other localities in the Boulonnais
which undoubtedly derive their titles
from a Roman source.

In the first place, let us take the

• The iinme of the neighboring Tlllago of Ar-
ares hss run throneh the Toilowlng traceable va-
rtations ainca the KomaD period : florda, Ardra,
Afda, Ardrea, Ardee. Ardres.

word £non. The river Liane, which
runs into the sea at Boulogne, was
known to the Romans as the Fluvius
Enna. It is so marked on the most
ancient maps of northern Gaul. It is
so written in Latin by Malbrancq.
Near Desvres— once called Desuren-
nes, or Desvres-sur-Ennes — there is
marked a little village of the same
name, called also Enna. I will not be
said to strain langu^e, which has sur-
vived so many centuries, very severe-
ly when I venture to identify St Fat-
rick's Enon with this undoubtedly
Roman Enon.

Lanigan totally disbelieved in the
existence of the town called Nemp-
thbr. I could not do so ; nor under-
rate the importance of identifying it, if
possible, in such an inquiry as this.
But the difficulty of discovering this
place was hitherto greatly increased
by a mistranslation of its meaning, for
which I believe Colgan is responsible.
The word was always supposed to
mean ** Holy Tower" — Neim^ holy,
and Tur, tower — ^until Professor Eu-
gene O'Curry, when compiling, some
years ago, his valuable catalogue of
the Irish MSS. of the British Museum,
af^er a minute exammation of the
manuscript, which is the oldest copy of
the ^' Hymn'' in existence, came to the
conclusion that the word should really
be written " Emtur," as it is indeed,
though by accident I take it, in some
of the breviaries. " The place of St.
Patrick's birth," he says, " is general-
ly written Nemtnr ; but there is clear
evidence that the N is but a prefix
introduced to fill the hiatus in the
text, and that Emtur is the pn^r
form of the word.** The word, then,
means not holy tower, but the tower
of some place vOr person indicated by
the word Em. Some eight miles dis-
tant from Desvres, toward the* north,
still within the military circumscnp-
tion of which it is the centre, there is
such a place. The river Em, or Hem,
fiows past a village of so great an an-
tiquity, that even in the ordinary gecH
graphical dictionaries the record is
preserved that Julius Cassar slept

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The Birfkfiaee of Saint Patrick

758

there on his waj to embark for the
invasion of Britain.* The town con-
tains a Boman arch and the rains of
a Roman tower, from which the vil-
lage derives its name. The name is
Toumehem, or, as it was written in
Maibrancq's time, Tur-n-hem. The
tower and the river show the deriva-
tion of the word at a glance. The
exigencies of Irish verse simply
caused their transposition. I have
onlj to add to Mr. 0*Curry's ingeni-
ous note on the subject the remark
that the n was not, as he supposes,
merely inserted to fill up a hiatus in
the line, but was obviously a part of
it. It is a copulative as common in
Celtic words as (fe in modem French,
and has precisely the same meaning.
Ballynamuck, for example, means the
town of, or on, the river Muck. Tul-
loch na Daly (whose swelling dimen-
sions the French afterward curbed in-
to the famous name of Tollendall) is a
more apposite instance.

♦ "Ce lieu exlBtalt lorsqne les Wglons ro-
maineo pcnetrdrent dans la Morinle, Tan de
Rome 917, oa 57 ans avant Tdre valgaire, et con-
aiAUlt alora en nn cbftteaa fort garni de toare,
d'^oh eat vena, aelon Halbrancq, la denomination
de Toumekem^ do Latin d Twriitnu. C^ear B'em<
para de ce ch&teaa et y fit qaeloue e^onr poar
ravantase de ea cavalerle. JBnviron denx aid-
clea et deml aprda, c'est i dire en S18« Septime-
Severe, antre emperenr romain, flt camper dans
le Toisinago de Toamehem (sar la montagne de
teint Loora) une partie de aon arm6e deatinee
poor nne expedition contre le Grand Bretagne,
qaMl effectaa glorlenacment la m6me ann^e."—
F. Collet, ^'Notice Hist&riqye de Saint Omer. tuivt
de eeUes de Therouanne el de Tcmrneluin^*' Saint
Omer, 1890. Botli M. Collet and Pdre Mtilbrancq,
however, overlook the obvious derivation of the
word— thongh both note the name of the river
which flows tbrongh the town, and which M.
Collet calls **la riviere de Hem on de ScUnt
Louie:'' Again, M. H. Piers, in the ''Memoireede
la SodiU dee ArUiguairee de la Morinie'' (Saint
Omer. 1884) says, '* Cesar apr^s s'fitre empar^
dos forteresses de la contree s'y rendit de Tber
ouanne, Sithien et Tonrnehem, Tan 65 on 6S
arantrdre volgaire, ponr subjugaer la Qrande

Bretagne." In the same volume there is an in-
terestingpaper by M. Pigault de Beanpr^ on the
castle ofTonmehem, which, he aays, was par-

tially rebuilt by Baldwin II., Coant of Gaines,
in 1174, and continued to be a principal resi-
dence of the Dukes of Bnrgnndy at so late a date
aa 1485. But the vastness and solidity of the
works which he describes, some of them subter-
ranean roads evidently used for coramnnication
with other fortified works, clearly indicate their
Boman character. Baldwin, Indeed, a prince
Car in advance of his age, seems to have attempt-
ed to revive Roman ideas, and rebuild Roman
works wherever he found them vrithln his do-
minions. The castle of HAmes, near Calais,
which he likewise rebuilt, and which he ceded to
the English as part of the ransom of King John
of France, was also, as M. Pigault de Beaupr6
aliowa, of Roman constmctlon.

YOU n. 48

I have yet to identify the Tabemia.
To the eje, and on the old maps,
thej ahnost identify themselves.
Desvres has all the characters of a
great Boman military position— -a
vast place of arms, the tracings of for-
tified walls, the fosse, lines of circum-
vallation, and hard by on die forest
edge the Sept Votes or Septemt^umf
the meeting of the seven great milita-
ly roads leading from and to the other
principal strongholds of the imperial
power in northern and western Eu-
rope. Any one who examines in par^
ticular the " Carte des Voies Ro-
maines du D6partement du Pas de
Calais," published by the Commission
of Departmental Antiquities,* cannot
fail to perceive that this now obscure
village, which certainly never was
raised to the rank of a Roman city,
was nevertheless once a great nucleus
of Boman power. The fragment of
an ancient bridge is still known as the
Pont de CcBsar. The Septemvium^
with its remarkable concentration of
roads, is alone sufficient to indicate
the importance of the place. There is
one road leading straight to Amiens ;
one that reaches the sea by the
mouth of the Canche ; another that
runs to the harbor of Boulogne ; an-
other that joins the roads from Saint
Omer and from Toumehem, and caF-
ries them on to Wissante and San-
gate, the supposed Portus Itius and
Portus Inferior ; the fifth road was to
Tervanna and Arras; the sixth to
Taruanna; the seventh to Saint
Omer. Would so many roads, com-
municating with places of such mili-
tary importance, have been concen-
trated by a race of such a centralizing
talent as the Romans anywhere ex-
cept at the eite of a great city or a
great camp? On the ancient maps,
indeed, the country which lies between
Desvres and Boulogne, along the
Liane, is simply marked Oastrum,

I now approach, not unconscious
of its difficulties, the etymology of the

« ^*8tatUtiaue MtmumerUaU du 2>SpartemerU du
Pae de Oalaie. PuUUe par la Oommieeion dee
ArUiguitSe JOepartemetUaUe,*^ Arras : chea Top-
Ino, Libraire, 184a

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754

The Bifi^lace of Snnt PatricL

word. In the lax Latin of the middle
ages, we find DesvreB spoken of as
JDivemia Bononiemis, There ia the
epitaph of a churchman, horn in the
place, which says on his behalf:

" Me Mollne( peperit Blyeriiia BononienBls."

The local historian, Baron d'Ordre,
speaks of the place as "D6sur^ne,
iHvemia, aajourd'hui Desvres."* The
name Desvres itself evidently has un-
dergone strange, yet traceable, varia-
tions and modifications.f Its first ap-
pearance as a French word is " Des-
urennes," and this is derived from
Desvres sur Enna, or Desvres upon
the Enna or Liane, which, as I have
said, flows past the place, giving its
name to a little village near the forest
By this derivation, however, only the
first two letters of the original word
Desvres are left. How do they dis-
appear, why do they reappear in the
modern form of the word, and what is
its original derivation ?

It is a very curious fact, that in
England the Eoman camps seem to
have been always known as ** Castra,"
while in Gaul the Tabemae is the
name which generally adhered to
them. Lanigan says, and correctly,
so far as I have been able to discov-
er, that there is no trace of a Roman
station called Taberrue in England,
while the affix chesier is the most
common in its topography. In Eng-
land, it may be said the Romans en-
camped; in France, the Tabem<B
meant a more settled and familiar
residence, as familiar as the Caserne
of the empire. It would be interest-
ing to inquire whether as many cities
in France do not derive their origin
from these military stations as Eng-
land has of Chesters. But the stu-

* " Notice Tiittorigve sur ia tUU dt Dintrhtey
JHvemia^ aid[our(PlMi l>6svret." Par M. d'Ordre.
Boulogne, 1811.

t '' n n'y paB 60 ftot que le nom de Desvres a
prevalu sur celul de DeBarcnneqne cetteTlUe
STait tonjonrs port^ anparavant/*— M. L. Coaelnf
^'Memoirea de la Boditedet AntiqwUree de la Mor^
irUe^^' vol. iv., p. 289. M. Coueln^B papers on Mod-
tbalin and Tiagry, In the TransactioDs of this so-
ciety, are in general accord with what I have
said of the ancient military Importance of the
whole district of Desvres.

dent who attempts this task will be
sure to find the Latin word ahnost de-
faced beyond power of recognition by
the etymological maltreatment which
it has sustained in that conflict of
consonants which has resulted in the
present high polish of Academic
French. I may mention one or two
instances to show how little violence
I do to French philology in identify-
ing the IHvemia Bononiensis of the
middle ages with the Tabemad of
Boulogne. Saveme in Lorraine is
well known to be the TabenuB Tribo-
rooorum. It was known in a semi-
Germanic form as Msai Tahem.
Gradually the sibilant m of the first
word invaded the second ; and it has
long settled down into one w(Mti in
the form of Saveme. The Ihlenus
Bhenana, on the other hand, retained
the hard b instead of converting it into
V, as inevitably happened in the south,
and instead changed the T into ^
Rhem-Zabren. In ages which had no
hesitation in changing the pure dental
T into the sibilant dentals S or Z, it
will not be considered surprising that
it was sometimes changed into D —
the only other pure dental sound. In-
deed, of all the transmutations of let-
ters, those of d and ^ and those of v
and 5, are notoriously the most com-
mon. - « The Irish <£," says O'Dono-
van, << never has such a hard sound as
the English d" Again, ^ In ancient
writings, t is frequently substituted
for rf." Again, " It should be remark-
ed that in ancient Irish MSS. conso-
nants of the same organ are very fire-
quendy substituted for each o&cr,
and that where the ancients usnally
wrote i>, €f f, the modems write 6, q^
dr* Decline the Irish word TAd,
father. It becomes M d&dy his £i-
iher; Ei th&d^ her father; bynhM^
my father. We carry the tendency
into English. The mistake ia one
from which oertfun parts of Ireland as
well as certain parts of France
are not exempt even to the present
day ; and in Munster one may still

* O'Dohovrh, John, LL.D., ** A Otminmu of

fhe Irish Langoage.'' DabUn, 181S.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

He BirOplaee of SahU Pahrici.

hemv as in the iimes when the ballad
of ^ LiUibnUero" was written, the let-
ter d occasionallj used where the
tongue intended t orA, Nor is this
Yagary of speech confined to the Irish*
Why do the Welsh say Tafyd for
David ? It is the most frequently re-
Gurring of that systematic permutation
of oonsGDants which is one of the
chief difficulties of the Gymhric tongue.
The Welsh d and t turn about and
wheel about in their mysterious al-
phabet without the slightest scruple.
In Germany the conyertibility of the
same lettess is also very marked.
The German says da$ for that, Dcmk
for thanks, Durst for thirst ; and again
Teufd for devil, Tanz for dance,
TheU for dial. As to the same abuse
in France, the dictionary of the
Academy and that of Bescherelle*
lay down the principle very plainly:
<^ Le < est une lettre k la fois linguale
et dentale, oomme le d son correlatif,
plus faible, plus doux, avec lequelil
est fr6quemment confondu, nonseule-
ment dans les langues germaniques,
mais dans la plupart des langues.
£n latin, cette lettre so permute fr^
quemment avec le d: aUuLU pour ad-
iuUL On dcrivit primitivement set,
aput, quot, haut, au lieu de sed, apud,
quod, hand.''

So far as to the permutation of T
and D. I will not waste the time of
the reader in order to show that the
conversion of v into h is even more
common. We find a familiar illustra-
tion of it in the old Latin name of
Ireland, which, as every one knows, is
variously written Ibemia, Ivemla,
Hibemia, Juvemia, and lemia. But
the English word tavern, which is ex-
actly derived from the Latin Ta-
bemise, is a still more apposite illustra-
ti(m in the present case. In this
word, finally, the intermediate vowel
swayed in sound with the consonants
which inclosed it As the primary
Liatin T changed into the softer and
fidebler D, and the h into v, the inter-

• ** IHetUmnair$ de TAead^U FraneaUey
Botr hmrftllo, '' IHaUmnaire Jfational.'' ^^is,
tBBT.

meduite a lost its full force. The
medissval Latin melts into % in Di-
vemia. The modem French form,
Desvres, brings it half-way back to-
ward its place at the head of the al-
phabet. It does not run the whole
gamut of the vowels, as from Ibemia
to Juvemia.

This Divemia JBonaniensiSy then, I
claim to identify with the TabemiiB
Bananienses, Toumehem with Nem-
tur or Emtor, £nna with Enon. If it
were necessary even to push the
proof a step further, there is the dis-
trict called Le Wlcquetj which M.
Jean Scoti, who was UeUtenarU par-
ticuUer di la SennechavMie ds jBour
hgnej tells us is undoubtedly derived
from the Latin Yicus, and which
might naturally be the vico Bonavm
TaherrUce of which the *' Confession"
speaks ; but the historian of Desvres,
Baron d*Ordre, whom I have already
cited, disputes this derivation, and
says the word is Celtic, and comes
fom Wic^ Celtic for wood, like our
word wicket Both may be right, for
Yicus may be a Latin form of the
same word.* But the point is not
materiaL

Let me now add to the etymolog-
ical evidence a few historical illustra-
tions.

St. Patrick is stated in ahnost all
his biographies to have been a nephew
of St Martin of Tours. St Martin,
though said to be a Celt of Pannonia,
was during his military and early
ecclesiastical career stationed in this
identical district The well known
legend of his division of his cloak
with the beggar, who proved to be our
Lord himself, is alleged to have taken
place at Amiens. It is recorded that
he was baptized at Therouanne. The
first church raised to his honor was
built there. The principal missionap
ries of the district are said to have
been lus disciples, and evidently en-
tertained a deep devotion to him, of

* Among the names ofTtllneoB In this district
of whoso olBtory I coald flna no trace, is one
called Srin, the placo where Blessed Benedict
Joseph Lahre was Dom.

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756

The Birihplaee of Scdni Patrick.

which there are Btill abondant evi*
dences.*

St. Patrick, while in captivity at
Slemish in Ireland, lived within sight
of Scotland. A few miles only sep-
arate the coasts at Antrim. But when
he escaped, he did not attempt to pass
into Scotland. He made his way
south, and passed through England to
France. He says he was received
among the Britons as if (quasi)
among his own clan and kin. Doubt-
less there was close relationship of
race and language between the Brit-
ons of the island and of the continent
There were Britons and there were
Atrebates on both sides of the sea.t
But Britain was not the saint's native
place nor his resting-place. He went
on, and abode with those whom he
calls his brethren of Gaul, '^seeing
again the familiar faces of the saints
of the Lord," until he was summoned
to undertake his mission to Ireland.

In his own account of the vision
which induced him to undertake the
apostolate of Ireland, he says he was
called to do so by a man, whose name
is variously written Victor, Victori-
cius, and Victricius. The real name
18 in all probability Victricius ; but
if it were Victor or Victoricius, it
would be equally easy (were it not for
the fear of failing by essaying to
prove too much) to identify the source
of the saint's inspiration with the
same district. Saint Victricius was
the great missionary of the Morini at

* or the 420 churches comprised In the andent
diocese of Boalogne, 83 had Ut. Martin for pa-
tron. I also flna several dedicated to the Irish
8t. Macloa and St. KlUan : bat> strantre to say,
not one to 8t. Victricius.->V. '' BUMrt det
Sviguet d6 Boulogne,''' par M. TAbbe K. Van
Drlval. Bonlogne, 1862.

t M. Piers, In the paper already cited, quotes
H. Amc'dee Thierry a« eayinj;; "^^ 1^/^% BrittatU
ftirent les premiers ani s'y flxdront ; lis habital-
ent one partio de la M orlnie : peut-6tre par an
pienx Bouvcnir ont-ils appelo fear nouvelle pa-
tria la Grande Bretagne. ij^h Atr^Mtea anglais,
originaires de Bel^um, residaient i CaUna on
GaZBna^<r0&a<vm,lkS2mIlIeede Venta Belgar-
vm dans le canton oaest ai^oard'hni Windsor.**
H. Piers adds that there is a tradition that a
oolony of the Morloi had given their name to a
distant country of islands which they discovered ;
bat that he has found it impossible to discover
the name In any ancient atlas. Perhaps the
district of Mourne, on the north-east coast of
Ireland, is that Indicated. The Irish derivnUon
Of the name la at aU events idenUcal with the
French.

the end of the fourth century ; bat he
had been preceded in that capadly by
St Victoriciufl, who suffered martyr-
dom with Sts. Fuscien and Firming at
Amiens, in a.d. 286. Again, the name
Victor is that of a favorite disciple of
St Martin, whom Sulpicius Sevems
sent to St Paulinns of Nola,* and of
whom they both write in terms of ex-
traordinary encomium. But the per-
son referred to in the ^ Confession** is
far more probably St Victridu3,t who
was an exact contemporary of St.
Patrick, who was engaged cm the mis-
sion of Boulogne at the time of his
escape, and who is said to have been
a French Briton himself. Mai-
brancq's ^Annals of the Sec of Bou-
logne" aver that in the year 890 the
^'Morini a Domino Victricio exculti
sunt,'' and that in the year 400 he
dedicated their principal church to St
Martin.l

When St Patrick was on his way
to Ireland, with full powers from
Pope Celestine, it is recorded that he
was detained at Boulogne by the re-
quest of Sts. (xermanus and Lupus,
who were pnxseeding into Britun in
order to preach against the Pelagian
heresy; and that during their absence
he temporarily exercised episcopal
functions at Boulogne, and so came to
be included in the list of its bishops.
If St Patrick were a native of\ the
island, is it not probable that Gennan-
ns and Lupus would rather have in-

• S. PanllniNolanl "C|pmi." J^gUMa xxiU. In
the " Patrologim Cursus Compietus^'' of i. P.
H igne, vol. Ixl. Paris, ISiT. Secali>o the two ep^
tlett to St. Victricius. who with St. Martin persuad-
ed Paulinas to withdraw from the world. I hare
a suspicion that the disciple of St. Victrldua,
named in these epistles now as PaschaslDa,
now as Tvtlchns or Tytius (the name being eTi-
dently misprinted, but there being no donbt, a»
the Dollandists sa}*, that the two names refer to
one and the same person), mayhave been In re-
ality St. Patrick. In his 17th Epistle, St. Fanli-
nns refers to the accounts bo nad heard ttom
this vonng priest of the anxiety of St. Victrlcina
for the evangelization of the . most remote parts
of the globe, and speaks of him as a disciple in
every way worthy of his master; •* In ctO^is gra-
tia el humaultate, quasi qnasdam virtntam gra-
tiarnmque taarum lineas velnt apecnlo reddcnte
collej^imus."

t Franclscus Pommpnens, O. 8. B.. In bis
*' History of the Bishops of Rouen." says St. Vic-
tricius was also sometimes called Victoricaa aaad
Victoricius.

t See also " Acta Sanet&ntm A^igutUi;^ ton.
li. ,p. 19ft. Antverpiae, IISS.

Digitized by VjOOQIC

The Better Part.

757

yited him to join iheir missioi]? But
their object in asking him to inter-
rupt his own special enterprise for a
time in oi^der to remain among the
Boulonnais was, it is said, to guard
against the spread of this heresy on
the continent. And it is Tery natural
that they should have asked him to
stay for such an object, and that he
should have consented, if this were
indeed his native district, in which his
intimacies were calculated to give
him a special degree of influence ; but
not otherwise, hastening as he was
under the sense of a divine call to the
conversion of a whole nation plunged
in paganism.

And, as I began by saying, all this
proof -is impoiiant mainly because it
tends in same degree to elucidate the
spirit and the work of the saint. We
begin to see how with the Celtic char-

acter of a Fi'ench Briton, which made
him easily akin to the Irish, he com-
bined the Roman culture and ci^-iliza-
tion, which added to his missions pe-
culiar litei-ary and political energy,
that long remained. We see in him
the friend and comrade of the great
saints of a great but anxious age.
We see how he connects the young
Church of Ireland, not with Rome
alone, but with the great militant
Christian communities of Gaul — a
connection which his disciples were
destined so to develope and extend in
the three following centuries ; and we
cease to wonder that both Ireland and
France have clung so fondly to a tra-
dition which linked together in their
earliest days two churches whose
mutual services and sympathies
have ever since bebn of the closest
kind.

From The liOmp.

THE BETTER PART.

" SwBET sister Lucille, I watch thee working.
From morning till nightfall, on cloth of gold,
On silks of purple, and finest linen,

And gems lie before you of worth untold.
Makest ihou vestments for holy preacher,
And c\oths to adorn the altar rare ?''
" Ha, ha !" quoth Lucille, " thou simple creature I
The garments I make I intend to wear.

Dost thou not see I am nobly fashioned.

Regal indeed is my bearing and mien ;
Are not my features as finely chiselled

As e'en were tlie jeatures of Egypt's queen ?
m work, and work, and Fll never weary,

Until rich garments be duly wrought,
Suited to clothe my unrivalled form.

For which tissues fitting cannot be bought.

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759 ^^ BeUer Part.

Bot, my gentle Mary, I watch thee praying.

And wasting many a precious day,
Sauntering oat amid lanes and alleys,

And taking to beggars upon the highway.
You bring them in to sit at your table,

You feed them on savory meat and wine ;
Are they above you, that you should clothe them,

And so humbly serve while they feast and dine ?^

Then answered Mary : '< God's poor, mj sister,

Are more than our equals, I should say ;
One day they'll feast in the kingdom of heaven.

For Christ will call them from hedge and highway.
I too am working a costly garment

With tears and penance, fasting and prayer ;
'Tis to clothe my soul, and with God's needy

The raiment I weave I hope to wear."

Each walked her way through this vain world ;

LuciUe lived with courtiers who gave her praise,
Solicitous still to adorn her person,

She frittered time to the end of her days ;
She work'd, and work'd, and never felt weary.

Changing her costume as changed her will ;
When dea& came, unfinished still were her garmentBi

But withered and sinful he found Lucille.

Each walked her way through this vain world ;

Mary sought neither courtiers nor praise.
But in the lazar-house, firm and steadfast.

Good she worked to the end of her days.
She smooth'd (he couch of the sick and dying,

She taught the smner the ways of the Lonl,
She gave to the " little ones" drink refreshing ;

YerT\j she shall not lose her reward.

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From The Xonth.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD:

AN AUTOBIOaRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTUBT.
BY LADY GBOBQIANA FXTLLERTON.

(OONOLtJDSD.)

CHAPTER XXYI.

On the night before the 10th of De-
cember neither Muriel nor I retired
to rest. We sat together by the rush-
light, at one time saying prayers, at
another speaking together in a low
voice. Ever and anon she went to
listen at her father's door, for to make
sure he slept, and then returned to me.
The hours seemed to pass slowly ; and
yet we should have wished to stay
their course, so much we dreaded the
first rays of Ught presaging the trage-
dy of the coming day. Before the first
token of it did show, at about five in
the morning, the door-bell rung in a
gentle manner.

" Who can be ringing P* I said to
MurlcL

" I will go and see,** she answered.

But I restrained her, and went, to
call one of the servants, who were be-
ginning to bestir themselves. The
man went down, and returned, bring-
ing me a paper, on which these words
were written :

« My Dear Constance — ^My lord
and myself have secretly come to join
our prayers with yours, and, if it should
be possible, to receive the blessing of
the holy priest who is about to die, as
he passeth by your house, toward
which, I doubt not, his eyes will of a
surety turn. I pray you, therefore,
admit us.''

I hurried down the stairs, and found
Lord and Lady Arundel standing in
the hall ; she in a doak and hood, and

he with a slouching hat hiding his face.
Leading them both into the parlor,
which looketh on the street, I had a
fire hastily kindled ; and for a space
her ladyship and myself could only sit
holding each other's hands, our hearts
being too full to speak. After a while
I asked her when she had come to
London. She said she had done so
very secretly, not to increase the
queen's displeasure against her hus-
band ; her majesty's misliking of her-
self continuing as great as ever.

"When she visited my lord last
year, before his arrest," quoth she, " on
a pane of glass in the dining-room her
grace perceived a distich, writ by me
in bygone days with a diamond, and
which expressed hopes of better for-
tunes."

« I mmd it well," I replied. « Did
it not run thus ?

* Not Beldom doth the sun sink down In bright-
est light

Which rose at early dawn disfigured qnite oat-
right;

So shall my fortunes, wrapt so long In darkest
night,

Bevive, and show ere long an aspect clear and
bright.*"

" Yea," she answered. " And now
listen to what her majesty, calling for
a like instrument, wrote beneath :

*Not seldom do Tain hopes deceire a alUy
heart ;

Let all each witless dreams now Tsniah and
depart;

For fortnne shall ne^er shine, I promise thee,
on one

Whose folly hath for aye all hopes thereof un-
done.*

We do live," she added, ^ with a sword

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OomUence Sherwood.

hanging over our heads; and it is
meet we should come here this day to
learn a lesson how to die when a like
fieite shall overtake us. But thou hast
been like to die hj another means, mj
good Constance,** her ladyship said,
looking with kindness but no astonish-
ment on mj swollen and disfigured
face, which I had not remembered to
conceal ; grave thoughts, then upper-
most, having caused me to forget it.

" My life," I answered, " God hath
mercifially spared ; but I have lost the
semblance of my former self."

« Tut, tut !•* she replied, " only for a
time."

And then we both drew near unto
the fire, for we were shivering with
cold. Lord Arundel leant against the
chimney, and watched the timepiece.

" Mistress WcUs," he said, " is like,
I hear, to be reprieved at the last mo-
ment"

" Alas !" I cried, « nature therein
finds relief ; yet I know not how much
to rejoice or yet to grieve thereat.
For surely she will desire to die with
her husband. And of what good will
life be to her if, like some others, she
doth linger for years in prison ?*•

•* Of much good, if God wills her
there to spend those years," Muriel
gently said ; which words, I ween, were
called to mind long afterward by one
who tlien heard them.

As the hour appointed for the exe-
cution approached, we became silent
again, and kneeling down betook our-
selves to prayer. At eight o'clock a
crowd began to assemble in the street;
and the sound of their feet as they
passed under the window, hurrying to-
ward the scaffold, which was hung
with black cloth, became audible.
About an hour afterward notice was
given to us by one of the servants that
5ie sledge which carried the prisoners
was in sight. We rose from our
knees and went to the window. Mr.
Wells's stout form and Mr. Genings's
slight figure were then discernible, as
they sat bound, with their hands tied
belund their backs. I observed that
Mr. Wells smiled and nodded to some

one who was standing amidst the
crowd. This person, who was a friend
of hisi hath since told me that as he
passed he saluted him with these
words : ** Farewell, dear companion !
farewell, all hunting and hawking and
old pastimes ! I am now going a better
way." Mistress Wells not being with
them, we perceived that to be true
which Lord Arundel had heard. At
that moment I turned round, and miss-
ed Muriel, who had been standing
close behind me. I supposed she
could not endure this sight; but, lo
and behold, looking again into the
street, I saw her threading her way
amongst the crowd as swiftly, lame
though she was, as if an angel had
guided her. When she reached the
foot of the scaffold, and took her stand
there, her aspect was so composed, se-
rene, and resolved, that she seemed
like an inhabitant of another worid
suddenly descended amidst the coarse
and brutal mob. She was resolved, I
afterward found, to take note of every
act, gesture, and word there spoken ;
and by her means I can here set down
what mine own ears heard not, hot
much of which mine own eyes
beheld. As the sledge passed
our door, Mr. Genings, as Lady
Arundel . had foreseen, turned his
head toward us; and seeing me at
the window, gave us, I doubt not, his
blessing ; for, albeit he could not rsuse
his chained hand, we saw his fingers
and his lips move. On reaching the
gibbet Muriel hejirdhim cry out with
holy Andrew, " O good gibbet, long
desired and now prepared forme, much
hath my heart desired thee ; and now,
joj'ful and secure, I come to thee. Re-
ceive me, I beseech thee, as the disd-
ple of him that suffered on the cross!"
Being put upon the ladder, many ques-
tions were asked him. by some standera-
by, to which he made clear and dis-
tinct answers. Then liflr. TopcllfRa
med out with a loud voice,

<• Genings, Genings, confess thy
fault, thy papist treason; and. the
queen, no doubt, will grant thce.par>
donl"

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To which he mildly answered, " 1
know not, Mr. Topcliffe, in what I have
offended my dear anointed princess;
if I have offended her or any other per-
son' in anything, I would willingly ask
her and all the world forgiveness. If
she be offended with me without a
cause, for professing my faith and re-
ligion, or because I am a priest, or be-
cause I will not turn minister against
my conscience, I shall be, I trust, ex-
cused and innocent before God. *We
must obey God,' saith St. Peter,
' rather than men ;' and I must not in
this case acknowledge . a fault where
there is none. If to return to England
a priest, or to say mass, is popish
treason, I here do confess I am a trai-*
tor. But I think not so ; and there-
fore I acknowledge myself guilty of
these things not with repentance and
sorrow of heart, but with an open pro-
testation of inward joy that I have
done so good deeds, which, if they
were to do again, I would, by the per-
mission and assistance of God, accom-
plish the same, thongh with the hazard
of a thousand lives."

Mr. Topcliffe was very angry at
this speech, and hardly gave him time
to say an " Our Father" before he or-
dered the hangman to turn the ladder.
From that moment I could not so much
as once again look toward the scaffold.
Lady Arundel and I drew back into
. the room, and clasping each other's
hands, kept repeating, "Lord, help
him ! Lord, assist him ! Have mercy
on him, O Lord!" and the like
prayers.

We heard Lord Arundel exclaim,
" Good God ! the wretch doth order
the rope to be cut !" Then avoiding
the sight, he also drew back and silent-
ly prayed. What followeth I learnt
from Muriel, who never lost her senses,
though she endured, methinks, at that
scaffold's foot as much as any sufferer
upon it Scarcely or not at all
stunned, Mr. Genings stood on his
feet with his eyes raised to heaven,
till the hangman threw him down on
the block where he was to be quarter-
ed. After he was dismembered, she

heard him ntter with a loud voice,
" Oh, it smarts!" and Mr. Wells ex-
claim, " Alas ! sweet soul, thy pain is
great indeed, but ahnost past Pray
for me now that mine may come."
Then when his heart was being pluck-
ed out, a faint dying whisper reached
her ear, "Sancte Gregori, ora pro
me 1" and then the voice of the hang-
man crying, " See, his heart is in mine
hand, and yet Gregory in his mouth I
O egregious papist !"

I marvel how she lived through it ;
but she assured us she was never even
near unto fainting, but stood immova-
.ble, hearing every sound, listening to
each word and groan, printing them
on the tablet of her heart, wherein
they have ever remained as sacred
memories.

Mr. Wells, so far from being terrj-
fied by the sight of his friend's death,
expressed a desire to have his own
hastened ; and, like unto Sir Thomas
More, was merry to the last ; for he
cried, *♦ Despatch, despatch, Mr. Top-
cliffe ! Be you not ashamed to suffer
an old man to stand h^re so long in
his shirt in the cold ? I pray God
make you of a Saul a Paul, of a per-
secutor a Catholic." A murmur,
hoarse and loud, from the crowd ap-
prised us when all was over.

" Where is Muriel ?" I cried, going
to the window. Thence Ibeheld asight
which my pen refuseth to describe —
the sledge which was carrying away
the mangled remains of those dear
friends which so short a time before
we had looked upon alive 1 Like in
a dream I saw this spectacle ; for the
moment afterward I fainted. Many
persons were running after the cart,
and Muriel keeping pace with what
to others would have been a sight full
of horror, but to her were only relics
of the saintly dead. She followed,
heedless of the mob, unmindful of their
jeers, intent on one aim — to procure
some portion of those sacred remains,
which she at last achieved in an ia-
credible manner; one finger of Ed-
mund Gonings's hand, which she laid
hold of, remaining in hers. This se-

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cared, she hastened home, bearing
away this her treasure*

When I recovered from a long
swoon, she was standing on one side
of mc and Ladj Arandel on the other.
Their faces were very pale, but peace-
fid ; and when remembrance returned,
I also felt a great and quiet joy
diffused in mine heart, such as none,
I ween, could believe in who have
not known the like. For a while
all earthly cares left me ; I seemed to
soar above this world. Even Basil I
oonld think of with a singular detach-
ment It seemed as if angels were
haunting the house, whispering heav-
enly secrets. I could not so much as
think on those blessed departed souls
without an increase of this joy sensibly
inflaming my heart
. After Lady Arundel had lefl us,
which she did with many loving words
and tender caresses, Muriel and I
conversed long touching the future.
She told me that when her duty to her
fiaither should end with his life, she in-
tended to fulfil the vow she long ago
had made to consecrate herself wholly
to Grod in holy religion, and go beyond
the seas, to become a nun of the order
of St Augustine.

<* May I not leave this world ?* I
cried ; *^ may I not also, forgetting all
things else, live for God alone ?"

A sweet sober smile illumined Mu-
riel's face as she answered, " Yea, by
all means serve God, but not as a mm,
good Constance. Thine I take to be
the mere shadow of a vocation, if even
so much as that A cloud hath for a
while obscured the sunshine of thy
hopes and called up this shadow ; but
let this thin vapor dissolve, and no
trace shall remain of it Nay, nay,
sweet one, 'tis not chafed, nor yet, ex-
cept in rare instances, riven hearts
which God doth call to this special
consecration— rather whole ones, noth-
ing or scantily touched by the griefs
and joys which this world can afford.
But I warrant thee— nay, I may not
warrant," she added, che<^ing herself,
" for who can of a surety forecast what
God's designs should foe? But I

think thou wilt be, before many years
have past, a careful matron, with many
children about thy apron-strings to
try thy patience."

"O Muriel," I answered, "how
should this be ? I have made my bed,
and I must lie on it. Like a foolish
creature, unwittingly, or rather rashly,
I have deceived Basil into thinking I
do not love him; and if my fSoe
should yet recover its old fairness, he
shall still think mine heart estranged." •

Muriel shook her head, and said
more entangled skeins than this one
bad been unravelled. The next day
she resumed her wonted labors in the
prisons and amongst the poor. Hav-
ing procured means of access to Mis-
tress Wells, she carried to her the
only comfort she could now taste — the
knowledge of her husband's holy, cour-
ageous end, and the reports of the last
words he did utter. Then having re-
ceived a charge thereunto from Mr.
Genings, she discovered John Gen-
ings's place of residence, and went to
teU him that the cause of his brother^s
coming to London was specially his
love for him ; that his only regret in
dying had been that he was executed
before he could see him a^ain, or com-
mend him to any friend of his own, so
hastened was his death.

But this much-loved brother receiv-
ed her with a notable coldness ; and
far from bewailing the untimely and .
bloody end of his nearest kinsman, he
betrayed Sfime kind of contentment at
the thought that he was now rid of all
the persuasions which he suspected he
should otherwise have received from
kim touching religion.

About a fortnight afterward Mr.
Congleton expired. Alas ! so trouble-
some were the times, that to see one,^
howsoever loved, sink peacefully into
the grave, had not the same sadness
which usually belongs to the like
haps.

Muriel had procured a priest for to
give him extreme unction— one Mr.
Adams, a friend of Mr. Wells, who
had sometimeasaid mass in his house.
He also secretly came for to perform

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768

the funeral rites before his burial in
the cemetery of St. Martin's chnrch.

When we returned home that daj
after the funeral, this reverend gentle-
man asked us if we had heard any re-
port touching the brother of Mr. Gen-
ings; and on our denial, he said,
^ Talk is ministered amongst Catho-
lics of his sudden conversion.''

"Sudden, indeed, it should be,''
quoth Muriel ; ** for a more indifferent
listener to an afflicting message could
not be met with than he proved him-
self when I carried to him Mr> Gen-
ings's dying words."

"Not more sudden," qnoth Mr.
Adams, "than St. Paul's was, and
therefore not incredible."

Whilst we were yet speaking, a
servant came in, and said a young
gentleman was at the door, and very
urgent for to see Muriel.

" Tell him," she sdid, raising her
eyes, swollen with tears, " that I have
one hour ago buried my father, and
am in no condition to see strangers."

The man returned with a |)aper, on
which these words were written :

" A penitent and a wanderer craveth
to spe^ w^ith you. If you shed tears,
his do incessantly flow. If you weep
for a father, he grieveth for one better
to him than ten fathers. If your
plight is sad, his should be desperate,
but for God's great mercy and a broth-
er's prayers yet pleading for him in
heaven as once upon earth.

"John Gekikgs."

" Heavens r Muriel cried, "it is
this changed man, this Saul become a
Paul, which stands at the door and
knocks. Bring him in swifUy; the
best comfort I can know this day is to
see one who awhile was lost and is
now found."

When John Genings beheld her
and me, he awhile iud his face in
his hands, and * seemed unable
to speak. To break Ihis silence Mr.
Adams said, " Courage, Mr. Cknings ;
your holy brother rejoiceth in heaven
over your changed mind, and fhrther

blessings still, I doubt not, he shall yet
obtain for you."

Then* this same John raised his
head, and with as great and touching
sorrow as can be expressed, ai^er
thanldng this unknown speaker for his
comfortable words, he begged of Mu-
riel to relate to him each action and
speech in the dying scene she had wit-
nessed ; and when she had ended this
recital, with the like urgency he
moved me to fell him all I could re-
member of his brother's young years,
all my father had written of his life
and virtues at college, all which wo
had heard of his labors since he had
come into the country, and lastly, in a
manner most simple and affecting, we
all entreating him thereunto,^ he made
this narrative, addressing liimself
chiefly to Muriel :

" You, madam, are acquainted with
what was th« hardness of mine heart
and cruel indifierence to my brother^s
fate ; with what disdain I listened to
you, with what pride I received his
last advice. But about ten days after
his execution, toward night, having
spent ail that day in sports and jollity,
being weary with pUiy, I resorted
home to repose myself. I went into a
secret chamber, and was no sooner
there sat down, but forthwith my heart
began to be heavy, and I weighed how
idly I had spent that day. Amidst
these thoughts there was presently
represented to me an imagination and
apprehension of the death of my broth-
er, and, amongst other things, how he
had not long before forsaken all
worldly pleasure, and for the sake of
his religion alone endured dreadful
torments. Then within myself I made
long discourses conoeming his manner
of living and mine own ; and finding
the one to embrace pain and mortifica-
tion, and the other to seek pleasure —
the one to live strictly, and the other
licentionsly — I was struck with ex-
ceeding terror and remorse. I wept
bitterly, desiring God to illummate
mine understanding, that I might see
and perceive the tru^ Oh, what
great joy and conaolation did I feel at

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that instant ! What reyerence on the
sudden did I begin to bear to the
Blessed Virgin and to the Saints of
God, which before I had never scarce-
ly so much as heard of ! What strange
emotions, as it were inspirations, with
exceeding readiness of will to change
my religion, took possession of my
soul! and what heavenly conception
had I then of my brother's felicity ! I
imagined I saw him — ^I thought I
heard him. In this ecstasy of mind: I
made a voav upon the spot, as I lay
prostrate on the ground, to forsake
kindred and country, to find out the
true knowledge of Edmund's laitli.
Oh, sir," he ended by saying, turning
to Mr. Adams, which he guessed to be
a priest, " think you not my brother
obtained for me in heaven what on
earth he had not obtained ? for here I
am become a Catholic in faith without
persuasion or conference with any one
man in the world ?'*

" Ay, my good friend," Mr. Adams
replied; <'the blood of martyrs will
ever prove the seed of the Church.
Let us then, in our private prayers,
implore the suffrages of those who in
this country do lose their lives for the
faith,* and take unto ourselves the.
words of Jeremiah : * O Lord, remem-
ber what has happened unto us. Be-
hold and see our great reproach ; our
inheritance is gone to strangers, our
houses to aliens. We are become as
chiklren without a father, our mothers
are made as it were widows.' "

These last words of Holy Writ
brought to mine own mind private sor-
rows, and caused me to shed tears.
Soon after John Genings departed
from England without giving notice to
us or any of his friends, and went be-
yond seas to execute his promise. I
have heard that he has entered the
holy order of St. Francis, and is seek-
ing to procure a convent of that re-
ligion at Douay, in hopes of restoring
the English Franciscan province, of
which it is supposed he will be first
provincial. Report doth state him to
be an exceeding strict and holy relig-
ious, and like to prove an instrument

in furnishing the English misflioa with
many zealous and apostolical laborers.

Muriel and I were solitary in that
great city where so many misfortunes
had beset us ; she with her anchor cast
where her hopes could not be deceived;
I by mine own folly like unto a ship
at sea without a chart. Womanly re-
serve, mixed, I ween, with somewhat
of pride, restraining me from writing
to Basil, though, as my face improved
each day, I deplored my hasty folly,
and desired nothing so much as to see
him again, when, if his love should
prove unchanged (shame on that word
ifl which my heart disavowed), we
should be as heretofore, and the suffer-
ing I had caused him anden4ui;cdniy-
self would end. But how this might
happen I foresaw not; and life was
sad and weary while so much suspense
lasted.

Muriel would not forsake me while
in this plight ; but although none could
have judged it from her cheerful and
amiable behavior, I well knew that
she sighed for the haven of a religions
home, and grieved to keep her from iU
After some weeks spent in this fashion,
with very little comfort, I was sitting
one morning dismally forecasting the
future, writing letter after letter to Ba-
sil, which still I tore up rather than
send them — ^for I warrant you it was
no easy matter for to express in
writing what I longed to say. To tell
him the cause of my breaking our con-
tract was so much as to compel him
to the performance of it ; and albeit I
was no longer so ill-favored as at the
first, yet the good looks I had before my
sickness had by no means wholly re-
turned. Sometimes I wrote: "Your
thinking, dear Basil, that I donffcctioa
any but yourself is so false and injuri-
ous an imagination, that I cannot suf-
fer you to entertain it. Be sure I never
can and never shall love any but you;
yet, for all that, I cannot marry you."
Then effacing this last sentence, whidii
verily belied my true desire, I would
write another : " Methinks if you should
see me now, yourself would not wish
otherwise than to dissolve a oontract

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765

ivlierein yonr contentment shonld be
less than it hath been/' And then think-
ing this should be too obscure, changed
it to — ^ In sooth, dear Basi^ mj ap-
pearance is so altered that jou would
yourself, I ween, not desire for to wed
one so different from the Constance
yon have seen and loved." But pride
whispered to restrain this open men-
tion of my suspicious fears of his lik-
ing me less for my changed face ; yet
withal, conscience reproved this mis-
doubt of one whose affection had ever
shown itself to he of the nobler sort,
which looketh rather to the 'qualities
of the heart and mind than to the ex-
terior charms of a fair visage. •

Alas! what a torment doth perplex-
ity occasion. I had let go my pen,
and my tears were falling on the pa-
per, when Muriel opened the door of
the parlor.

" What is it?" I cried, hiding my
face with mine hand that she should
not sec me weeping.

** A letter from Lady Arundel," she
answered.

I eagerly took it from her ; and on the
reading of it found it contained an ur-
gent request from her ladyship, couched
in most affectionate terms, and mask-
ing the kindness of its intent under a
show of entreating, aa a favor to her-
self that I would come and reside with
her at Arundel Castle, where she great-
ly needed the solace of a friend's com-
pany, during her lord's necessary ab-
sences. " Mine own dear, good Con-
stance," she wrote, " come to me quick-
ly. In a letter I cannot well express all
the good you will thus do to me. For
mine own part, I would fain say come
to me until death shall part us. But
so selfish I would not be ; yet prithee
come until such time as the clouds
which have obscured the fair sky of
thy fumre prospects have passed away,
and thy Basil's fortunes are mended ;
for I will not cease to call him thine,
for all that thou hast thyself thrust a
spoke in a wheel which otherwise should
have run smoothly, for the which thou
art now doing penance : but be of good
cheer; time will bring thee shrift.

8ome kind of comfort I can promise
thee in this house, greater than I dare
for to commit to paper. Lose no time
then. From thy last letter methinks
the gentle turtle-dove at whose side thou
dost now nestle hath found herself a
nest whereunto she longeth to fly. Let
her spread her wings thither, and do
thou hasten to the shelter of these old
walls and the loving faithful heart of
thy poor friend,
" Anne Arundel and Surket."

Before a fortnight was overpast
Muriel and I had parted ; she for her
religious home beyond seas, I for the
castle of my Lord Arundel, whither I
travelled in two days, resting on iny
way at the pleasant village of Horsham.
During the latter part of the journey
the r<Md lay through a very wild ex-
panse of down ; but as soon as I caught
sight of the sed my heart bounded with
joy; for to gaze on its blue expanse
seemed to carry me beyond the limits
of this isle to the land where Basil
dwelt. When I reached the castle,
the sight of the noble gateway and
keep filled me with admiration: and
riding into the court thereof, I looked
with wonder on the military defences
bristling on every side. But what a
sweet picture smiled from one of the
narrow windows over above the en-
trance-door ! — mine own loved friend,
yet fairer in her matronly and mother-
ly beauty than even in her girlhood's
loveliness, holding in her arms the
pretty bud which had blossomed on a
noble tree in the time of adversity.
Her countenance beamed on me like
the morning sun's ; and my heart ex-
panded with joy when, half-way up the
stairs which led to her chamber, I
found myself inclosed in her arms.'
She led me to a settle near a cheerful
fire, and herself removed my riding-
cloak, my hat and veil, stroked my
cheek with two of her delicate white
fingers, and said with a smile,

^ In sooth, my dear Constance, thou
art an arrant cheat."

^ How so, most dear lady?" I said,
likewise smiliBg.

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CoHtkmee Sherwood,

** Why, thou art as comely as ever I
thee ; which, after all the torments
intflicted on poor Master Bookwood by
thy prophetical vision of an everlast-
ing deformity, carefully concealed from
him nnder the garb of a sudden fit of
inconstancy, is a very ne&rious injus-
tice. Go to, go to ; if he should see
ihee now, he never would believe but
that that management of thine was a
cunning device for to break faith with
him."

" Nay, nay," I cried ; " if I should
be ever so happy, which I deserve not,
for to see him again, there could never
be for one moment a mistrust on his
part of a love which is too strong
and too fond for oonceahnent. If the
feebleness of sickness had not bred
unreasonable fears, methinks I should
not have been guilty of so great a
folly as to think he would prize less
what he was always wont most to
treasure far above their merits — ^the
heart and mind of his poor C!onstance
— ^because the casket which held them
had waxed unseemly. But when the
day shall come in which Basil and I
may meet, God only knoweth. Hu-
man foresight cannotAttain to Uiis pre-
vision."

Lady Arundel's eyes had a smiling
expression then which surprised me.
For mine own heart was full when I
thus spoke, and I was wont to meet in
her with a more quick return of the
like feelings I expressed than at that
time appeared. Slight inward re-
sentments, painfully, albeit not angri-
ly, entertained, I was by nature
prone to ; and in this case the effect
of this impression suddenly checked
the joy which at my first arrival I
had experienced. O, how much se«
cret discipline should be needed for to
rule that little unruly kingdom with-
in us, which many look not into till
serious rebellions do arise, which need
fire and sword to quell them for lack
of timely- repression ! Her ladyship
set before me some food, and con-
strained ^e to eat, which I did mere-
ly for to content her. She appear-
ed to me somewhat restless: b^^-

ning a sentence^ and then breaking
off suddenly in the midst thereof;
going in and out of the chamber;
laughing at one time, and then seem-
ing as if about to weep. "When I
had finished eating, and a servant
had removed the dishes, she sat
down hj my side and took my hand
in hers. Then the tears truly began
to roll down her cheeks.

" O, for God's sake, what aileth you,
dearest lady ?" I said, uneasily gazing
on her agitated countenance.

"Nothing ails me," she answered ;
" only I fear to frighten thee, albeit
in a joyful manner."
♦ " Frightened with joy !" I sadly an-
swered. "0, that should be a rare
fright, and an unwonted one to me of
late."

"Therefore," she said, smiling
through her tears, " peradventure the
more to be feared."

"What joy do you speak of? I
pray you, sweet lady, keep me not in
. suspense."

"If, for instance," she said in a
low voice, pressing my hands very
hard, — " if I was to tell thee Con-
stance, that thy Basil was here,
shouldst thou not be affrighted?"

Methinks I must have turned very
white ; leastways, I began to trem-
ble.

"Is he here?" I said, almost be-
side myself with the fearful hope her
words awoke.

"Yea," she Baid. "Since three
days he^ is here."

For a moment I neither spoke nor
moved.

"How comes it about? how doth
it happen?" I began to say; but a
passion of tears choked my utterance.
I fell into her arms, sobbing on her
breast ; for verily I had no power to
restrain myself. I heard her say,
" Mietster Bookwood, come in." Then,
after those sad long weary years, I
again heard his cheerful voice ; then
I saw his kind eyes speaking what
words could never have uttered, or
one-half so well expressed. Then I
felt the happiness which is most like^

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767

I ween, of any on esrtih to that of
heaven : after long parting, to meet
again one intenselj loved— each heart
overflowing with an unspoken joj
and with an unbounded thankfYdness
to God. Amazement did sovfill me
at this unlooked-for good, that I
seemed content for a while to think
of it as of a dream, and onlj feared
to be awoke. But oh, with how manj
sweet tears of gratitude — with what
bursts of wonder and admiration^— -I
soon learnt how Lady Arundel had
fbnned this kind plot, to which Muriel
had been privy, for to bring together
parted lovers, and procure to others
the happiness she so often lacked
herself — ^the company of the most
loved person in the world. She had
herself written to Basil, and related
the cause of my apparent change ; a
cause, she said, at no time sufficient
for to warrant a desperate action, and
even then passing away. But that
had it fo^ ever endured, she was of
opinion his was a love would survive
any such accident as touched only the
exterior, when all else was unimpair-
ed. She added, that when Mr. Con-
gleton, who was then at the point of
death, should have expired, and Mu-
riel gone beyond seas to fuMQ her re-
ligious intent, she would use all the
persuasion in her power to bring me
to reside with her, which was the
thing she most desired in the world ;
and that if he should think it possible
under another name for to cross the
seas and land at some port in Sussex,
he should be the welcomest guest im-
aginable at Arundel Castle, if even,
like St. Alexis, he should hide his no-
bility under the garb of rags, and
come thither begging on foot ; but yet
she hoped, for his sake, it should not
so happen, albeit nothing could be
more honorable if the cause was a
good one. It needed no more induce-
ment than what this letter contained
for to move Basil to attempt this se-
cret return. He took the name of
Martingale, and procured a passage
in a smaU trading craft, which landed
ftim at the port of a smalltown named

Littlehampion, about three or four
miles from Arundel. Thenoe ha
walked to the castle, where the coun-
tess feigned him to be a leech sent by
my lord to prescribe remedies for a
pain in her head, which she was oft-
entimes afflicted with, and as such
entertained him in the eyes of stran-
gers as long as he conthiued there*
which did often mojre us to great mer-
riment; for some of the neighbors
which she was forced to see, would
sometimes ask for to consult the coun-
tess's physidtln; and to avoid mis-
doubts, Basil once or twice made up
some innocent compounds, which an
old gentleman and a maiden lady in
the town vowed had cared them, the
one of a fit of the gout, and -the other
of a very sharp disordier in her stom-
ach. But to return to the blissful
first day of our meeting, one of the
happiest I had yet known ; for a par-
amount affection doth eo engross the
heart, that other sorrows vanish in
its presence like dewdrops in the sun-
shine. I can never forget the small-
est particle of its many joys. The
long talk between Basil and me, first
in Lady Arundel's chamber, and then
in the gallery of the castle, walking up
and down, and when I was tired, I
sitting and he standing by the win-
dow which looked on the fair valley
and silvery river Arun, running to-
ward the sea, through pleasant pas-
tures, with woody slopes on both
sides, a fair and a peaceful scene;
&ir and peaceful as the prospect
Basil unfolded to me that day, if we
could but once in safety cross the
seas ; for his debtors had reaiitted to
him in Franco the moneys which they
owed him, and he had purchased a
cottage in a very commodious village
near the town of Boulogne-sur-Mer,
with an apple-orchard and a garden
stored with gay fiowers and be^ives,
and a meadow with two large walnut-
trees in it. '^ And then bethink thee,"
he added, ^ mine own dear love, that
right in front of this fine mansion doth
stand the parish church, where God is
worshipped in a Catholic manner in

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Cbmtanei SkuruH^d.

peace and freedoai ; and nothing
greater or more weighty need, me-
thinks, to be said in its praise.**

I said I thought so too, and that
the picture he drew of it liked me
welL

•^Bnt," quoth Basil suddenly, "I
must tell thee, sweetheart, I liked not
well thj behavior touching thine alter-
ed face, and the misleading letter thou
didst send me at that time. No !" he
exclaimed with great vehemencj, ^ it
mislikes me sorelj that thou shouldst
have doubted mj love and faith, and
dealt with me so injuriously. If I was
now by some accident dislSgured, I
must by that same token expect
thine aJSbction for me should de-
cay." -

** O Basil r I cried, *« that would be
an impossible thing T'

" Wherefore impossible T* he repli-
ed ; <' you thought such a change pos-
sible in me ?*

"• Because^" I said, smiling, ^ women
are the most constant creatures in the
world, and not fickle like unto men, or
so careful of a good complexion in
others, or a fine set of features."

*< Tut, tut r he cried, « I do admire
that thou shouldst dare to utter so
great a . . . ." then he stopped, and,
kiughing, added, "the last half of
Raleigh's name, as the queen's bad
riddle doth make it.'**

Well, much talk of this sort was
ministered between us; but albeit I
find pleasure in the recalling of it,
Biethinks the reading thereof should
easily weary others ; so I must check
my pen, which, like unto a garrulous
old goi^p, doth run on, overstepping
the limits of discretion.

CHAPTER XXVn. ^

Before I arrived. Lady Arundel
had made Basil privy to a great se-
cret, with warrant to impart it to me.
In a remote portion of the castle's

^ " The bane of the Btomach, and the word of
disgrace.
Ib Uie name of Uie gentieman with the bold

buildings was concealed at that time
Father Southwell, a man who had not
his like for piety and good parts ; a
sweet poet also, whose pieces of verse,
chiefly written in that obscure cham-
ber in /^Arundel Castle, have been
since done into print, and do win
great praise from all sorts of people.
Adjoining io his room, which only
one servant in the house, who carried
his meals to him, had knowledge of,
and from which he could not so much
as once look out of the window for
fear of being seen, was a small orato-
ry where he said mass every day, and
by a secret passage Lady Arundel
went from her apartments for to hear
it That same evening af^er supper
she led me thitber for to get this good
priest's blessing, and also his counsel
touching my marriage ; for both her
ladyship and Basil were urgent for it
to take place in a private manner at
the castle before we left England.
For, they argued, if there should be
danger in this departure, it were best
encountered together ; and except we
were married it should be an impossi-
ble thing for me to travel in his com-
pany and land with him in France.
Catholics could be married in a secret
manner now that the needs of the
times, and the great perils many were
exposed to, gave warrant for it. After
some talk with Father Southwell and
Lady Anmdel, I consented to their
wishes with more gladness of heart,
I ween, than was seemly to exhibit ;
for verily I was better contented than
can be thought of to think I should
be at last married to my dear Basil,
and never»more to part from him, if it
so pleased God that we should land
safely in France, which did seem to
me then the land of promise.

The next days were spent in fbre-
castmg means for a safe departure, as
soon as these secret nuptials should
have taken place ; but none had been
yet resolved on, when one morning I
was called to Lady Arundel's cham-
ber, whom I found in tears and great*-
ly disturbed, for that she had heard
from Lady Margaret SackviUe, who

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Constance Sherwood.

769

was then in London, that Lord Aran*
del was once more resolyed to leave
the realm, albeit Father Edmunds did
dissuade him* from that course ; but
some other friend's persuasions were
more availing, and he had determined
to go to France, where he might live
in safety and serve God quietlj.

Mj lady's agitation at this news
was very great. She said nothing
sbuuld content her but to go with him,
albeit she was then with child ; and
she should write to tell him so ; but
before she could send a letter Lord
Arundel came to the castle, and held
converse for many hours with her and
Fadier Southwell, When I met her
afterward in the gallery, her eyes
were red with weeping. She said my
lord desired to see Basil and me in
her chamber at nme of the clock. He
wished to speak with us of his resolve
to cross the seas, and she prayed Grod
some good should arise out of it. Then
she aSded, << I am now going to the
chapel, and ff thou hast nothmg of
any weight to detain thee, then come
thither also, for to join thy prayers
with mine for the favorable issue of a
very doubtful matter."

When we repaired to her ladyship's
chamber at the time appointed, my
lord greeted us in an exceeding kind
manner ; and after some talk touching
Basil's secret return to England, our
marriage, and then as speedy as pos-
sible going abroad, his lordship said :
^^ I also am compelled to take a like
coarse, for my evil-willers are resolv-
ed to work my njin and overthrow,
and will succeed therein by means of
my religion. Many actions which at
the outset may seem rash and unad-
vised, after sufficient consideration do
appear to be just and necessary ; and,
mPthinks, my dearest wife and Father
Southwell are now minded to recom-
mend what at first they misliked, and
to see that in this my present intent I
take the course which, though it im-
perils my fortunes, will tend to my
soul's safety and that of my diildren.
Since I have conceived this intent, I
thank God I have found a great deal
VOL. II. 49

more quietness in my mind ; and in
this respect I have just occasion to es-
teem my past troubles as my greatest
felicity, for they have been the means
of leading me to that coarse which
ever brings perfect quietness, and only
procures eternal happiness. I am re-
solved, as my dear Nan well knoweth,
to endure any punishment rather than •
willingly to decline from what I have
begun; I have bent myself as nearly
as I could to continue in the same,
and to do no act repugnant to my
faith and profession. And by means
hereof I am oft;en compelled to do
many things which may procure peril
to myself, and be an occasion of mis-
like to her majesty. For, look you,
on the first day of this parliament,
when the queen was heaiing of a ser-
mon in the cathedral church of
Westminster, above in the chancel, I
was driven to walk by myself below
in one of the aisles ; and another day
this last Lent, when she was hearing
another sermon in the chapel at
Greenwich, I was forced to stay all
the while in the presence-chamber.
Then also when on any Sunday or
holyday her grace goes to her great
closet, I am forced either to stay in the
privy chamber, and not to wait upon
her at all, or else presently to depart
as soon as I have brought her to the
chapel. These things, and many
more, I can by.no means escape, but
only by an open plain discovery of my-
self, in Che eye and opinion of all men,
as to the true cause of my refusal ;
neither can it now be long hidden, al-
though for a while it may not havo
been generally noted and observed."
Lady Arundel sighed and said :
** I must needs confess that of ne-
cessity it must shortly be discover-
ed; and when I remember what a
watchful and jealous eye is carried
over all such as are known to be re-
cusants, and also how their lodgings
are continually searched, and to how
great danger they are subject if a
Jesuit or seminary priest be found
within their house, I begin to see that
either yoa cannot serve God in such

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770

(hnstanee SherwoocL

sort as 70a have professed, or else
you must incur the hazard of greater
\ sufferings than I am willing 70a
should endure."

"For my part," Basil said, "I
would ask, m7 lord, those that hate
70U most, whether being of the relig-
; ion which 70U do profess, they would
not take that courss for safety of their
souls and dischai'ge of their con-
sciences which 70U do now meditate ?
And either they must directly tell you
that they would have done the same,
or acknowledge themselves to be mere
atheists ; which, howsoever they be
affected in their hearts, I think they
would be loth to confess with their
mouths."

" What sayest thou, Constance, of
my lord's intent?" Lady Arundel
said, when Basil left off speaking.

" I am ashamed to utter my think-
ing in his presence, and in 7ours,
dearest lady," I replied ; *^ but if you
command me to it, methinks that hav-
ing had hid house so fatally and suc-
cessfully touched, and finding himself
to be of that religion which is account-
ed dangerous and odious to the pres-
ent state, which her majesty doth de-
test, and of which she is most jealous
and doubtful, and seeing he might now
be drawn for his conscience into a
great and continual danger, not being
able to do any act or duty whereunto
his religion doth bind him without in-
curring the danger of felony, he must
needs run upon his death headlong,
which is repugnant to the law of Grod
-and flatly against conscience, or else
lie must resolve to escape these perils
by the means he doth propose."

" Yea," exclaimed his lordship, with
so much emotion that his voice shook
in the utterance of the words, " long
have I debated with myself on the
course to take. .1 do see it to be the
safest way to depart out of the realm,
and abide in some other place where I
may live without danger of my con-
science, without offence to the queen,
without daily peril of my life ; but
yet I was drawn by such forcible per-
suasions to be of another opinion, as

I could not easily resolve on which
side to settle my determination. For
on the one hand my native, and oh
how dearly loved country, my own
early friends, my kinsfolk, my home,
and, more than all, my wiife, which I
must for a while part with if I go, do
invite me to stay. Poverty awiuts
me abroad; but in what have state
and riches benefited us. Nan ? Shall
not ease of heart and freedom from
haunting fears compensate for vain
wealth ? When, with the sweet bur-
then in thine arms which for a while
doth detain thee here, thou shalt kneel
before Grod's altar in a Catholic land,
methinks thou wilt have but scanty
regrets for the trappings of fortune."

"Grod is my witness," the sweet
lady replied, " that should be the hap-
piest day of my life. But I fear —
yea, much I do fear — the chasm of
parting which doth once more open
betwixt thee and me. Prithee, Phil,
let me go with thee," she teariully
added. '

" Nay, sweet Nan," he answered ;
"thou kno^F^est the physicians forbid
thy journeying at the present time so
much as hence to Liondon. How
should it then behoove thee to run the
perils of the sea, and nightly voyage,
and it may be rough usage? Nay,
let me behold thee again, some months
hence, with a fair boy in thine arms,
which if I can but once behold, my
joy shall be full, if I should have to
labor with mine hands for to support
him and thee."

She bowed her head on the hand
outstretched to her ; but I could see
the anguish with wlu^ she yielded
her assent to this separation. Me-
thinks there was some sort of presen-
timent of the future heightening her
present grief; she seemed so loth her
lord should go, albeit reason and ex-
pediency forced from her an unwillii^
consent.

Before the conversation in Ladj
Arunders chamber ended, the earl
proposed that Basil and I should ac-
company him abroad, and cross the
sea in the crafi he should privately

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Canstqnce Sherwood.

Ill

hire, which would' siul from Little-
hamptoD, and cany us to some port
of France, whence along the coast we
could travel to Boulogne. This liked
her ladyship well. ' Her eyes entreat-
ed our consent thereunto, as if it
should have been a favor she asked,
which indeed was rather a benefit
conferred on us ; for nothing would
serve my lord but that he should be
at the entire charge of the voyage,
who smiling said, for such good com-
pany as he should thus enjoy he should
be willing to be taxed twice as much,
and yet consider himself to be the
obliged party in this contract

"But we must be married first,"
Basil bluntly said.

Lady Arundel replied that Father
Southwell could perform the ceremony
when we pleased — ^yea, on the mor-
row, if it should be convenient ; and
that my lord should be present Aere-
at

I said this should be very short no-
tice, I thought, for to be married the
next day ; upon which Basil exclaim-

"These be not times, sweetheart,
for ceremonies, fashions, and nice de-i
lays. Methinks since oiir betrothal
there hath been sufficient waiting for
to serve the turn of the nicest lady in
the world in the matter of reserves
and yeas and nays."

Which is the sharpest thing, I
think, Basil hath uttered to me either
before or since we have been married.
So, to appease him, I said not another
word against this sudden wedding ;
and the next day but one, at nine of
the clock, was then fixed for the time
thereof.

On the following morning I^ord
Arundel and Basil (the earl had con-
ceived a very great esteem and good
disposition toward him ; a^ great, and
greater he told me, as for some he
had known for as many years as him
hours) went out together, under pre-
tence of shooting in the woods on the
opposite side of the river about Leo-
minster, but verily to proceed to Lit-
tlehampton, where the earl had ap-

pointed to meet the captain of the
vessel — a Catholic man, the son of
an old retainer of his family — with
whom he had dealt for the hiring of a
vessel for to sail to France as soon
as the wind should prove favorable.
Whilst they were gone upon this busi-
ness, Lady Arundel and I sat in the
chamber which looked into the court,
making such simple preparations as
would escape notice for our wedding,
and the departure which should speed-
ily afterward ensue.

" I will not yield thee," her lady-
ship said, " to be married except in
a white dress and veil, which I shall
hide in a chamber nigh unto the ora-
tory, where I myself wiD attire thee,
dear love; and see, this morning
early I went out alone into the garden
and gathered this store of rosemary,
for to make thee a nosegay to wear- in
thy bosom. Father Southwell saith
it is used at weddings for an emblem
of fidelity. If so, who should have
so good a right to it as my Constance
and her Basil ? But I will lay it up
in a casket, which shall conceal it the
while, and aid to retain the scent
thereof."

" O dear lady," I cried, seizing her
hands, "do you remember the day
wheA you plucked rosemary in our
old ganlen at Sherwood, and smiling,
said to me, ' This meaneth remem-
brance?' Since it signifieth fidelity
also, well should you afiTection it ; for
where shall be found one so faithful
in love and friendship as you ?"

" Weep not," she said, pressing her
fingers on her eyelids to stay her own
tears. " We must needs thank Grod
and be joyful on the eve of thy wed-
ding-day ; and I am resolved to meet
my lord also with a cheerful counte-
nance, so that not in gloom but in
hope he shall lea v» his native land."

In converse such as this the hours
went swiftly by. Sometimes we talk-
ed of the past, its many strange haps
and changes ; sometimes of the future,
forecasting the manner of our lives
abroad, where in safaty, albeit in pov-
erty, we hoped to spend our days. In

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Oonslance Sherwood.-

the aitemoon there arrived at the cas-i
tie mj Lord William Howard and his
wife and Ladj Margaret Sackville,
who, having notice of their brother's
intent to go beyond ' season the next
day, if it should be possible, had come
for to bid him farewelL

Leaving Lady Arundel in their
company, I went to the terrace under-
neath die walls of the castle, and
there paced up and down, chewing
the cud of both sweet and sad memo-
ries. I looked at the 'soft blue sky
and fleecy clouds, urged along by a
westerly breeze impregnated with a
salt savor; on the emerald green of
the fields, the graceful forms of the
leafless trees on the opposite hills, on
the cattle peacefully resting by the
river-side. I listed to the rustling of
the wind amongst the bare branches
over mine head, and the bells of a
church ringing far ofl^ in the valley.
'* O England, mine own England,
my fair native land — am I to leave
thee, never to return P' I cried, speak-
ing aloud, as if to ease my oppressed
heart. Then mine eyes rested on the
ruinedi hospital of the town, the shut-
up churches, the profaned sanctuaries,
and thought flying beyond the seas
to a Catholic land, I exclaimed, '^ The
sparrow shall find herself a house,
and the turtle-dove a nest for herself
— the altars of the Lord of hosts, my
king and my God."

When Basil returned, he told me
that the vessel which was to take us
to France was lying out at sea near
the coast Lord Arundel and himself
had gone in a boat to speak with the
captain, who did seem a particular
honest man and zealous Catholic;
and the earl had bespoken some need-
ful accommodation for Mistress Mar-
tingale, he said, smiling; not very
commodious, indeed, but as good as on
board the like craft could be expected.
If the wind remained in the same
quarter in the afternoon of the mor-
row, we should then sail ; if it should
change, so as to be most unfavorable,
the captain should send private no-
tice of it to the castle.

The whole of that evening the earl
spent ia^writing a letter to her majes-
ty. He feared that his enemies, after
lus departure, would, by their slander-
ous reports, endeavor to disgrace him
with the people, and cause the queen
to have sinister surmises of him. He
confided this letter to the Lady Mar-
garet, his sister, to be delivered unto
her after his arrival in France; by
which it might appear, both to her
and all others, what were the true
causes which had moved him to under-
take that resolution.

I do often think of that evening in
the great chamber of the castle— the
young earl in the vigorous strength
and beauty of manhood, his comely
and fair face now bending over hie
writing, now raised with a noble and
manly grief, as he read aloud portions
of it, which, methinks, would have
touched any hearts to hear them ; and
how much the more that loving wife,
that afiectJonate sister, that faithftil
brother, those devoted friends which
seemed to be in some sort witnesses of
his last will before a final parting!
I mind me of the sorrowful, dove-like
sweetness of Lady Arundel's counte-
nance; the flashing eyes of Lady
Margaret; the loving expression,
veiled by a studied haidness, of Lord
William's face ; of his wife my Lady
Bess's reddening cheek and tearful
eyes, which she did conceal behind
the coif of her childish namesake sit-
ting on her knees. When he had
finished his letter, with a somewhat
moved voice the earl read the last
passages thereof: **If my protesta-
tion, who never told your majesty any
untruth, may carry credit in your
opinion, I here call God and his an-
gels to witness that I would not have
taken this course if I might have
stayed in England without danger of
my soul or peril of my life. I am
enforced to forsake my country, to
forget my friends, to leave my wife,
to lose the hope pf all worldly pleas-
ures and earthly commodities. All
this is so grievous to flesh and blood,
that I coiUd not desire to live if I

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773

were not comforted with the remem-
brance of his mercy for* whom I en-
dure all this, who endnred ten thou-
sand times more for me. Therefore
I remain in assured hope that myself
and my cause shall receive that favor,
conceit, and rightful construction at
your majesty's hands which I may
justly challenge. I do humbly crave
pardon for my long and tedious letter,
which the weightiness of the matter
enforced me unto; and I beseech
God £rom the bottom of my heart .to
send your majesty as great happiness
as I wish to mine own soul."

A time of silence followed the read-
ing of these sentences, and tnen the
carl said in a cheerful manner :

** So, good Meg, I commit this pro-
testation to thy good keeping. When
thou hearest of my safe arrival in
France, then straightway see to have
it placed in the queen's hands."

The rest of the evening was spent
in affectionate converse by these near
kinsfolk. Basil and I repaired the
while by the secret passage to Father
Southwell's chamber, where we were
in turn shriven, and afterward re-
ceived from him such good counsel
and rules of conduct as he deemed
fitting for married persons to observe.
Before I left him, this good father
gave me, writ in his own hand, some
sweet verses which >he had that day
composed for us, and which I do here
transcribe. He, smiling, said he had
made mention of fishes in his poem,
for to pleasure so famous an angler as
Basil ; and of birds, for that he knew
me to be a great lover of these soaring
creatures:

'* Tbe lopped tree in time may grow again.
Moat naked planta renew both firuit and

flower ;
The sorept wight may flnd release of pain.
The driest soil suck in some moistening

shower ;
Times go by tnm, and chances diange by

course.
From fonl to fhir, from better hap to worse.

*The sea of fortune doth not over flow.
She draws her Ikvors'to the lowest ebb ;
Her time hath equal tfanes to come and go.
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest

web :
No ioy so great but mnneth to an end.
No nap so hard but may in fine amend.

* A chance may win that by mischance was lost.
The well that holds no great, takes little flsh ;
In some things all, in all things none are

crossed.
Few all they need, but none have all they

wish;
Unmeddled Joys here to no man befkl.
Who least have some, who most have never

all.

* Not always fhll of leaf, nor ever spring ;
No endless nieht, yet not eternal day ;
The saddest birds a. season find to sing ;
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay ;
Thus with succeeding »- - •

all,

turns uod tompereth

That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fkU."

The common sheet of paper which
doth contain this his writing hath a
greater value in mine eyes than the
most rich gift that can be thought of.

On the next morning. Lady Arun-
del conducted me from mine own
chamber, first into a room where with
her own hands she arrayed me in my
bridal dress, and with many tender
kisses and caresses, such as a sister or
a mother would bestow, testified her
affection for her poor friend ; and
thence to the oratory, where the altar
was prepared, and by herself in se-
-cret decked with early primroses,
which had begun to show in the woods
and neath the hedges. A small but
noble company were gathered round
us that day. From pure and holy
lips the Church's benison came to us.
The vows we exchanged have been
faithfully observed, and long years
have set a seal on the promises then
made. ■

Basil's wife I Oh, what a whole
compass of happiness did lie in those
two words I Yea, the waves of the
sea might now rage and the winds
blow. The haven might be distant
and the way thither insecure. Man's en-
mity or accident might yet rob us each
of the other's visible presence. But
naught could now sever the coi'd,
strong like unto a cable cham, which
bound our souls intone. Anchored in
that wedded unity, which is one of
God's sacraments, till death, ay, and
beyond death also, this tie should last.

We have been young, and now are
old. We have lost country, home,
and almost every friend known and
affecttoned in our young years; but

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Comtanee Sherwood.

that deepest, holiest lore, the type of
Christ's union with his Church, still
doth shed its light over the evening
of life. Mj dear Basil, J am assured,
thinks roe as fair as when we did sit
together fishing on the hanks of the
Ouse ; and his hoary head and with-
ered cheeks are more lovely in mine
eyes than ever were his auhum locks
and ruddy complexion. One of us
must needs die before the other, un-
less we should be so happy that that
. good should befal us as to end our
days as two aged married persons I
have heard of. It was the husband's
custom, as soon as ever he unclosed
his eyes, to ask his wife how she did ;
but one night, he being in a deep
sleep, she quietly departed toward the
morning. He was that day to have
gone out a-hunting, and it was his cus-
tom to have his chaplain pray with
him before he went out. The women,
fearful to surprise him with the ill
news, had stolen out and acquainted the
chapfaun, desiring him to inform him
of it. But the gentleman waking did
not on that day, as was his custonii
ask for his wife, but called his chap-
lain to prayers, and, joining with him,
in the midst of the prayer expired,
and both were buried in the same
grave. Methinks this should be a
very desirable end, only, if it pleased
God, I would wish to have the last
sacraments, and then to^e just before
Basil, when his time cometh. But
God knoweth best ; and any ways we
arc so old and so near of an age, one
cannot tarry very long behind when
the other is gone.

Being at rest after our marriage
touching what concerned ourselves,
compassion for Lady Arundel filled our
hearts. Alas I how bravely and how
sweetly she bore this parting grief.
Her intense love for her lord, and
sorrow at their approaching separa-
tion, struggled with her resolve not to
sadden their last hours, which were
prolonged beyond expectancy. For
once on that day, and twice on that
which followed, when all was made
ready for departure, a message came

from the captain for to say the wind*
and another time the tide, wonld not
serve ; and albeit each time, like a re-
prieved person. Lady Arundel wel-
comed the delay, methinks these re-
tardments served to increase her suf-
ferings. Little Bess hung fondly on
her father^s neck the last time he re-
turned from Littlehampton with the
tidings the vessel would not sail for
some hours, kissing his face and play-
ing with his beard.

"Ah, dearest Phil!" her mother
cried, " the poor babe rejoiceth in the
sight of thee, all unwitting in her in-
nocent glee of the shortness of this
joy. Howsoever, methinks ^ve or
six hours of it is a boon for to thank
God for ;" and so putting her arm in
his, she led him away to a solitary
part of the garden, where they walk-
ed to and fro, she, as she hath since
written to me, starting each time the
clock did strike, like one doomed to
execution. Mctliinks there was this
difference between them, that he was
full of hope and bright forccastings of
a speedy reunion ; but on her soul lay
a dead, moundul despondency, which
she hid by an apparent cS&lmness.
When, late in the evening, a third
message came for to say the ship
could not depart that night, I begun
to til ink it would never go at alL I
saw Basil looked at the weathercock
and shrugged his shoulders, as if the
same thought was in his mind. But
when I spake of it, he said seafaring
folks had a knowledge in these mat-
ters which others did not possess, and
we must needs be patient under
these delays. Howsoever, at three
o'clock in the morning the shipman
signified that the wind was fit and all
in readiness. So we rose in haste
and prepared for to depart The
countess put her arms about my neck,
and this was the last embrace I ever
had of her. My lord's brother and
sisters hung about him awhile in great
grief. Then his wife put out her
hands to him, and, with a sorrow too
deep for speech, fixed her eyes on his
visage.

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Cdnstance Sherwood,

775

** Cheep up, sweetest wife," I heard
him say. "Albeit nature sulBfers in
this severance from my native land,
my true home shall be wherever it
shall please God to bring thee and me
and our children together. Grod de-
fend the loss of this world's good
should make us sad, if we be but
once so blessed as to meet again
where we may freely serve him.'*

Then, after a long and tender clasp-
ing of her to his breast, he tore him-
self away and getting on a horse rode
to the coast. Basil and I, with Mr.
William Bray and Mr. Burlace, drove
in a coach to the port. It was yet
dark, and a heavy mist hung on the
valley. Folks were yet abed, and
the shutters of the houses closed, as
we went down the hill through the
town. After crossing tbe bridge over
the Amn the air felt cold and chilL
At the steep ascent near Leominster
I put my head out of the window for
to look once more at the castle, but
the fog was too thick. At the port
the coach stopped, and a boot was
found waiting for usi Lord 4>ron<)^l
was seated in it, with bis ^use muffled
in a cloak. The savor of the sea air
revived my spirits; and when the
boat moved off, and I felt the waves
lifting it briskly, and with my hand
in Basil's I looked on the land we
were leaving, and then on the waitery
world before us, a singular emotioa
filled my soul, as if it was some sort
of death was happening to me — a dy-
ing to the past, a gliding on to an un-
known future on a pathless ocean,
rocked peacefully in the arms of his
sheltering love, even as this little bark
which carried us along was lifted up
and caressed by the waves of the
deep sea.

When we reached the vessel the
day was dawning. The sun soon
emerged from a bank of clouds, and
threw its first light on the rippling
waters. A favoring wind filled our
sails, and like a bird on the wing the
ship bounded on its way till the fiat
shore at Littlehainpton and the far-
off white difis to the eastward were

well-nigh lost sight of. Lord Arundel
stood with Basil on the narrow deck,
gazing at the receding coast.

"How sweet the air doth blow
from England !" he said ; " how blue
the sky doth appear to-day I and those
saucy seagulls how free and happy
they do look!" Then he noticed
some fishing-boats, and with a tele-
scope he had in his hand discerned va-
rious ships very far off. Afterward
he came and sat down by my side,
and spoke in a cheerful manner of
his wife and the simple home he de-
signed for her abroad. " Some years
ago, Mistress Constance," he said —
and then smiling, added, " My tongue
is not yet used to call you Mistress
Rookwood — when my sweet Nan, al-
beit a wife, was yet a simple child^
she was wont to say, ' Phil, would we -
were farmers! You would plough
the fields and cut wood in the forest,
and I should milk the cows and feed
the poultry.' Well, methinks her
wish may yet come to pass. In Brit-
tany or Normandy some little home-
stead should shelter us, where Bess
shall roll on the grass and gather the
fallen apples, and on Sundays put on
her bravest clothes for to go to mass.
What think you thereof, Mistress
Constanee? and who knoweth but
you and your good husband may also
dwell in the same village, and some
eighteen or twenty years hence a gay
wedding for to ^ke place betwixt one
Master Rookwood and one Lady Ann
or Margaret Howard, or my Lord
Maltravers with one Mistress Con-
stance or Muriel Rookwood? And
on the green on such a day, Nan and
Basil and yoa and I should lead the
brawls."

" Methinks, my lord," I answered,
smiling, ^ you do forecast too great a
condescension on your part, and too
much ambition on our side, in the
planning o^ such a union."

"Well, well," he said; "if your
good husband carrieth not beyond
seas with him the best earl's title in
England, TU warrant you in God's
sight he weareth a hij^r one flur

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776

Ckmtia$heB Sherwood,

&wa,j — the merit of an unstainecT life
and constant nobility of action ; and I
promise you, beside, he will be the
better fanner of the twain ; so that in
the matter of tocher, Mistress Rook-
wood should exceed mj Ladj Bess or
Ann Howard."

With such-like talk as this time
was whiled away; and whilst we
were yet conversing I noticed that
Basil spoke often to the captain and
looked for to be watching a ship yet
at some distance, but which seemed to
be gaining on us. Lord Arundel, per-
ceiving it, then also joined them, and
inquired what sort of craft it should
be. The captain professed to be igno-
rant thereof; and when Basil said it
looked like a small ship-of-war, and as
there were many dangerous pirates
about the Channel it should be well
to guard against it, he assented there-
to, and said he was prepared for de-
ience.

" With such unequal means," Basil
replied, " as it is like we should bring
to a contest, speed should serve us
better than defence."

" But," quoth Lord Arundel, " she
is, 'tis plain, a swifter sailer than this
one we are in. Crod's will be done,
but 'tis a heavy misfortune if a pirate
at this time do attack us, and so few
moneys with us for to spare I"

Now none of our eyes could detach
themselves from this pursuing vessel.
The captain eluded further talk, on
pretence for to give orders and move
some guns he had aboard on deck;
but it wafl vain for to think of a hand-
ful of men untrained to sea-warfare
encountering a superior force, such as
this ship must possess, if its designs
should be hostile. As it moved nigh-
er to us, we could perceive it to be
well manned and armed. And the
captain then exclaimed :
« lis Keloway's ship r
This man was of a notorious, infa-
mous life, well known for lus searrob-
beries and depredations in^e Chan-
nel.

« God yield," murmured the earl,
** he shall content himself ^vMi the

small sum we can deliver to liltt and
not stay us any further."

A - moment afterward we wert
boarded by this man, who, with his
crew, thrice as numerous as ours and
armed to the teeth, comes on our deck
and takes possession of the ship.
Straightway he walks to the earl and
tells him he doth know him, and had
watched his embarkation, being re-
solved to follow him and exact a
good ransom at his hands, which if he
would pay without contention, he
should himself, without further stop
or stay, pass Lim and his two gentle-
men into France, adding, he should
take no less from him than one hund-
red pounds.

^ I have not eo much, or near unto
it, with me," Lord Arundel said.

*^ But you can write a word or two
to any friend of yours from whom I
may receive it " quoth Keloway.

**Well," said the earl, «« seeing I
'have pressing occasion for to go to
France, and would not be willingly
delayed, I must needs consent to your
terms, no choice therein being allowed
me. Gret me some paper," he said to
Mr. William Bray.

'• Should this be prudent, my lord ?"
Basil whispered in his ear.

''There is no help for it, Master
Rookwood," the earl replied. ** Be-
side, there is honor even amongst
thieves. Once secure of his money*
this man hath no interest in detaining
us, but rather the contrary."

And without further stopping, he
hastily wrote a few linei to his sister
the Lady Margaret SackvUle, in Lon-
don, that she should speak to Mr.
Bridges, alias Grately, a priest, to
give one hundred pounds to the bear-
er thereof, by the token that was be-
tween them, that black is tthiie, and
withal assured her that he now cer-
tainly hoped to have speedy passage
without impediment As soon as this
paper was put into Kellowa/s hand,
he read it, and immediately called on
his men for to arrest the Earl of
Arundel, producing an order from
the queen's council for to prove he

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OnuUmce SAenffood.

777

was appointed to wateh tiiere for him,
and carry him back i^ain to land
where her majesty's officers did await

An indescribable anguish seised
my heart; an oyerwhelming grief,
such as methinks no other eyent,
howsoever sad or tragical, or yet more
nearly touching me, had ever wrought
in my soul, which I ascribe to a pre-
sentiment that this should be the first
link of that long chain of woes which
was to follow.

^ O, my lord I^ I exclaimed, almost
falling at his feet, ^< God help you to
bear this too heavy blow l"

He took me by the hand; and
never till I die shall I lose the mem*
ory of the sweet serenity and noble
steadfastness of his visage in this try-
ing hour.

^ God willeth it," he gently said ;
^ his holy will be done ! He will work
good out of what seemeth evil to us."
And then gaily added, '*We had
thought to travel the same way ; now
we must needs journey apart. Never
fear, good friends, but both roads shall
lead to heaven, if we do but tread
them piously. My chief sorrow is for
Nan ; but her virtue is so great, that
affliction will never rob her of such
peace as God only giveth."

Then this angelic man, forecasting
for his friends in the midst of this ter-
rible mishap, passed into Basil's hands
his pocket-book, and said, ^ This shall
pay your voyage, good friend ; and if
aught doth remain afterward, let the
poor have their share of it, for a
thank«ofiering, when you reach the
shore in safety."

Basil, I saw, could not speak ; his
heart was too fuU. O, what a parting
ensued on that sad ocean whose waves
had seemed to dance so joyously a
short space before 1 With what ach-
ing hearts we pressed the young earl's
hand, and watehed him pass into the
other ship, accompanied by his two
gentlemen, which were with him ar-
rested I No heed was taken of us ;
and Kelloway, having secured his
prey, abandoned our vessel, the cap-

tain of which seemed uneasy and ill-
disposed to speak with us. We did
then suspect, which doubt hath been
since confirmed, that this seeming
honest Catholic man had acted a trai-
tor's part, and that those many delays
had been used for the very purpose of
staying Lord Arandel until such time
as aU was prepared for his capture.
The wind, which was in our favor,,
bore us swiftly toward the French
coast ; and we soon lost sight of the
vessel which carried the earl back to
the shores of England. Fancy, you
who i^ead, what pictures we needs
must then have formed of that reium ;
of the dismal news reaching the af-
flicted wife, the sad sister, the mourn-
ful brother, and friends now scattered
apart, so lately clustered round him !
Alas I when we landed in France, at
the port of Calais, the sense of our
own safety was robbed of half its joy
by fears and sorrowing for the dear
friends whose fortunes have proved
so dissimilar to our own.

OHiLPTBB xxvm.

The deep dear azure of the French
sky, the lightsome pure air, the quaint
houses, and outlandish dresses of the
people in Calais ; the sound of a for-
eign tongue understood, but not fami-
liar, for a brief time distracted my
mind from painful themes. Basil led
me to the church for to give thanks to
God for his mercies to us, and mostly
did it seem strange to me to enter an
edifice in which he is worshipped in
a Catholic manner, which yet hath the
form and appearance of a church, and
resembles not the concealed chambers
in our country wherein mass is said ;
an open visible house fer the King of
kings, not a hiding-place, as in Eng-
land. After we had pntyed there a
short tune, Basil put into a box at the
entrance the money which liord
Arundel had designed for the poor.
A pale thin man stood at the door,
which, when we passed, said, ^ God

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778

Chnskmee Sherwood.

bless 700!'' Basil looked earnestly
at him, and then exclaimed, "As I
live, Mr. Watson T " Yea," the good
man answered, " the same, or rather
the shadow of the same, risen at the
last from the bed of sickness. O Mr.
Kookwood, I am glad to see you I"
^< And so am I to meet with you, Mr.
Watson," Basil answered; and then
told this dear friend who I was, and
the sad hap of Lord Arunde), which
moved in him a great concern for that
young nobleman and his excellent
lady. Many tokens of regard and in-
terchange of information passed be-
tween UF. He showed us where he
lived, in a small cottage near unto the
ramparts ; and nothing would serve
him but to gather for me in the gar-
den a nosegay of early flowerets which
just had raised their heads above the
sod. He said Dr.- Allen had sent
him money in his sickness, and an
English lady married to a French
gentleman provided for his wants.
^ Ah ! that was the good madame I
told you of," Basil cried, turning to
me ; " who would have harbored .

" Then he stopped short ;

but Mr. Watson had caught his mean-
ing, and with tears in his eyes said :
"Fear not to speak of her whose
death bought my life, and it may be
also my soul's safety. For, God
knoweth, the thought of her doth
never forsake me so much as for one
hour ;" and thereupon we parted with
much kindness on both sides. That
night we lay at a small hostelry in (he
town ; and the next morning hired a
cart with one horse, which carried us
to Boulogne in one day, and thence to
this village, where we have lived since
for many years in great peace, I
thank Gt)d, and vOy much content-
ment of mind, and no regrets save
such as do arise in the hearts of exiles
without hope of return to a beloved
native country.

The awaiting of tidings firom Eng-
land, which were long delayed, was at
the first a very sore trial, and those
which reach^ us at* last yet more
grievous than that suspense. Lord

Arundel committed (0 the Tower ; his
brother the Lord William and his sis-
ter the Lady Margaret not long afler
arrested, which was more grief to
him, his lady wrote to me, than all
his own troubles and imprisonment.
But, O my God ! how weU did that
beginning match with what was to fol-
low I Those ten years which were
spent amidst so many sufferings of all
sorts by these two noble persons, thai
the recital of them would move to pity
the most strong heart.

Mine own sorrows, leastways all
sharp ones, ended with my passage
into France. If Basil showed himself
a worthy lover, he hath proved a yet
better husband. His nature doth so
delight in doing good that it wins him
the love of all our neighbors. His
life is a constant exercise of charity.
He is most indulgent to his wife and
kind to his children, of which it hath
pleased God to give him three — one
boy and two girls, of as comely vis-
ages and commendable dispositions as
can reasonably be desired. He hath
a most singular affection for aU such
as do suffer for their region, and
cherishes them with an extraordinary
bounty to the limits of his ability ; his
house being a common resort for all
banished CathoHcs which land at Bou-
logne, from whence he doth direct
them to such persons as can assist
them in their need. His love toward
my unworthy self hath never decreas-
ed. Methinks it rather doth increase
as we advauoe in years. We have
ever been actuated as by one .soul;
and never have any two wills agreed
so well as Basil's and mine in all
aims in this world and hopes for the
next. If any, in the reading of this
history, have only cared for mine own
haps, I pray them to end their peru-
sal of it here; but if, even as my
heart hath been linked from early
years with Lady Arundel's, ^ere be
any in which my poor writing hath
awakened somiewhat of that esteem for
her virtues and resentment of her
sorrows which hath grown in me from
long experience of her singular wotrfch;

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779

if the noble atonement for jouthfol
offences and follies already shown in
her lord's return to his dutj to her,
and altered behavior in respect to
Grod, hath also moved them to desire
a further knowledge of the manner in
which these two exalted souls were
advanced by long affliction to a high
point of perfection — then to such the
following pages shall not be wholly
devoid of that interest which the true
recital of great misfortune doth habit-
ually carry with it If none other
had written the life of that noble lady,
methinks I must have essayed to do it ;
but having heard that agood clei^man
hath taken this task in hand, secretly
preparing materials whilst she yet lives
wherewith to build her a memorial at
a future time, I have restrained my-
self to setting down what, by means
of her own writing or the reports of
others, hath reached my knowledge
ix>nceming the ten years which fol-
lowed my last parting with her.
This was the first letter I received
from this afflicted lady after her lord's
arrest:

« O MT DBAB Friend — What days
these have proved ! Believe me, I nev-
er looked for a favorable issue of this
enterprise. When I first had notice
thereof, a notable chill fell on my soul,
which never warmed again with hope.
When I began to pray after hearing
of it, I had what methinks the holy
Juliana of Norwich (whose cell we
did once visit together, as I doubt not
thou dost remember) would have call-
ed a foreshowing, or, as others do ex-
press it, a presentiment of coming
eviL But how soon the effect fol-
lowed 1 I had retired to rest at nine of
the clock ; and before I was undress-
ed Bertha came in with a most down-
cast countenance. 'What news is
there P I quickly asked, misdoubting
some misfortune had happened. Then
she began to weep. ' Is my lord
taken ?* I cried, *or worse befallen
him ? ' He is taken,' she answered,
< and is now being carried to London
for to be committed to the Tower.

Master Halph, the port-master, bath
brought the news. A man, an hour
ago, had reported as much in the
town; but Mr. Fawcett would not
suffer your ladyship to be told of iU
before a greater certainty thereof
should appear. O woe be the day my
lord ever embarked I' Then I heard
sounds of wailing and weeping in the
gallery; and opening the door, found
Bessy's nurse and some other of the
servants lamenting in an uncontrolled
fashion. I could not shed one tear,
but gave orders they should fetch un-
to me the man which had brought
the tidings. From him I heard more
fully what had happened ; and then,
in the same composed manner, de-
sired my coach and horses for to be
made ready to take me to London the
next day at daybreak, and dismissed
everybody, not suffering so much as
one woman to sit up with me. When
all had retii*ed, I put on my cloak and
hood ; and listing first if all was quiet,
went by the secret passage to the
chapel-room. When I got there. Fa-
ther Southwell was in it, saying his
office. When he saw me enter at that
unusual hour, methinks the truth was
made known to him at once ; for he
only took me by the hand, and said :
^ My child, this would be too hard to
bear if it were not God's sweet will ;
but being so, what remaineth but to
lie still under a Father^s merciful in-
fliction?' and then he took out the
crucifix, which for safety was locked
up, and set it on the idtar. 'That
shall speak to you better than I can,'
he said ; and verily it did ; for at the
sight of my dying Saviour I wept.
The whole night was spent in devout
exercises. At dawn of day Father
Southwell said mass, and I received.
Then, before any one was astir, I re-
turned to mine own chamber, and, ly-
ing down for a few moments, after-
ward rung the bell, and ordered
horses to be procured for to travel to
London, whence I write these lines.
I have here heard this report of my
dear lord's journey from one which
conversed with Sir George Carey,

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Oatuianee Sherwood,

who commanded the gaard which con-
ducted him, that he was nothing at all
daunted with so unexpected a misfor-
tune, and not only did endore it with
great patience and courage, but, more*
orer, carried it with a jojfal and mer-
ry countenance. One night in the
waj he lodged at Guildford, where
seeing the master of the inn (who
sometime was our servant, and who
hath written it to one of my women, his
sister), and some others who wished
well unto him, weeping and sorrowing
for his misfortunes, he comforted them
all, and willed them to be of good
cheer, because it was not for any
crime — ^treason or the like— he was
apprehended, but only for attempting
to leave the kingdom, the which he
had done only for bis own safety.
He is soon to be examined by some
of the council sent to the Tower for
this special purpose by the queen. I
have sought to obtain access to him,
but been flatly reused, and a hint
ministered to me that albeit my resi-
dence at Arundel House is tolerated
at the present, if the queen should
come to stay at Somerset House, which
she is soon like to do, my departure
hence shall be enforced ; but while I
remain I would fain do some good to
persons afflicted as myself. I pray
you, my good Constance, when you
And some means to despatch me a
letter, therewith to send the names
and addresses of some of the poor
folks Muriel was wont to visit ; for I
am of opinion grief should not make
us selfish, but rather move us to re-
lieve in others the pains of which we
feel the sharp edge ourselves. I have
already met by accident with many
necessitous persons, and they do be-
gin in great numbers to resort to this
house. Grod knoweth if the means to
relieve them will not be soon lacking.
But to make hay whilst the sun shines
is a wise saying, and in some instances
a precept Alas I the sunshine of joy
is already obscured for me. Except
for these poor pensioners, that of for-
tune causeth me small concern. — Thy
loving friend, A« A. ahd S.**

^Tnil and Meg arc at present in
separate prisons. It is impossible but
that she shall be presently released ;
for against her nothing can be alleged,
so much as to give a pretence for an
accusation. My lord and Will's joint
letter to Dr. Allen, sent by Mr. Brydg-
es — ^who^ out of confidence, mentioned
it to Mr. Gifford, a pretended priest,
who lives at Paris, and is now discov-
ered to be a spy — ^is the ground of the
charges against them. How utterly
unfounded thou well knowest ; bat so
much as to write to Dr. Allen is now
a crime, howsoever innocent the matter
of such a correspondence should be.
I do fear that in one of his letters —
but I wot not if of this they have pos-
session — my lord, who had just heard
that the Earl of Leicester had openlj
vowed to make the name of Catholic
as odious in England as the name of
Turk, did say, in manner of a jest, that
if some lawful means might be found
to take away this earl, it would be a
great good for Catholics in England ;
which careless sentence may be twisted
by his enemies to his disadvantage.**

Some time afterward, a person pass-
ing from London to Rheims, brought
me this second letter from her lady-
ship, written at Rumford, in Essex:

"What I have been ivamed of ver-
ily hath happened. Upon the queen's
coming to Ixmdon last month, it was
signified to me I should leave it. Now
that Father Southwell hath been re-
moved from Arundel Castle, and no
priest at this time can live in it, I did
not choose to be delivered there, with-
out the benefit of spiritual assistance
in case of danger of death, and so
hired a house in this town, at a short
distance of which a recusant gentle-
man doth keep one in his house. I
came from London without obtaining
leave so much as once to see my dear
husband, or to send him a letter or
message, or receive one from him.
But this I have learnt, that he cannot
speak with any person whatsoevcOrbut
in the presence and hearing of his

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781

keeper or the lieutenant of ihe Tower,
and that the room in which he is locked
up has no sight of the sun for the great*
est part of the jear ; so that if not
changed before the winter oometh it
shall prove very unwholesome; and
moreover the noisomeness thereof
caused bj a vault that is under it is so
great that the keeper can scarce en-
dure to enter into it, much less to stay
there any time. Alas! what ravages
shall this treatment cause on a frame
of great niceness and delicate habits, I
leave jou to judge. By this time he
hath been examined twice ; and albeit
forged letters were produced, the fals-
ity of which the council were forced to
admit, and he was charged with noth-
ing which could be substantiated, ex-
cept leaving the realm without license
of the queen, and being reconciled to
the Church of Rome, his sentence is
yet deferred, and his imprisonment as
strict as ever. I pray God it may
not be deferred till his health is
utterly destroyed, which, I doubt not,
is what his enemies would most de-
sire.

*^ Last evening I had the exceeding
great comfort of the coming hither of
mine own dear good Meg, who hath been
some time released from prison, with
many vexatious restraints, howsoever,
still laid upon her. Albeit very much
advanced in her pregnancy, nothing
would serve her when she had leave
to quit London but to do me this good.
This is the first taste of joy I have
had since my lord's commitment In
her face I behold his ; when she speaks
I hear him. No talk is ministered be-
tween us but of that beloved husband
and brother ; our common prayers are
put up for him. She hath spied his
spies for to discover all which relates
to him, and hath found means to con-
vey to him — ^I thank God for it — some
books of devotion, which he greatly
needed. She is yet a-bed this morn-
ing, for we sat up late yester-eve, so
sweet, albeit sad, was the converse we
held afler so many common sufferings.
But methinks I grudge her these hours
of sleep, longing for to hear again those

loved accents which mind me of my
dear FhiL

^ My pen had hardly traced those last
words, when a messenger arrived from
the council with an express command
to Margaret £rom her msyesty not to
stay wiUi me another night, but forth-
with to return to London. The sur-
prise and fear which this message oc-
casioned hastened the event which
should have yet been delayed some
weeks. A few hours after (I thank
Grod, in safety) a fair son was bom;
but in the mother's heart and mine ap-
prehension dispelled joy, lest enforced
disobedience should produce fresh
troubles. Howsoever, she recovered
quickly ; and as soon as she could be
removed I lost her sweet company.
Thine affectionate friend to command,

« A A. AND S.**

Some time afterward, one Mr. Dix-
on, a gentleman I had met once or
twice in London, tarried a night at our
house, and brought me the news that
God had given die Countess of Arun-
del a son, which she had earnestly de-
sired her husband should be informed
of, but he heard it had been refused.
Howsoever, when he was urgent with
his keepers to let him know if she had
been safely dehvered, they gave him
to understand that she had another
daughter ; his enemies not being will-
ing he should have so much content-
ment as the birth of a son should have
yielded him.

"' Doth the queen,'' I asked of this
gentleman, ^ then not mitigate her an-
ger against these noble persons ?"

« So far from it," he answered, "that
when, at the beginning of this trouble,
Lady Arundel went to Sir Francis
Knowles for to seek by his means to
obtain an audience from her majesty,
in order to sue for her husband, he told
her she would sooner release him at
once-^which, howsoever, she had no
mind to do— than only once allow her
to enter her presence. He then, her
ladyship told me, rated her exceeding-
ly, asking if she and her husband were
not ashamed to make themselves pa-

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Oonttance Sherwood,

pista, only out of spleen and peeviah
humor to cross and vex the queen?
She answered him in the same man-
ner as her lord did one of his keepers,
who told him very many in the king-
dom were of opinion that he made
show to be Catholic only out of policy;
to whom he said, with great mildness,
that God doth know the secrets of all
hearts, but that he thought there was
email policy for a man to lose his lib-
erty, hazard his estate and life, and
live in that manner in a prison as he
then did."

A brief letter fro/n Lndy Tregony
informed me soon after this that, after
a third examination, the court had fined
Lord Arundel in £10,000 unto the
queen and adjudged him to imprison*
ment during her pleasure. What that
pleasure proved, ten years of unmiti-
gated suffering and slow torture evinc-
ed; one of the most grievous of which
was that his lady could never obtain
for to see him, albeit other prisoners'
wives had easy access to them. This
touching letter I had from her three
years after he was imprisoned:

"Mine own good Frieni>— Life
doth wear on, and relief of one sort
leastways comes not ; but Grod forbid
I should repine. For such instances I
see in the letters of my dear lord —
which when some of his servants do
leave the Tower, which, worn out as
they soon become *by sickness, they
must needs do to preserve their lives —
he findcth means to write to me or to
Father Southwell, that I am ashamed
to grieve overmuch at anything which
doth befal us — when his willingness
and contentment to suffer are so great
As when he saith to that good father,

* For all crosses touching worldly mat-
ters, I thank God they trouble me not
much, and •much the less for your sin-
gular good counsel, which I beseech
our Lord I may often remember ;' and
to me this dear husband writes thus :

* I beseech you, for the love of God,
to comfort yourself* whatsoever shall
happen, and to be best pleased with that
which shall please God best, and be

his will to send. I find that there is
some intent to do me no good, but in-
deed to do me the most good of aU ;
but I am — and, thank God, doubt not
but I shall be by his grace — ^ready to
endure the worst which fiesh and blood
can do unto me.' O Constance, flesh
and blood doth sometimes rebel against
the keen edge of suffering; but I pray
you, my friend, how can I complain
when I hear of this much, long dearly
cherished husband, ascending by steps
the ladder of perfection, advandog
from virtue to virtue as the psalm
saith, never uttering one unsubmissive
word toward Grod, or one resentful one
toward his worst enemies ; making, in
the most sublime manner, of necessity
virtue, and turning his loathsome pris-
on into a religious cell, wherein every
exercise of devotion is duly practised,
and his soul trained for heaven ?

" The small pittance the queen al-
loweth for his maintenance he so spar-
ingly useth, that most of it doth pass
into the hands of the poor or other more
destitute prisoners than himself. But
sickness and disease prey on his frame.
And the picture of him my memoiy
draweth is gradually more effaced in
the living man, albeit vivid in mine
own portraying of it.

There is now a priest imprisoned in
the Tower, not very far from the cham-
ber wherein my lord is confined; one
of the name of Bennet. My lord de-
sired much to meet him, and speak
with him for the comfort of his soul,
and 1 have found means to bring it to
effect by mediation of the iieutenanl^s
daughter, to whom I have g^ven thirty
pounds for her endeavors in procuring
it. And moreover she hath assisted
in conveying into his chamber church-
stuff and all things requisite for the
saying of mass, whereunto she teUs
me, to my indescribable comfort, he
himself doth serve with great humility,
and therein receives the blessed sacra-
ment frequently. Sir Thomas (jrcrard,
she saith, and Mr. Shelly, which are
likewise prisoners at this time, she in-
troduces secretly into his lodgings for
to hear mass and have speech with

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783

hitn. Alas ! what should be a comfort
to him, and so the greatest of joys tome,
the exceeding peril of these times
causeth me to look upon with appre-
hension; for these gentlemen, albeit
well disposed, are not famed for so
mucli wisdom and prudence as him-
self, in not sajing or doing anything
^ which might be an occasion of danger
to him ; and the least lack of wariness,
when there is so much discourse about
the great Spanish fleet which is now
in preparation, should prove like to
be fatal God send no worse hap be-
fal us soon.

'^In addition to these other troubles
and fears, I am nmch molested by a
melancholy vapor, which ascends to
my head, and greatly troubles me since
I was told upon a sudden of the unex-
pected death of Margaret Sackville,
whom, for her many great virtues and
constant affection toward myself, 1 did
so highly esteem and affection/*

From that time for a long while I
had no direct news of Lady Arundel;
but report brought us woful tidmgs
concerning her lord, who, after many
private examinations, had been brought
from the Tower to the King's Bench
Court, in the hall of Westminster,
and there publicly arraigned on the
charge of high treason, the grounds of
which accusation being that he had
prayed and procured others to make
simultaneous prayer for twenty-four
hours, and procured Mr. Bennet to say
a mass of the Holy Ghost, for the suc-
cess of the Spanish fleet Whereas
the whole truth of this matter consisted
in this, that when a report became cur-
rent among the Catholics about Lon-
don that a sudden massacre of them
all was intended upon the flrst landing
of the Spaniards, this coming to the
earFs ear, he judged it necessary that
all Catholics should betake themselves
to prayer, either for the avoiding of
the danger or for the better preparing
themselves thereunto, and so persuad-
ed those in the Tower to make prayer
together for that end, and also sent to
some others for the same purpose,

whereof one of greater prudence and
experience than the rest signified unto
him that perhaps it might be otherwise
interpreted by their enemies than he
intended, wishing him to desist, as pres-
ently thereupon he did ; but it was then
too late. Some which he had trusted,
either out of fear or fair promises,
testified falsely against him — of which
Mr. Bennet was one, who afterward
retracted with bitter anguish his testi-
mony, in a letter to his lordship, which
contained these words : ^' With a
fearful, guilty, unjust^ and most tor-
mented conscience, only for saving
of my life and liberty, I said you
moved me to say a mass for the good
success of the Spanish fleet. For
which unjust confession, or rather ac-
cusation, I do again and again, and to
my life's end, most instantly crave
God's pardon and yours ; and for my
better satisfaction of this, my unjust
admission, I will, if need require,
offer up both life and limbs in averring
my accusation to be, as it is indeed,
aiid as I shall answer before God, an-
gels, and men, most unjust, and only
done out of fear of the Tower, tor-
ments, and death." Notwithstanding
the earl's very stout and constant denial '
of the charge, and pleading the above
letter of Mr. Bennet, retracting his
false statement, he was condemned of
high treason, and had sentence pro-
nounced against him. But the exe-
cution was deferred, and finally the
queen resolved to spare his life, but
yet by no means to release him. His
estates, and likewise his lady's, were
forfeited to the crown, and he at that
time dealt with most unkindly, as the
following letter will show :

"Dejlr Constance — At last I
have found the means of sending a
packet by a safe hand, whjch in these
days, when men do so easily turn trai-
tors—notable instances of which, to
our exceeding pain and trouble, have
lately occurred — ^is no easy matter. I
doubt not but thy fond affectionate
heart hath followed with a sympa-
thetic grief the anguish of mine dur*

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CwMUmce Sherwood^

ing the time past, wherein my hus-
band's life hath been in dailj peril;
and albeit he is now i*espited, yet,
alas I as he saith himself, and useth
the knowledge to the best purpose, he
is but a doomed nuin ; reprieved, not
pardoned; spared, not released. Mine
own troubles beside have been greater
than can be thought of; by virtue of
the forfeiture of my lord's estates and
mine, my home hath been searched
by justices, and no room, no comer,
DO trunk or coffer, lefl unopened and
unransacked. I have often been
brought before the council and most
severely examined. The queen's
officers and others in authority — ^to
whom I am sometimes forced to sue
for favor, or some mitigation of mine
own or my lord's sufferings— -do use
me oflen very harshly, and reject my
petitions with scorn and ' opprobrious
language. All our goods are seized
for the queen. They have left me
nothing but two or three beds, and
these, they do say, but for a time.
When business requires, I am forced
to go on foot, and slenderly attended ;
my coach being taken from me. I
have retained but two of my servants
— ^my children's nurse being one. I
have as yet no alJowanc>e, as is usual
in such cases, for the maintenance of
my family; so I am forced to pay
them and buy victuals with the money
made by the sale of mine own jewels ;
and I am sometimes forced to borrow
and make hard shifts to procure neces-
sary provisions and clothes for the
children ; but if I get eight pounds
a week, which the queen hath been
moved to allow me, then methinks I
shall think myself no poorer than a
Christian woman should be content to
be; and I have promised Almighty
God, if that good shall befal us, to
bestow one. hundred marks out of it
yearly on ^e poor. I am oflen sent
out of London by her majesty's com-
mands, albeit some infirmities I do
now suffer from force me to consult
physicians there. Methinks when I
am at Arundel House I am not whoUy
parted from my lord, albeit my hum-

ble petition, by means of f rieiMlSy to see
him is always denied. When I hear
he is sick, mine anguish increases.
The like favor is often granted to
Lady Latimore and others whose hus-
bands are at thjs time prisoners in the
Tower, but I can never obtain it. The
lieutenant's daughter, whom I do
sometimes see, when she is in a con-
versible mood doth inform me of my
dear husband's condition, and relates
instances of his goodness and patience
which wring and yet comfort mine
heart What think you of his never
having been heard so much as once to
complain of the loss of his goods or
the incommodities of his prison; of
his gentleness and humility where he
is himself concerned ; of his boldness
in defending his religion and her min-
isters, which was alike shown, as well
as his natural cheerfulness, in a con-
versation she told me had passed be-
tween her father, the lieutenant, and
him, a few days ago? You have
heard, I ween, that good Father
Southwell was arrested some time
back at Mr. Bellamy's house; it is
reported by means of the poor un-
happy soul his daughter, whom I met
one day at the door of the prison, at-
tired in a gaudy manner and carry-
ing herself in a bold fashion ; but
when she met mine eye hers fell.
Alas ! poor soul, God help her and
bring her to repentance. Well, now
Father Southwell is in the Tower, my
lord, by Miss Hopton's melons, hath
had once or twice speech with him,
and doth often inquire of the lieuten-
ant about him, which when he did so
the other day he used the words
< blessed father* in speaking of Dim.
The lieutenant (she said) seemed to
take exception thereat, saying, *• Term
you him blessed lather, being as he is
an enemy to his country Y My lord
answered: ' How can that be, seeing
yourself hath told me heretofore that
no fault could be laid unto him but
his religion?' Then the lieutenant
said : ' The last time I was in his cell
your dog, my lord, came in and licked
his han£' Then quoth my lord, pat-

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Oonsictnee SherwoocL

785

ting his dog fondly : ^ I love him the
better for it/ * Perhaps/ qnoth the
lieutenant in a scoffing manner, Mt
might be he came thither to have his
blessing.' To which my lord replied,
* It is no new thing for animals to seek
a blessing at the hands of holy men,
St. Jerome writing how the lions which
had digged St. Paul the hermit's
grave stood waiting with their eyes
upon St. Anthony expecting his bless-
ing.'

^ Is it not a strange trial, mine own
Constance, and one which hath not
befallen many women, to have a
fondly loved husband yet alive, and
to be sometimes so near unto him that
it should take but a few moments to
cross the space which doth divide us,
and yet never behold him ; year after
year passing away, and the heart
waxing sick with delays? Howso-
ever, one sad firm hope I hold, which
keepeth me somewhat careful of my
health, lest I should be disabled when
that time cometh — one on which I fix
my mind with apprehension and de-
sire to defer the approach thereof, yet
pray one day to see it — yea, to five »
long enough for this and then to die^
if it shall please God. When mine
own Philip is on his death-bed, when
the slow consumptive disease which
devoureth his vitals obtameth its end,
then, I ween, no woman upon earth,
none that I ever heard of or could
think of, can deny me to approach
him and receive his last embrace. Oh
that this should be my best comfort,
mine only hope I"

I pass over many intervening let-
teiB from this afflicted lady which at
distant intervals I received, in one of
which she expressed her sorrow at the
execution at Tyburn of her constant
friend and guide, Father Southwell,
and likewise informed me of Mistress
Wells's death in Newgate, and.tran-
Boribe this one, written about six
months afterward, in which she relates
the clofting scene of her husband's life :

" Mine own deab Constance —
All is over now, and my overcharged

VOL. II. 50

heart casteth about for some allevia*
tion in its excessive grief, which may
be I shall find in imparting to one
well acquainted with his virtues and
my love for him what I have learnt
touching the closing scenes of my dear
lord's mortal life. For think not I
have been so happy as to behold him
again, or that he should die in my
arms. No; that which was denied
me for ten long years neither could
his dying prayers obtain. For many
months notice had been given unto
me by his servants and others that his
health was vexy fast declining. One
gentleman particularly told me he
himself believed his end to be near.
His devout exercises were yet increas-
ed — ^the bent of his mind more and
more directed solely toward Grod and
heaven. In those times which were
allotted to walking or other recrea-
tion, his discourse and conversation
either with his keeper or the lieuten-
ant or his own servant, was either
tending to piety or some kind of profit-
able discourse, most oflenof the happi-
ness of those that suffer anything for
our Saviour's sake ; to which purpose
he had writ with his own hand upon the
wall of bis chamber this Latin sen-
tence, ^ Quanto plus afflictionis pro
Christo in hoc ssculo, tanto plus
glorias cum Christo in futurof the
which he used to show to his servants,
inviting them, as well as himself, to
suffer all with patience and alacrity.

** In the month of August tidings
were brought unto me that, sitting at
dinner, he had fallen so verv ill imme-
diately upon the eating of a roasted
teal, that some did suspect him to be
poisoned. I sent him some antidotes,
and all the remedies I could procure ;
but all in vain. The disease had so
possessed him that it could not be re-
moved, but by little and little consnm-
ed his body, so that he became like an
anatomy, having nothing lefl but skin
and bone. Much talk hath been min-
istered anent his being poisoned.
Alas ! my thinking is, and ever shall
be, the slow poison he died of was
lack of ur, of sunshine, of kindness,

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QmsUmce Sherwood.

of loTing aid, of carefiil sjmpathj.
When 1 heard his case was consider-
ed desperate, the old long hopes, sua*
tained for ten jears, that out of the
extremity of grief one honr of com-
fort should arise, woke up ; but now I
was advised not to stir in this matter
mjself, for it should only incense the
queen, who had always hated me;
whereas my lord she once had liked,
and it might be, when she heard he
was dying, she should relent She
had made a kind of promise to some
of his friends that before his death
his wife and children should come
unto him ; whereupon, conceiving that
now his lime in the world could not
be long, he writ a humble letter to
her petitioning the performance of her
promise. The lieutenant of the
Tower carried this letter, and deliver-
ed it with his own hands to the queen,
and brought him her answer by word
of mou£* What think you, mine
own Constance, was the answer she
sent that dying man ? God forgave
her! Philip did; yea, and so do I
— ^not fully at the time, now most
fully. His crown should have be(m
less glorious but for the heart-martyr-
dom she invented*

^ This was her message : ' That if
he would but once go to the Protest-
ant church his request should not only
be granted, but he should moreover
be restored to his honor and estate
with as much £ftvor as she could
show.' Oh, what were estates and
honors to that dying saint ! what her
favor to that departing soul! One
offering, one sacrifice, one final with-
drawing of affection's thirsty and
parched lips from the chalice of a
supreme earthly consolation, and all
was accomplished; the bitterness of
death overpast. He gave thanks to
the lieutenant for his pains; he said
he could not accept her majesty's
offers upon that condition, and added
withal that he was sorry he had but
one life to lose in that cause. A very
worthy gentleman who was present at
this passage related it to me; and
Lord Mountagne I have also had it

from, which^eaid tiie same fitom his
father-in-law, my Lord Dorset Coo-
stance, for a brief while a terrible tu-
mult raged in my souL Think wh&t
it was to know one so long, so
passionately loved, dying nigh onto
and yet apart from me, dying unaided
by any priest — for though he had a
great desire to be assisted by Father
Edmund, by whose means he had been
reconciled, it was by no means permit-
ted that either he or any other priest
should come to him — dying without a
kindred face to smile on him, without
a kinsman for to speak with him and
list to his last wishes. He desired to
see his brother William or his unde
Lord Henry ; at least to take his last
leave of them before his death; but
neither was that small request granted
— ^no, not so much as to see his broth-
er Thomas, though both then and ever
he had been a Protestant And all
this misery was the finit of one stem,
cruel, unbending hatred — of one
proud human will ; a will which was
sundering what God had joined to-
gether. Like a bird against the bars
of an iron cage, my poor heart dash-
ed itself with wild tbrobbings against
these human obstacles. But not for
very long, I thank God; brief was
the storm which convulsed my soul*.
I soon discerned his hand in this great
trial — his will above all human will ;
and while writhing under a Father^s
merciful scouige, I could yet bless
him who held it I pray you, Con-
stance, how should a woman have «i-
dured so great an anguish which had
not been helped by him ? Methinks
what must have sustained me was
that before-mentioned gentleman's re-
port of my dear lord's great piety and
virtue, which made me ashamed of
not striving to resemble him in howso-
ever small a degree. Ob, what a
work Grod wrought in that chosen
soul ! What meekness, what humil-
ity, what nobleness of heart! He
grew so fmnt and weak by degrees
that he was not able to leave his bed.
His physicians coming to visit him
some days before his death, he deaiied

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Omitanee Sh^rtoood*

787

them not to trouble themselTes now
anj more, his case being beyond their
skill. Thej thereupon departing, Sir
Michael BlounU then lieutenant of the
Tower, who had been ever very hard
and harsh unto him, took occasion to
come and visit him, and, kneeling down
bj his bedside, in humble manner de-
sired my dear Phil to forgive him.
Whereto mine own beloved husband
answered in this manner, ' Do you
ask forgiveness, Mr. Lieutenant?
Why, then, I forgive you in the same
sort as I desire myself to be forgiven at
the hands of Grod ;' and then kissed his
hand,* and offere;d it in most kind
and charitable manner to him, and
holding his fast in his own said, 'I
pray you also to forgive me whatever
I have said or done in anything offen-
sive to you,' and he melting into tears
and answering < that he forgave him
with all his heart;' my lord raised
himself a little upon his pillow, and
made a brief, grave speech unto the
lieutenant in tiiis manner : ^ Mr. Lieu-
tenant, you have showed both me and
my men very hard measure.' ' Where-
in, my lord?' quoth he. * Nay,' said
my lord, ' I will not make a recapitu-
lation of anything, for it is all freely
forgiven. Only I am to say unto you
a few words of my last wiU, which be-
uig observed, may, by the grace of
God, turn much to your benefit and
reputation. I speak not for myself ;
for God of his goodness hath taken or-
der that I shall be delivered very
shortly out of your charge ; only for
others I speak who may be committed
to this place. You must think, Mr. Lieu-
tenant, that when a prisoner comes
hither to thb Tower that he bringeth
sorrow with him. Oh, then do not
add affliction to affliction; there is no
man whatsoever that thinketh himself '
to stand surest but may fall. It is a
very inhuman part to tread on him
whom misfortune hath cast down.
The man that is void of mercy God
hath in great detestation. Your com-
mission is only to keep in safety, not
to kill with severity. Remember,
good Mr. Lieutenant, that Grod who

with his finger tumeth the nnstilble
wheel of this variable world, can in
the revolution of a few days bring
vou to be a prisoner also, and to be
kept in the same place where now you
keep others. There is no calamity
that men are subject unto but you
may also taste as well as any oUier
man. Farewell, Mr. Lieutenant ; for
the time of my short abode come to
me whenever you please, and you
shall be heartily welcome as my
friend.' My dear lord, when he utter-
ed these words, should seem to have
had some kind of prophetic foresight
touching this poor man's fate; for I
have just heanl this day, seven weeks
only after my husband's death, that
Sir Michael Blount hath fallen into
great disgrace, lost his office, and is
indeed committed close prisoner in
that same Tower where he so long
kept others.

^' And now my faltering pen joaust
needs transcribe Uie last letter I receiv-
ed from my beloved husband, for your
heart, dear friend, is one with mine.
You have known its sufferings through
the many years evil influences robbed
it of that love which, for brief inter-
vals of happiness afterward and this
long separation since, hath, by its
steady and constant return, made so
rich amends for the past In these
final words you shall find proofs of his
excellent humility and notable affec-
tion for my unworthv self, which I
doubt not, my dear instance, shall
draw water from your eyes. Mine
yield no moisture now. Methinks
these last griefs have exhausted in
them the fountain of tears.

^ < Mine own good wife, I must now
in this world take my last farewell of
you ; and as I know no person living
whom I have so much offended as
youraelf, so do I account this opportu-
nity of asking your forgiveness as a
singular benefit of Almighty God. And
I most humbly and heartily beseech
you, even for his sake and of your
charity, to forgive me all whereinso-
ever I have offended you ; and the as-
Borance I have of this your forgive-

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788

CkmiUmce Sherwood,

ne88 18 my greatest contentment at this
present, and will be a greater, I doubt
not, when mj sool is ready to depart
out of m J body. I call God to wit-
ness it is no small grief unto me that I
cannot make jou recompense in this
world for the wrongs I have done you.
Affliction gives understanding. God,
who kno¥ra my heart, and has seen
mj true sorrow in that behalf, has, I
hope, of his infinite mercy, remitted
all, I doubt not, as you have done in
your singular charity, to mine infinite
comforL'

^ Now what remaineth but in a few
brief sentences to relate how this loved
husband spent his last hours, and the
mannerof his death ? Those were for the
most part spent in prayer ; sometimes
saying his beads, sometimes such
psalms and prayers as he knew by
heart. Seeing his servants (one of
which hath been the narrator to me of
these his final moments) stand by his
bedside in the morning weeping in a
mournful manner, he asked them
' what o'clock it was ? they answering
that it was eight or thereabout, ^ Why,
then/ said he, ^ I have almost run out
my course, and come to the end of this
miserable mortal life,* desiring them
not to weep for him, since he did not
doubt, by the grace of God, but all
would go well with him ; which being
said he returned to his prayers upon
his beads again, though then with a
very slow, hollow, and fainting voice ;
and so continued as long as he was
able to draw so much breath as was
sufficient to sound out the names of
Jesus and Mary, which were the last
words he was ever heard to speak.
The last minute of his last hour being
come, lying on his back, his eyes firmly
fixed toward heaven, his long, lean,
consumed arms out of the bed, his
hands upon his breast, laid in cross
one upon the other, about twelve
o'clock at noon, in a most sweet man-
ner, without any sign of grief or
groan, only turning his head a little
aside as one falling into a pleasing
sleep, he surrendered his soul into the
hands of God who to his ,own glory

had created it. And she who writeth
this letter, she who loved him since
her most early years — ^who when he
was estmnged from her waited his re-
tuni — who gloried in his virtues,
doated on his perfections, endured his
afflictions, and now' hunenteth his
death, hath notliing left but to live a
widow; indeed with no other gloiy
than that which she doth borrow from
his merits, until such time as it shall
please God to take her from this earth
to a world where he hath found, she
doth humbly hope, rest unto hk souL"

The Countess of Arundel is now
aged. The virtues which have crown-
ed her mature years are such, as her
youth did foreshadow. My pen would
run on too fast if it took up that
theme. This omy will I add, and so
conclude this too long piece of writ-
ing — she hath kept her constant re-
solve to live and die a widow. I have
seen many times letters from both
Protestants and Catholics which made
unfeigned protestations that they were
ne\er so edified by any as by her.
As the Holy Scriptures do say of that
noble widow Judith, ''Not one spoke
an ill word of her," albeit these times
iare extremely malicious. For mine
own part I never read those words of
Holy Writ, "Who shall find a valiant
woman ?" and what doth follow, but I
must needs tliink of Ann Dacre, the
wife of Philip Howard, earl of Aixin-
deland Surrey.

After the lapse of some years, it
hath been my hap to have a sight of
this manuscript, the reading of which,
even as the writing of it in former
days, doth cause me to live over again
my past life. This lapse of time hath
added nothing notable except the
dreadftil death of Hubert, my dear
Basil's only brother, who suffered last
year for the share he had, or leastways
was judged to have, in the Gunpowder
Plot and treason. Alas! he which
once, to improve his fortunes, denied
his faith, when fortune turned her baA

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Diuked Tean.

789

upon him grew into a virulent hatred
of those in power, once his friends and
tempters, and consorted with despe-
rate men; whetiier he was privy to
their couiuehi, or only familiar with
them previous to their crimes, and so
fell into suspicion of their guilt, God
knoweth. It doth appear from some
good reports that he died a true pen-
itent There is a better hope me-
thinks for such- as meet in this world
with open shame and suffering than
for secret sinners who go to their
pompous graves unchastised and un-
absolved.

By his brother's death Basil re-
covered his lands; for his present
majesty hath some time since recalled
the sentence of his banishment And
many of his friends have moved him
to return to England; but for more
reasons than one he refused so much
as to think of it, and has compounded
his estate for £700, 8s. 6d.

Our children have now grown unto
ripe years. Muriel (who would have
been a nun if she had followed her
godmother's example) is now married,
to her own liking and our no small
contentment, to a very commendable

young gentleman, the son of Mr
Yates, and hath gone to reside with
him at his seat in Worcestershire ;
and Ann, Lady Arunders god-daugh-
ter, nothing will serve but to be a
"holy Mary," as the French people
do style those dames which that great
and good prelate, M. de Gren^ve, hath
assembled in a small hive at Annecy,
like bees to gather honey of devotion
in the garden of religion. This should
seem a strange fancy, this order being
so new in the Church, and the place
so distant ; but time will show if this
should be God's will ; and if so, then
it must needs be ours also.

What liketh me most is that my son
Roger doth prove the very image of
hi^ father, and the counterpart of him
in his goodness. I am of opinion that
nothing better can be desiied for him
than diat he never lose so good a
likeness.

And now farewell, pen and ink,
mine old companions, for a brief mo-
ment resumed, but with a less steady
hand than heretofore ; now not to be
again used except for such ordinary
purposes as housewifery and friend-
ship shall require.

UNSHED TEARS.

Once I believed that tears alone
•Gould tell of sorrow deep ;

O blessed those whose eyes overflow !
Within my heart I weep.

And many think me calm, because
My cheek unwet appears ;

The happy ones ! they never know
The pain of unshed tears.

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7D0

ChU/amia and th$ Church.

From Tbo Dublin RaTlew.

CALIFORNIA AND THE CHURCH.

1. jTW Suourees of CaUfamia. Bj
John S. Hittel. San FraBcisco.

3. GhrisHan Missions. ByT. W. M,
liARSGULLi.. Longmans.

The jear 1769 will long be memor-
able in the annals of the world as the
date of the birth of the Emperor Na-
poleon and of the Duke of Welling-
ton. In the same year another ev^nt
took place of small significance ac-
cording to the thoughts of this world,
bat which in the next world was as-
suredly regarded of infinitely greater
importance ; for this was the year in
which a poor despised Franciscan
firiar, the Father Junipero Serra, en-
tered into California Alta, the first
apostle of a land which has since, for
sach different reasons, become so fa- ^
mous.

He was an Italian by birth, but had
resided for many years in Mexico,
where he had preached the gospel
with great success among the heathen
Indian population. A man of singu-
lar faith and piety, he lived the sever-
est life, considering, with his Father
St. Francis, that poverty and suffering
are keys wherewith the zealous mis-
sioner is certain to be able to unlock
the floodgates of grace which divide
heaven firom earth. He used to carry
a stone with him, with which, like St
Jerome, he would beat his breast for
his sins, and he endeavored to bring
home to the mind of his uncivilized
hearers the malice of sin^ by scourging
his innocent body till streams of blood
flowed forth in their presence, by se-
vere fasts, long prayers, and night
watchingsi He seldom ivode on mule
or horseback, but preferred to journey
humbly on foot Shortly after his ar-
rival in Mexico, his leg was attacked

with a grievous sore ; still he gave
himself no rest, but was constant in
journeying and preachmg. While he
was laboring like an apostle among
the Mexicans, the Spanish monarch
ordered D. Jose de Galvez (who be-
came later minister-general for all
the Indies) to form an expedition from
La Paz into Upper California.* What-
ever may be said of the rapacious cru-
elty of many of the Spanish governors
and colonizers in America, the govern-
ment at home was animated, on the
whole, with the most Catholic and
loyal intentions. Its instructions and
public documents were conceived in
the most Christian sense ; and if they
were not always carried out in the
same spirit, this arose from its inabili-
ty to control subjects at an immense
distance from the seat of government,
and surrounded by exciting tempta.
tions and pressing dangers. The fol-
lowing words were addressed by one
of the Spanish monarchs to the Indies :
^ The kings our progenitors, from the
discovery of the West Indies, its isl-
ands and continents, commanded our
captains, officers, discoverers, coI(hi-
izers, and all other persons, that on
arriving at these provinces they
should, by means of interpreters, cause
to be made known to the Indians that
they were sent to teach them good cus-
toms, to lead them from vicious habits,
and from the eating of human flesh, to
instruct them in our holy Catholic
fidth, to preach to them salvation, and
to attract them to our dominion.'' The
same Catholic and* religious spirit ani-
mates every part of the great codex

• ABtta back m 1697 the Jesuits had, wifh
apostolic seal, foanded many missions in Lower
Callforala; they never, howeTor, had poahod np
into California dlta.

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ijomia and the CRureA.

79]

of Indian laws which were promalgat*
ed by BQOoesaive kings in that moet
Cfeitholic oonntry.

Though it often did happen that
local governors were not ministers of
this &thoHc spirit, bat rather of thehr
own rapacity and cmeltj, this was not
always the case, and we have before
us an instance. When GkJyez set
forth on his expedition to conquer Cal-
ifornia, the fir^t article of the instruc-
tions which he drew up, for the guid-
ance of aU who were with him, ran in
these terms : « The first object of the
expedition is to establish the Catholic
religion among a numerous heathen
people, submerged in the obscure
darkness of paganism, and to extend
the dominion of our lord the king,
and to protect this peninsula from the
ambitious views of foreign nations.**
Nor were these mere words, written to
salve a conscience or blind a critical
public, as we shall now see : for he
took Father Junipero, who was zeal-
ous for the salvation of souls, into his
counsels ; and the priest and the lay-
man worked jointly together. Two
small vessels, the San Carlos and San
Antonio^ were freighted to go by sea.
Seiior Galvez details with a charming
simplicity how he assisted Father Ju-
nipero to pack the sacred vestments
and other church furpiture, and declar-
ed that he was a better sacristan than
the father, for he had packed his
share of the ornaments first, and had to
t go and help the father. Moreover,
in order that the new missions might
be established with the same success
as those which had been already
founded by F. Junipero in Sierra
€rorda, Gralvez ordered to be packed
up and embarked all kinds of house-
hold and field utensils, iron imple-
ments for agricultural labor, all kinds
of seeds from Old and New Spain,
garden herbs for food, and fiowers for
the decoration of the altars. Then he
sent on by land two hundred head of
cattle to stock the country, so that
tiiere might be food to eat and beasts
to labor on the land.

F. Junipero placed the whole ea*

terprise under the patronage of the
Most Holy Patriarch St. Joseph, to
whom he dedicated the countiy. He
blessed the vessels and sent on board
of them three fiithers, who should ac-
company Gralvez and his men. Two
other parties were formed by land,
which were to meet the ships on the
coast far up the country; and all
started, except Father Junipero, who
was delayed some time by the season
of Lent and by his spiritual duties.
When he overtook the convoy, his leg
and foot were so inflamed that he
T7as hardly able to get on or off his
mule. The fathers and th^ir compan-
ions wished to send him back ; they
thought he was not equal to the un-
dertaking. But he had faith that our
Lord would carry him through. He
called a muleteer and said to him:
^ My son, don't you know some reme-
dy for the sore on my foot and leg ?"
But the muleteer answered: '< Fa-
ther, what remedy can I know ? Am
I a surgeon ? I am a muleteer, and
have only cured the sore backs d
beasts." <<Then consider me a
beast," said the father, ^and this
sore, which has produced the swelling
on my legs and prevents me by its
pain from standing or sleeping, to
be a sore on a l^st, and give me
the treatment you would apply to a
beast" The muleteer replied, smil-
ing, " I will, flEither, to please you ;"
and taking a small piece of tallow,
mashed it between two stones with
some herbs, heated it over the fire,
and then anointed the foot and leg,
and left a plaster on the sore. The
father slept that night, awoke in
health and spirits, and astonished the
whole party by rising early to say
mathis and lauds and then mass, and
proceeded on the journey quite re-
stored. After forty-six days' travel-
ling by land, they reached the port of
San Diego; and F. Junipero now es-
tablished his first mission. He then
went on to the place since called San
Frandsco, and established there an-
other mission. They fell short of
provisions and supplies, the San An-

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California and th§ CBiurek.

toMO^ whidi had long been doe, did
not arriTOy and Portali, the governor
of the expedition, determined to aban-
don the mission, if they were not re-
lieved bj the 20lh of March ; but on
the feast of St Joseph the ship hove
into view, bringing an abundance of
provisions, and the mission was then
firmlj established*

The usual waj of erecting a mis*
sion was as follows : the locality was
taken possession of in the name of
Spain by the lay authority ; a tent or
an adobe building was erected as the
temporary chapel ; the fathers, in pro-
cession, proceeded to bless the place
and the chapel, on whose front a cm-
ciiix, or a sunple wooden cross, was
raised ; the holy sacrifice was then of-
fered up, and a sennon was preached
on the coming and power of the Holy
Ghost The Veni Oreatar was sung,
and a fiither was charged with the di-
rection and responsibility of the mis-
sion.

The Indians were attracted by little
presents. To the men and women
were given pieces of doth, or food,
and to the children bits of sugar.
They would soon gather round the
missioners when they found how good
and kind they were, and the mission-
ers were not slow in picking up the
language. They became the fathers
and instructors of the poor ignorant
Indians, catechized them in the mys-
teries of the faith, collected them into
villages round the mission church, and
taught them to plough and cultivate
the land, to sow wheat, to grind com^
to bake ; they introduced the use of
the olive, the vine, and the apple;
they showed them how to yoke the
oxen for work, how to weave and spin
cloth for dothing, to prepare leather
from the hides, and taught them the
rudiments of commerce.

There was another feature in the
mode followed by the Spaniards in
preaching the gospel which is worthy
of mention, and which shows how
Spain recognized the independent ac-
tion of the Church and her own duty
to lend her every assistance and pro-

tection she might need. A prasidio
was established, in which the secular
governor, with a small number of offi-
cers, soldiers, and officials, resided.
Ihese represented the miges^ of the
King of Spain, and served, in case of
need, for protection and order. At
some distance firom the presidio and
independent of it, was formed the mis-
sion, a lai^ convent for the friars and
for hbspit^ty, and a church, built of
'< adobe," or mud walls, sometimes
seven or eight feet in thickness. The
land in the surrounding neighborhood
was assigned to the missions for the
support of the Indians. In fact, the
whole economy and arrangements,
both of presidios and missions, were
made subservient to the wants of
dvilization and religion, whidi were
introduced among the native popula-
tion. This system remained in full
force, consulting simply the benefit
of the poor Indian, tUl the liberal
Cortes, in 1813, overturned the de-
sign of the Spanish monarchs, and be-
gan to introduce the idea of coloniza-
tion and usurpation. Up to this
time the Church had had full action
upon the people, and what she
wrought in the span of forty years
was little less than miraculous. The
Indians felt that they had been lifted
out of their state of abject misery and
ignorance, and that the strangers who
had come among them had come sim-
ply from disinterested charity, for their
temporal and eternal welfare. They
felt that life was made to them less a
burthen, and that a way was opened
out for them to endless happiness
beyond the grave, De Courcy, in his
"* Catholic Church in the United
States," assures us that the fathers
converted, within the few yeaxs they
had control of the Califomian mis-
sions, no less than 75,000 Indians^
for whom they also provided food,
clothing, and instruction* The system
of colonization brought in by t)ie
Spanish liberals in 1813 was an evil,
but it was a mere prelude to the con-
fiscation of the Indian property which
was perpetrated by the liberal Mexi-

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(hUforma and ike Church.

793

can gtjrirernmeiit in 1833. It was
pretended that the friara were un-
equal to the management of the mis*
8101I8, and the natives' property was
therefore transferred to the hands of
laymen. Mr. Marshall^in his inter-
esting work on ^ Christian Missions,"
quotes the following statistics, com-
paring the two conditions :

Under the Ad- Under

ministration the Civil

oftheFriart. Adminis'a.

Christian IndlanA . . 80,660 4,450

Homed Cattle . . . 494,000 t8.2«

Borsea and Moles . 62,000 8,600

Sheep 321,600 81,600

Cereal crop!. . . . 70,000 4,000

And then he sums up in these
words:

''It appears, then, that in the
brief space of eight years the sec-
ular administration, which affected to
be a protest against the inefficiencj of
the ecclesiastical, had notmilj destroy-
ed innumerable lives, replunged a
whole province into barbarism, and al-
most annihilated religion and civilisa-
tion, but had so utterly failed even in
that special aim which it professed to
have most at heart — ^the development
of material prosperity — that it had al-
ready reduced the wealth of a single
district in the following notable pro-
portions : Of homed cattle there re-
mained about ane-Jifteenth of the num-
ber possessed under the religious ad-
ministration ; of horses and mules less
than {me-'tixtsenth ; of sheep about
one-tenth; and of cultivated land
producing cereal crops less than one"
seventeer^ It is not to the Christian,
who will mourn rather over the moral
ruin which accompanied the change,
that such &cts chiefly appeal ; but tiie
merchant and the civil magistrate,
however indifferent to the interests of
rsligion and morality, will keenly ap-
preciate the cruel and blundering pol-
icy of which these are the admitted
resuttj^ and will perhaps be iiiclined
to eiodaim with Mr. MdUhausen,
'It is iinpossible not to wish that
the missions were flourishing once
more !' •*

How beautHul was the old Spanish

system under which Father Junipero
and his companions set forth to re-
claim and convert the wandering In-
dian 1 Is it not the greatest gloty of
Spain that she can stiU cheer our dark
horizon by the light of her past histo-
ry, and shed a fragrance which re-
mains for ever over lands which have
been broken down by the hoof of the
invader, and desolatc^l by his diabolical
pride and insatiable rapacity ? What
was the Spanish system as exhibited
in California ? It was simply this : a
recognition, without question or jeal-
ousy, that our Lord, the great high
priest, continues in his priesthood to
be the shepherd, teacher, and minister
of his people. '' To go and teach all
nations," ^ to minister to the least of
the little ones," to be the ''shepherd of
the flock," "to lay down life for the
flock." This is distinctly the opera-
tion of Christ through his priests.
That this was the real character of
the Christian priesthood was a clear
and elementary principle, which ad-
mitted of no doubt in the mind of the
Spanish people.

Conscious of their power, and with
a light burning within them which
shone over the vast prospects that lay
before them, of extending the &ith
and saving innumerable souls, for
whom the most precious blood had
been shed, the Spanish missioners
went forth to extend their conquests
over the heathen worid. Rapine and >
plunder were not their aim ; they were
introduced among colonizers by the
snare of the deviL To maintain the
Indian on his territory, to raise, in-
struct, and Christianize him, giving him
rights and equality before ^elaw, this
was the policy of Catholic Spain. The
priest, therefore, was regarded as the
chief pioneer, his plans were recog-
nized and acted upon, and he was con-
sidered to be not a mere creature of
the crown, who should extend its in-
fluence, but a minister and agent of
his majesty the Great King of Heaven,
who had deigned in his infinite love
to look upon Spain with a peculiar
predilection, and to choose her as an

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794

OoKfmiia annd tie ChOrL

iDfltroment to sare the soak for whom
he once had died.

A hundred yean ago no European
had OTer fixed his abode in Oalifomia
Alteu Father Jnnipero and his de-
Toted companions, led on hj zeal ''to
establifih the Oatholic religion among
a numeroas heathen people, submerg-
ed in the obscure dajrkness of pagan-
ism," were, then, the real pioneers of
California. Three Protestant writers,
quoted by Mr. Marshall, shall sum up
for u!( in a few words the ciyilizing
effects of the Catholic education of the
Indians in California. Captain Moi^
rell says :

** The Indians are very industrious
in their labors, and obedient to their
teachers and directors, to whom they
look up as fathers and protectors, and
who, in return, discharge their duty
toward these poor Indians with a great
deal of feelmg and humanity. They
are generally well clothed and led,
have houses of their own, and are
made as comfortable as they can wish
to be. The greatest care is taken
of any who are affected with any dis-
ease, and every attention is paid to
their wants." And Mr. Foibes
writes :

''The best and most unequivocal
proof of the good conduct of the Fran-
ciscan fathen is to be found in the un-
bounded affection and deyotion invari-
ably shown to them by their Indian
subjects. They venerate them not
merely as fathers and friends, but
with a degree of devotedness ap-
proaching to adoration." And, lastly,
Mr. Bartlett observes :

" They (the Indians) are represent-
ed to have been sober and industrious,

well clothed and fed.

They ocmstitnted a large family, of
whidi the padres were the social, re-
ligious, and, we might almost say, po-
fitical heads."

Such was the first planting in this
vineyard of the Loid. Let us briefly
note the blight and destruction which
followed. In 1827, a Mr. Smith es-
tablished himself in California to make
money. In 1834, three hundred

Americans setded in the oottntry for
the same purpose. In 1839, Captahi
Sutter biuh a fort and an American
refuge. In 1841, he got possession of
a considerable traet of land. In 1844,
a revolution took place, and the Amei^
ican settlers sold themselves for a
grant of land to the party wliidi was
aflerward defeated.

In 1845, the people, being harassed
by civil war, wished for the protection
of some strong external government
It was a chance whether California
was to become English or United
States territory. H.M.S. OoBngwoad
entered the port, we believe, of Mont-

erey,

and was asked to set

Union Jack, and declare the country
to be under British protection. The
captain replied that he would sail vnp
the coast and ascertaui whether this
was the will of the country, and if it
were, he would return and deelare the
protectorate. Meanwhile, tiie United
States ship^SbwannoA, under Commo-
dore Stoa^ was on the watch ; so that
when the CoUingwood returned, hav-
ing ascertained the good will of the
otiier ports, she found, to her surprise
and dismay, that she had been out*
stripped by the Yankee, and that the
stars and stripes were floating over
the town. California from that time
became the property of the United
States. In 1848 gold was aoddeni-
ally discovered, and an emigration set
in with the violence of a spring tide,
of a very difierent character to that
of the pious Scfior Galves or of the
humble Father Junipero and his Fran-
ciscans.

Then, indeed, the world began to
ring with glad tidings of great joy :
the sun had at last arisen on a be-
nighted land — its redemption was at
hand. Every newspaper in Europe
— ^we may say in the world — teemed
with reports of a new El Dorado dis-
covered on the western coast of Amer-
ica. This country was Oilifomia.
Adventurous spirits, athirst for wealth,
from all parts of the world, were
set in motion toward this land of
promise. Ships were chartered and

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OaUfornia and the Church.

795

freighted with men and yonths readj
to spend all thej had in order only to
reach the golden boame. Merchants
from the United States and from En-
rope, ready speculators, sent out their
vessels laden to the water's edge with
dry goods, hardware, com, spirits,
and general merchandise. The ex-
citement and the recklessness were,
perhaps, without a parallel Ships
reached the great and heautiful bay
of San Francisco, in which all the
fleets of the world conld ride at ease,
and were oi^en abandoned by their
captain and crews, who scampered off
to the gold diggings, even before their
cargo was cUscharged. Sometimes
they fell to pieces in the bay ; somer
times they became the property of
adventurers, or were run aground,
and served as temporaiy houses, and
then as the comers and foundations of
streets, which energetic speculators
soon carried down upon piles into the
water. There they stand to this
day, monuments of the aur% sacra
fames.

It was, in4^ed, natural that none
but the fiercest and most daring ele-
ments should prevail. The modest,
the timid, the indolent, the sickly, the
child, the woman, the aged, the leis-
ure-learned, the owner of property, of
good position, of fair prospects, the
man of routine, the unambitious, were
all left behind. It was said, and said
truly, in the cities of Europe, Ameri-
ca, and Australia, that men of despe-
rate character were on the road to
Califoroia ; that all went armed with
knives and revolvers ; that the way
thither was a Tiighway of rapine and
crime; and that none should start
who were not prepared to fight it out
any day in self-defence or in attack*
There were a thousand difficulties
arising from the immense length of
the journey, and from the great num-
bers on ihe way ; and a thousand
other difficulties to be accepted on ar-
rival in the country — expense, danger,
uncertainty, perhaps sickness ; and all
these far away from home. Such
were the prospects in those days, and

such the normal condition of life io
California.

It is not strange, then, that the men
who formed the horde which, fifteen
or sixteen years ago, began to flow
into California, should represent to us
a type of all that is rough, adventur-
ous, devil-may-care, elastic, lights
hearted, and determined in human
nature. The Australian population
began with convicts and honest emi-
grants. The Califomian popuUtioB
began with all kinds of unconvicted
criminals from aU parts of the world,
with " Sydney ducks," as they called
the ticket of-leave men from New
South Wales or Tasmania; but, be-
side these, a considerable number of
energetic, honest emigrants, chiefly
from Europe and the States. Then,
we may add that the Yankee element
prevails in the Califomian population,
and the John BuU element in the Aus-
tralian. The American is lean, and
all nerve and iq|patient energy;
health and life are to him of no mo-
ment when he sees an object to be at-
tained by the risk of them. If we
may be allowed to put it grotesquely,
his body is human but lus soul is a ,
high-pressure steam-engine ; he knows
no delay and is reckless, and his bye-
word is « Go ahead.'* The En^ish-
man, by contrast, is fat and easy-go-
ing; much more cautious of health
and life, he calculates on both. F.
Strickland (^Catholic Missions in
Southern India") happily applies to
him the words of Holy Writ spoken of
the Romans, '^Possederant omnem
terram consilio suo et patientia." ^ It
is by wisdom in council, and by pa-
tiently watching their opportunity;
. . . • wisdom which has often
degenerated into Machiavellism, but
has niever neglected a single opportu-
nity of aggrandizement; patience
which has Imown how to ^bide its
time,' and to avoid precipitation''— ^
this is how the Englishman succeeds.
And so, to look at the Englishman in
a Pickwickian sense, he is a matter-of-
fact, cautious gentleman, who wishes
to make very sure of what he has got.

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OaHfomia and tha Okurek.

and when he fisels comlbrfcably confi-
dent, Bays ^ All right,*' and moves on
deliberately to acquire more. An
Enjiclish traveller says :

** The first night we arrived in San
Francisco we were kept awake all
night on board the steamer by the in-
cessant ory of ^ Go ahead,' which ac-
companied the launch from the crane
which sent each article of luggage
and goods on to the wharf. It re-
minded ns of a story his late eminence
Cardinal Wiseman used to tell. He
said the first Italian words he heard
oi)» first landing, some forty years ago
or more, in Italy from England, were,
^Pazlenza, pazienza.' The English-
man sums up all things that happen
with the words 'All right;* the Yan-
kee with the words, < G^ ahead.' "

Many merchants realized enormous
fortunes in a few months-— some even
by one consignment ; but many were
hit hard and many were rained. A
period in which a^ egg was worth a
dollar was followed by a glut in the
market of all kinds uf goods and pro-
visions. There was nobody to re-
ceive them ; there was no sale for them.
Warehousage cost more than the total
value of goods and freight Tons of
sea-bread were abandoned ; barrels of
hams and bacon, cargoes of cheeses,
dry goods, and even wine and spirits,
were left unclaimed, and fell into the
hands of *^ smart" men of business, or
were spoiled by weather and neglect.
Ships, captains, crews, and cargoes
bound to California sailed as into a
vortex, and were lost in the whirlpool
of excitement. Even officers of men-
of-war were seized by the gold mania,
and ^ ran" to soil their white hands
in the precious ^ pay-dirt.' ,

Such circumstances as these which
occurred in 1849-50-51 are now past
and can never recur, at least in Cali-
fornia. The country is settling down
into a normal condition. The regular
system of American states govern-
ment is permanently established. On
two occasions, once in 1851 and again
in 1856, when the government of San
Frnncisco fell into the hands of a set

of low sharpers, who sospended the
laws for punishment of crime and pro-
tected criminals, the people, trained
from childhood to self-government, ex-
temporized what was called a vigilance
committee. They abrogated for the
time the state laws, they caught
thieves, tried ihem in the night, and
hung them in the morning. They
strock terror into the << Sydney ducks,"
and into the plunderers who had come
down upon San Francisco, like vul-
tures upon their prey, from all coon-
tries of the world. When the commit-
tee had effected its object it peaceably
dissolved, and the regular form of
government resumed its sway. Cali-
fornia, however, still presents a spec-
tacle unlike that of any other country
of the world. Sydney, Melbourne,
and Queensland have not the diverei-
ty of population which California has.
They are more like ^^ home ;" a strong-
er government is exercised ; there is
more security, less excitement, less in-
cident, and less variety in life. The
traveller meets every day in the dig-
gings and elsewhere men who had
come over from Australia, thinking to
better themselves; they have not
done so, and they aU complain that
they have not found the same order
and security for man and property ;
and most of them determine to return
in the coming season.

For internal resources, in scenery
and climate, and in variety of pro-
duction, California is probably su-
perior to the Australian colonies.
There is a continual excitement, and
all the business of the country is done
in San Francisco ; it is the only port
of any note ; the trade with CaUifor-,
nia from the States, from South
America, from Europe, Asia, and
Australia, is to San Francisco. She
is called the " Queen of the Pacific,**
and it is expected that she will become
one of the largest cities of the world,
and that the whole trade between
China, Japan, and Europe and the
States will pass through her. She
will be one of the great ports, and the
most magnificent harbor on the high-

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ChUfarma (md the CkunA.

797

Toad wbicb, trhen the ndiroad across
the plains is completed, will connect
together in one line Pekin, Canton,
Japan, San Francisco, New York,
London, and St. Petersburg; thns
girdling in a great highway the north-
ern hemisphere of the world. The
market in San Francisco is just large
and manageable enough to produce the
greatest amount of excitement for the
merchants. Exports and imports
are reckoned at about eleven
millioQ pounds each ; of the exports
about eight millions are of gold and
silver. The highest game is played,
and the English houses, always safe
and sure, are looked upon as slow and
plodding in comparison with the
American. The stakes are, day by
day, fortune or ruin. The interest on
loans varies from one to ten per cent
a month, according to the security.
There are great losses and great gains.
San Francisco is in a chronic state of
exciting business fermentation ; there
is little amusement, no learned leisure,
but everybody is occupied in trade or
speculation. The people are well
dressed — all the men wear broadcloth,
^ nearly all the women silk ; there are
no beggars in the streets, and there is
an air of healthiness, vigor, and buoy-
ancy of life such as is not to be seen
in any other city in Europe or Amer-
ica. No market in the world, save,
perhaps, that of London, is better
supplied. Railroads run along the
streets in all directions. Churches,
schools, hotels, and houses are lifted
ap from their foundations by hydraul-
ic power ; and if the owners wish to
add a story, instead of clapping it on
above, they build it in below, and
roof, walls, and floors all go up to-
gether uninjured.

The traveller is astonished to see a
procession of solid-built houses slowly
marching through the centre of one
of the principal thoroughfares. In
eightrand-fbrty hours an hotel, brick-
buUt and three stories high, will be
carried, without interruption to busi-
ness, ^m one part of the city to an-
other. The coontiy is full of inter-

esting incident and novel excitement.
It contains all the preeious metals,
gold, silver, platinum, copper, iron,
coal, asphaltum, spring and mineral
oil, borax, arsenic, cobalt The lai^est
crops in the world have been grown
on its soiL We quote the published
accounts: Crops of 80 bushels of
wheat to the acre have been grown in
California. Mr. HiU harvested 82^
bushels from an acre in Pajaro val-.
ley in 1853, and obtained 660 bushels
from ten acres. In 1851, Mr. P. M.
Scooffy harvested 88 bushels, and Mr.
N. Carriger 80 bushels, in Smoma
valley. Again: In 1853 a field of
100 acres in the valley of the Pajaro
produced 90,000 bushels of barley,
and one acre of it yielded 149 bush-
els. It was grown by Mr. J. B. Hill,
and was mentioned as undoubtedly
true by the assessor of Monterey
county in his official report; and a
prize was granted by an agricultural
society for the crop^ According to the
assessor's report, the average crop of
potatoes in Sacramento county in
1860 was 390 bushels per acre. Po-
tatoes have been seen in the market
weighing 7 lb. The largest beet-root
was 5 ft. long, 1 fV. thick, and 118 lb.
in weight — it was three years old;
cabbages 45 lb. and 53 lb. each ; and
a squash vine bore at a time 1,600 lb.
of fruit Then the lai^st trees in the
world are. found in California, in mam-
moth-tree groves. Two are known to
be 32 ft in diameter, 325 ft high.
<^One of the trees which is down
must have been 450 ft. high, and 40
fl. in diameter." The tree of which
the bark was stripped for 116 fL, and
sent to the Crystal Palace, condnued
green and flourishing two years and a
half afler being thus denuded. The
highest waterfall in the world is- in
the Tosemite valley, in California.
It is 2,063 ft. high, according to the
official surveyor. The Cs^fomian
Greysers are among the wonders of
the world — a multitude of boiling
springs, emitting large quantities of
steam with a hissing, roarings splutter-
ing noiae ; while near them, within a

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798

\mw and the Ohureh*

few feet, are delidooslj cold springs.
There are mud yolcanoes, which can
be heard ten miles off, and seen at a
still greater distance. A great vari-
etj of wild beasts and birds — bears,
panthers, wolves, deer, elk, the Cali-
fomian vulture (next to die condor
the largest bird that flies), make
fip other sources of interest, specula-
tion, and excitement and contribute to
. give to Galifomians a certain peculiar
character and sympathy one with an-
other, which unite them together as
hail-fellows-well-met in any part of
the world in which they may chance
to meet. There is travelling up the
rivers in steamboats three and four
stories high, which not unfrequently
blow up or run into each otber. A
oonsiderable portion of the country
can be traversed in wagons called
"stages,^ whose springs are so very
strong that ocular demonstration is
necessary as a proof of their existence.
They cross plains and mountains,
penetrate forests, and skirt precipices,
along the most difficult roads. Wood-
en bridges thrown across ravines or
deep gullies or streams, and formed
by laying down a number, of scantling
poles, and covering them with loose
planks, are taken by the four-horse
^ stage" at a gallop, just as you ride
at a ditch or rasper out hunting ; pat-
ter, patter, go the horses' feet, up and
down go the loose planks— one's
heart in one's mouth — ^no horses have
slipped through — no broken legs-— it
seems a miracle — ^and away onward
goes the stage, conducted by dauntless
and skilful drivers, to the everlasting
cry of ** go ahead !" But much of the
country must be travelled on horse-
back, and California has an admirable
breed of thin, wiry little horses, which
will gallop with their rider over a hund-
red miles a day, requiring little care
and hardly any food. Much of the
country is still unexplored. There
are mountains covered with perpetual
snow, and immense virgin piue forests
coyering their sides; long rolling
plains, baked by the sun; and rich
luxuriant ralleys, watered by the rich-

est fish-«treams. In extent the ooun-
irj is 189,000 square miles, or nearly
four times lai^ger than England, and
possesses within itself all the re-
sources of Che temperate and tropical
zones. There are 40,000,000 acres
of arable land in the state, thongb not
more than 1,000,000 are now in culti-
vation.

^ The climate near the ocean is the
most equable in the world. At San
Francisco there is a difference of only
seven degrees between the mean tem-
perature of winter and summer — the
average of the latter being 57° and
of the former 50° Fahrenheit. Ice
and snow are never seen in winter,
and in summer the weather is so cool
that woolen clothing may be worn
every day. There are not more than
a dozen days in the year too warm
for comfort at mid-day, and the oldest
inhabitant cannot remember a night
when blankets were not necessary for
comfortable sleep. The climate is
just of that character most favorable
to the constant mental and physical
activity of men, and to the unvarying
health and continuous growth of ani-
mals and plants. By travelling a few
hundred miles the Callfomian may
find any temperature he may desire —
great warmth in winter and icy cold-
ness in summer."

It may be understood,, then, from
all these circumstances, that the blood
of a Califomian tingles with an ex-
citement of its own. Indeed, it is con-
stantly observed that men who leave
California with their fortunes made,
and with the intention of establishing
themselves in the Eastern states, or
in Europe, are unable to settle down,
and soon return to the Golden State.

Let us now proceed with the sub-
ject before us, and draw out briefly
two contrasts : one between the Span-
ish or Catholic and the Anglo-Saxon
or non-Catholic conduct and policy
toward the original lords of the soil,
the Indians ; the other as between the
names they gave to the localities which
were the scenes of their respective la-
bon* It wiU indicate a differeaoe of

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CaH/amiia and the CSiwrch.

7ft9

tone and ^irife anfficiaiitlj remark-
able.

Of coarse all Galifomians are not
to be held responaible for the acts of a
low and heartless section of ruffians,
an J more than all Englishmen are ao-
coantable for the atrocities which we
have perpetrated in times past in In-
dia or Oceanica. But as we would
not pass over the crimes committed
bj the Anglo-Saxon race in India
were India our topic, so neither will
we be silent here on deeds of equal
atrocity with any of which we were
guilty, committed in these latter days
by some of the new occupiers of Cali-
fornia.

The love of souls and the love of
wealth do not, indeed, grow in the
same heart. We have already faint-
ly sketched the result of the Church's
love of souls on the temporal and
spiritual well-being of the indigenous
population of Caiybrnia. Under her
gentle care was realized for its inhab-
itants the happiness, peace, and plenty
of Paraguay. The Anglo-Saxon and
the thirst for gold ushered in, alas!
on these poor creatures — ^made in the
divine image, and called equally with
ourselves to an eternal share in the
love of the Sacred Heart — ^not a miser-
able existence, but absolute destruc-
tion. The love of mammon ^ been
the murderer of the native owners of
the soiL The iron heart and the iron
arm of the Anglo-Saxon invaders
have cleared all before them. In
1862, Mr. Hittel, who is not a Catho-
lic, and whom we hold to be an im-
partial witness, made a study of the
subject, and he thus speaks of the de-
struction of the Indian population of
California, page 288:

^ The Indians are a miserable race,
destined to speedy destruction. Fif-
teen years ago, they numbered 50,000
or more : now there may be 7,000 of
them. They were driven from their
hunting-grounds and fishing-grounds by
the whites, and they stole cattle for
food (rather than starve) ; and to pun-
ish and prevent their stealing, the
whites made war on Uiem and slew

them. Such has been the origin of
most of the Indian wars, which have
raged in various parts of the state
almost continuously during the last
twelve years. For every white man
that has been killed, fifty Indians
have fallen. In 1848 nearly every
little valley had its dibe, and there
were dozens of tribes in the Sacra-
mento basin, but now most of these
tribes are entirely destroyed."

We have been ourselves assured by
eye-witnesses that such an incident as
tlie following has frequently happen-
ed in the gold diggings. A man would
be quietly cleaning his gun or rifle on
a Sunday morning, when he would
espy an Indian in the distance, and,
without the least hesitation, would fire
at him as a mark. The Indians were
fair game, just as bear or elk were,
and men would shoot them by way of
pastime, not caring whether the mark
was a " buck" or a " squaw," as they
call them — ^that is, a man or a woman
Murder became thus a relaxation.
And we must add, that not only
American citizens, but also men who
pride themselves on the greater civili-
zation and virtue of fiieir country
nearer home, thus imbrued their bands
with reprobate levity in the blood of
their fellow*creaturcs. We should be
very sorry to imply that these horri-
ble deeds are perpetrated only by in-
habitants of the United States. On
the contrary, it is certain that men
who from circumstances lapse into a
gtate of semi-savage life, without pub-
lic opinion to check them, living in the
wilderness and the bush, and without
religion, naturally become so enslaved
to their passions that at last they com-
mit the foulest abominations and the
most horrible murders as though they
were mere pastimes. We have read
abundant examples of this in India and
other British colonies. The Ameri-
can government passed many wise alid
humane laws in favor of the Indian.
It was not her fault that pioneers,
squatters, buccaneers, and outlaws, at
a distance, laughed at her laws and
set them at defiance

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800

OaKfbmia and tk$ OltiivA.

The other ecmtxaBt is quickly drawn.
It shaU be the oontrast of names.
We do not wish to found any strong
argument upon it Names are not
actions, and yet to call a man hard
names is the next thing to giving him
hard blows ; and we know that ^ out
of the abundance of the heart the
mouth speaketh." Let the two lists
go down in parallel columns, and il*
Ittstrate the old times and the new :

Spanish baptitmt qf TanJtse baptitms </
loooUliu or settUmsnit. loeaUtiesortettlemerUt.

0MI FnuiciBoo. JackMs Onlch.

fitcratcento. Jim Crow CaAon.
La Pniinlma Concepdon. Loafer Hill.

Trinidad. Whiskey I'lg^nga.

J«BU9 Maria. Blap Jack Bar.

Santa Crns. Yankee Doodle.
NneatraSefloradi Solidad. Skunk Qulch.

Los Angeles, Relna de. Chicken Thief Flat

San Joee. « Oroond Hog*8 Ulory.

San Pedro. Heirs Delight.

San M lenel. DevlPs Wood.

San Barael. Sweet Revenge.

Santa Clara. Bhirt-Uil Cafion.

Santa Barbara. Roogh and Ready.

San Lnia Obi«po. Rag Town.

San Paolo. Git np and Ott

Baena VUta. Bob Ridley Plat.

Harlposa. Humpback Slide.

San Fernando. . Swell-head Diggings.

▲Icatraa. Bloody Run.

Contra Costa. Marderer^' Bar.

San Mateo. Rat trap Slide.

Pliunaa. Hang Town.

We may now dismiss these con-
trasts, which we have only insisted on
in order to bring into greater relief
the spirit of God and the spirit of
mammon. The Spaniard went with
the tenderest devotedness to serve and
save the Indian, recognizing him from
the first as a brother. The Yankee
came, straining every nerve and en-
ergy in the pursuit of wealth ; the In-
dian was in his way ; he recognized
no sf^ritual ties of brotherhood ; his
soul presented to him no divine image
deserving of his love and service;
rather it was said, let him be trodden
into the mire, or perish from the face
of the land. The former cast over
their humble settlements, on the coast
and inland, the sacred association of
the names of mysteries and holy
stunts, so that men for all generations
might be reminded that they are of the
race of the people of God ; whereas the
latter have named many of the places
where they have dug for gold with the
names of thdr hideous crimes, and

widi terms compared to which the no-
menclature of savage and uncivilised
tribes is Christian and refined.

This sketch of the principal features
of the two occupations of Ckliibmia, as
they have borne upon the native pop-
ulation, may be sufficient for our pres-
ent purpose. We shall presently dwell
upon the better qualities in the Amer-
ican character — ^the natural founda-
tions upon which religion has to be
built Our object is not to write a po-
litical or commercial essay ; all we at-
tempt is to note the action of the
Church at the present day upon the
heterogeneous elements which compose
the population of California, and to re-
cord as briefly as may be the several
infiuences observable as making up
that action.

It has long been a favorite theme
with the anti-Catliolic philosophers of
the day to descant upon the feebleness
of tbe Catholic Church. They ju^
her as a purely human institution,
good in her day ; but her day is gone,
ohe was a good nurse, who held the
leading-strings which mankind needed
in early childhood. But we have
grown to the ripeness of perfection ;
. and the good nurse has grown old and
past work : she may be aUowed there-
fore to potter about the world, as an
old servant round her master's hall
and grounds, till she dies and is buried
away. We may render some little
service if we point to one more in-
stance of her present vigor and vitali^r
in our own day ; if we can show that
she is stamping her impress upon the
lettered horde that has overrun the
western shore, as she did fonneriy
upon the unlettered hordes that pos-
sessed themselves of the plains of
Italy or of the wolds of England. We
believe that she is by degrees assimil-
ating into herself the strange mass of
the Califomian population; she is
standing out in the midst of them as
the only representative of religions
unity, order, and revelation. She is
elecuting her commission in Califor>
nia to-day as faithfully as she did
when Peterentered Bome^ or Augus-

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tine Kent, or Xavier Asia, or Solano
the wilds of South America.

The work of grace, through the
Church of Christ, is gaining sensihly
and irresistiblj upon die papulation of
Galifomia. We are far from foresee?
ing a day when all its inhabitants will
be of one faith and one mind, or from
saying that the number of conversions
to the iaith is prodigious and unheard-
ef. But we affirm that the Catholic
Church, with a far greater rapidity
than in England, is daily attaining a
higher place In the estimation of the
people, is becoming more and more the
acknowledged representative of Chris-
tianity, and is actually gaining in
numbers, piety, and authority. The
sects there, as elsewhere in America,
are ceasing by degrees to exercise any
religious or spiritual influence upon
flie people ; they act as political and
social agents, and hold together as or-
ganizations by the force of local cir-
cumstances, which are wholly inde-
pendent of religion. As forms of re-
ligion, the people see through them,
and have no confidence in them ; the
consequence is, that an immense pro-
portion are without any religion at all,
and many join the CEitholic Church.
It was the policy of imperial Rome to
open her gates to every form of hea-
thenism: every god was tolerated,
every god was accepted, no matter
how incongruous or contradictory its
presence by the side of others. The
empire was intent upon one things
self-aggrandizement*; and for religion
it did not care. Thonghtfiil men
smiled or sneered at those mythologies
and divinities, and their forms of wor-
ship ; and the people became cold and
indifferent to them. They were dying
of this contempt, when behold the
newly imported presence of the Fish-
erman into their midst, with his Cate-
chism of Christian Doctrine, inspired
one and all with a new life and en-
ergy; the gods began to speak, and
the people began to hear tibem. It
was not that a new fluth had been
awakened in their old idolatry; but
a new hostility and hatred had been
VOL. n. 61

aroused against the mtgesty of cmisist*
ent truth, which stood before them
humble, jet confounding them. They
began to believe themselves to be de-
vout pagans, and to prove the sinceri-
ty of their convictions by endeavorii^
to smite down the divine figure of ^
Catholic Church, which claimed a
universal homage and a universal
power. £vent8 strangely repeat them-
selves in the world. That which oe-
carred among the sects of ancient
Rome is now taking place among the
sects of America. Men smile at their
pretensions ; their convictions are not
moulded by them, and they will not
submit to their discipline or bow to
their authority. But the sects object
to death, and they think to prolong the
term of their existence not by a life •
of faith, but by a life of sustained en-
mity against the religion which is
slowly gaining upon them, and sup-
planting them in the mind and aflfec-
tion of 3ie people.

There are many who believe that
the day is not far distant when the
Catholics of America will have to
brace themselves up to go through the
fire, for American reli^ous persecu-
tion would be like an Jjnerican civil
war, determined and terrible. It
would carry us beyond the limits of
our scope to attempt to trace the steps
by which persecution b approaching.
This spirit has ever existed in the
New Enghind states. Emw^nothing^
i9m was a political and social form of
it which failed for a time ; and the
knowledge of the immense progress
made by the Qiurch amidst the din of
war, in the camp and in the hospital,
in North and South, among officers
and men, has quickened this move-
ment The government is not to
blame for this. We believe the
Amerioan government, in point of re-
lijgion, to be perfectly colorless. It is
noteworthy that nowhere in the world
has religion made more rapid progress
HI this century than in the United

We cannot doubt that the Churdi is
xefMuring in Amerksa the kMses sha

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602

OaUJamta and the CkurA,

hflB suffered in Europe through the
pride, abuse of grace, and apostaej of
many of her children.

In California the Church has no
easj task before her. It is no longer
the simple aivl rude Vandal, Dane, or
Lombard she has to lead into her
fold, but a population composed of
men of keen wits, of the most varied,
world-wide experiences, and drawn
from countries in which ihej have
been more or less within the reach of
Catholic teaching. These are the
men whom she has n^ow to reduce into
die obedience of faith.

We are not of those who imagine
that Almightj Grod has lavished all
the treasures of natural virtues upon
one nation, and has withheld them
^proportionately from others. In in-
tellectual gifts men differ much less
one from another than is often sup*
posed, as with their physical strength
and stature the difierence, on the
whole, is not very large. And so
their moral natural gifts, if considered
in their full circle, will be fcund before
the tribunal of an impartial judge to
be on the whole pretty evenly dis-
tributed among the nations. One na-
tion has faith and trust, another undor^
standing and subtlety, another mercy
and compassion, another truthfulness
and fidelity, another tenderness and
love, another humility and docility,
another courage and energy, another
deten]|ination and patience, another
parity^ another reverence. These
natural virtues may be elevated into
sapematural, and then that nation is
f«a% the greatest which has made best
use of the grace of Grod. The boun-
teous hand of God has enriched every
part of the canopy of heaven with
stars and planets, differing infinitely
in light, color, distance, size, and com-
bination, and- he leaves no portion in
absolute poverty or darkness ; andthfe
''distilling lips" and ^'shining counte-
nance" have scattered in every direo-
tion over his immortal creation pre-
cious g^fts of natural virtues, set like
Sms in the souls of men the moment
I fingers flxst fashioaed them. Ifc

will, no doubt, often require liie stndy
and patient love of an apostle's heart
to discover them, so defiled and ob-
scured have they become; but they
are ever there, though dormant, and
when once they become subject to the
touch of divine grace, it is surprising
what inclination and facility toward
their eternal Father break forth and be-
come apparent.

Now, in speaking of the sufferings
of the Church in California, we have
been marking some of the worst fea-
tures of the Anglo-Saxon invasion.
But in viewing, as we are about to do,
the future prospects of the Church, we
must, at tlie outset, point toward some
of those better qualities and character-
istics, upon which, under God, the
Church has to build her hopes.

If once tumed to God from mate-
rialism and mammon-worship, we are
persuaded that the American would
rank among the foremost Catholics of
the world ; not shining, perhaps, in the
extraordinary gifls of faith, and in the
offices of the contemplative bfe, like
the children of Italy and Spain, but
fruitful and overflowing in good works
and in pushing forward every active
operation of charity.

Of the Califomians it may be sud
that they are bold and independent
adventurers, and that they admire
these qualities in others. They are
quick iiud devoted in their own busi-
ness, and appreciate devotedneas in
the business (ike Chinese call it *^ sky
business") of priests and nuns. They
are practical and determined, and fail-
ure after failure does not discourage
them. Health and life have no value
when any temporal end is to be gain-
ed. And, therefore, they are strdck
by the Catholic Church, her bishops
and missionaries, steadily pursuing
her supernatural end, in spite, of the
allurements, distractions, and threats
of the world ; preaching always and at
all times the same doctrines of faith
and charity ; ready day and night to
obey the call of her poorest member,
in thd camp and the battle-field, in the
penary and hardship crf'dmigiatioii, in

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803

peetQence aod fever-wards, in no mat»
ter what clime or among what people ;
always- alike joyful to save the soul of
the negro, the red man, or the white
man ; esteeming suffering, illness, con-
tempt, poverty, and persecution, when
endured for God or for his souls, as
so many jewels in her crown, and
holding life itself cheap and contempt-
ible in comparison with the one end she
has in view.

The Califomians are a singularly
inquisitive and intelligent race* Every-
body is able to read and write ; and
even the common laborer has his
morning newspaper brought every day
of his life to his cottage door. The
state prison of St* QUlntin shows some
curious statistical of the proportion of
native Americans and foreigners who
' are i^ble to read and write. The com-
parison, as will be seen, is in favor of
the United States : January 1, 1862,
there were 257 prisoners, natives of
the United States ; of these only 29
were unable to read or write. And
there were 333 of foreign birth ; of
these 141 were unable to read or
write. The spirit of free inquiry and
private judgment, which brought about
the apostacy of the sixteenth centuiy,
13 carried by Californians to its legiti-
mate conclusions. They are not
stopped half-way as Anglicans are by
love or reverence for what may ap-
pear to be a venerable, time-honored
establishment, full of nationality and
wealth, and hoary with respectability.
They wish to learn the reason why of
everything, and they are little inclined
to take anything upon a mere ipse
dixiU They love knowledge, and de-
sire to obtain it easily, so they are
great frequenters of lectures and ser*
mons; and wiU go anywhere to hear
them when they believe tliem to be
good. This gives the Catholic priest
a strong and solid advantage over
every other minister. He is able ta
give an account of his faith, to show
the reasonableness of submission, to
prove that faith rests upon an infalli-
ble basis, that religion is not a caprice
of reaflion, not a mere ezpedienty not a

police, which was useful in ignorant
days, and may be still useful for so-
peistitious minds and a leading-string
for children and the weak. Show t)ie
American that the submission of his
intellect to the divine intellect of the
Church of God is not its destruction^
but its perfection, and elevation, and
his intellectual pride will yield as
quickly as any man's. Explain to
them the doctrine of the Holy Ghost
and his indwelling life in the Church
and in the individual, and they will be
ready to call out, '* Give us also the
Holy Ghost." There are some na-
tures so confiding and so simple that
it is enough to address them as the
centurion did his soldiers, or to tell
them what to believe, and they be-
lieve at once. It is a blessed thing
to have the grace of little children i
to believe from the first; but th^re
are some who have placed themselves
out of the pale of this great grace,
or have been bom outside it, on ao^
count of the sins of their parents, and
the mould they have been formed in.
This is the case with the Anglo-Saxon
race, and pre-eminently so .with the
American. And the Church accom-
modates herself to the peculiarities of
the human mind, with infinite charity
and condescension, seeking the surest
avenue to the conversion of the. soul to
God, in faith, hope, and charity. She
is ready to meet the American on his
own ground, and to give the clearest
and most convincing of explanations.
Again, the Americans are what has
been called ** viewy," and with all
their practical power and love for the
positive, they prefer to have the truth
presented to them as in a landscape, in*
which the imagination is able to throw
the reason into relief on the fore-
ground. Compare the instructions
and sermons of Peach, Gother,
Fletcher, and Challoner, excellent and
solid though they be, where the im-
agination has no play, with those of
Cardinal Wiseman, Archbishop Man-
ning, Dr. Newman, and our meaning
is at once illustrated.
A priest who should draw his ser-

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804

OaK/cmia amd tke O^wdi

niong ont of Snarez or Petavins,
rather than from Perrone or Boavier,
or some hand4)ook of oontroversj-^
his homilies on the gospel from, «. ^.,
Dionjsius the Carthusian, illnstrating
them from such works as ** Burder's
Oriental Customs," ^Hanner's Ob-
servations," etc^ rather than heap up
platitudes and common generalities, or
should even take our oonunon little
catechism and develop its doctrine and
popularize it by abundant iUnstrations
from Scripture, history, from the arts,
sdence, commerce, government — fa-
miliar themes <to the American mind
-—would be certain to attract around
his pulpit large audiences of anxious
souls, and, by God's blessing, to win
them to Catholic truth with astonish-
ing facility.

The AJnericans are keenly alive to
coarse or rough manners in a priest
They will not sudor masterful or dom-
ineering Uuiguage from him in the
pulpit or in private. Above all, they
consider the <* brogue" to be a capital
tin— -tafem devitcu This is a little in-
consistent in men who are not them-
selves remarkable either for the stiovi-
Ur in modo or for a reticence of pro-
vmcialisms and cant words and
phrases. But still we consider, un-
hesitatingly, that the brogue is more
prejudi<nal to a dei^gyman's influence
npon Americans than upon English-
men; and also that a priest, through
refinement of mind and manners, can
effect more in America than in £ng«
land. Whether the reason for this
fact is that the ktter qualities are
rarer in the States than here, or that
having no hereditary titles, Americans
attach greater value to adornments of
mind and manners, we may not pause
to consider.

Again, they have been for the
greater part cut off firom the traditions
of home and family. The parish
clergyman or district minister nmder
whom they once sat, the bitter seal of
dd ladies who ccmsider Catholicity to
he a species of sorcery, priests to be all
Jesuits, Jesuits to t)e one with the
devil in conning and malice, and who

know how to insert a sting into the
life of the friend who withdraws from
their opinions; the quiet humdnun
of life in the States or in £urope, so
favorable to the skOus in qwh-^-^Jl
these anti-Catholic influences are lar
away, and there is little substitute for
them in California, where there is a
singular absence of public opinion and
of social despodsm.

On the other hand it may be said
that they have come into the presence
of the life of Catholicity in ways
which impress them by the novelty
of their situation. In the first place,
their belief in the possibility of living
for an invisible and supernatural eoA
is quickened by 'their experience of
the country they have come to. They
came to seek for fortune, and they
thought they were the firsts but they
found that the Catholic Church had
been there long before them, perfectly
satisfied without the gold and silver
which has drawn themy in the accom-
plishment of her mission of peace and
salvation. For long years Catholic
missioners had abandoned home ai»d
civilization in order to reside on the
rolling plains, or valleys, or sea-ooast,
with the untutored and debased In-
dian, with no other recompense than
one they looked for hereafter. They
had not become savages and wild men
as men often do, conforming to the
Indian, who lived upon grasshoppers,
and worms, and insects, or roots and
grasses or fruits, or at best on the
produce of the chase. But by the
constraining power of love, and with
a divine message, they had drawn
the wild Indians around them, taught
them various arts and trades, the
growth of the olive, of the vine, and
of com, how to spin and weave, the
first elements of peace and commerce*
They had* instructed them in the
Christian faith and helped them on
the way to heaven. The old remains
of their work are scattered over the
country in some five^nd-twenty prin*
eipal mission establishments. The
great ^ adobe" walls of their churches,
jvaiying from four to eight ^feet thioky

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Califomia and the Church,

805

tbe rade sculpture, the gaudj frescoes,
the paintings and carvings brought all
the way from Spain and Mexico, the
little square belfry sianding alone, the
cemetery, and the avenue of trees
planted by the friars along the roads
which lead up to the mission ; the
orchards still fruitful, where the swine
besport themselves and the coney bur-
rows, as at Santa Clara ; the mourn-
ful olive-trees of the mission, which,
in spite of age, yield the best oil in
the country ; the crosses, memorials
of piety and faith, set up here and
there, and the Christian traditions still
left among a few survivors of the old
inhabitants, often speak solemnly and
instructively to the heart of the pio-
neer who has come in hot haste to
seek a fortune. How can he help at
times being touched, when he is with
his own thoughts in solitude, perhaps
in sadness and disappointment, in the
presence of these old remnants which
tell of pioneers who came with an-
other and holier end in view than that
in which he sees himself foiled and
mistaken? We will venture to say
that these ancient memorials of the
faith and devotedness of the Catholic
missionaries are as sweet, and as dear,
and as impressive to many a Califor-
nian, as the gorgeous old piles of Cath-
olic piety in England are to the dense
and civilized Protestant population
which lives around them and profits
by their revenues.

Among the first pioneers of Cali-
fomia, before the discovery of gold,
in search of an agricultural district
and of a genial climate, came a hardy
band of earnest Irishmen. They
were in a high sense pioneers, for they
were the first caravan that found a
way across the plains and Bocky
Mountains from the Eastern states.
They passed many long months on
t^je road, and were exposed to every
imaginable hardship and difficulty.
They had to clear the forest as they
went, to make a passage for their
wagons. Sometimes they would
spend a week breaking a road through
^reat rocks and enormous 'boulders^

which obstructed a river-bed or a
mountain-pass; their wagons often
came to pieces through hardship and
exposure; they cut down trees to
mend them, and had to extemporize
wheels and harness as they journeyed
slowly on. They had placed all their
trust and confidence in God — ^in the
rain and wind, in the thick forest, and
on the snowy mountain, they always
turned to him — ^they served and wor-
shipped him as well as the circum^
stances would allow, and he led them
at last into the land of promise which
they looked to.

After them came another caravan
from the States, but formed of men of
a very different stamp. License,
crime, and disorder of the most ap-
palling character marked their steps.
We will enter into no details. They
suffered innumerable hardships, they
fell so short of provisions, and were
reduced to such straits, that, finally, in
despair of ever reaching the rich
plams of California, they killed one
of their party, and made their even-
ing meal upon human fiesh. The
next morning one mile off they des-
cried the land they longed for, and
immense herds of elk feeding on the
plains. They felt that the hand of
Grod had struck them. The Irish
Catholics soon rallied round the few
pastors who remained in the country ;
they established themselves near tibie '
missions. Soon they lifted up their
voice calling for more spiritual as-
sistance. The riches of earth were
of little value to them* without the
blessings of heaven. The zeal of the
Holy See anticipated their own. Mis-
sionaries were on the way to the scene
of labor, and a devoted bishOp was
soon appointed to rule over them.

When, after 1849, the rush to the
diggings took place, and all men were
suffering from " the gold fever" and
" silver on the brain," spending their
money in wholesale gambling, fniilcing
fortunes one week and losing them
the next, and every man's head seem-
ed to be turned by the helter-skelter
ezdtement, the Catholic Church, in

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806

CaUfcTfda and Ae Church.

her calm majesty, was growing up in
the midst of the turmoil, and occupying
her position as the city on the moun-
tain, and the light shining before men.
The zeal of the archbishop and der*
gy and faithful Irish knew no limits.
Churches sprang up on the conspicu-
ous eminences of the city of San
Francisco, and in the principal thor-
oughfares. And that vast assemblage
of men, irho had come together from
all parts, without religion or God in
their hearts, began to see that they
were in the presence of the Catholic
Church, and that the shadow of the
Catholic towers and crosses had fallen
upon them. As soon as the Holy See
gave to San Francisco an archbishop,
the zealous sons of St. Patrick deter-
mined to build him a cathedml. The
wages of a common hodman were £2,
10s. a day; nevertheless, while the
Catholic with one hand worked or
scrambled for wealth, with the other
he freely gave to that which is always
dearest to his heart. The deep foun-
dations of the cathedral were sunk, the
walls arose, its massive time-keeping
tower crowned the city, its solemn ser-
vices were inaugurated. It was the re-
sult of fabulous suras of money, and of
heroic devotedness on the part of pas-
tors and people. Nor was this alL
Large and handsome churches have
sprung up in various parts of the city,
like St. Ignatius's and St. FranciB*s,
and others, such as the French church,
St. Patrick's, St. Joseph's, the German
diurch, and a number of smaller
chapels. The unbelieving speculator,
the '* smart" trader, the land-owner,
and the miner, on his visit to the city,
were all struds: with these visible to-
kens 6f sincerity and zeal, without
stint of generous alms, put forth by
the Catholic Church from the very
outset Later, and stimulated by
Catholic example, the various sects of
Protestantism, Jews, infidels, and pa-
gans, erected in several places their
churches, temples, chapels, lecture-
halls, and joss-houses. In point of
churches, in numbers and construction,
the Catholic communion in San Fran-

cisco stands far ahead of aQ others.
But it is not in the erection of
churches alone that Catholicity has,
with the vigor o^her perpetual youth,
outstripped the sects, all of which,
before they attain to half a century,
become old and decrepit; for no
sooner did the population roll in from
the ocean and across the plains, than
new wants at once arose — ^hospitals
for the sick from the city, the country,
and the mines ; homes for the orphans
who were lefl alone in a far-off coun-
try, where men die in thousands from
accident and violence, as well as from
disease and natural causes; and
schools for children, who arc bom
more numerously, it is stud, in CaH-
fomia than in any other country.
Here again the Catholic Church was
first in devoted charity and anxious
zeal for souls.

As to popular schools, before the
Atlantic and Pacific oceans were '
bridged together by the iron rails of
Panama, the gentle and devoted Sis-
ters of the Presentation from Ireland,
ladies by birth, tradition, and refine-
ment, left their tranquil convents for
the storm and troubles of life into
the midst of which they were to be
thrown in San Francisco. They, in
their strict and peaceful inclosure,
were to be calm, like the point which
even in the whirlwind is always to be
still and at rest. There, day by day,
they teach one thousand children from
infancy up to womanhood, the poor
according to their wants, and the rich
according their requirements, and all
this entirely gratis, looking to Grod
aione to be their " reward CKceeding
great." Moreover, the only school in
the state of California for Lidians and
negroes is established and taught by
them. In the state schools no color-
ed child would be allowed to set his
foot. Thousands of children of Cath-
olic, of Protestant, and infidel parents
have passed out into the world from
under their considerate and enlighten-
ed care, and they bless them every-
where evermore. Such disinterested
charities/ such daily self-denial, siidi

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807

gentle and kindly sympathj, are no^
lost upon the wayward, goHiJiead, and
hardened Yankee. These are the
lives which touch and melt and win
him. This, he says, is practical re-
ligion. Next, in a state like Califor-
nia, orphanages became an early and
a primary want. The Sisters of Char-
ity first supplied them. Then hospi-
taJs were needed ; and the Sisters of
Mercy from Ireland said, ^ Here are
hospitals." They possess the best
hospital in the state. They watch
the sick with a mother's care; and
many a man learns on his bed of pain
from their lips lessons which he has
never heard in childhood, or has for-
gotten in manhood. In all these de-
partments of popular instruction, or-'
phanages, and hospitals, the Catholic
Church in California leads the way,
extending aid and care to all, without
distinction of creed or nation. The
Catholic convents and establishments
stand out conspicuously to all the
world on the heights and in the prin-
cipal thoroughfares of San Francisco.
These are all works which we attrib-
ute to the zeal of the Irish, and which
prove to Americans, and they admit
the proof, the faith and charity of the
Catholic Church. They are an ap-
peal to their h^rt and to their reason.
And now tor tnV appeal to their sense
of honesty and justice. Take the
Catholics of California as a body, and
they stand before any other body for
honesty in busmess. They nearly all
came to the state poor men; some
had to borrow money for their jour^
ney ; but they have worked their way
up; and now, though the Jews are
the largest capitalists, and the Yan-
kees, from being more numerous,
hold absolutely a greater amount of
wealth, the Irish and Catholics, as a
class, are more uniformly well off.
The mean of comfort and sufficiency is
probably hig)ier among them than
among others. And they have obtain-
ed for themselves a high reputation
for honesty and honorable con-
duct in business. It is. impossible
for a person ?nthoat experience

to form an idea of the amount of
cheating and rascality which is
oflen practised in trade and com-
merce. Bobbery and lying, upon
however large or mean a scale, when
successful, will be called by a great
number only "smart conduct.**. A
man is not tabooed and banished the
exchange and the market for cheating
his credttoi-s, and defrauding the pul^
He, as he would be in London or
Liverpool. He can live down such
public opinion as there is, and many
of his friends extend a misplaced pity
to him, or tJiink none the worse of
him for his behavior. A man may
become bankrupt three or four times,
and become richer each time ; tliis is
not uncommon ; and there are certain
persons with whom it is taken for
granted that tliey are thus " making
their pile." ^So and so has just
caved inj'^said a merchant ; " and he
had $20,000 worth of goods from me
last week, and all that's ' run into the
ground,' and no two ways about that.
He'll be through the courts white-
washed in a few weeks." "Well,"
said the interlocutor, " you won't let
him have more goods without ready
money ?" « Yes, I shall. He'll just
come to me for goods to set up again ;
and he knows Til let him have them,
for he's a ' smsui' fellow ; he will be
better able to pay me then than he
ever has been before." In t^nfirma-
tion of our general statement, we may
quote the words of Mr. Hittel :

" Insolvencies legally declared and
cancelled by the courts are more fre-
quent in San Francisco, in proportion
to its population, than in any other
part of the world. Our laws provide
that any man who declares himself
unable to pay his debts, and petitions
to be released from them, may obtain
a judicial discharge, unless he has
been guilty of fraud ; and as the fraud
must be distinctly proved upon him
before the discharge will be denied,
the release is almost invariably ob*
tained."

From this testimony of a long resi*
dent and man of busmess in Califinv

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Igmia cmd Ae Okur^

nia it will be readilj understood how
closely men's personal character for
hones^ will be scrutinized bj persons
who are not anxious to suffer in deal-
ing with them. Now, inquiries have
been made in various parts of the
oountiy, and it has been ascertained
beyond a doubt that the Irish, or
American Irish GatholicSy are con-
sidered the safest class of men to do
business with. Whether it be early
training, religion, the confessional, or
the influence of the priests, so it is ;
they are trusted by a Yankee more
readily than others are. Far be it
from us to impeach the honesty, and
sense of honor, of all save the Irish
and Catholics. These natural vir-
tues shine witli the greatest brilliancy
in many an unbeUeving man of busi-
ness. We but record a fact which is
highly creditable to the Irish, and
spreads the good odor of tVk religion
they profess.

We have now to notice the direct
action of the archbishop and of the
clergy upon the popalation. The
bishop is the ^ forma gregis facta ex
animo," "the city on the hill," "the
candle placed high upon the candle-
stick," giving its light around ; and on
each prelate bestows what gifls he
pleases. With these he illumines the
world in the person of his minister.

Go, then, up California street, turn
round the cathedral of St. Mary's, and
you will enter a miserable, dingy
little house. This is the residenV^e
of the Archbishop of San Francisco
and his clergy, who live with him in
community. To the left are a number
of little yards, and the back windows
of the houses in which the Chinamen
are swarming. Broken pots and
pans, old doors, and a yellow compost,
window-frames, fagots, remnants of
used fireworks, sides of pig glazed
and varnished, long strings of meat^
God only knows what meat — changing
to dry, dog-kcnnels, dead cats, dirty
linen in heaps, and white linen and
blue cottons drjing on lines or lying
on rubbish — such is the view to the
lefL The odors which exhale from it

who shall describe ? A spark wodd
probably set the whole of t^ese prem-
ises in a conflagration; and one is
tempted to think that even a fire
would be a blessing. To the right,
adjoining the cathe^l, is the yard
where the Catholic boys come out
to play; a|id in this yard stands a
little iron or zinc cottage, containing
two rooms. This is where the arch-
bishop lives ; one is his bedroom, the
other his office, where his secretaries
are at work all day. No man is more
poorly lodged in the whole city ; and
no man preaches the spirit of evan-
gelical poverty, a detadiment in the
midst of this money-worshipping city,
like this Dominican. Spanish Arch-
bishop of San Francisco. From ten
in the morning to one p.m. every
day, and for two Or three hours eveiy
evening, his grace, arrayed in his com-
m<Hi white habit, and with his green
cord and pectoral cross, receives all
who come to consult him, to beg of
him, to converse with him, be they
who they may — emigrants, servants,
merchants, the afflicted, the ruined, the
unfortunate. The example of such a
life of disinterested zeal, holy sim-
plicity, and poverty has told upon the
inhabitants of San Francisco with an
irresistible power. B has been one
of the Catholic inflSnces exercised
by the Church on the population.

On taking possession of his see,
when San Francisco was yet forming
and building itself up, the first thing
Dr. Alemany looked around for was
an edifying and zealous body of clergy.
There were, indeed, already before
him some few who are laboring in the
vineyard to this day, but there was
also there the refuse of Europe, men
of scandalous life, and men affecting
to be priests who were impostors.
Whereupon he went over to Ireland,
and entering into relations with, the
College of All Hallows, which had
supplied so many devoted priests to
other parts, he began to draw from
that splendid seminary apostles for
California : of whom, we believe, the
first was the present bishop at Marya-

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California and the Church,

809

Tille, Dr. O'Connelly so dktingaished
for his gentleness, learning, piety, and
zeal for the salvation of the Indian as
well as of the white man. May that
college long continue to send forth its
heroic bands of laborers, who may be
recognized everywhere as they are in
California, as a virtaoas and exem-
plary clergy I But the archbishop,
with the eye of a general, perceived
that in order to make a deep impres-
sion upon the masses which were
forming themselves with incredible ac-
tivity in San Francisco and the coun-
try, it was necessary, in addition to
the secular clergy, which were station-
ed in pickets through the city and
coontiy, to form a strong body of in-
defatigable men, who should act upon
the population with all the accumu-
lated power of a compact square. He
therefore called into the field the Jesuit
fathers. They came down in little
numbers from Oregon and the Rocky
Mountains, from the Eastern states,
and from Piedmont. He assigned to
them the old mission of Santa Clara,,
about forty miles from San Francisco,
m order that they should at once open
a college for the better classes ; and
also a site in San Francisco^ among
the sand-hills, in order to form a day
college for the inhabitants of the city ;
and a church in which they should
bring into play all those industries of
devotion, retreats, sermons, lectures,
novenas, and sodalities, which consti-
tute BO considerable an element of
their influence in Rome, and upon the
various populations in the midst of
which they establish themselves.

We have already shown that the
Church was foremost in the formation
of hospitals, orphanages, and schools
for the poor. She is also first in re-
putation for the excellence and solidi-
ty of her higher education. The Col-
lege of Santa Clara has a public name
all down the western coast, in Mexico
and Peru, as being, the most efficient
house of education on the Pacific
But in order to appreciate the value of
this work, 'it is necessary to under-
stand something of the infideUty, im«

morality, and vice against which it
acts as a barrier. Precocity in vice
in California exceeds an3rthing we
know in England ; and the domestic
inner life of the family, except among
the Irish, who still maintain its sanc-
tity in a wonderful degree, and a cer-
tain small minority of others, has
probably less existence than in the
Eastern states. In the state systedl,
boys and girls attend the ssJhe schools
up to seventeen and eighteen. We
have heard of a college in which boys
and girls were educated together and
liv^ under the same roof; and we
have been told of even girls' boarding-
schools having been broken up on ac-
count of vice and disease. But rather
than speak ourselves, we prefer to
quote the published evidence of a Cal-
ifomian as to the moral state of so-
ciety :

" In no part of the world is the in-
dividual more free from restraint.
Men, and women, and children are
permitted to do nearly as they please.
High wages, migratory habits, and
bachelor Hfe are not favorable to the
maintenance of stiff social rules among
men, and the tone of Society among
women must partake to a considerable
extent of that among men, especially
in a country where women are in a
small minority, and are therefore much
courted. Public opinion, which as a
guardian of public morals is more
powerful than the forms of law, loses
much of its power in a community
where the inhabitants are not perma-
nent residents. A large portion of the
men in California live either in cabins
or in hotels, remote from women rela-
tives, and therefore uninfluenced by the
powers of a home. It is not uncom-
mon for married women to go to par-
ties and balls in company with young
bachelor friends. The girls commence
going into " society*' about fifteen, and
then receive company alone, and go
out alone with young men to dances
and other places of amusement In
this there is a great error : too much
liberty is allowed to girls in the states
on the Atlantic slope, and still greater

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810

Oeltfomia and tk« OkwrdL

• liberty is given here, where, as thej
ripen earHer, thej should be more
guarded."*
Again:

'^ The relation between the sexes is
unsound. Unfortunate women are
numerous, and separations and di-
vorces between married couples fre-
quent No civilized country can equal
us in the proportionate number of di-
vorces, -^ur laws are not so lax as
those of several states east of the Mis-
sissippi ; but the circumstances of life
are more favorable to separation. The
small proportion of women makes a .
demand for the sex, and so when a
woman is oppressed by her husband
she can generally find somebody else
who will not oppress her, and she will
apply for a divorce. The abundance
of money is here felt also. To prose-
cute a divorce costs money, and many
cannot pay in poorer countries. Dur-
ing 1860, eighty-five divorce suits
were commenced in San Francisco,
and in sixty-one of these, or three-
fourths of the cases, the wives were
the plaintiffs."

We need add no comment. Such
being the tone and condition of society,
of what inestimable value must not
good Catliolic colleges be to the whole
coimtry ! They are highly appreciated
by many who are not Catholics : for
they send their children to Santa
Clara, and to the convents of Notre
Dame, being fully persuaded that they
will not only be educated in the
soundest principles of morality, and be
fenced in from evil, but will receive a
higher intellectual training than they
could elsewhere. Society, ' indeed,
must modify any particular system of
education; and the Jesuits have had
to depart from their traditional prac-
tice of a thorough classical training,
in favor of positive sciences, especially
chemistry and mmeralogy, and to
adopt the utilitarian line ofinstmction
rather than that which is the habit in
Europe. Their colleges in Santa
Clara and in San Francisco, and the

• '' BeBonroM of CUlfonU," p, 884.

schools of Notre Dame, must be
marked as the principal educational
establishments in C^ifomia; and
th^y are telling steadily upon the peo-
ple.

The archbishop has also opened
another college in behalf of the mid-
dle classes, which no doubt will bear
its fruit. All are thus amply provided
for; and no one points a finger of
scorn toward the Catholic Church for
ignorance and neglect of education;
rather she is looked upon as pre-emi-
nent in her training, and men external
to her communion send their children
to learn wisdom at her establish-
ments.

The sand-hills in the midst of which
the college and church of St. Ignatius
were placed, have long since been car-
ried away by the vigorous application
of steam-power, and these religious
buildings stand out prominent upon
the widest street in California.

A brief allusion to the work carried
on in this church, and we come to a
.conclusion. We have already re-
ferred at some length to the sermon
and lecture-going habit of the Ameri-
cans, and to the conquests which the
Catholic Church alone has the power
to make among them, by addressing
herself to their good qualities, and thus
leading them to God by the cords of
Adam. Long ago the archbishop per-
ceived this, and acted promptly by
planting in the capital, in addition to
the busy, active secular clergy, this
community of St Ignatius, with its
leisure, ttdent, and training, to meet
special i*equirements ; and statistics
would show with what success his
grace's plans have been crowned.
But we must pass on, and confine our
notice to a particular industry of the
society, which at San Francisco has
received a special blessing. Or rather,
it is not a specialty of the society, but
a common arm in the armory of the
Church ; we refer, to the system of so-
dalities and confraternities. The idea
was first introduced by St. Frauds
and St. Dominic in their third orders,
and was perfect^ and practically

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OaHforma <md Ae Church.

811

tipplied to Tsrioas devout enils by
St.^ Charles, St. Ignatias, and St
Philip, in the sixteenth century
Su Charled covered his diocese with
confraternities* as with so many nets.
St, Philip organized the little oratory,
and the Jesuits wherever they estab-
lish themselves are careful to found
the sodality of the B. Virgin, and that
of St. Joseph as the patron of the Bona
Morsy in their colleges or among the
frequenters of their public churches.
Nothing can exceed the importance of
theser sodalities and confraternities,
and we dwell on the subject all the

* more willingly, because of our own
need of their more perfect develop-
ment and spread among ourselves. It
strikes us that such associations are
faiore than ever desirable in countries
like England and America, where ex-
ternal dangers and seductions are so
numerous and insidious, and ecclesias-
tical influence so limited.

In Catholic countries the population
is studded with religious houses, con-
vents, and commuDities, and the priest-

, hood is numerous, visible to the eye of
the public, clothed in its own dress,
affecting all classes of society, and
holding a political and national status
of its own. Their influence, therefore,
is strong and ever ^ present. It is
otherwise with the English clergy, who
have not one of the advantages allud-
ed to, but are absorbed in begging and
bailding with one hand, while with
the other they hastily baptize, a^olve,
and anoint the new-bom, the viator,
and the dying. Now well-organized
sodalities of laymen supply the ab-
sence of those more powerful influ-
ences, of which we daily lament the
loss. They are a security to each
member against himself, and they
quicken him with a new zeal and ac-
tivity for his neighbor. In San Fran-
cisco there is a sodality for men and
one for women. They hold their re-
spective meetings, sing the office of the
Blessed Virgin, receive instructions,
and frequent the sacraments on ap-

pointed days': they have also their li-
brary. The object is purely spiritual,
and we believe there is no kind of ob-
ligatory subscription. Is a youth be-
ing led away, or in the midst of dan-
gers, his friend induces him to join
him in the sodality. It is a spiritual
citadel into which all may enter, and
find a new armor and strength against
self and the world. Those newly bom
to the faith are gradually and easily
edified and perfected in their new re-
ligion, by contact with the more fer-
vent members whom they find in the
sodality. Such a system cannot be
too widely spread. Why should not a
sodality be established in every con-
siderable parish? After a time, all
would loudly proclaim that they had
built up a tower of strength within the ^
Church. But we may not dwell long-
er on these topics.

The great spuitual dangers in Cali-
fornia are rank infidelity and unblush-
ing naturalism: the one and only
promise of religion, the one hope of
salvation, is in the attityde and posi-
tion of the Catholic Church. Mr.
Hittel sums up the relative numbers
thus.: about fourteen per cent, of the
male population frequent some place
of worship ; of the remaining eighty-
six per cent., one-third occasionally go
to church, according to the attraction
there, and two-thirds never go near a
church, and are not to be counted as
Christians. He estimates the Protest-
ants at 10,000, of whom the Episco-
palians are numbered at only 600
communicants, with twenty churches
and eighteen clergymen ; the Jews at
2,000. The Cat^lic priests, he adds,
claim 80,000 communicants m their
church, and they are more attentive
to the forms of their faith than are the
Protestants. In a word,*Catholicity is
in the ascendant, the sects are in the
decline, and the battle is between pa-
ganism with a mythology of dollars,
and the Church of God with her pre-
cepts of ^elf-denial and her promises
of eternal life.

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81S « PaUenee.

From The Month.

PATIENCE,

FBOM THE OBBXAK.

All through this eaiih we live in

A silent angel goes,
Sent by the God of mercy
• To soften earOily woes.

Sweet peace and gracious pity

In his meek eyes abide ;
That angel's name is Patience —

Oh, taJLe him for your guide.

His gentle hand will lead thee

I Through paths of grief and gloom ;

His cheering voice mil whisper

Of brighter days to come ;
For when thy heart is sinking,

His courage faileth not ;
He helps thy cross to carry,

And soothes the saddest lot.

He turns to chastened sadness

The anguished spirit's cry ;
The restless heart he calmeth

To meek tranquillity ;
The darkest hour will brighten

At his benign command,
And eveiy wound he healeth

With slow but certain hand.

He dries, without reproving.
The tears upon thy checJk ;
He doth not chide thy longings.

But makes them calm and meek ;
And if, when storms are raging,
• Thou askest, murmuring, " Why ?*
He answers not, but pointeth
With quiet smile on high.

• He hath not ready answer

For every question here ;
" Endure,** so runs his motto—

"The time for rest is near."
So, with few words, beside thee

Fareth thine angel-friend ;
Thinking not of the journey,

But of its glorious end.

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The Two Friendi of Mrn^y Quern of Seoti.

818

From The Lilerary WorkmaxL

THE TWO FRIENDS OF MART, QUEEN OF SCOTS-

The first attraction to all Catholics
who yisit Antwerp is its cathedral,
which still remains after so many tem-
pests of war and sedition the glorj
of the city.

But there exists in one of the other
churches a monament which has an
interest for English and Scotch Cath-
olics almost personal; it is in the
church of St. Andrew, which was
founded in the year 1529. Like most
of the churches in Belgian towns, it is
of considerable size and lofty. It
contiuns one of the pulpits for which
Belgium, more than any other coun-
try in Europe, is famous. On the
floor of the church, in front of the
pulpit, and immediately under the
preacher, is a representation in card-
ed wood of the great erent recorded
in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and
eighteenth verses of the first chapter
of St Mark's Gospel :

*^ And passing by the sea of Galilee,
he saw Simon and Andrew his brother
casting nets into the sea, for they
were * fishermen : and Jesus said to
them. Come after me and I wiU make
you to become fishers of men. And
immediately leaving their nets, they
followed him."

The same event is recorded in St.
Matthew. The whole scene is repre-
sented in the most life-like manner.
The figures of our blessed Lord, of
St Peter and St Andrew, are of the
size of life, or nearly so. Our bless-
ed Lord stands by himself, toward the
east, looking down the church. One
of the apostles is seated in a boat
round which shallow waves are rip-
pling. The other stands by the boat
on the shore. A net contains fish,
which show all the attitudes of fish
just caiight and brought to land. The

figure of our blessed Lord, and the at-
titude of the future apostles listening
to him with the utmost reverence, are
given with profound truth, and are
ftill of the purest sentiment of religion.
The pulpit has a sounding-board on
which stands the cross of St Andrew,
supported by small angeUc figures.
It is however the scene on the floor of
the church which is the great object of
admiration. The pulpit is fixed
against one of the pillars of the nave,
and a little eastward of it, beyond
the next pillar, is an altar inclosed by
a marble screen. Against the pillar
nearest to the altar, and behind it, is
placed the monument which has so
great an attraction for Catholics speak-
ing the English tongue.

It is called in the guide-books, '^ A
marble monument raised to the mem-
ory opMary Stuart by two English
ladies.''

But this is not exactly true. It is
the monument, as will be seen, of two
English ladies: and it was obvi-
ously intended also to honor the mem-
ory of their sovereign and mistress
the queen. It is placed high up the
pillar, quite out of reach ; but the in-
scription upon it can be read perfectly
by spending some time and trouble in
considering it.

The inscription occupies the whole
centre of the monument It is in
Latin« and the following is a literal
^translation of it :

«< Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland
and France, mother of James, King
of Great Britain, coming into Eng-
land in the year 1568, for the sake of
taking refuge, was beheaded through
the perfidy of her kinswoman Elisa-
beth, rmgning there, and through the
jealousy of tiie heretical parliament

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814

ThB Two Friend9 of Mgry^ Quern of Socti.

after nineteen jeara of captivity for the
sake of religion. She consummated
her martyi^om in the year of our
Lord 1587, and in the 45th year of
her age and of her reign.

" Sacred to God, beat and greatest,
" You behold, oh traveller, the mon-
ument of two noble matrons of Great
Britain who, flying to the protection
of the Catholic king from their coun-
try, for the sake <3i orthodox religion,
here repose in the hopo of the resur-
re<$tion«

^ First, Barbara Mowbray, daugh-
ter of the Lord John, Baron Mowbcay,
who, being lady of the bedchamber
to the most serene Mary Stuart,
Queen of Scotland, was given in mar-
riage to Gilbert Curle^ who for more
dian twenty, years .was privy council-
lor. They lived together happily for
twenty-three years, and had eight
children. Of these six have passed
to heaven ; two sons, still alive, were
trained in liberal studies. James en-
tered the Society of Jesus at Madrid,
in Spain; Hippolytus, the younger,
made his choice to be enrolled in the
army of Christ in the Society of Jesus
in the province of French Flanders.
He, sorrowing, and with tears, made
it his care to place this monument to
the memory of his admirable mother,
who, on the last day of July, in the
year 1616, and in the 57th year of her
age, exchanged this unstable life for
the life of eternity.

*' Secondly, the memory of Elizap-
beth Curie, his aunt, of the same no-
ble race of the Curies, who also was
the faithfhl companion of the chamber
and the imprisonment of Queen Mary
for eight years; and to whom the
queen at her death gave her last kiss ;
who never married, and lived a life

" May they rest in peace. Amen."
Opposite to your left hand, as you
look at the monument, by the side of
the inscription, is the figure of a fe-
male saint holding a book, and under-
neath, in large letters, St. Barbaba.
On the other side of the inscription
is another female sabt, holding up
her dress, with gold loaves in it, un-
der her left arm, and one gold lonf in
her right hand. Underneath her is
written St. Elizabeth. This is St.
Elizabeth of Hungary. At the top of
the monument, inclosed in a pediment
of marble, is a very agreeable paint-
ing of the queen, and at the bottom of
the monument, below the inscription,
is a lozenge of white marble, showing
the arms of Scotland, France, and
England, «arved, but not colored.

Miss Strickland, in the last volume
of her life of Mary, Queen of Scots,
gives a version of this (Epitaph, and
mentions the fact of the burial of these
ladies in the church of St. Andrew.
The version of the epitaph which we
have given is more exact than that
given by Miss Strickland ; and Miss
Strickland is mistaken in saying that
the churqh of St; Andrew is a "^ small
Scotch church."

Indeed it is difficult to know how
such an expression could be applied
to St. .Andrew*s church. It is cer-
tainly not a small church, as we hare
said; and is certainly not a Scotch
church, in any intelligible sense of that
expression. It was built in 1529,
under the government of Margaret of
Austria, Duchess of Parma. Miss
Strickland mentions the painting at
the top of the monument as having
been brought over to Antwerp by
Elizabeth and Barbara Curie. But
in speaking of the family, of Mowbray

eminent for piety and chastity. Hip- ^she has failed to do justice to the re*
polytus Curie, son of her brother, in ligion of these ladies.

great good will, in memory of her
deserts, and as an expression of his
own love and gratitude, placed this
monument here. She ended her life
in the year of our Lord 1620, on the
29th day of May, in the 60th year of
her age.

She says that << Barbara and GiUies
Mowbray, the two youngest daughters
of the Laird of Barnborough, a lead-
ing member of the Presbyterian Con-
gregation, • • • sought and suc-
ceeded in obtaining the melancholy
privilege of being a^ed to the prison-

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The Two Friends of Mary, Queen of Scots.

815

boasehold of their captive qneen-^
favor they might probabljr have solie-
ited in vain if they had not been Prot-
estants, and their father, Sir John
Mowbray, a etaunch adherent of the
rebel faction" (p. 380).

She gives no authority for her state-
ment as to the religion of the daugh*
ters^ Barbara and Gillies, and the
probabilities, in the absence of evi*
dence, seem all to lie the other way.
Bat in any case, it is obvious that
they were Catholics in Antwerp.

Miss Strickland, in describing the
absurd travestie of a funeral perform-
ed by the Protestant ministers in
Peterborough cathedral over the
body of the Scotch queen, five months
after she had been murdered, bien-
tions that none of the queen's train
would attend at the Protestant ser-
vices, " with the exception of Sir An-
drew Melville and the two Mowbrays,
who were members of the Reformed
Church."

If it is true that those two ladies
did consent to be present when all the
others refused, with great contempt,
there certainly is a presumption that
at that time they continued in the re-
ligion of Knox.

The fact is, indeed, capable of an-
other very natural explanation. They
might have chosen to see the last of
their mistress ; remaining present
without taking any part in th6 shame-
ful ceremonies.

One significant statement in the epi-
taph which we have given, and which
Miss (Strickland has omitted, makes it
certain that if Gillies Mowbray con-
tinued in Knox's or any other form of
heresy, her sister Barbara Mowbray,
wife of Gilbert Curie, was a Catholic
before leaving England. The words
omitted by Miss Strickland we now
reprint in italics : " You behold, oh
traveller, the monument of two noble
matrons of Great Britain, who, flying
to the protection of the Oatholie king
from iheir country for the sake of or-
thodox religion, here repose in the hope
of the resurrection^

MiBs Strickland's account of the

monument also omits to notice the
queen's arms which we have mention-
ed. This Widow's Lozenge tells the
whole case against her rival Elizabeth.
Persons who understand the laws of
heraldry see its meaning at once.
But for general readers it is enough
to say that the arms of Scotland are
put first, then the arms of England as
they were used at that period by Eng-
lish sovereigns. Now, if Elizabeth
had been legitimate, and had a just
title to the throne. Queen Mary would
have had no just right to place the
English arms in her lozenge. The
act of placing these arms on the mon-
ument of the Curies was a protest
against the illegitimate usurper who
had murdered the true heir.

Miss Strickland furnishes the date
of the marriage of Gilbert Curie and
Barbara Mowbray. It took place in
Tutbury Castle, in Staffordshire, in
November, 1586, a few weeks after
the sisters had arrived there to attend
upon the qaeen. Very soon after-
ward, at Fotheringay, they had to at-
tend her on her way to death. Eliz-
abeth Curie was one of the two, Jane
Kennedy being the other, who were
allowed by the wretches who directed
her murder to stand by her and see it
done.

Miss Strickland mentions that the
Conduct of the attendants of Queen
Mary at Peterborough was probably
the reason why they were sent back
to Fotheringay Castle, instead of being
liberated after the pompous funeral of
their murdered mistress. <<They
were cruelly detained there nearly
three montfaus, in the most rigorous
captivity, barely supplied with the ne-
cessaries of life, and denied the privi-i
legos of air and exercbc." •

Among those so detained were
Gillies Mowbray, and Barbara (Mow-
bray) Curie, and Elizabeth Curie.
James, then King of Scotland only,
sent Sir John Mowbray to Elizabeth
to remonstrate on the treatment of
Queen Mary's servants and to de-
mand their release. Then, having
been joined by Gilbert Curie, Baiba-

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JU^SMfw JSkfe; or^ The 1^ of Fuiuntjf.

nt'fl husband, they sought the proteo
tion of the Catholic king in Antwerp.

There thej rest in the church of the
great apostle, the patron of Scotland.

The unhappy woman who occupied
the English throne obtained entire
success — she gained the English
crown, murder^ her rival, and pur-
sued Catholics with death, ruin, and
exile* Bat probably no well inform-

ed person — certainly no Catholic — will
doubt that these ladles, in their exik,
their devout lives and piods deaths,
enjoyed happiness unknown to Elica-
beth in her guilty prosperity.

Our readers will not be displeased
to receive this short memcHr of two
ladies who were the attendants of
Mary, Queen of Scots, during life,
and at her death.

From The Lamp.
ALL.HALLO\\r EVE ; OR, THE TEST OF FDTUBITT-

BT BOBEBT CURTIS.

CBAPTEB XXIT.

The moment it had been ascertain-
ed that Emon-a-knock had been so se-
riously hurt, somshoiy thought— oh,
the thoughtfulness of some people 1-^
that some conveyance would be re-
quired, and she was determined to
take time by the forelock. Jamesy
Doyle it was who had been despatch-
ed for the jennet and cart, with a to-
ken to the only servant-woman in the
house to put a hair-mattress— 'she
knew where to get it— over plenty of
straw in the cart, and to make no de-
lay.

Jamesy Doyle was the very fellow
to make no mistake, and to do as he
was bid ; aiid sure enough there he
was now, coming up the boreen with
everything as correct as possible.
Fhil M'Dermott and Ned Murrican
led poor fimon to the end of the lane
just as Jamesy Doyle came up.

" This is for you, my poor fellow,"
said he, addressing Emon. ^ An' Tm
to lave yon every foot at your own
doore — them*3 my ordhers from th'
ould masther himsel'.*^

Em(Mi was about to speak, or to en-
deavor to do so; but M'Darmott
stopped him.

** Don't be desthroyin' yourself,
Emon, strivin' to spake ; bat let ns
lift you into the cart — an' hould yonr
tongue."

Emon-a-knock smiled; but ii was
a happy smile.

Of course there was a crowd ronnd
him ; and many a whispered observa-
tion passed through them as poor Emon
was lifted in, fixeid in a reclining posi-
tion, and Jamesy Doyle desired ^ to
go on," while Phil M'Dermott and
big Ned Murrican gave him an escort,
walking one on each side.

^ It was herself sent Jamesy Doyle
for the jennit, Judy; I heerd her
tellin' him to put plenty of straw into
the cart."

** Ay, Peggy, an' I heerd her tellin'
him to get a hair-mattrest, an' pat it a-
top of it. Isn't it well for the likes of
her that has hair-mattr«sM« to spare?"

«Ay, Nelly Gaffeny, an' didn't I
hear her tellin' him to dhrive fur his
life!"

^IvL troth an' yon didn't, Nancy;
what she said was, ' to inake no de*
lay;' wasn't I as near her as I am to
you this minute ?"

«^ Whist, gtrlsr broke in (as Lever
would say) a sensiUe old woman-*
^it WAS aold Ned Oavana himself

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617

sent Jamesy off; wasni^t I lookin* at
liim giyin' him the kay of the barn to
get the Bthraw? Dear me, how
pleasant ye all are !"

" Thrue for you, Eatty avrone ; but
wasn't it Winny that put him up to
it, an' the tears coming up in her eyes
as she axed him? an' be the same
token, the hankicher s\ie had in her
hand was for all the world the very
color of Emona-knock's cap an'
sleeves."

There was a good deal of truth, but
some exaggeration, in the above gos-
sip.

It was old Ned Cavana himself
who had despatched Jamesy Doyle
for the jennet and cart, and he had
also given him the key of the barn-
old Katty was quite right so far.

!Now let it be known that there was
not a man in the parish of Rathcash,
who was the owner of a horse and
cart, who Tvould not have cheerfully
sent for it to bring £mon-a-knock
home, when the proper time arrived to
do so— and Winry Cavana knew
that ; she knew that her father would
be all life for the purpose, the moment
it was mentioned to him ; and she was
determined that her father should be
" first in the field." There was noth-
ing extraordinary in the faet itself;
it was the relative positions of the
parties that rendered it food for the
gossip which we have been listening
to. But old Ned never thought of
the gossip in his willingness to serve
a neighbor. Winny had thought of it,
but braved it, rather than lose the
chance. It was she who had suggest-
ed to her father to send Jamesy for
the jennet, and to give him the key of
the bam where the dry straw was.
If the gossips had known this little
turn of the transaction, doubtless it
would not have escaped their com-
ments.

But we must return to the common,
and see how matters are going on
there.

Tom Murdock had witnessed from

no great distance the arrival of the

jennet and cart; and of course he

VOL. n. 5d

knew them. He did not know, how«
ever, that it was Winny Cavana who
had sent for them— *he only guessed

that. He saw « that whelp"—

he put this shameful addition to it in
his anger — ^lifted into it; and if he
had a regret as to the accident, it was
that the blow had not been the inch-
and-a-half lower which Father Far-
rell had blessed his stars had not been
the case. This was the second lime
his eyes had seen the preference he
always dreaded. He had not forgot-
ten tlie scene with the dog on
the road. He had not been so
far that he could not see, nor so care-
less that he did not remark, the hand-
kerchief; nor was he so stupid as not
to divine the purport of the amicable
little battle which apparently took
place between them about it The
color of Lennon's cap and sleeves now
also recurred to his mind, and jealousy
suggested that it was the who made,
them.

But his business was by no means,
finished on the conmion. He could
not, as it were, abscond, deserting his
friends ; and ill as his humor was for
what was' before him, he must go*
through with it It would help to
keep him from thinking for a while,
at all events. Beside, the sooner he
saw Winny Cavana now the better.
He would explain the accident to her
as if it had happened to any other
person, not as to one in whom he be*
lieved there was a particular interest
on her part. To be silent on the sub-
ject altogether, he felt would betray
the very thing he wished to avoid.

The hurling match over, it had
been arranged that the evening should
conclude with a dance, to crown the
amicable feelings with which the two
contending parishes had met in the
strife of hurb. The boys and girls of
Rathcash and Shanvilla, whichever
side won, were to mingle in the mazy
dance, to the enlivening lilts of blind
Murrin the piper, who, as he could not
see the game, had been the whole af-
ternoon squealing, and di-oning, and
hopping the brass end of his pipes

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upon a Bqaare polisbed-leather paldi»
stitched upon the knee of his breeches.

There now appeared to be some sort
of a hitch as to the danoe coming off
at all, in consequence of the ** unto*
ward eyent" which had alreadj con-
siderably marred the harmonj of the
meeting ; for it would be idle to deny
that di^atisfaotion and doubt still lin*
gered in the hearts of Shanvilla.
Both sides had brought a barrel of
beer for the occasion, which by this
time it was ahnost necessary to put
upon ^the stoop;" Tom Murdock su-
perintending the distribution of that
from Rathcasb, and a brother of big
Ned Murrican's that from ShanviUa.

Blind Murrin heard some of the talk
which was passing round him about
the postponement of the dance. Like
all blind pipers he was sharp of hear-
ing, and somewhat cranky if put at
all out of tune.

<< Arra, what would t-hey put it off
for ?" said he, looking up, and closing
his elbow on the bellows to silence the
pipes. '* Is it because wan man got a
cut on the head? I heerd Father
Farrell say there wouldn't be a ha-
porth on him agen Sunda' eight days ;
an' I heerd him, more be token, tellin'
the boys to go an' ask the Rathcash
girls to dance. Arra, what do ye
mane ? I^n't the counthry gotthered
now ; an' the day as fine as summer,
an' the grass brave an' dhry, an' lash-
in's of beer at both sides, an' didn't I
come eleven miles this momin' a
purpose, an' wliat the diowl would
they go an' put off the dance for?
Do you mane to say they're onr
.skiaughs or aumadkavmf, or-— what?"

" No, Billy," said a Shanvilla girl,
with good legs, neat feet, black boots,
and stockings as white as snow, — ^ no,
BQly ; but neither the Shanvilla boys
nor girls have any heart to dance,
after Emon-a-knock bein' kilt an' sent
home."

" There won't be a haporth on him,
I tell you, agen Sunda'. Didn't I
hear Father Farrell say so, over an'
over again ? arra hadhenhiny Kitty, to
be sure they'll dance 1"

While blind Murrin was » letting
<^ thus, Phil M'Dermott' was seen
returning by a short cut across the
fields toward them.

** Here's news of Emon, anyway ;
he's aither better or worse," continued
Kitty Reilly ; and some dread that ic
was unfavorable crept through the
Shanvillas.

« WeU, Phil, how is he ? well, Phil,
how is he ?" greeted ITDennott from
several quarters as he came up.

"^AU right, girls. He's much bet-
ter, and he sent me back for fear Pd
lose the first dance — ^for he knew I
was engaged ;" and he winked at a very
pretty lUthcash girl with sot\ blue
eyes and bright auburn hair, who was
not far off

" Arra, didn't I know thejr'd dance T*
said Marrin, giving two or three dumb
squeezes with his elbow before the
music came, like the three or four first
pulls at a pump before the water
fiows.

It then ran like lightning through
the crowd that the dance was going to
be^, and old Murrin blew up in ear-
nest at the top of his power. He had,
with the help of some of the best
dancers amongst the girls on both
sides, selected that spot for the pur-
pose, before the game had commenced ;
and he had kept his ground patiently
aU through, playing all the planxties
in Carolan's catalogue. But not with-
out wetting his whistle ; for as he be-
longed to neither party, he had been
supplied with beer alternately by both.

Phil M'Dei-mott whisperod a few
words to the pretty Rathcash girl, and
lefl her apparently in haste. But she
was ^ heerd" by one of our gossips to
say, '^ Of course, Phil ; but I will not
say ' with all my heart ;' sure, it is
only a pleasure postponed for a little,
—now mind, PhiL"

« Never fear, Sally." And he was
off through the crowd, with his head
up.

Phil's expedition was to look fiir
Winny Cavana, to whom Emon-ar
knock had been engaged for the fint
dance; and as he Imew where the

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819

bonnet trimmed with broad blue rib-
bon could be seen all day, be made
for the spot As he came within a
few perches of it, he saw Tom Mur-
dock in seemingly earnest conyersa-
tion with the object of his search, and
he hung back for a few minutes un-
^ perceived.

Tom Murdock, we have seen, was
not a man to be easily taken aback by
circumstances, or to stand self-accused
by any apparent consciousness of
guilt. Guilty or not, he always
braved the matter out, whatever it
might be, as an innocent man would,
and ought. As the dance was now
about to begin, and old Murrin's pipes
were getting loud and impatient, Tom
made up to Winny. He had watched
an opportunity when she was partly
disengaged from those around her;
and indeed, to do them justice, they
'< made themselves scarce" as he ap-
proached«

^ They are going to dance, Winny ;
will you allow me to lead you out ?^
he said*

TVinny had been pondering in her
own mind the possibility of what bad
now taken place; and atler turning
and twisting her answer into twenty
different shapes, had selected one as
the safest and best she could give,
with a decided refusal. Now, when
the anticipated moment had arrived,
and she was obliged to speak, she was
almost dumb. Not a single word of
any one of the replies she had shaped
out — and least of all the one she had
rehearsed so often as the best — came
to her aid.

** Will you not even answer me,
Winny ?" he added, afler an unusual-
ly long pause.

"I heard," she said hesitatingly,
**that, as a proof of the good-will
which was supposed to exist between
the parishes, the Rathcash men were
to ask the ShanvUla girls, and Shan-
villa the Rathcash."

** That may be carried out too ; but
surely such an arrangement is not to
prohibit a person from the privilege of
asking a near neighbor.*'

**No; but you had better begin, as
leader, by setting the example your-
self. Ton were head of the Rathcash
men all day, and they will be likely
to take pattern by you."

" Well, I shall begin so, Winny ;
but say that you will dance with me
by-and-by."

« No, Tom, I shall not say any such
thin^, for I do not intend to do so. I
don't think I shall dance at all ; but if
I do, it shAl be but once-^and that
with a ShanviUa man."

" Do you mean to say, Winny, that
you came here to-day intending to
dance but once ?"

** I me-an to say," she replied fftlher
haughtily, '< that you have no right to
do more than ask me to dance. That
is a right I can no more deny you
than you can deny me the right to re-
fuse. But you have no right to cr6ss-
question me."

« If," he contmued, « it is in conse-
quence of that unfortunate accident, I
protest—"

" Here, fether," said Winny, inter-
rupting him and turning from him;
" shall we go up toward Uie piper ? I
sec they ape at it"

Tom stood disconcerted, as if rivet-
ed to the spot; and as old Ned and
his daughter walked away, he saw
Phil M'Dermott come toward them.
He watched and saw them enter into
conversation.

The first question old Ned asked,
knowing that Phil had gone a piepe of
the way home with him, was of course
to know how Emon was.

<* So much better," said Plul, « that
he had a mind to come back in the cart
an' look on at the dancin'; but of
course we would not let him do so
foolish a turn. He then sent me back,
afeerd Miss Winny here would be en-
gaged afore I got as far as her. He
tould me, Miss Winny, that he was to
take you out for the first dance your-
self; an' although Phil M'Dermott is
a poor excuse for Emon-a-knock* in a
dance, or anywhere else, for that mat-
ther, I hope. Miss Winny, you will
dance with me."

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^ Ceade frntteafaUhoj PhiL for jour
own sake as well aa for his," said
Winnj, putting her arm through h^,
and walking up to where thej were
^ at it," as she had said.

Tom Murdock had kept his eye
upon her, and had seen this transac-
tion. Winnj, although she did not
know it, felt conscious that he was
watching her ; and it was with a sort of
savage triumph she had thrust her
arm through Phil M'Defmotfa and
walked off with him.

" Surelj," said Tom to himself, "it
is not possiMe that she's going to
dance with Phi> M'Dermott, the great-
est clout of a fellow in all Slianyilla
— and that's a hold word. Nothing
but a bellows-blower to his father— a
common nailor at the cross-roads.
Thank God, I put Emon, as she calls
him, from dancin;;^ with her, any waj.
He would be bad enough ; but he is
always clean at all events, that's one
thing — neen han an shin. Seel by
the devil, there she's out with him,
sure enough. I think the girl is
mad."

Now Tom Murdock's iU-humor and
vexation had led him, though only to
himself, to give an under-estimate of
Phil M'Dermott in more respects than
one. In the first place, Phil's father,
so far from being a common nailor,
was a most excellent smith-of-all-work.
He made ploughs, harrows, and all
sorts of machineiy, and was unequivo-
cally the best horse-shoer in the whole
country. People were in the habit of
sending their horses five, ay ten, miles
to Bryan M'Dermott's forge — ^" estab-
lishment" it might almost be called— •
and Tom Muidock himself, when he
kept the race-mare, had sent her past
half-a-dozen forges to get her " proper-
ly fitted" at Phil M'Dermotfs.

Phil himself had served his time to
his father, and was no less an adept
in all matters belonging to hia trade ;
and as to "driving a nail," there never
was a man wore an apron could put
on a shoe so safely. A nail, too, ex-
cept for the above purpose, was never
mode in their forge. If sometimes

Phil threw up his bare hairy arm to
pull down the handle of the bellows,
it was only what his father hunself
would do, if i!he regular blower was out
of the way.

In fact, "Bryan M'Dermott and
Son, Smiths," might have yery justly
figured over their forge-door ; but they *
were so well known that a sign-board '
of any kind was superfluous.

Then as to being a clotU^ Phil was
the very ihrthest from it in the world,
if it can have any meaning with refer-
ence to a man at alL There are nails
called ehuts ; and perhaps as a nailor
was uppermost in Tom's cantankerous
mind, it had suggested the epithet

We have now only to deal with •the
dirt — the neen han an shin of his
spite.

That Phil M'Dermott was very oR-
en dirty was the necessary result of
his calling, at which the excellence of
his knowledge kept him constantly
employed. But on this occasion, as
on all Sundays and holidays, Phil
M'Dermott's person could vie with
even Tom Murdock's, " or any other
man's," in scrupulous cleanliness.
Now indeed, if there were some streaks
and blotches of blood upon the breast
of his shirt, he might thank Tom
Murdock's handiwork for that same.

Such as he was, however, bloody
shirt and all, Winny Cavana went out
to dance with him before the whote as-
sembly of Bathcash boys, speckless as
they were.

Kate Mulvey had been endeavoring
to carry on her own tactics privately
all the morning, and had refused two
or three Shanvilla boys, saying that
she heard there would be no dance,
but that if there was, she would dance
with them before it was over. She
now accidentally stood not very far
from where Tom had been snubbed
and turned away from by her bosom
friend, Winny Cavana. Tom Mur-
dock. saw her, and saw that she was
alone as far as a partner was con-
cerned.

Determined to let Winny see that
there were " as good fish in the sea aa

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821

ever were caught," and that ehe had
not the power to apset his enjoyment,
Tom made up to Kate, and, assuming
the most ainiable smile which the
wicked confusion of his mind permitted,
he asked her to dance.

^ How is it that jou are not danc-
ing, ^te ? Will jou allow me to lead
you out?**

^I would, Tom, with the greatest
possible pleasure; but I heard the
Rathcash boys were to dance with the
Shanyilla girls, and so by the others
with the Rathcash girls."

"That's the old story, Kate. It
was thrown up to me just now ; but
there is no such restriction upon any
of us at either side. And Til tell you
what it is, Kate Mulvey— *not a Shan-
villa girl m^ance with this day, if I
never struck a foot under me P

Kate was not sorry to find him in
this humor. If she could soothe round
his feelings on her own aocount now,
all would be right Under any phase
of beauty, Kate's expression of coun-
tenance was more amiable than Win-
ny Cavana's, although perhaps not so
regularly handsome, and she felt that
she was now looking her best.

" Fie, fie, Tom ; you should not let
that little accident put you through
other like that, to be making you
angry. I heard that was the rule,
and I refused a couple of the Rath-
cash boys. But if you tell me there is
no such rule^ sure Til go out with you,
Tom, afore any man in the parish."

"Thank you, Kate; and if you
wish to know the truth, there's not a
girl in Rathcash, or Shanvilla either,
that I'd so soon dance with."

" Ah,.na hocJdishy Tom ; youll hard-
ly make me b'lieve that."

« Time will tell, Kate dear," said he,
and he led her to the ring.

Kate made herself as agreeable as
possible ; amiable she always was.
She rallied her partner upon his ill-
humor. " It is a great shame for you,
Tom," she said, " to let trifles annoy
you — **

" They are not trifles, Kate."

^The way you do^ where you have

80 much to make you happy ; plenty
of money and property, and everybody
fond ot you."

" No, not everybody."

" And you can do just as you like."

«No,I can't."

" And there won't be a pin's-worth
the matter with young Lennon in a
few days ; and sure, Tom, every one
knows it was an accident"

"No, not wery one," thought Tom
to himself. The other interruptions-
were aloud to Kate; but she kept
never minding him, and finished what
she had to say.

"It is not that all but, Kate," said
Tom.

" Oh, I see ! I suppose Winny has
vexed you ; I saw her laying down the
law."

" She'd vex a saint, Kate."

" Faix, an' you're not one, Tom, I'm
afeerd."

"Nor never will, Vm afeerd^ said
he, forgetting his manners, and pro-
nouncing the last word as she had done,
although he knew better. ^

She saw he was greatly vexed, but
she did not mind it

" If I were you, Tom," she contin-
ued, " I would not be losing my time
and my thoughts on the likes of her."

This last expression was not very
complimentary to her friend ; but Kate
knew she would excuse it (for she in-
tended to tell her), as it was only
helping her out

" You are her bosom friend, Kate,"
hie went on, " and could tell me a great
deal about her, if you liked."

"I don't like, &en; and the sorra
word I'll tell you, Tom. If you're not
able to find out all you want yourself,
what good's in you V

" Well, keep it to yourself, Kate ; I
think I know enough about her al-
ready."

" See that, now ; an' you strivin* to
pick more out of me I This much 111
tell you, any way, for you're apt to
find it out yourself — that she's as stub-
bom a lass as any in the province of
Connaught What she says she won't
do, she toon't."

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823

JU'HaOaw Eve; or^ The Tat of FiAwrity.

^ And what I say I will do, I wVOL ;
and rU take that one's pride down a
peg or two, as sare as mj name is Tom
Murdock, and that before Easter
Monday."

" Whist, Tom agra ; she's not worth
putting yourself in a passion about:
and she's likely enough to bring her
own pride low enough. But betune
you an' me, I don't thinly she has very
much. Whisper me this, Tom; did
she ever let on to you ?"

" Never, Kate ; I won't belie her."

^ Answer me another question now,
Tom; did she ever do th' other
thing?'

"You are sifting me very close,
Kate. Do you mean did she ever re-
fuse me T*

" I do, just ; and what I'm saying
to you, Tom, is for your good. Tm
afeerd it's for her money you care,
and not much for herself. Now,
Thomas Murdock, I always thought,
an' more than niyself thought the
same thing, that the joining of them
two farms in holy wedlock was a bad
plan, and that ime of you would find
it a dear baigain in the end."

"Whichof us, Kate?"

*' Not a word you'll tell, Tom avic.
There's the fioore idle ; come oat for
another dance;" and she gave him
one of her most beautiful looks. He
was glad, however, that her volubility
prevented her from observing that he
had not answered her other question.

Kate succeeded during this second
dance in putting Tom into somewhat
better humor with himself. He had
never thought her so handsome before,
nor had he until now ever drawn a com-
parison between herself and Winny
Cavana as to beauty of either face or
figure, neither of which it now struck
him were mi^ch, if at all, inferior to
that celebrated beauty; and he cer-
tainly never found her so agreeable.
He listened with a new pleasure to
her full rich voice, and looked occa-
sionally, unperceived (as he thought)
into her soft swimming eyes, and were
it not for pure spite toward "that
whelp Lennon," and indeed toward

that "proud hussy" Winny CSarana
herself he would, after that second
dance, have transferred his whole
mind and body to the said Kate Mul-
vey on the spot He considered, at
all events, that he had Kate Mulvey
hooked, however slightly it might be.
But he would play her gently, not
handle her too roughly, and thus keep
her on his line in case he might find
it desirable to put the landing-net un-
der her at any time. He never thought
she was so fine a girl.

But then he thought again : to be
cut out, and hunted out of the field,
with all his money, by such a fellow
as that, a common day-laborer, was
what he could not reconcile himself to.
As for any real love for Winny Cav-
ana, if it had ever existed in his
heart toward her, it had that day been
crushed, and for ever; yet notwith-
standing the favorably circumstances
for its growth, it had not yet quite
sprung up for another. A firm re-
solve, then, to see his spite out, at any
cost to himself, to her, and to ".that
whelp," was the final determination of
his heart after the day closed.

Winny Cavana, having danced with
Phil M'Dermott until they were both
tired, sat down beside her father on a
farrum. Several of the Shanvilla,
and some of the Bathcash, boys
" made up" to her, but she refused to
dance any more, pleading fatigue,
which by-the-bye none of them believ-
ed, for it was not easy to tire the
same Winny Cavana dancing. After
sitting some time to cool, and look on
at the neighbors "footing it," she pro-
posed to her father to go home ; and
he, poor old man, thought " it was an
angel spoke." He would have proposed
it to Winny himself long before, but
that he did not wish to interfere with
her enjoyment. He thought she
would have danced more, but was now
glad of the reprieve ; for to say the
truth it was one to him. He, and
Winny, and BuUy-dhu, who had been
curled up at his feet all day, then
stood up, \nd went down the boreen
together; Bully careering and bark-

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JS^HaBow Bve: or, Th$ Tut of Faiwily.

823

ing round them with hiB QBoal actiy-
itj.

We need not remain much longer
at the dance oorselyes. In another
half hour it was ^gettmg late,'' the
beer was all oat, Murrin's pipes were
getting confused, and Bathcash and
Shanyilla were seen straggling over
the hills in twos and threes and
small parties toward their respectlTe
homes.

We cannot do better than end this
chapter with a hearty Irish wish—
^ God send them safe T

CHAPXXB ZXY.

This great horling maich, althoogh
much spoken of before it came off,
was so universallj believed to be a
mere amicable, a honorfide piece of
holiday recreation, and not an ostensi-
ble excnse for the ulterior purposes of
Ribbonism, or a fight, that no precau-
tions had been deemed necessary by
the police to detect the one or to pre-
vent the other. The sub-inspector
(then called chief constables) had
merely reported the fact that it would
take place to the resident magistrate
— ^ttcut h nan. But ^ in the absence
of sworn informations" of an intended
row, he would neither attend himself,
nor give orders for the police to do so,
leaving the responsibility, if such ex-
isted, entirely to the judgment and dis-
cretion of the chief in question ; who,
wishing to enjoy the day otherwise
himself, was satis6ed with the report
he had made, and did not interfere by
his own presence or that of his men
with the game. Thus, as ^ in the ab-
sence of sworn informations" the resi-
dent magistrate would not attend, and
in the absence of the resident magis-
trate the chief would not attend, Bath-
cash and Shanvilla had it all to them-
selves. Perhaps it was so best for the
denouement of this story ; for had the
police been present, the i^hole thing
from that point might have ended very
differently.

Bat althongh it had not been
thought necessary that a police-party
should pat a stop to the day's sport on
the common, it is not to be supposed
that they could hear of a man ^< hav-
ing been murdered" on the occasion
without being instantly all zeal and
activity. Like the three black crows,
the real &et had been exaggerated,
and so distorted as to frighten both
the chief and the resident magistrate,
but principally the latter, as the in-
tended assembly had been reported to
him. However, '^better late than
never." They heard that the man
was not yet dead, and away they
started on the same jarvey, to visit
him, on the morning after the occur-
rence.

Their whole discussion during the
drive — ^if an explanation by the ma-
gistrate could be called a discussion
— was on the safest and the most le-
gal method of taking a dying man's
depositions, and wondering if he knew
who struck the fatal blow in this in-
stance, and if the police had him in
custody, etc

They soon arrived at the house, but
saw no sign of a crowd, or of police,
whom the chief would have ba<^ed at
any odds to have met on the road
with a prisoner.

^'Is he still alive?" whispered the
resident ma^trate to the fiither, who
came to the door.

"Oh yes, your honor, blessed be
God I an' will soon be as well as ever,"
he replied. " It was a mere scratch,
an' there won't be a haporth on him in
a day or twa He wanted to go
back to look at them dancin', but I
kep' him lying on the bed."

"Does he know you?" said the
magistrate, believing that the man
wanted to make light of it, as is gen-
erally the case.

"Does he know me, is it? athen
why wouldn't he know his own fi^
ther?"

" Oh, he is sensible, then ?"

" Arrah, why wouldn't he be sensi-
ble? the boy was never anything
eke."

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824

M-Hattow JSve; Wy The Ttd of Fuiurit^.

" That* B right. Does he know who
struck the blow P*

^'OchonOy doesn't every one know
that, your honor? Sure, wasn't it
Tom Murdock? an' isn't his heart
brack aboat it?"

Here the constable and two men of
the nearest police station came up at
the '< double/* wiping their &ces, to
make ioquiries for report; so that
they were not so remiss after all, for it
was still early in the morning.

Old Lennon was annoyed at all this
parade and show about the place, and
continued, ^Athen, your honor, what
do ye's all want here, an' these gentle-
men ?" inclining his head toward the
police ; ^ sure Uiere's nothing the mat-
ther."

*^ We heard the man was killed,"
said the chief.

^ And we heard the same thing not
an hour ago," said the constable.

** Arrah, Grod give ye sinse, gentle-
men I 60 home, an' don't be making
a show of our little place. I tell you
there's not a pin's-worth upon the boy,
and the tip he did get was all acci-
dents."

'* I must see him nevertheless, my
good man ; and you need not be un-
civil, at all ^events."

" I ax your honor's pardon ; I didn't
mane it. To be sure you can see
him; but there's no harm done, and
what harm was done was an accident.
Sure Emon will tell you the whole
thing how it. was himself."

^That is the very thing I want
Let me see hinu"

Lennon then led the way into the
room where Emon was sitting up in
the bed ; for he had heard the buz2 of
the discussion outside, and caught some
of its meaning.

Lennon took care <'to draw" the
police into the kitchen ; for there was
nothing annoyed him more«-and that,
he knew, would annoy his son — than
that they should be seen about the
place. He had taken his cue from
Enum, who did not wish the matter to
be made a blowing-horn of.

A very few words with the young

man suiRced to show the magistrate
and the chief that their discussion
upon the subject of taking a dying
man's deposition had been unneces-
sary in this instance, however profita-
ble it might prove on some future oc-
casion. Emon, except that his bead
was still tied with a handkerchief,
showed no symptom whatever of hav-
ing received an injury. He cheerful-
ly explained how the matter had hap-
pened, untied the handkerchief prompt-
ly at the request of the magistrate, and
showed him ^^ the dp," as he called it,
he liad received from Tom Murdock's
hurL There was no mystery or hesi
tation in Emon's manner of describing
the matter. Murdock himself had
been the very first to admit and to
apologize for the accident; and they
did not wish that any fuss should be
macle about it As to prosecuting him
for the blow, which had been casnaDy
asked, he might as well think of pros-
ecuting a man who had accidentally
jostled him in the street

All this was a great relief to the
magistrate, who at once took the sen-
sible . view of the case, and said he
was delighted to find that the whcrfe
matter had been exaggerated both
as to facts and extent, and con-
gratulated both himself and the police
upon this happy termination to their
zeal.

The magistrate then spoke of tiie
propriety of " the doctor^ seeing young
Lennon, saying that these sort of
*^tips" sometimes, required medical
care, and occasionally turned out more
serious than might at first be antici-
pated. Btt Emon told him that Fa-
ther Parrell, who was an experienced
doctor himself, had examined the
wound, and declared that it would not
signify.

The fact was that the magistrate,
in his justifiable fright, had on the
first report of the '^ murder^ sent off
four miles for the dispensary doctor,
in case ^ the man might not be yet
dead," and he expected his arrival
every moment, as the point at wfaidi
his valuable aid would be required

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M*HaBow Ew; or^ The Test of Futurity.

825

was plainly to be explained to him bj
the messenger.

Finding that matters were much
less serious than rumor had made
them, and perceiying that the Lennons
were &r from gratified at the exhibi-
tion already made, he was not anxious
that it should appear he had sent for
the doctor to raise, as it were, young
Lennon from the dead. He was
therefore determined to waitch his ap»
proach, and to pretend he was passing
by on other business, and that it was
as well to bring him in. But the doc^
tor had not been at home when the
messenger called; he had been at a
real case — ^not of murder, but of birth ;
and the magistrate and chief could not
now await his arrival without awk-
wardness for the delay.

The magistrate was annoyed; but
the chief soon set him to rights by
telling him that the doctor could not
come there except by the road by
which they should go home, and that
if on his way they must meet him,
and so they ddd-^powdhering on his
pony, truly as if for life or death.

'' I suppose it is all over, and that I
am late,** he said, pulling up.

" No, you are time enough," said the
chief. '' It is nothing but a scratch,
and was a mere accident."

*^ And there is nothing then for me
to do," said the doctor.

« Nothing but to go * bock again*
like the Scotchman."

" No trepanning, nor * post-mortem,*
doctor," added the R. M. He was a
droll fellow, was the R. M.

It was a great satisfaction to each of
these officials, as they secretlf consid-
ered their positions in this affair, that
no person had been seriously hurt, and
that the slight injury which had
really taken place was entirely acci-
dental. Ihe R. M. felt relieved upon
the grounds that the intended assem-
bly had been officially reported to him
and that he had declined to attend, or
to give any directions to the chief to
nse any precautions to preserve the
peace. But then he reconciled him-
self with the burthen of his excuse

apon ail such occasions, that, ^ in the
absence of sworn informations," he
would have been safe under any cir-
eomstanoes. Still he was better pleased
as it was.

The chief was relieved, because he
had some idea that having reported
the intended assembly to the resident
magistrate might have been deemed
insufficient, had a real homicide taken
place, and that he should upon his
own responsibility have had a party of
police in attendance. These officials
were therefore both ready to accept,
without much suspicion, the statement
of young Lennon, that the blow was
purely accidental, and that the conse-
quence would be of a trifling nature.
But they were "daA" to each other as
to the grounds upon which their satis-
faction rested.

The doctor finding that there was
no chance of earning a fee from the
coroner, turned his horse's head round
and followed the car at a much easier
pace than he had met it. He of all
the officials — for he was constab. doc
— was least gratified with the favora-
ble position of affairs. He had not
only started without his own breakfast,
but had brought his horse out without
a feed; and they had galloped four
miles upon two empty stomachs. No
wonder that. he was dissatisfied as
compared with the magistrate and the
chief. But we must recollect that
there was no responsibility upon him,
beyond his skill involved in the affair ;
with its origin, or the fact of its having
been permitted to occur at all, he had
nothing to do. There were, therefore,
no points of congratulation for him to
muse upon, and he was vexed accord-
ingly. From his experience of him-
self in the treatment of broken heads
in the district, he had no doubt that
his attendance would have ^^ ended in
recovery," and that at least three
pounds would have come down, " ap-
proved" by the ^vernment upon the
chiefs report, which would be much
better than the coroner's one-pound
note. The disappointment had com-
pletely taken away his own hunger,

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826

JS^HaOow Bife ; or^ The Test of Fuiuri^.

hat he forgot that hu hone did not
undenUod these things^ so he grum-
bled slowlj home.

A contemplative silence of some
mtnates ensaed between the two exe-
catiFes on the car, which was ultimate-
ly broken bj the magistrate. He,
like the doctor, had had no breakfiist,
so certain was he of a murder ; but the
whole thing being a bottle of smoke, he
was now both hungry and cross. It
was the chiefs car they were on, and
he was driving — the B. M. <^ knocked
that much out of him, at all events"—
so there was no driver to damp the
familiarity of conversation.

^ It was fortunate for you, my young
friend, that nothing more serious oc-
canred at this same hurling match,"
said the magistrate.

(Certainly he was no prig in his
choice of language. He was of course
much older than the chie^ and consid-
ered that ho could carry a high hand
with " a mere boy" without any expe-
rience.)

^ I am extremely glad," replied the
chief, *^ for both our sakes, that it was
a mere trifle and an acddent."

^^For both our sakes I Oh, you
know, my dear young friend, that, in
the absence of sworn informations, I
was not concerned in the matter at alL
I conceive that the- whole responsibili-
ty — if there be any— 4n a mere casual
meeting of the kind, where there is
^ admittedly no apprehension of a breach
^ of the peace, rests entirely upon
your own judgment and discretion.
To be plain with you, except where a
breach of the peace may be fairly
anticipated, and sworn informations
lodged to that effect, I do not thmk
the magistrate's time should be inter-
fered with. I might have lost a petty-
sessions to-day, inquiring into a mere
accident."

^ But it might not have been one ;
and we could not have known until
we saw the injured man and made in-
quiries. But the absence of sworn in-
formations, and the £Bict that there
was no appreheasion of a row, would
have exonerated me from all blame as

well as yon. Beside, I so far took the
precaution of reporting the intended
assembly to you, with its professed ob-
ject, and I took yourinstiiictions upon
the subject"

^^ No, you didn't ; for I did not give
you any."

^^ Well, I reported the meeting to
you, and asked for instructions."

^ That is the very thing which I ob-
ject to— making reports without suffi-
cient grounds. I should decline to act
again under similar circumstances."

^ That you would do bo» I have no
doubt ; but that you should do 80» I
have some."

*< I am r^ht, young sir, as well in
my grammar as in my view of the
case; ought is the word you should
have used, to have properly expressed
what you intended."

The chief was nettled. He was not
quite certain that the B. M. was not
right, and merely replied :

^ Perhaps so, sir ; but it really was
not of Idndky Mwrra^ I was thinking
at the time."

The magistrate was softened. He
felt that he had been sparring rather
sharply with a lad not much more than
one-third of his age.

" Well, I really beg your pardon,"
he said ; ^ I did not intend to be so
sharp."

<' Granted," said the chief, laugh-
ing; for he was not an ill-tempered
fellow. ^ But here we are at my box ;
come in and have some breakfiEtst, and
m drive you to petty-sessions afler."

^ Thank you very much, ni take
breakfast ; for I came away in a hor-
rid fuss without saying a word as to
when I should be back again. I will
not trespass upon you, however, to do
more than you have already done in
the driving way. I had some fears
when we started that we should have
breakfasted at dinner, some time this
evenii^, afler a coroner's inquest.
But this is better."

They then gave '^ the trap" to the
'' private orderly," and proceeded to
punish the tea, toaat, eggs, and cold
ham in a most exemplary manner.

TO &■ OOMTXXVID.

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Google

Charles IL tmd CaAoUc JBmcmcipaHtm*

827

TraasUted from Btodes EeHgieasefl, HiBtoriqiieB et Litt6nireB, pur dea Pdres de la Oonptgnlo

de J6biu.

THE LAST EFFORT OF CHARLES U. FOR THE EMANCEPA.
TION OF THE CATHOLICS OF ENGLAND.

We liave already seen what frait
grew from the mission of Father
James Stnart to Whitehall ; how the
Duke of York and, in all probability,
King Charles also, abjured the Prot-
estant faith ; and how the royal neo-
phyte, in the presence of his brother
and his trusty connseOors, Arundel,
Clifford, and Arlington, declared his
readiness to suffer anything, to under^
take any enterprise, in order to secure
liberty of worship for himself and his
CaUioiic subjects.

The king knew that his conversion
would arouse violent opposition,would
perhaps become a signal for revolt
and civil war. He felt that he could
&& nothing without the assistance of
the King of France. To secure his
aid he secretly dispatched to Ver-
sailles Lord Arundel of Wardour and
Sir Richard Beltings, the same pru-
dent ambassador whom he had for-
merly dispatched to Pope Alexander
YII. Out of this embassy resulted
the treaty of Dover and the offensive
alliance of • France and England
against Holland. Up to the present
time an impenetrable veil has con-
cealed from us the real object of this
treaty, and the details of die negotia-
tions which led to it. Qiarles has
been almost universally accused of
submitting himself to a disgraceful
vassalage to the French monarch, and
of selling to the Bourbon for money
the glory, the liberty, and the religion
of his country. But the unexpected
disclosures of the diplomatic archives
now enable us to shed a new light
upon this subject, and to ascertain
whether Charles was really moved by
religions impulse when ho aaked

Louis XIV. for assistance in the re-
establishment of Catholicism in Eng-
land, or was, as Lingard says, all the
while trying to deceive his royal aUy.

Lord Arundel had already been
discussing the <^ Catholic project^ for
nine months with the French king be-
fore Louis' minister, Colbert, was let
into the secret. Colbert de Crois-
sy, the minister's brother and French
ambassador to London, was now made
acquainted with Arundel's proposi-
tions and Louis' answers to them, and
on the 12th of November, 1669, had
an interview with Charles, of which
he gives the following account :

^ The King of England was ready
to assure me that he had no unwilling-
ness to make me acquainted with the
most important secret of his life*
. • . In reading these papers, I
could not help thiddng that he and
the persons to whom he had intrusted
the conduct of this matter, were mad
to think of re-establishing Uie Catholic
religion in England. In fact, no one
acquainted wi& the state of this king*
dom and the disposition of the people
could entertain a different opinion;
but, in spite of all, he hoped that, with
your majesty's assistance, the great
enterprise would be successfuL The
Presbyterians and other dissenters
are still more averse to the Anglican
Church than to the Catholic. All
that these sectaries want is the fi:«e
exercise of their own form of worship;
and provided they get that— and his
ms^esty purposes to give it then^—
they will not oppose his change of r^
ligicm. Moreover, he has good troops
who are aflectionately dbposed towiud
him ; and if the late king, his fitther,

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71b LaU Effort of Oharh$ IL far ih

had had as many, he would haye
stifled in their cradle the disturbances
which prayed his ruin. He will in-
crease the armj on the best pretexts
that he can find. The arsenals are
all at his, disposal and are well stock-
ed. He is assured of the principal
places of Eng^land and Scotland. The
governor of Hull is « Catholic ; those
of Portsmouth, Plymouth, and many
other places which he named to me^
Windsor among the res^— would
never depart from the obedience which
they owe him. As for the troops in
Irekind, he hopes that the Duke of
Ormond, who has preserved great
credit there, will alwajs be iaithfol to
him ; and even should he fail in his
duty, Lord Orrery, who is a Catholic at
heart, and has still greater influence
with that army, wOl lead the soldiers
wherever he is ordered. ....
Finally, he told me that he was driven
to declare himself a Catholic both by
his conscience and by the confusion
which he saw daily increasing in his
kingdom, to the detriment of his an*
thority ; and that, beside the spiritual
benefit which he trusted to obtain, he
believed that this was the only means
of establishins; the monarchy." (XW-
iero/Nav. 18, 1669.)

But English writers maintain that,
behind all this apparent zeal, Charles
concealed an ulterior design, and
wished to impose upon LouIb for his
own ends. There would *be some
plausibility in the supposition if the
conversion of England had been a
matter po near to the heart of the
French king as is commonly imagui*
ed ; but, unfortunately, it is now evi-
dent that '^the Catholic project" filled
only a secondary place in Louis
XIV.'s policy. The object which
then employed his chief desires was
the humiliation of Holland ; and the
more eager be was to secure the co-
operation of England in this enter-
prise, the less anxious was he for a
sudden return of the royal family of
Whitehall to the ancient faith— a
change in which his penetrating eye
saw grave danger to Charles and, by

consequence, disappointment to htm-
selfl He writes in reply to Croissy's
letter : ** I will not commence a war
with Holland, imless the King of
England join me ;" and the ambassa-
dor is instmcted to look upon the
Dutch question as the most important
afiair in hand. {Letter of November
24,1669.)

Charles, too, had his plan, and to our
thinking a very good one. Colbert
writes, December 5 :

<< Arlington tells me that the king
his master, havmg weighed all the
reasons for and against, has finally
determined to begin by satisfying hu
conscience. He adds, nevertheless,
that the king may change his mind ;
but I see plainly that he will not ad-
vise him to do so ; for he is persuaded
that his royal master, having Spain,
Sweden, and Holland attach^ to his
interests, and assured at the same time
of your migesty's friendship by a se-
cret treaty, will overpower all the se-
ditions that might be excited in the
kingdom by such a declaration much
more easily than by the way yoar
majesty advises. Moreover, I do not
find him very hot against the Dutch ;
and I confess, sire, that I am still
doubtful whether the proposition to at-
tack them, conjointly with your majes-
ty, after the declaration of Catholicism
shall have been successfully made, is
sincere, at all events on the minister's
part.**

A few days afterward the draft of a
treaty was sent by Arlington to the
Marquis de Croissy, in which occurred
these words: ""The King of Great
Britain, after having declared himself
a Catholic, • . • leaves to the
most Christian king liberty to designate
the time for making war, with their
united forces, upon the States Gene-
ral."

Louis, on his part, ordered Colbert
to stand firm : ^ It would be weU ^
you not to allow Lord Arlington and
the others to hope that I will ever
consent to what you propose in the
last place, that Uie treaty of war
against Holland should be laid aside,

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EmancyiKxtian of tha OMhoHes of Eaghaii,

and that we should agree onlj upon
the two other points ; thus the desire
which thej feel for assistance in monej
and troops toward the declaration of
Catholicism, which is what thej are
most anxious about, maj induce them
to further more zealouslj than they
do now the project for a war against
Holland." {Letter of Feb. 1 6, 1 670.)

The negotiation dragged along
slowly. Disputed points became more
and more numerous ; and the effect of
all these difficulties and delays upon
such a timid soul as Charles's may
easily be imagined. As the time for
openly breaking with Anglicanism
drew near, the obstacles in his way
seemed to grow more formidable than
ever. His resolution was not shaken ;
bat his religious ardor gradually cooled,
and human prudence overcame his
faith. This change of disposition was
observed by Colbert de Croissy, but
docs not seem to have alarmed him.
He writes, on the 15 th of May,
1670:

** The king has not yet determined
when to make his declaration, notwith-
standing the urgency of those to whom
he lias confided his secret. M. Bell-
ings informs me that the commission-
ers themselves are not agreed about
the time ; some advising that it be be-
fore the meeting of parliament, and
others wishing the declaration to be
made in full assembly of the two
houses ; that the King of England ap-
pears to favor the latter plan, because
it affords more time for delay; and
moreover that it cannot be later than
October next, which is the time for
the re-adjournment. I can see that the
precautions which his majesty has
taken are not sufficient The troops
in Scotland and Ireland are nearly all
Presbyterians, with whom the conces-
sion of freedom of worship will weigh
as nothing in the scale with their
hatred of the Catholics. Even the
captain of the royal guard, who be-
longs to this party, will probably be
opposed to the execution of his royal
master's design. In fine, those who
are in the secret are greatly alarmed

at all these dangers. They cannot
alter the kind's resohUion ; but a sort
of libertinism (if I may use the word)
makes him procrastinate as much as
he can."

But Louis XIY. was prepared with
an instrument for overcoming all the
difficulties which Charles threw in his
way. The amiable Duchess of Or-
leans, the beloved sister of the Eng-
lish monarch, crossed the Channel for
no other purpose than to bring her
brother^s hesitation to an end. ^ AU
the points of the treaty," says Mignet,
** had been agreed upon by both sides
before this interview. Madame had
therefore no questions to negotiate
with her brother ; but Louis XIV. re-
lied greatly upon her influence in in-
ducing Charles H. to sign the treaty,
to advance the excliange of ratifica-
tions, and, what was of the utmost con-
sequence to him, to declare war against
Holland before declaring himself a
Catholic." On the 30th of May, five
days afler the arrival of Henrietta,
the French ambassador wrote to his
court : ^^ Madame tells me that she has
made an impression upon her brother's
mind, and she can see that he is al-
most disposed to declare war against
the Dutch before doing anything else."
Oa the 1st of June, 1670, Arlington,
Arundel, Clifford, and Bellings, on the
part of England, and Colbert de
Croissy on the part of France, affixed
their signatures to the celebrated
treaty of Dover. If the text contains
no mention of the modification obtain-
ed by the young duchess, the reason
undoubtedly is, that, to avoid the de-
lay which would have ensued had a
new draft been made out, the two
sovereigns instructed their commission-
ers to sign it in its present form, with a
verbsd clause, guaranteed by Charles's
word of honor, that the war against
Holland should precede the formal ac-
knowledgment of the king's conver-
sion.

Such was the mysterious journey of
Henrietta of England upon which
Bossuet has conferred so much unde-
served celebrity. When, only twen-

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8S0

Tke La$i EffoH of Oharks IT. fir ike

tf-soven daja afterward, the rnifbrtu*-
naia daehess in the midst of her viun
triumph was orertaken bj the pangs
of death, it may be doubted whether
the recollection of her zeal for the
postponemoat of her brother^s conver-
sion soothed her conscience or alleTi*
ated for her the terrors of divine judg-
ment

The Doke of York always looked
upon the war with Holland as an un-
fortunate complication which frustrated
the re-establishment of the Catholic
wiMTship in England. In this part of
the treaty of Dover he beheld the first
and perfaApe the most dangerous of the
rocks among which the Stuart dynasty
ultimately foundered and disappeared
for ever. Charles at first looked at
things from a more assuring point of
view. A letter to his sister, the duch-
ess, dated June 6, 1669, shows him
full of h(^)e, almost of enthusiasm, at
the thought of this expedition. The
English. navy was to take a brilliant
revenge for the insult received a short
while before, when the Dutch fiag
waved insolently under the walls of
affrighted London. He himself, as-
sociated with Louis in glory and good
fortune, was finally to triumph over
the disasters of his family, and to en-
joy for the rest of his days the bless-
ings he so ardently desired, liberty of
conscience and peace upon the throne.
But these alluring dreams were even
then disturbed by presentiments and
uneasiness too well founded to escape
his penetrating mind. If he yielded
after a year's resistance, it was through
weakness and weariness, not through
conviction.

In concluding this portion of our ar-
ticle, it is not amiss to inquire what
purpose Charles could have had in
view in attempting ^<to deceive the
King of France. " To be sure, sur-
rounded as he was at home by dif-
ficulties and dangers without number,
he was compelled to look abroad for
assistance and protection. But if he
had consulted only his worldly inter-
ests, if he had not been inspired by re-
ligious motives, where would he natu-

rally have sought for aid ? Certainly
he would have turned toward the
Protestant, not the Catholic, states.
His natural allies would hare been
warlike Sweden and rich and power-
ful Holland, whose last stadtholder,
William H., had espoused a princess
of the house of Stuart, Charles's own
sister Mary. Nothing was more pop-
ular at that time, throughout Great
Britain, than the triple alfiance. Why
should he break it ? Why should the
son of Charles I., overcoming the un-
pleasant recoUections of his former so-
journ at Paris, have so far ofiiaided
the instincts and prejudices of his peo-
ple as to offer the luind of fellowship
and brotherhood to Louis XIY., and
intrust to him his destinies ?

A parallel naturallv suggests itsetf
here between the two kings ; and per-
haps if we had to assign their respec-
tive places we should not give the pref-
erence to the abler or the more power-
fuL Louis, still young and engrossed,
heart and soul, in his projects of great-
ness and magnificence, was gnilty^of
the grave wrong of making rel^bn
entirely subordinate to poo&s.
Charles, no doubt, shows himself
through the course of these negotia-
tions just what he always was. Too
sagacious not to see the dangers into
wluch each step conducted him, and
too timid to confront them ; now urged
forward by the impatient seal of the
Duke of York, now drawn back by
his minister and confidant Arlington
— one hardly knows what he wanted
to do. His frivolity, his inconstancy,
his perpetual wavering, his disingenu-
ousness, all the chief traits of his
character, in fine, were displayed in
these negotiations of Dover. We are
not disposed to deny that he was sen-
sible of the temporal advantages which
the friendship of his brother of France
seemed to promise him ; but, taking all
things into consideration, it is he that
shows the greater heart, and with him
the calculations of selfish humani^
are sometimes at least forgotten in the
sovereign importance of his eternal hi-
terests.

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JEmanc^paHan of the OoMcUet of JBngtand.

831

The treaty of Dover Gondnded^
Charles secretly made preperations
for the war with Holland, which had
DOW been deferred to a more distant
day ; but there were other prepara^
tions in which he took a much more
liyelj interest He knew that a terri*
ble storm would break forth whenever
he should issue his bill of indulgence
in favor of those who disagreed with
the state Church. Both French and
English writers have often said that
the king hoped to accomplish his plans
by means of abuse of the royal prerog-
atives, and unconstitutional measures
taken under the protection of that am-
bitious neighbor across the channel
whom the Stuarts had rashly allowed
to interfere in the affairs of the United
Kingdom. But this is a mistake.
Without the slightest violence or
transgression of the law, Charles might
have anticipated by two hundred
years the emancipation of the Catho*
lies of England. The constitution
gave him no right to 'change any of the
existing laws ; but it gave hun power
to dispense with the exaction of the
penalties prescribed for their violation.
\yell, he proposed to make use of this
prerogative in behalf of all dissenters
without exception, whether Protestant
sectaries or Catholics, and whenever
a fitting opportunity arrived to lay be-
fore parliament a new bill of indulgence.

On the Idth of March, 1672, two
days before the declaration of war with
Holland, he issued a proclamation, in
which, afler remarking that the expe-
rience of twelve years had proved the
inutility of coercive measures in mat-
ters of conscience, he declared his
good pleasure that eveiy penal law
against nonconformists and recusants
of every description should thenceforth
be suspended. Dissenters were au-
thorized to establish places of worship ;
but Catholics were not permitted to
assemble for religious exercises except
in private houses. This discrimination
against the Catholics was the doing of
the Secretary Bridgman, who stoutly
refused to sign the document, and
threatened to resign, if the same priv-

ileges granted to other recusants were
also accorded to the Catholics. Bridg-
man's resignation would have given
the alarm to the hostile parties ; so, to
avoid a greater evil, Charles had to
submit to this odious restriction.

There was a diversity of opinions
about the declaration of the 15th of
March, but at first there was nothing
in the state of public opinion to excite
alarm. As for the war, if the people
looked upon it without much favor, at
least no one could assert that it was
contrary to the national interests.
There were recent injuries to be
avenged, gloiy and profit to be won ;
above all, immense advantages to ac-
crue to English commerce from the
crippling of one of its most formida-
ble rivals: all these considerations
kept the minds of the nation in sus-
pense.

But unfortunately one naval engage-
ment after another was fought with
no dedsive results; and while the
French gained brilliant victories on
land, the English seemed to be only
humble, docile instruments in the
hands of their allies. The Protestants
eagerly seized upon these circum-
stances to arouse an undertone of dis-
content among the masses. The
Duchess of York had just died a
Catholic. The Duke of York, the
heir presumptive to the throne, was
strongly suspected of having embraced
the Catholic religion. Then there was
England in league with Catholic
France against Protestant Holland;
and the little army which Charles had
sent to the continent, though placed
under the command of Schomburg, a
Calvinist (but for all that a French-
man), had among its subordinate offi-
cers a major-general, Fitzgerald, and
many other Catholics. All these
things, they said, taken in connection
with the recent declaration, boded
nothing but evil to the Reformed
churches.

Such was the state of public feeling
when, after a recess of two years, par-
liament opened at the beginning of
February, 1673. In the troubles

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832

TU La$t Effort of Ckarki U. far the

which he saw were oonuDg, the king
relied for assistance in the houses
principallj upon Ciifibrd, whom he had
appointed a lord of the treasury, and
the Chancellor Ashlej, recently created
Earl of Shaflesbury, a man of no
principle, but of great ability and yalue
in critical emeigencies* At the open-
ing of the session Charles spoke of
the French alliance, of the causes of
his rupture with the States General,
and of the declaration of indulgence,
which he declared himself resolved to
stand by.

The opposition had already matured
their plan of campaign, and their first
measure was to deprive the Catholics
of their new allies by persuading the
dissenting sects to renounce the preca-
rious advantages of the declaration for
the toleration, less complete, perhaps,
but more assured, which they would
infallibly obtain from the favorable
dispositions of the Commons. The
manoeuvre was perfectly successfuL
The Catholics were completely isola-
ted. The « Country Party," as they
called themselves, then opened fii^
with more confidence in ParliamenL
^ The attack was made,'' says Macau-
lay, " not in the way of storm, but by
slow and scientific approaches. The
Commons at first held out hopes that
they would give support to the king's
foreign policy, but insisted that he
should purchase that support by aban-
doning his whole system of domestic
policy. Their first object was to ob-
tain the revocation of the declaration
of indulgence. Of all the many
unpopular steps taken by the govern-
ment, the most unpopular was the
publishing of this declaration.'' In
fact, the annulment of the edict was a
matter of life or death for the Protest-
ants. They wanted, however, a con-
stitutional argument, and they had
not far to look for one. We quote
Macaulay again :

<'It must in candor be admitted
that the constitutional question was
not then quite free from obscurity.
Our ancient kings had undoubtedly
clauned and exercised the right of

suspending the operation of penal
laws. The tribunals had recognized
that right Parliaments had suffered
it to pass unchallenged. That some
such right was inherent in the crowo,
few even of the Country Party ventured,
in the face of precedent and anthorit j,
to deny. Yet it was clear that, it
this prerogative were without limi^
the EngUsh government could scarcely
be distinguished from a pure despot-
ism." A hypocritical fear of despot-
ism and inviolable respect for the law
were to be the standwl under which
the dissenters should fight^ and it was
agreed that the Anglicans should in-
trench themselves behind the ramparts
of the constitution.

The opposition in parliament did
not disapprove of toleration in itself ;
they only blamed the form of the edict.
They were perfectly willing to alleviate
the condition of the ProtestSut noncon-
formists, provided it could be done
through the regular parliamentary
channels. Even if the king could re-
mit a penalty, he could not suspend a
law in ecclesiastical, any more than in
civil, matters. In support of this po-
sition they argued at great length,
with a good deal of passion and ob-
scurity and a great lack pf common
sense, for more than a month. The
real strength of the party lay in its
popularity, and in that irresistible
power which the daring aggressors of
a declining monarchy idways possess,
in every country. The partizans of
the court, by their injudicious defence
of the crown, did their best to aid the
opposite party. Instead of defending
the prerogative by the precedents af-
forded by previous reigns, they
grounded its exercise upon the neces-
sity for some ad interim power which,
during the recess of parliament, might
act upon urgent cases, and, if need
were, suspend the laws. "An ex-
empting power," they said, ^ must of
necessity exist somewhere ; otherwise
cases may arise, when parliament is
not in session, in which the welfare
and even the safety of the state would
be sacrificed to impolitio and onioa-

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JBmaneipaium of the Cathokos of JEnglancL

838

Bonable fears.'' This was plajlng di-
rectly into their adversaries* hands.
Afler long dLscussions, several times
uiterrapted by adjournments, the
House of Commons, by a vote of 168
against 116, resolved *'that the penal
laws touching ecclesiastical matters
could not be suspended except by an
act of parliament."

In replying to the message of the
Commons, Charles declared himself
deeply concerned that they should
question the ecclesiastical authority of
the crown, which had never been con-
tested during the reigns of his ances-
tors. He certainly pretended to no
authority to suspend any law touch-
ing the property, rights, and liberties
of his subjects. His only object in
the exercise of his ecclesiastical power
was the relief of the dissenters. He
was not disposed to reject the advice
of parliament, and would always be
found ready to agree to any bill which
might seem better adapted than his
declaration to accomplish the chief ob-
ject which he had in view — ^the wel-
fare of all his subjects, and the tran-
quillity and stability of England. This
moderate language did not satisfy the
house. A second address admonish-
ed the sovereign that his counsellors
had deceived him, and that none of
his ancestors had ever claimed or ex-
ercised the power of suspending stat-
utes touching ecclesiastical matters';
and his faithful Commons implored
his mcgesty to give them a more satis-
factory and complete answer. The
king felt the insult, and did not con-
ceal his resentment. His course was
chosen. He would dissolve parlia-
ment, rather than submit to the dicta-
tion of his enemies. But he hoped
to subdue the opposition by exciting a
conflict of opinion between the two
houses. He wei^ to the House of
Ix>rds, and in a short and spirited ad-
dress complained that the Commons
usurped the royal authority, laid be-
fore their lordships the two addresses
from the lower house, with his replies,
and concluded by asking the advice of
the hereditary counsellors of the
TOL. n. 58

throne. Clifford followed, and plead-
ed with his accustomed fire and en-
BTfry the cause of offended majesty.
But the spirit of defection had spread
even among the chiefs of the govern-
ment The chancellor went over to
the enemy. " Shaftesbury," says
Hacaulay, <<with his proverbial sa-
gacity, saw that a violent reaction
was at hand, and that all things were
tending toward a crisis resembling
that of 1640. He was determined
that such a crisis should not find him
in the situation of Strafford. He
therefore turned suddenly round, and
acknowledged in the House of Lords
that the declaration was illegal." A
month had not passed since, in an-
other place, Ashley had appefiled to
the justic3 of his fellow-subjects
against the adversaries of the edict of
toleration. The lords made haste to
follow the example of the prudent
chancellor. Ten years before they
had solemnly declared their opinion
that Charles H. had received from
the English people a legitimate mis-
sion to establish liberty of conscience ;
to-day, after maturely considering the
royal motion, they resolved *' that
the proposal of his majesty to settle
the dispute by parliamentary ways
was a good and gracious answer."

The disapprobation of the Upper
House filled the tunid monarch with
consternation. Three days afterward
Colbert presented himselt* as the bear-
er of officious advice from Louis XIV.
The K'mg of France felt but htde re-
gret at the turn affairs were taking
with his new allies ; for the Commons,
who, in order to overthrow more sure-
ly the royal plan, proposed to demol-
ish it slowly, piece by piece, had not
uttered a single murmur against the
French alliance or tlie war. Not only
that, but with a calcukting shrewdness
they had offered the king a compensa-
tion for die sacrifices which they de-
manded of him, and granted a subsidy
of £1,260,000 sterling, destined to be
expended in more vigorously pushing
forward hostile operations on land and
Pleased with these favorable

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884

Charleg IL and OathoUc EmaneipaUon.

dispositions, Louis XIV. represented
to his brother of England the sad con-
sequences of a rupture with parliament.
The wisest course was to submit to
necessity. At the return of peace,
when Louis would have troops and
money to spare, he would place both
at the service of the Stuarts, and it
would then be easy to repair these tem-
porary misfortunes. Charles listened
willingly to the ambassador. The of-
fers of money he did not refuse ; but
as for the assistance of French troops,
he declared that he would never use
them against his subjects, unless a Sec-
ond civil war should reduce him to the
very last extremity, as it had reduced
his father. The same day, in council
with his ministers, he withdrew his
edict of toleration; and the next
morning, the 8th of March, he annul-
led it again, in presence of the Lords
and Commons, promising that it should
never serve as a precedent. The royal
communication was received with ac-
clamations of joy, and at night innu-
merable bonfires illuminated the streets
and squares of the capitaL

The opposition pai'ty had received
an impetus in its course, and it needed
a stronger arm than that of a Stuart
to check it The House of Commons
was already discussing its famous test
bill, by the provisions of which every
Englishman holding any civil or mili-
tary office was required to take an oath
of allegiance and subscribe to the royal
supremacy; he was to receive the
sacrament according to the rites of the
Established Church, and to sign a
declaration ^gainst transubstantiation ;
and the penalty for violation of this
law was a fine of £500 sterling, and
disqualification from filling any public
function or dignity whatsoever, from
.prosecuting any cause before the courts,
from acting as guardian or testament-
ary executor, or receiving any legacy
or deed of gift Together with the test
bill another was introduced for the re-
' lief of the Protestant nonconformists.
The former passed quickly through
both houses, and became that odious
law which England kept upon her

statute-books until far info the present
centuiy. As for the other bill, all the
well-known arts of parliamentary
tricksters were brought to bear upon
it It was postponed ; it was amended
again and again ; it was thrown out ;
it was brought in again. At last the
end of the session found it effectually
killed; and, despite the insidious prom-
ises which bad effected a division
among the several victims of ibe An-
glican episcopacy, no new act was
passed with regard to the dissenters.

In a single day the test act deprived
the Catholic cause of all its defenders.
The Duke of York, who, as lord high
admiral, directed the operations of the
combined fieets of England and France,
resigned his command and his oora-
mi&sion. Clifford, though a new con-
vert, laid down the white rod. AD
the Catholic officials, governors, magis-
trates, naval and military officers, re-
tired at once. One only — who had
been bold enough to praise the biU in
the House of Lords as a wise and op-
portune measure — was exempted from
taking the test oath and branded with
the disgrace of a national recompense.
This was the same Earl of Bristol
whom the Bishop of Salisbury had re-
garded as the inspirer of those popish
tendencies which he boasted of hainng
detected under Charles's dissimulation.

There was none of the cabinet
whose fidelity Charles could now trust
Shaflesbury had betrayed him ; and it
seemed certain that Buckingham, Ar-
lington, and Lauderdale were secretly
in league with the chief agitators. In
return for their services parliament
granted them complete impunity for
the past by freely condoning all the
offences committed previous to th6
25th of March.

Thus the isolation of the king at
home was complete. Louis XIV. was
still lefl him, but he was soon to lose
even this last support At the begin-
ning of 1674 the French alliance of-
fered only very doubtful advantages.
On the continent the war had assumed
the proportions of a conflict of all £a-
rope, and Montecnculli, seconded bj

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ScdnH of the Desert.

8^5

the Prince of Orange, foagbt success-
fully against the genius of Tuienne.
On the sea, Prince 'Rupert, the suc-
cessor of the Duke of York, with
ninety- ships of the line, had gained
not a single notable advantage, though
he ought to liave swept all the Dutch
fleets before him. As Lingard says,
he was too intimately allied with the
opposition party to be very eager for
a victory which would have given the
ascendency to their adversaries. Fm-
ally, the Commons manifested, from
the opening of the new session, a de-
cided unwillingness to vote a subsidy.
Charles listened, therefore, to the pro-
posals of the allied powers, and, of his
own accord, without asking the consent
of ^'his suzerain" (as Macaulay
charges), concluded a special peaca on
the most honorable conditions. " Ne-
cessity forbade him any longer to as-
sist France as an ally,'* he said to
Louis' ambassador; "but he hoped
to be able to serve his good brother as
a mediator between him and his ene-
mies."

Thus all Charles's plans were over-
thrown, and England was delivered
for two centuries from the twin mis-
fortunes against which she struggled

with equal eiiergy*^a French alliance
and the inroads of Popery.

Under the enormous pressure
brought to bear upon him the unhappy
king, deserted by all his auxiliaries
and all his ^ends, gave way, and
tried to stifle the voice of conscience.
No doubt he is gravely to blame wh^
he receives the sacrament in the Prot-
estant chapels of his palace, and urges
the Duke of York to imitate his un-
worthy weakness, when he renews the
protestations — which nobody believes
—of his Qrm adhesion to Anglicanism.
He is inexcusable for his apostacy.
But that these criminal actions were
not incompatible with a sincere resolve
to return to the Roman Catholic Church,
and that one can trace in Charles's con-
duct a plan seriously conceived and
for three years perseveringly followed,
to estabUsh freedom of Catholic wor-
ship throughout the United Kingdom
— ^these are the points which we have
endeavored to prove. We are not
without hope (hat we have shed some
light upon an important series of events,
which for two centuries have been en-
veloped, through the bad faith of his-
torians, in an obscurity that until now
the keenest glance has failed to pierce.

From The Month.

SAINTS OF THE DESERT.

BT THE REV, J. H. NEWMAN, D.D.

1. A careless brother said to Abbot
Antony, " Pray for me."

The old man made answer : I shall
not pity thee, nor will ths Highest, un-
less thou hast pity on thyself, and
makest prayer to God.

2. Abbot Arsenius used to say : I
have often had to repent of speaking ;
never of keeping silence.

impute to us our negligences when we
pray, and our distractions' when we
sing, we cannot be saved.

4. Abbot Pastor said : One man is
at rest and prays ; another is sick
and gives thanks ; a third ministers
cheerfully to them both.

They are three ; but their work-
and their merit is one.

8. Abbot Theodore said : If God 5. A brother said to Abbot Sisoi

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6Se

LiUie Thtngg.

** What must I do to keep my heart?"
Hie old man made answer : Look
to your tongue first, for it is nearest to
the door. x

6. Abbot Abraham said : Passions
live even in the saints here below;
but they are chained.

7. Abbot John said to his brother,
^ I do not like working ; I wish to be
in peace, and to serve God without

break, like an angel f and he set off
to the desert.

In a week's time he returned, and
knocked at his brother's door, saying,
** I am John."

His brother answered, **No, you
are not ; for John is an angeL" He
insisted, « Yes, but I am Jofii."

His brother opened to him, saying,
** If you are a man, why don't you
work ? If you are an angel, what do
you knock for ?"

From Chamhers^B Journal.

LITTLE THINGS.

Often, little things we hear,
Oflen, little things we see.

Waken thoughts that long have slept,
Deep down in our memory.

Strangely slight the circumstance
That has force to turn the mind,

Backward on the path of years,
To the loved scenes far behind I

Th the perfume of a flower.
Or a quaint, old-fashioned tone ;

Or a song-bird 'mid the leaves.
Singing in the sunny June.

^Tis the evening star, mayhap.
In the gloaming silver bright ;

Or a gold and purple cloud
Waning in the western li^t.

'Tis the rustling of a dress.
Or a certain tone of voice,

That can make the pulses throb.
That can bid the heart rejoice.

Ah, my heart ! But not of joy
Must alone thy history tell.

Sorrow, shame, and bitter tears
Little things recall as welL

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The Poem of Adelaide Jmu Proettr.

887

From The MonUi.

THE POEMS OF ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.*

The appearance of the beautiful
edition of Miss Procter's poems latelj
issued among the Christmas gift-books
of the season forms a fitting occasion
for some remarks upon the special
character and genius of the authoress
whose verses are inscribed upon its
delicately-toned pages. Of both the ^
first and second series of Miss Proc-
ters ^Legends and Ljrics" numerous
editions have been called for by the
public : they are now collected into a
quarto, illustrated by many excellent
artists, and are prefaced by a slight
biographical introduction from the pen
of Mr. Charles Dickens, who, being
intimately acquainted with Miss Proc-
ter's family, had known her from her
early girlhood, and entertained for her
the truest admiration and the most
cordial esteem.

In attempting an analysis of Miss
Procter's t)oeti7, we may well preface
it by. a few words concerning her life
and character, because these were the
roots of her verse. To speak of the
dead is at all times a sacred thing, de-
manding heedful words and careful
justice. To speak of the beloved
dead is always a doubly difficult task,
requiring a specially sober modesty of
expression, even while giving some
scope to that instinctive power of true
appreciation which affection best in-
sures. The writer of these pages
knew and loved her long and well;
and in so far is qualified to speak of
what she was : yet of a nature which
was all womanly, and which retained
to its last earthly moments a singular

* ** Legends and Lyrics." B7 AdeUldo Anne
Procter. With an Introdaction by Charles
Dlckene. New edition, with additions. lUos*
trated by W. T. C. Dobson, A.B.A., Samael
Palmer, J. Tenniel, George H Thomas, Loreos
FrOhlich, W. H. MUlals, G. du Manrler. W. P.
BnrtonTJ. D. Watson, Charles Keene. J. M. Car-
rick, M. B. Edward, T. Morten. (Bell ADaldy.)

*WL Chaplet of Veraai.** (Longman.)

charm of childlike playfulness and in-
nocence—having been, as it were, at
all times sheltered from life's rougher
experiences — ^it is not quite easy so
to speak as to bring out a distinctive
image to those who knew it not.

Adelaide Anne Procter was bom
in October, 1825, in Bedford Square,
London ; the eldest child, the ^ sweet
beloved first-bom,** of Brian Waller
Procter, best known to literature as
Barry CorawalL We have often
heard her described as she was at
three years old — ^^ the prettiest little
fairy ever seen," with fair delicate
features and great blue eyes ; always
frail in heal^ but exceedingly intel-
ligent. Mr. Dickens tells of -a tiny
album, made of note-paper, into which
her favorite passages of poetry were
copied for her by her mother*s hand
before she herself could write; and
she very soon began to acquire for-
eign languages, and even to learn
geometry. One of her early accom-
plishments was drawing — she com-
posed little figure pieces with gi<ace
and facility ; and we remember hear-
ing from a loving relative of Miss
Procter's, many long years aga, bf a
certain set of sketches of the Seven
Ages of Man, done by her in pencil
when she was yet a little girl. Being
at the time still younger, we heard of
it with a sort of admiring awe, which
it is now pathetic to remember ; con-
sidering in our own mind what a won-
derful and even alarming little girl
this must be. Some five-and-twenty
years later (since her death) those lit-
tle sketches came to light; the sight
of them smiting upon the heart with
the memory of that long-ago conver-
sation, so full of fond hope and
pride.

Miss Procter was very thoroughly

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888

Ti$ Poemi of JMuch Jmu Pncier.

educated, and from hir youth went
much into societj, possessing in a
marked degree the best characteristics
of a woman of the world. Mr. Dick-
ens says that she had nothing of the
conventional poetess about her; was
neither melancholy, nor affected, nor
self-absorbed. What she had, was
the ease, the polish, and the extreme
readiness which we are taught to
consider the traditionary charm of a
Frenchwoman of the old school. To
perfect self-possession she added a
sort of feminme mastery of those about
her. S^gle out any of the famous
Parisians gifted with the power to
win and to keep, and imagine this sort
of power grafted on to a nature au
fond very simple and sterling; and
thus the reader will attain to a con-
ception of what she was in social life.
She had deep and strong feeling,
which she poured out in her poetry ;
but it did not come uppermost in her
conversation. ITuU was always vivid
and usually lively, and, moreover,
edged with marvellous finesse.
^ Sweet-briar^ one loving friend used
to call her.

Her outward life was not very
varied; but her conversion to the
Catholic faith, which took place when
she was about four-and-twenty, gave
her a wide circle of intellectual inter-
ests beyond those of ordinary English
minds* Two years later she went to
Piedmont, and passed a year with a
relative there. She always recalled
this Italian experience with lively
pleasure ; and it colored many of her
ixtema. Her letters home were very
lively and pictorial, showing that she
would have excelled in prose compo-
sition.

Of her first entrance into literature
Uj*. Dickens has given an amusing
account: how she sent poems to
Bbuaehold Words under the signature
of Miss Berwick, and how at the of-
fice they all made up their mmds she
was a governess ; and how Miss Ber-
wick turned out, after all, to be the
daughter of his old friend Barry
Oomwall, who preferred to win her

spurs with her visor down. When,
some years later, she was with much
difficulty induced to collect her poems
into a volume, with her name, their
success was immediate ; both that vol-
ume and a second series passed
through edition after edition, till she
truly became a hoiuehold word in Eng-
land.

There is not, alas! very much more
to telL Just when she became fa-
mous, and opportunities of literary ex-
ertion were opening on every side,
her health began to faiL For three
or four years before her declared ill-
ness she was very delicate, and, with
the fatal animation of her peculiar
temperament, always overwoiking
herself. But that dread malady, o(h)-
sumption, the scourge of England, can
rarely be averted when once it has
marked its prey. In November, 1862,
her inci*easing illness first confined her
to her room, andvery shortly to her bed.
For fifleen long months she lay therCj
wastiijg gradually away ; yet not only
was she patient and thoroughly re-
signed, but up to the very last her
bright cheerfulness never quite de-
serted her. When not actually in
pain, she would enter into conversa-
tion with all her old zest, taking just
the same interest in her friends and
their affairs ; lively, sympathetic, and
helpful to the end. On the very last
evening of all, one of her friends,
thinking to interest her in the old pur-
suit, brought her a Uttle poem in
proof. It was a Catholic ballad for
The Lamp, Miss Procter was sitting
up in bed, supported by pillows. She
was too weak to speak any unneces-
sary word; but her large blue eyes
roused into their wonted intelligence
as she listened; and then, with the
sweet sympathy which she at all times
gave to others, she made a slight ap-
plauding motion with those slender
wasted fingers, and smiled into the
reader^s face. It was such a very
slight thing, and yet so utterly charae-
teristio-^courtesy and kindness and a
sort of unselfish readiness suiriyiDg to
the very end.

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889

That nighU an hour after midnight,
on the 2d of Fehniaiyy the Bommons
oame* She had been reading a little
book — ^trying to read, rather — and as
the clock was on the stroke of one she
shot it up, and with some sadden mys-
terions rush of consciousness, harlng
Bufiered greatly all the evening from
expressed breathing, she asked quietly
of her mother, who was holding her
in her arms :

^ Do you think I am dying, mam-
ma ^

** I think you are very, very HI to-
night, ray dear."

•* Send for my sister. My feet are
so cold — lift me up."

Her sister entering as they nused
her, she said : ^ It has come at h&st"

And then, with so soft a change that
the anxious eyes bent upon those
Bonken features could hardly detect
the moment of her ceasing to breathe,
death came to the beloved of so many
hearts. * The prayera of the Church,
of which she was so devoted a child,
were audibly uplifted th'ioughont that
closing scene; they were the last
earthly sounds that can have reached
the dulling ear. Opposite to her, as
she lay upon her little bed, was a pho-
tograph from that liTveliest image by
Franda of the dead Saviour lying
upon his mother's knees. At all
times ardently religious, the last days
of her frail life were elevated and
cheered by the holy rites of her faith.
As she lay in her coffin, a crucifix
upon her breast, and camellias and
violets sprinkled over her fair white gar-
moits, she looked the loveliest image
of peace which a pure and pious life
could bequeath to perishable clay.
The delicate face was but little
changed. Up to the very last it had
retained its bright spiritual expres-
rion, just as her voice had retained its
muMcai inflections, and her smile its
blended charm of affectionate sympa-
thy and childlike gaiety. In death
tiiat smile had vanished for ever, bat
something of its sweetness still linger-
ed about the brow and mouth. The
tapeiB for which she had asked alittle

while previously (for the due keeping
of Candlemas-day) burnt at the head
of the coffin, and shed their sofl light
down upon that still face. When at
length it was covered up &om mortal
sight, and all that remained of her
laid in the grave at St. Mary's Ceme-
tery, the sun shone out with the first
cheerfulness of early spring. Coming
from behind a little cloud, that sun-
shine lit up the white vestment of the
priest, who, standing by her coffin in
the little chapel, spoke of the joyful
resurrection of the children of God.
There is a little garden upon that
simple grave, where fresh flowera
bloom every spring; and beside it
many prayers are offered up with
each returning season of the year.

But we must linger no longeron
memories and associations which are
almost too sacred for more than a
passing word. To the world at large
Miss Procter is known through her
genius only ; but it is, perhaps, not too
much to say, that through it she is
also endeared in a singular degree to
thousands who nevfer looked upon her
face. To some consideration (^ her
poems we will therefore address our-
selves ; the less reluctantly that they
were truly so much a revelation of
her life.

If canoqs of criticism be based on
something deeper than mere superfi-
cial rules in regard to the expression
of the sublime and beantifiil, it must
be doubly interesting to trace the
causes of a wide-spread popularity at-
taching to any series of works fix>m
the same pen. Such an appreciation
cannot be won by a trick of form, or
by a deliberate appeal to well-known
popular sympathies. It must arise
from the touching of universal emo-
tions ; from a true correspondenoe
with those thoughts and feelings which
are the heritage of the race under its
most general conditions, or which have
become the common property of a
people in all its various gsadoB of cnl*
ture.

There are two theories regaiding
the nature of poetry and of tluit gen-

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The Poem of Adelaide Jbme Procter

ins wbich creates poetrj, whether in
literature or in the sphere of any arL
Thej will never be harmonized ; for,
like many other opinions, doctrines^
and theories, of which we are sepa-
rately forced to acknowledge the tntth,
they are irreconcilable by 'any effort
of the human understanding. One of
these theories says that ffenius is rare,
recondite, unusual; that its creations
are, by the very nature of things, little
likely to be appreciated ; that, indeed,
the higher and the deeper it is, the
more likelihood there is that it will
not be entered into by numbers. Such
genius found its embodiment in the
phantasmagoria of Blake, in the po-
etry of Shelley, in the profound in-
sight of this or that thinker. It is the
▼iyid but momentary flash of light-
ning irradiating a sombre sky; it is
the gnarled and solitary pine; the
deep still tarn upon the mountain-side;
it is the vein of bright ore buried in
the darkness of the mine; the electric
thrill evoked from inert matter, inter-
esting, delightful, and suggestive from
the very strangeness of its apparition.
Who shall deny this is one definition
of genius, one way of picturing the
idea of high art?

But there is another theory, which
says that genius is that which pos-
sesses the &culty of incarnating uni-
versal affections in a type readily and
instinctively appropriated by the im-
agination ; that it painted the Hugue-
nots, and wrought out the image of
Jeanie Deans ; that it sung the simple
melody of ^ Auld Robin Gray," and
accumulated the massive choruses of
Handel; that — putting aside those
greatest men, the Shakespeares,
Groethes, and Raphaels, regarding
whom criticism or definition are alike
exhaustless and for ever inconclusive
— the most admirable genius is that
which thrills in the ballads, the relig-
ions literature, and imitative art of a
people, and which a whole nation
^will not willingly let die." Such
genius, such art, is like the fair sun-
shine upon corn-fields, the rippling of
the running streamj the silver sur&ce

of the lake, the profuse Inzuriance of
spring and autumn woodlands. It em-
bodies light, air, und the song of birds,
the solemnity of the universal twi*
light, and the radiance of the univer-
sal dawn. Almost every one can see
and feel it in some wise, though the
keenness of the appreciation will be
in proportion to the sensftiveness of
the eye and ear. Who shall denj
that this is another and equally true
description of the highest genius and
the noblest art ?

The poems we are now considering,
and which have won such general ad-
miration wherever they have become
known, belong to the latter class of
works of art. Their simple, delicate
beauty appeals alike to men and
women, and to the soul of the young
child; their transparent clearness is
that of an unusually lucid intellect;
their profoundness is only that of a
believing heart. She who wrote
them would often say, with a certain
characteristic simplicity, ''I only
write verses — ^I do not write poetry ;"
and would fasten upon the products of
some powerful and mystic mind as an
illustration of what genuine poetry
ought to be. But the mis-estimate
was great The absolute ^absence of
chiptrap, of any appeal to the pas-
sions of the' hour or the popular idols
of the English people, showed that if
these volumes lay on so many tables,
and their contents were so oflen sung
and quoted in public and in private,
as expressing just that which every-
body had wanted to say, the reason
lay deeper than the ring of the verse-
writer who knows how to play into
the fancy of the multitude. They
are popular because they are instinct
with dainty feminine genius, and
reach the hearts of others with the
sure precise touch of slender fingers
awakening the silver chords oi a
harp.

Three volumes originally compris-
ed the whole of lifiss Procter's writ-
ings : a first and second series of le-
gends and lyrics, and one of religtooa
poems, published for a night-rduge

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841

kept by Sisters of Merej. The two
former have now been printed in this
lich quarto bj Messrs. Bell &
DsaHj; and it majnot be amiss to
BSj that the whole three have been
republished in America in one small
but excellently got-up volume, at once
a casket and a shrine (Ticknor &
Fields, Boston). Of the secular
poems now brought before our
English public in so beautiful a
dress, we would attempt a slight
analysis of contents. There are
fourteen legends or stories, long and
short — ^little tales in verse, of which
the gist generally lies in some very
subtle and pathetic situation of the
human heart. Anything like violent
wrong or the ravages of unruly pas-
sion seemed rarely to cross this gentle
imaginatton ; and yet the legends are
nearly all sorrowful ; but the sorrow
seems to spring from nobody's fault
and perhaps for that very reason it is
all the more sorrowful, for repentance
will not wash it away. Little dead
children borne to heaven on the bo-
som of the angels while their mothers
weep below ; or a dying mother, dy-
ing amidst the splendors of an earl's
home, and calling to her bedside the
son of an earlier anS humbler mar-
riage, revealing hersilf to him at the
last ; or the t^story If a stepmother,
long loved but late wedded, and who
had given up the lover of her own
youth to a younger friend, and after-
ward taken the charge of that friend's
jealous and reluctant children ; or the
pitiful tale, since elaborately wrought
out by Tennyson in his *^ Enoch Arden,"
of the siulor who returns home to find
his wife the wife of another man. In
one and all the pathos is wrought out
and expressed with the most extraor-
dinary delicacy of touch. The read-
er says to himself, ^ Nay, is it so sad
after all ?" And yet it is ; sad and
spiritually hopeful too; sad for this
earth, hopeful for heaven. This
seems the irresistible conclusion of
almost every tale ; even the story of
the stepmother, supposed to come
quite right at last, is made inexpreasi-

bly plaintive by being told by the first
wife's nurse — she who "knew so
much," and had liTed with her young
mistress from childhood, and would not
call the cold husband unkind; "but
she had been used to love and praise."
In others c^ these legends^he telling
of the tale is simpler, the pathos more
direct, but almost always strangely sub-
tle. In " Three Evenings of a Life "
a sister sacrifices her own hopes of
married life that she may devote her-
self to a young brother who needs her
care. But the young brother marries
— a catastrophe which she does not
seem to have contemplated; and she
finds too late that her sacrifice was
useless ; and, what was worse, that the
bride is ill-fitted to sustain him in his
life or in his art; and the unhappy
sister

" WBtdied the daily fiilliDff

OfallhU nobler part;

Low alms, weak purpoae, teUin^

In lower, weaker art.

And now, when he Is dring,
The last words she coafd hear
Mast not be hers, bat giyen
The bride of one short year.
The last care is another*B ;
The last prayer most not be
The one they learnt together
Beside their mother*s £nee.**

Herbert sickens and dies, leaving the
poor weak little Dora to Alice's care ;
and we are told how Alice cherishes
her, and bears with her. waywardness
through sad weeks of depression, till
news comes in spring that Leonard —
the rejected lover — is returning from
India. Now Alice is free ! Now she
may love Leonard and lean upon his
strength. He comes ; the little house-
hold smiles once more. Summer suc-
ceeds to spring; when one twilight
hour Alice is aware of the perfume of
fiowers brought into their London
home. She goes out into the passage,
and through a half-opened door hears
Leonard's voice :

"His low voice— Dora's answers;
His pleadlni;— yes. she knew
The tone, the words, the accent! ;
She once had heard them too.
' Would Alice blame her V Leonard's
Low tender answer came.
* Alice was far too noble
To think or dream of blame.*

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Ths Poem of AMaide Jnm Proder.

* \nd W14 h9 snr e h3 lovel herT
*Tes, with the one love given
Once Id a lifetime only ;

With one •oul and one heaven I*

Thea came a plaintive mormnr :

* Dora had once been told
That he and Alice—* * Dearest,
Alice is far too cold

To love : and I, my Dora,
If once I fancied so.
It was a brief delusion.
And over long ago.* **

Yeij tender and tonching is the de-
scription of the forlorn woman's recoil
upon her broiher's memoiy :

** Yes, they have once been parted ;
But this day shall restore
The long-lost one ; she claims him :
*lly Herbert— mine once more !* **

One of the mo8t highly finished of
the legends is " A Tomb in Ghent,"
setting forth the life of a humble musi-
cian and his joung daughter. It con-
tains lovelj touches of descriptiop both
of music and architecture. How the
jouth knelt prajerfullj in St. Bavon^

^ While the^reat oi^n over all won1d.roII,
Speaking stranetf secrets to his innocent soul,
Bearing on eagle-wings the great desire
Of all tne kneeling throng, and piercing higher
Than aught but love and praver can reach, nntU
Only the silence seemed to listen still ;
Or, gathering like a sea still more and more.
Break in melodious waves at beaven*s door.
And then fall, slow and soft, in tender rain^
Upon the pleading, longing hearts again.**

Not only what he heard, but what he
saw, is thus exquisitely imaged in
words:

'* Then he woald watch the rosy sunlight glow.
That crept alons the marble floor below,
Fasfiing, as :ife does with the passing hours.
How by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers.
Vow ou the brazen letters of a tomb ;
Then, again, leaving it to shade and gloom,
And creeping on, to show distinct and quaint,
The kneeling flgure of some marble saint;
Or lighting up Uie carvings strange and rare
That told of patient toil and reverent care;
Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears
Of heavy corn, and slender bnirush-speara.
And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow
ta summer where the silver rivers flow :
And demon heads grotesque that seemed to glare
In impotent wrtth on all the beauty there.
Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb.
And so be drawn to heaven at evening time ;
And deoper silence, darker shadows flowed
On all around— only the windows glowed
With blazoned glory, like the shields of light
Archangels bear, who, armed with love and

might,
Wateh upon heaven*8 battlements at night.**

The second critical division of Miss
Procter's poems comprises those beau-
tiful lyrics, many of which have been
set to music, and all of which are full
of the melody of rhythms-inspired, as

it were, by a delicate iElolian har-
mony, having its source in the fine in-
tangible instinct of the poet's ear.
Amidst more than a hundred of such
short poems and songs, selectioii
seems nearly impossible to the critic.
Many of the little pieces and manj of
the separate verses are destined to
float on the surface of English litera-
ture with the same secure buoyancy
as Herrick's *< Daffodils," or Lyttle-
ton's verses to his fair wife Lucy, or
Wordsworth's picture of the maid
who dwelt by the banks of Dove.
They have that short felidty of ex-
pression, that perfect finish in thdr
parts, that cause such poems to abide
in the memory, or, as the expressioo
is, to '' dwell in the imagination." In
the six verses of *' The Chain,**

" Which was not forged by mortal hands.
Or clasped with golden bars and bands,**

is one — the third — which exemplifies
our assertion. It reads like one of
those immemorial quotations we
have known from infancy :

**Tet what no mortal hand eonld make.
No mortal power can ever break ;
Wliat words or vows could never do.
No words or vows can make nntme ;
And if to other hearts unknown.
The dearer and the more our own«
Because too sacred and divine
For other eyes save thine and mine.**

Two songs, written in the qiuunt,ir*
regular metre delighted in by the
seventeenth -century poets, seem like
foi^^en scraps by one of the more
elegant contemporaries of Milton;
these are, " A Doubting Heart,** and
<<A Lament for the Sammer," of
which the first and last verses are in-
stinct with the feelings of October
days:

"Koan, O ye Autumn winds--

Summer has fled;
The flowers have closed their tondar toavas, and
die;

The lily's gracious head
All low must lie.

Because the genUe Summer now Is dead.

-Mourn, mourn, O Autumn winds—

Lament and monm ;
How many half-blown buds must dose and dial

Hopes, with the Summer born,
All faded He,
And leave us desolate and earth forlorn.**

Squally muMoal, but foil of &e men

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peraooal sentiment of our conturj, is
thatlorelj song, '^ A Shadow, ' begin-
aiiig,

** What lack the valleys and monntalns
That once were green and gay V

Quite different in tone, full of ringing
harmony, is the litde poem of " Now :**

** Bise, for the day is passing,
And yon lie dreaming on ;
The others hare buckled their armor,
And forth to the fight are gone.
A place in the ranks awaits yon-
Bach man has some part to play ;
The Past and the Pature are nothiqg
In the face of the Stem To-day."

And BO on, through four spirited
Teraes. Something in these strikes
the ear as peculiarly illustrative of
the active pious spirit of her who
wrote them, of the voice whose every
tone was so dear, and of the sniile
idiose arch intelligence conveyed

the same expression of lively de^-
cision. 1

We must now bring our remarks to
a dose, having tried to indicate the
different qualities of Miss Procter's
verse. The permanent place which
it will retain in English literature it is
not for us to dedde. She has had the
power to strike the heart of her own
generation by its simple pathos. That
it is purely original of its kind can
hardly be denied ; but it is hard, if
not impossible, so far to separate
ourselves from the standard of our
own generation as to judge where the
limits of the special^ and therefore the
transient, elements of fame are passed.
But we at least must not be wanting
in gratitude to one of the sweetest
singers of the day that was hers and
our own.

From The Sixpenny liagadno.

THE ADVENTURE.

Sib Bbiak (V Bbian McMubbough
oonmienced life as possessor of a
nominal rent-roll of twelve thousand
pounds sterling per annum, although
in reality, between mortgages, and
rent-charges, and incumbrances of
every possible shape and hue, proba-
bly five would represent the net sum
received by the proprietor. Still, it
wafl not the age of economical reflec-
tion, nor was Sie young baronet either
a financier or a philosopher. He had
been cradled in luxury, and bowed
down to with slavish senility ; he had
been educated at Cambridge, and, one
way or other, his bills there had been
met, though not always pleasantly, by
his father. He had travelled over
Europe, Asia, and a good part ot
America, for four years, and at last a
letter had caught him at Vienna, tell-

ing him that his faAer, Sir Patridc,
had died suddenly, *^ full of years and
honors,** and that he was now the
representative of one of ^the oldest
and best families in Ireland,** and pes*
sessor of its splendid estates, etc On
his return home he was surrounded
by troops of friends and hordes of sy-
cophants, and for some years was far
too much engaged hi pleasure not to
let business attond to itself. His Sir
thers had lived ''like kings," and he
had too much the spirit of an Irish,
gentleman to let prudence or economy
come '' between the wind and his no-
bility." He married, too, and chose
for his wife a fai^escended and beau-
tifnl pauper, with tastes to the fiili as
reckless and extravagant as his own.
This lady had lurou^t hhn a daugh-
ter, who Jived|and in four years after

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844

The Adventure.

a son^ who had died a few hours afler
his 'birth, and whose death preceded
that of his mother bj a single daj.
After her death Sir Brian became
more careless and reckless than ever.
His spirits sank as his debts moant-
ed; he saw from the first that rain
was inevitable; section after section
of his splendid estates were put up for
sale and swept away ; until at last all
that remained to him was a half-ruin-
ed building, called '' The Black Ab-
bey," which he sometimes used as a
shooting and fishing lodge in happier
days, and a tract of mountain land,
wUd, and for the most part sterile and
unprofitable, and for part of which he
pud rent. In the present gloomy
temper of his soul, however, it suited
his humor. The building stood half-
way up a mountain, the base of which
was almost washed by the waters of a
broad lake, or lough, and from which
it was only separated by a slip of
meadow. The laj^e itself was several
miles in extent, and at least three
miles and a half broad immediately
opposite the abbey, to which the only
access from the mainland was by a
skiff or boat, except you chose to
travel several miles round so as to
head the #dce. It was a romantic but
utterly desolate i-etreat, made still
more so, if possible, by the sullen
gloom which had now taken possession
of the fallen man. He had secured
some remnants of a once splendid
library, and sometimes amused him-
self by teaching his daughter Eva, al*
though there were weeks at one time
when a restless and morose spirit be-
set him, and then with a gun in his
hand he wandered idly througli the

3 fountains, or with a boy, named Pau-
re^n, took to his yacht, and was
never to be seen on shore, sometimes
sleeping on board, or bivouacking on
some of the many small islands which
dotted the loch.

At such times Eva was left in pos-
session of the abbey, accompanied by
old Deb Dermody and her husband
Mogue (or Moses), who, of all his fol-
lowers, had stuck steadily to Sir Brian,

and would not be shaken off. Before
utter ruin had come upon them, £va
had been for a year, or somewhat bet-
ter, at a boarding school, the mistresa
of which had evidently done her du^
by the child. The little girl, indeed,
"showed blood" in more ways than
one: she was small but hardy, and,
without being critically beautifiil, she
was very lovely to look upon: her
features were delicate .but full of ani-
mation. Her temper was lively, but
all her instincts were genial and gen-
erous, and she had, in a particular man-
ner, the gift of conciliating the affec-
tionate regards of all who came within
the sphere of her innocent influence.
True it was, her worshippers were
neither numerous nor select A few
hands employed by the "steward"
(as Mogue was magniloquently called)
to till the ground and attend to the
" stock," consisting of mountain sheep
and Kerry cows, together with stray
"cadgers," pedlars, and other wan-
derers who occasionally visited the
neighborhood, and the " neighbors " on
both banks of the lough (the hither
and thither), consisting for the most
part of an amphibious sort of popula-
tion, who netted fish in the lake, or cul-
tivated patches of ground to keep life
and soul together. Beside these, now
and then the "agent" of the estate,
Mr. Redmond Hennessey, sometimes
visited at the abbey, to look for or re-
ceive the rents paid by Sir Brian, and
another more welcome occasional vis-
itor was Father John Gcnsidine, the
P.P. of a long, straggling parish, which
extended over both sides of the moun-
tain, and whose house and church hy
in the valley which separated Ballin-
topher, on which Sir Brian lived, from
Balllnteer, a higher hill which ran be-
yond. Sir Brian and his daughter be-
longed to the old faith, and as the priest
was a large-minded, liberal man, with
a well-cultivated mind, and a good-
humored and even jovial temperament^
his visits always enlivened the abbey,
and sometimes won a smile from its
proprietor. His literary tastes and
recollections, also, were exceedingly

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845

useful to the young girl, particularly as
he sometimes ran up to Dublin, or even
over to London or Paris, in the sum-
mer holidays, from whence he was
sure to bring back the gossip for Sir
Brian, and a budget of new books,
periodicals, and songs for his favorite.
Thus matters went on for some
years — ^nothing better, nothing worse,
apparently — until Eva was in her
eighteenth year. The large estates
originally owned by Sir Brian had, in
a great measure, fallen into the hands
of a single proprietor, Sir Adams Jes-
sop, a rich London merchant and
banker, who had purchased them by
lots on speculation, because, in the
first place, they were sold low (as at
first all the Irish estates were under
the Incumbered Estates Court), and be-
cause he had advanced large sums to
the holders of the mortgages, etc., with
which they were embarrassed, and
thus sought to recoup himself. Since
they came into his possession he had
been over for a few days twice— once
to look over the property, and again to
appoint an agent recommended to him
by some neighboring proprietors, who
all spoke of Mr. Redmond Hennessey
as a man of zeal and industry, who
always had his employer's interest at
heart, and detested a non-paying or
dilatory tenant as he did a mad dog.
Under this gentleman's supervision the
estates put on a new aspect; rents
were raised, and covenants insisted on,
such as ''the oldest inhabitant" had
never even dreamed of; and as Mr.
Hennessey was a solicitor as well as
an agent, processes followed defalca-
tions, and the only sure road to his
friendly sympathy was punctuality in
payment, and liberality (in the shape
of giAs, such as fowl, butter, eggs,
fish, socks, flannel, and so forth) from
those who had favors to ask or bar-
gains to make. Of course he was a
thriving man, but it was remarked
that illicit distillation, poaching, and
iUegal practices of all kinds were
greatly on the increase ; and when Sir
Brian heard of all this, and saw that
additional magistrates were sworn in,

and a large draft of constabulary and
preventive police sent into the new
barracks specially constructed for
them, he grimly triumphed in the
change, and made no secret of his
sympathy with the malcontents, since,
as he said, ^ what better could be ex-
pected on the estate of an absentee ?"

Neither did matters seem to mend
when Sir Adams Jessop died somewhat
suddenly, and was succeeded by his
only son, now Sir William Jessop, who
was understood to be a gay young
man of indolent habits and roving
propensities, and who seemed to have
even less sympathy for his Irish ten-'
ants than his father — ^if, indeed, that
were possible. Mr. Hennessey's power
and authority were now unlimited, and
stories were told of his rapacity and
impatience of all control which ap-
peared incredible. Whole townships
were depopulated by his Jiat; families
were reduced to beggary and despera-
tion by his determination to ''make
the estate pay;" anrd some said (for
every man has his enemies) that when
his new master informed him by letter
of appeals being made and of his wish
that they should be attended to and the
appellants dealt more lightly with, his
answer invariably was, that the accus-
ers were established liars, who would
be the first to shoot down Sir William
himself should he ever be foolish
enough to venture amongst them.

Like all inland lakes of consider-
able extenti that which lay before the
windows of the Black Abbey was sub-
ject to violent changes of temper on
slight and sudden provocation. In
the morning it would lie dimpling and
smiling before you, as full of placid
beauty and as incapable of a wrathfdl
outburst as a ball-room belle; while
at noon its aspect would become aa
terrible as that of a virago, whose
whole family and neighborhood trem-
ble and fiy from the fearful storm
which no submission can allay. On
such occasions, considerable danger

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646

The Adventure.

menaced those who sidled on business
or pleasure over the waters of the
lake, and it so happened that on the
ere of a September day, the yacht of
Sir Brian McMurrough was caught
in one of those sudden bursts which
had swept down from the mountains,
accompanied by torrents of rain and
-violent thunder and lightning, although
in the morning, and until after mid-
day, there had been no warning of a
gale.

To make matters 'worse, Miss Mc-
Murrough was known to be on board
the boat, as she had accompanied her
&ther to a town at the other end of
the lake to make household purchases
for the coming winter ; and the amount
of agitation evidenced by a group of
men who stood on the banks of the
lough and witnessed the fearful strug-
gles of the little craft, amounted grad-
ually to extreme terror as they saw
the principal sail give way and flutter
in the wind like ribands, while the
waves washed over the helpless vessel
and threatened speedily to engulf her.
I **It will never do, boys," at last
said one of the men, '^ to stand idly by
and see the best blood of the countiy
die the death of a drowned dog with-
out putting out a hand or an oar to
save him. Run up, Patsy, and tell
Mick Mackesy to come down at once,
while we launch Sheeiahj who nev-
er turned her back to the whitest
horses that ever gallopped over any
water that ever ran; and don't let
grass grow to your heels, for a life may
hang on every step yon take. Away
wi* you."

"Has he far to go?" asked another
of the group.

"About a mile, sir," replied the
man, touching his cap to the questioner,
who had been a stranger to him until
on hour or two before ; "and the worst
of it is Mick may be out, or drunk,
and then we're done for."

"Don't send for him, then," said
the stranger ; " I have pulled an oar
at college and elsewhere, and am
pretty well up to the management of a
boat "Where is your craft ?'

" Yonder in the cove, sir ; but iifs a
bad business."

" Then the sooner we get rid of it
the better, my friend," said the ener-
getic stranger. " Come, boys, I have
a sovereign or two to spare, and I
promise you that no man shall lose by
his humanity. Now, my friend, lead
on."

" May I never," said the first speak-
er, whose name was Andy Monahao,
" but you've a stout heart in yoar baz-
som, whoever you are, and itfs a pi^
to baulk you !"

In an incredibly short space of time
the boat was launched, and the gentle
Sheelah fled on her mission of mercy,
impelled by four pair of hands who
knew right well how to handle her.
By this time the baronet's yacht was
a sheer wreck, and although the owner
and his boy struggled hard to keep
her head to the wind, it was evident
that if she did not fill and go down,
she would drive bodily on the ragged
rocks which shot perpendicularly up
on that part of the shore toward which
she was drifting. The boat reached
her safely, however, and by the ex-
cellent management of the volunteer
boatman mainly. Miss McMurrough
was got into the shore-boat, and her
father and the boy followed, while an
anchor was let go in the yacht and she
was then left to her fate.

In moments of great danger and
excitement there is little room for
ceremony or introduction, and on the
present occasion only a few words,
and those of direction^ passed on any
side. Sir Brian's main care was for
his daughter, who, drenched and terri-
fied as she must necessarily be, bore
up wonderfully, and even managed to
murmur a few words of gratitude to
the stranger who so sedulously bore
her into the boat, and, so far as he
could, protected her. When all was
done, the boat's head wa3 again turn-
ed to the shore, and " in less than no
time," as Andy prombed, its wave-
worn load was safely landed, wet,
weary, and chilled, but otherwise un-
harmed. After a few words in private

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847

"with Andf , the boat-owner, Sir Brian
turned to the stranger and addressed
him.

** I am told bj my friend here, sir,"
he said, " that it is to your dexteri^
and courage my own preservation and
that of my daughter is mainly due. I
trust that you will accompany me to
my residence, and allow me, when I
have regained my presence of mind,
more suitably to thapk you for the
signal service yon have done me tlian
I can find words adequately to do
now."

** You are very kind, sir,** was the
prompt and cordial reply, ^ and I shall
be very happy to accept your hospit-
able offer, as I am altogether a stran-
ger here, and the boatman tells me
that J will have to cross the mountain
before I can reach an inn."

In the meanwhile, the storm had
lulled considerably, and half a score
of women had come from the sur-
rounding cottages, some with cloaks,
blankets, and shawls for " Miss Eva,"
and some with *' poteen" jars or bot-
tles, to " warm the hearts" of the res-
cued mariners. But Sir Brian per-
sisted in going home, and refused the
proffers of profuse hospitality pressed
on him, acceptmg a '*wrap" for his
daughter, and sanctioning the attend-
ance of the stranger, on whose offered
arm she leaned as they began their
walk to the abbey. Before they set
off, however, the stranger found time
to thrust five sovereigns into Andy's
hand, saying to him, in a low voice—

"Divide them amo?ig your brave
comrades, my good friend, and say
nothing to Sir Brian. I only wish I
could make it ten times as much, since
every man of them is worth — ^nay,
don't refuse them, or I shall say that
you are too proud to be obliged by a
friend. You and I must become bet-
ter acquainted hereafter."

He hastened away, and Andy pock-
eted the gratuity, which he had neither
expected nor was at all anxious to re-
ceive.

" We'll drink his health anyway,**
he said, as he pocketed the money;

" and if he stays in the country, well
find a way to pay him back, if not in
his own coin, maybe in one thatll
please him as well. A brave chap he
is, and feathers an oar as well as my-
self, who was bom, I may say, with
one in my right hand."

The stranger had requested that a
small, neat knapsack, which he had
flung down when he stripped for the
lake, should be sent after him to the
abbey, at which, on arriving at it, he
was warmly welcomed by the master,
and was ushered to a spare bed-cham-
ber by Deb Dermody herself, who had
been advertised of the coming of the
party by a " runner," and had every-
thing prepared to receive them.

When the stranger had dried hia
clothes and changed his linen by the
huge turf fire which blazed in the
room allotted him, he descended to
the " refectory," of general dining and
drawing-room, and so called from its
use by the monks " lang syne." He
found the baronet and his daughter
ready to receive him, a large fire in
the grate, a table ready laid for din-
ner, and a fresh arrival in the sturdy
person of "Father John," who had
come on one of his periodical visita-
tions. Evidently the good priest had
heard of the adventure, and of the
gallant part which the stranger had
performed in it, and, when presenting
him his hand, had good-humoredly
thanked him for helping to preserve
two lives that were so precious to all
who knew their worth. The young
man, in his turn, found it necessary to
introduce himself, and stated that he
was an idle rover, with some taste for
drawing, literature, and music, and
who came on an exploratory expedi-
tion to se6 whathe could pick up in
the way of old airs or legends, or
new scenery, \o forward some specu-
lations of his own. His name was
Redland, and he considered himself
fortunate in having been able to assist
Sir Brian and Miss McMurrough in
their difficultyi etc.

The dinner was good. Fish from
the lake, game from the mountain,

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The AchefUun.

fowl from the Btubble, and a capital
ham, fed and cured bj the " steward,"
who prided himself on fattening and
killing swine. The night sped pleas-
antly by. Bedland was evidently a
gentleman, and both the baronet and
the priest knew what that meant right
well. He was light and cheerful
without being frivolous, and seemed
more inclined to ask for information
from others than to obtrude his own.
He spoke well without speaking too
much, and greatly pleased Father
John by the interest he took in Irish
affairs. In the course of the evening
the management of the '* Jessop prop-
erty" was spoken of, and incidentally
the character of the agent was dis-
cussed.

"After aU," said Sir Brian, « the
devil is not so black as he is painted ;
Hennessey is not the worst among the
bad. I for my own part have al-
ways found him civil and obliging,
and not at all pressing for the rent of
my miserable holding, which, as you
well know. Father John, I never
ought to be called on to pay a shilling
for; but Hennessey's not to blame
for that ; no more, I dare say, than for
other things laid to his charge. He
sent Eva a whole chestful of books to
read last week, and baskets of fruit
from bis hot-houses, although I dare
aay he was the first of his family that
had any better sort of house than a
mud cabin to rear pigs instead of
grapes and peaches in."

** He is a confirmed scoundrel,
however, and a curse to the country
that holds him," ejaculated the priest,
sternly and gravely.

" You ought to blame his absentee
master rather than him," said Sir
Brian.

** Under your pardon, Sir Brian, I
ought to do no such thing," persisted
the priest; "his master knows noth-
ing of his doings, of that I am certain,
or if he did, as an English merchant,
as a man of humanity, he would be
the first to reject and put down such
intolerable tyranny, wluch is equally
miserable and profitless. In fact, the

fellow is true to no one or nothing but
his own selfish interests, for he
throws the blame of his own cruelties
on his employer, and perpetrates
enormities sufficient to draw down
God's vengeance, under the plea of
being driven to it by a man to whom
such cheese-parings and petty gains
can be of no possible account."

" I should thmk then, sir," said the
stranger, " that it is high time for him
to look to his interests and good name,
if your account be true, and my only
wonder is that he delays it so long."

" Fob ! the present proprietor is a
gay young fasluonable fop, they were
called dandies in my day, who well
pockets his rents and only thinks of his
Irish tenants when his purse runs,
dry," said Sir Brian, bitterly.

" Is not that a harsh estimate,
papa," said Eva, gently and timidly,
"when you can only speak by sur-
mise ?"

"Then why is he not here?" asked
Sir Brian ; " why does he leave his
tenantry to be ground to powder or
driven to desperation, if he could cure
it by his presence ?"

"That question D:iay be answered,
too," said the priest ; " it is Hennes-
sey's interest to keep him away as
long as he can, and you may be pretty
sure that he has painted us in colors
that would not waste a long journey
to witness them. I, however, have
taken upon myself the liberty of
writing to Sir William Jessop, and it
will not be my fault if he does not see
reason in my statements to come and
have a look at us himself."

"You will get into a mess with
Hennessey if ^at comes to his ears,"
said the baronet, laughing.

" He knows right well I don't care
a farthing for either his friendship or
his enmity," replied Father John.
" * Be just, and fear not,' is my motto,
and if it please God to let him injure
me, I will bow to ihe chastisement^
since it will be in a good cause."

"I thmk that your act was both
justifiable and merciful," said the
stranger ; " and I should say that Sir

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The Adventure.

849

Willkm wiD be litde better than a
heartless fool if he should not respond
to joor application as he oaght."

" He'll never do it," said the obsti-
nate host ; '* he'll be thinking of his
tallow and ootton, and molasses, as
matters infinitely superior in his esti-
mation to Irish kernes and their
wrongs."

" Ought we not to hope and pray
that he will take a mcire considerate
view of Father John's application to
him, papa ?" said Eva. '^ He is an
English gentleman, and they are al-
ways alive to the interests of human-
ity — ^at least I have always heard so."

^And you have heard right, my
dear Miss Eva, so we'll hope for the
best," replied the priesL '< So now
let us have one cup of tea, and after-
ward we'll trouble yon for 'Love's
Young Dream/ or 'The Minstrel
Boy,' or ' Silent, O Moyle !' or ' The
Young May Moon,' and I'll grumble a*
bass in ' St. Senanus and the Lady,'
if Mr. Bedland will help us out"

The tea was drunk, and the songs
sung to the accompaniment of a wild
Irish harp, which made excellent
music in Eva's fair hands. Alight
supper followed, and then to bed, afler
various arrangements for the following
days, which Sir Brian insisted Red-
land should give to them ; while Fa-
ther John, whose time was his own,
as he had a curate, promised to remain
at the abbey also for a few days.

Near to midnight Redlaud found
himself in a very tidy and comforta-
ble room with a blazing fire, and as he
undressed his thoughts took the form
of soliloquy.

'' Pleasant enough all this," he said,
as he sat before the fire, '' and not a
bad beginning, at all events. , Sir
Brian is a gentleman certainly, al-
though his prejudices — ^natural, too-^
master him ; the priest, however, is
my strong card, and I must stick to
him ; while as to Eva — ^Miss McMur-
rough — ^who in the world could have
thought of finding such a choice and
beautiful blossom in such a site ? She
is equally ridi in blood and beauty,
VOL. u. 64

and no mistake, and her soprano has
a great deal of the Jenny Lind fine
timbre about it. Fm in luck, at any
rate, so here goes to enjoy and make
the most of it." Thus saying he went
to bed.

For the next few days a great deal
was done. The yacht was recovered
and made available ; fish were caught,
birds shot, views taken, cottages visit-
ed, histories detailed, dinners eaten,
songs sung, and conversations enjoy-
ed, in all which the stranger took part,
making himself both useful and agree-
able ; putting Sir Brian in mind of
** the good days," charming the priest
by his humane and Hberal philosophy,
and gradually stealing into Eva's
good graces so far, that when one
evening he said to her he must think
of going, she sighed, and said plain-
tively —

"Yes, that's the worst of your
coming, Mr. Bedland, for when you
leave us how shall we ever get over
your loss ? Though of course one
ought to be always prepared for mis-
fortune, and no one who wished' you
well would think of detaining you in
so dreary a place."

" Dreary 1 it has been a paradise to
me, I assure you. Miss McMurrough,
and when duty demands my presence
elsewhere, inclination will be sure tO'
draw me back by the hair of the
head, and — and by the cords of the
heart as welL"

The latter part of the sentence was
spoken partly to himself and escaped
Eva's ear.

It so chanced that, the next morn-
ing, Father John left them, afler a
hearty invitation to Bedland to visit
his cottage at the side of the moun-
tain ; but it was doomed that his
place was supplied about mid-day, or
rather toward dinner-time, by no less
a person than the formidable '^ agent,"
Mr. Bedmond Hennessey, himself
who announced to his "friend," Sir
Brian, that, having a day to spare, he
came to tax his hospitality.

"Beside," he said, as he and Sir
Brian sat in conclave, while Bedland

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850

The Adventure.

and Eva were wandering on the banks
of the lough — *^ beside, Sir Brian, a re-
port has reached me that a stranger
has intruded himself on your hospital-
ity whom I think jou ought to beware
of."

^He 18 a fine young fellow, and
saved my life,'' repUed the baronet. -

'^Specious, I dare say; flippant,
but anything but safe company, I
should say, if my information be cor*
rect," said Mr. Hennessey.

^What has he done?" demanded
Sir Brian.

^ A great deal that he should have
left undone," was the reply. ^ I have
beard of the goings on of him and
that confounded priest, whose 'finger
is in every man's dish ; of their visit-
ings to tenants, and their bribes for
information ; in point of fact, I look
upon him as a dsuigerous person — one
of those English radicals who, driven
fitim their own country, come to ours
to plunge it into convulsion and confu-
sion."

** I think you are mistaken in your
estimate," replied Sir Brian.

" You will change your opinion by-
and-bye," said 'Hennessey; "the
proof of the pudding is the eating of
it ; I have received three threatening
letters since he has been here, short
as it is, and I mean, after dinner, to
draw him out a bit, and make him
show his true colors, if possible."

'^ You had better not, perhaps," was
the reply ; ^ he is an outspoken young
fellow, and seems to fear no man, no
matter how potential he may think
himself. Better let bun alone, for
your detectives have tracked the
wrong man this time, Mr. Hennessey,
I assure you."

" We shall see, however," said the
.agent, made more obstinate by opposi-
tion.

The young people did not return
until dinner was ready, and then Red-
iland and Hennessey were introduced
to each other. The agent was super-
•dliously cold, and Bedland hardly
dvil, so reserved was his demeanor. It
-seemed to be ^ hate at first sight on

both sides." Under these circnm««
stances, ccmversadon was slow and re-
strained ; Mr. Hennessey talked of
himself a good deal ; of the improve-
ments in his house, his grounds, and
gardens, and of his associations with
the aristocracy of the district; while
Bedland conversed with Eva in a low
voice, mercilessly inattentive to the
utterings of the great man, which
were frequently interrupted by the ill-
repressed laughter of Eva at what her
companion was saying. At last, how-
ever, dinner was done, and when Eva
left the room, Mr. Hennessey began
his ^ drawing-out" system by a point-
blank question addressed to Bed-
land.

^*I understand, Mr. Bedland," he
said, " that you have been very par-
ticularly anxious in your inquiries
about the state of Sir WiUiamJea-
sop's extensive property. I presume
you are an author, and mean to pub-
lish your travels in a neat volume,
with wood-cut illustrations ?"

"No, no; you are altogether mis-
taken," was tfie chilly reply ; " I am
content to read books, without having
the ambition to write them."

" Well, then, the greater compli-
ment to us poor Irish that such an in-
dependent inquirer should come
amongst us," said Hennessey. "I
hope you are satisfied witk what yon
have observed."

"I do not wish to answer your
question, sir,- since, without intending
it, I fni^t give you oflfence," was the
guarded reply.

" Pray don't spare me, young gen-
tleman," sneered the agent, " as I am
used to misconstruction, and have
shoulders bix>ad enough to bear it
You find fault with my management,
of course?"

"Not of course, sir," replied Bed-
land, " but if you insist on having my
opinion, I think that Sir William Jes-
sop's estates are very wretdiedly i
aged indeed."

" Hah I that is candor with a ^
geancel" said the agent, startled oot
of his self-possession i ^ you mael l>e«

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851

diBinterested obseirer to jump at once
to 80 decided a conclusion.*'

^ I bad my ejes and ears, sir, and
made use of them," answered the
composed stranger; "where every-
thing is miserable, and everybody
wretched, on an estate which pays
eight or ten thousand a year to its
owner, somebody must be to blame,
smce there can be no possible cause
for it."

^ Go on, sir, go on,** said the agent,
winking at Sir Brian.

.*• At your invitation, I wifl, sir,**
was the cool reply. '^ Seeing what I
have seen, and hearing what I have
heard, I do %ot wonder that discon-
tent and disaffection should prevail
amongst men whom no industry can
raise, and no good conduct can pro-
tect. It is the skeletons of a popula-
tion that I have been among, and not
men and women of flesh and blood ;
and as to their homes, I profess that
the snow-hut of an Esquimaux
would be less inhabitable. I shall call
Sir William Jessop a bad English-
man, and a worse Christian, if he
shall persist in sanctioning a state of
things, which, of course, must be out
of your control, siuce I presume you
act according to your ordei-s, and can-
not help witnessing the terrible miser-
ies which you are every day compel-
led to increase."

" You have been in America, sir, I
suppose?" was the irrelevant reply
of Hennessey.

« I have— both North and South,"

" And have been a practitioner of
' stump' oratory ? I thought so," re-
plied Hennessey, with a coarse laugh.
** Here's to your health, young Cicero,
and a better way of thinking to you I"

** To both of us, sir, if you please,"
replied Bedland, touching his glass,
and then leaving the room.

''A dangerous fellow, just what I
thought him," said Hennessey,when the
door dosed. ^ But now tiiat I see his
game, I am prepared for him ; we'U
have no stump orators — ^no Captain
Rocks or Sergeant Starlights amongst
us here, if we can help it, Sir Brian.

But let it ies1f-4et it rest ; we have
not quite done with him yet And
now, Sii;Brian, to torn to a pleasanter
theme ; the last time I was here I did
myself the honor of making known to
you my ardent good wishes for a
closer connection with you, through the
medium of Miss McMunongh, whose
humble slave I have long b^."

^ I have trusted^ the matter to my
daughter, Mr. Hennessey, and fii^d
that her objections are insuperable ;
she would not listen to me, except at
the risk of tears and hysterics," said
Sir Brian. " I am obliged to you, but
we will speak no more of it, if you
please."

" I am sorry for it," 'replied Hen-
nessey, "as. I thought that, under
such circumstances I might find
means to allow your arrears, and the
fifty borrowed from myself, to stand
over. I fear I can't promise anything
of the sort now, but I suppose you
are prepared to back up, and the soon-
er the better, as Sir William is press-
ing hard for money and must have it.
Let me have all, if possible, before
Saturday, and so save trouble to both
of us. With thanks for your hos-
pitality, and wislung you a safer guest
under your roof, I bid yon good-
night."

In three minutes more he had left
the house, and Sir Brian felt that he
had an enemy for life. He said notii-
ing to his guest or his daughter, how-
ever, save that Mr. Hennessey had
been obliged to leave— on business,
he supposed.

The next day, Mogne, who had
been at the other side of the lake,
brought back word that there was
^ great ructions" in the town of Bal-
linlough, as Mr. Hennessey had been
fired at early that morning, on riding
to one of his farms, and that ^ a whole
pound of bullets had lodged in his
hat." Everything was in commotion ;
the ** peelers" were out, and ^ a whole
bunch (bench?) of magistrates were
to meet immediatdy." So that day
passed over ; but the next morning a
new state of a£BurB ocenned. AlK^ut

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The Adventure.

tea o'docky half a dozen policemen^
with an officer at their head, arriyed
at the ahbej and showed a warrant
of arrest for Mr. William Redland,
as a suspicious person, etc, with a
civil intimation that his body was to
be produced before the bench of mag-
istrates now sitting at Ballinlough.
Of course, to hear was to obey.

^ My accuser will make nothing of
it, sir," said Bedland to the officer,
<< and if I really wished him evil he
has now affiiided me an opportunity
of doing it."

** You may require bail, however,**
said Sir Brian, '< so I have dispatched
a messenger for Father John, al-
though we can easily defeat him by
an cSibi/'

^ Or by telling the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth,** said
Bedland, with a smile.

When they arrived at the court-
house of BaUinlough, they found at
least a dozen magistrates in full con-
clave, who all scowled on " the pris-
oner,** as Hennessey was their friend.

Bedland at once confronted this
august assembly, and without waiting
for his accuser to begin, thus com-
menced:

^ In order to save time and trouble,
gentlemen,** he said, ^ I think it neces-
sary to make a confession for which
you may be unprepared.**

''Too late, my fine fellow,** said
Hennessey; ''yon should have
thought of what you were about be-
fore. I heard you myself at Sir Bri-
an's table spout as much treason as
would set all Ireland in a flame. I
do not wish to prosecute you vindic-
tively, however, although I was near
losing my life by your preaching and
teaching, so if you will undertake to
leave the country, after telling us who
and what you are, I will give up the
prosecution, and you may go about
your business.**

" You are very considerate, sir, and
I accept your offer,** said the undis-
mayed prisoner. "I acknowledge^
therefore, that both my name and my
occupation have been assumed '^

" I knew it — I could swear it frooi
the first moment I laid eyes upon you,"
said the triumphant agent ; " but go
on ; you have told us who and what
you are not, now oblige us with simi-
lar infonnation as to whom and what
you are.**

" Willingly, sir,** replied the young
man. "My real name is not Bed-
land, but Jessop — a baronet by rank,
an Englishman by birth, and your em-
ployer, I think, into the bazgcdn. I
am called, then, Sir William Jessop,
and my occupation here has been qui-
etly to supervise my estates — and' a
very wretched supervision it was, as I
had the honor to tell you in Sir Brian
McMurrough*s house. I am willing
to remain under arrest until I am fully
identified, and as you are not vindic-
tively influenced, I trust you will ac-
cept bail for my appearance when
called qpon."

Hennessey was foiled and defeated
by his employer's ruse, and he saw it.
He was crestfallen, too, for his warm-
est friends crowded round " Sir Wil-
liam," and left him in the lurch, al*
though his employer was more merci-
ful.

" I, and my father before me," he
said, "have been to blame for not
sufficiently making ourselves acquaint-
ed with die serious responsibility we
had undertaken. I have seen with
my own eyes that my estates are sad-
ly mismanaged, and I have reason to
complain that your conduct has been
both selfish and unjust; selfish, in
thinking solely of your own interests —
and unjust, in saddling me with your
faults. We cannot act longer togeth-
er, Mr. Hennessey, and you will be
good enough to prepare your accounts,
so as that they may be dulj audited
as soon as possible. I will remain
the guest of Sir Brian McMurroogh,
at whose house I am for some little
time to be found."

Hennessey left the court-house, de-
graded and dismissed, leaving with
him " his hat with the pound of bul-
lets in it." " I always knew it was
Miles Cosidy the driver put them m

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853

it by Heimessej's order,** said Andy
Monahan, ** and more be token be bint-
ed as mucb bimself yesterday after
tbe seventb glass."

Sir William Jessop went back to
tbe Black Abbey in triumph; and

never leffc it until be bad made Eva
McMarrougb bis bride, so that the
estates still run with the ^ auld stodL,**
and Sir Brian and Father John, who
is almoner-general to Sir William,
are as happy as Ipngs.

MISCELLANY,

Ths Scmrce of the ITUe.—'Mi, B. W.
Baker read a paper before tbe " Royal
Geographical Socie^/' London, giv-
inff an '* Account of the Discovery of
Imq Albert Nyanza." The author
commenced by sajring that be began in
1861 the preparation of an expedition,
in tbe hope of meeting Speke and
Grant .at the sources of we Nile. He
employed the first year in exploring
the tributaries of tbe Atbara, and after-
ward proceeded to Khartoum, to organ-
ize his party for the great White Nile.
In December, 1862, he started from
Khartoum with a powerful force, em-
barked on board tmree vessels, and in-
cluding twenty-nine animals of trans-
port, camels, horses, and asses. Pur-
suing bis course, be entered upon a
dreary waste of water and reedy banks,
where be soon lost his only European
attendant, who was killed by fever.
The remainder pf the party safely
reached Gondokoro, which is a wretch- •
ed place, occupied only occasionally by
traders seeking for slaves and ivory.
After fifteen days the firing of guns an-
nounced some new arrivals, and a party
arrived, among whom were two Eng-
lishmen, who proved to be Captains
Speke and Grant, clothed in humble
rags, but with the glory of success upon
* them. Captain Speke told him the na-
tives declared that a large lake existed
to the westward, which be beUeved
would turn out to be a second source of
the Nile, and that he himself had traced
the river up to 2** 20' N., when it di-
verged to the west, and be was obliged
to leave it. Mr. Baker undertook to
follow up the stream, land made bis ar-
rangements to join a trading party go-
inflr southward. The trade along the
White Nile really consisted of cattle-
stealing, slave-catching, and murder,
and the men whom he was obliged to

engage at Khartoum were tbe vilest
characters. He had applied through
the British consul at Alexandria to the
Egyptian government for a few troops
to escort him ; but tbe request was re-
fused, although an escort was granted
to the Dutch ladies upon the request of
the French consuL After Speke and
Grant had left him, his men mutinied
and tried to prevent his proceeding
into the interior. His forty armed men
threatened to fire upon him, and the
Turkish traders whom he intended to
accompany set off without him, and
forbade him to follow in their track.
At that time, beside his wife, be had
but one fiiithful follower. But be man-
aged to get back the arms from the re-
calcitrants, and induced seventeen of
the men to go with him to the east-
ward, although none would undertake
to go to the south. It was imperative
that he should advance, and he follow-
ed the trading party who bad threaten-
ed to attack lum, and to excite the
Ellyria tribe, through whom be must
pass, against him. However, the chief
of tne trading party was brought over,
and on the 17th of March, 1862, they
safely arrived in the Latooka country,
110 miles east of Gondokoro. That
country was one of the finest be had
ever seen, producing ample supplies of
grain and supporting large herds. The
towns are large and thickly populated,
and the inbs^itants are a warlike but
friendly race, who go naked, and whose
chief distinction is their hair, which
they train into a kind of natural helmet
The bodies of those of the tribe who are
killed in fight are not buried, but those
who die naturally are buried in firont of
the house in which they bad dwelt^
and at the expiration of a fortnight
tbe bodies are exhumed, the flesh re*
moved, and tbe bones put in earthen

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MuceUof^.

poto, wbicli are placed at the entrance
of the towns. Like all the tribes of
the White Nile, the Latookas seemed
entirely devoid of any idea of a Su-
preme Being. Indeed, the only differ-
ence between them and the beasts is
that they can cookjind light a fire.
There are forests abounding with ele-
phants, but cattle cannot live there on
account of the " tsetse^' fly. The chief
was an old man, who was held to ]>os-
sess the power of producing or restrain-
ing rain by a magic whistie ; but one
day Mr. Baker happening to whistle
upon his fingers in a loud key, the na-
tives assumed that he had a power to
control the elements, and fi^quently
called upon him to exercise it. From
Latooka he proceeded to Eamrasi's
country, across an elevated region, the
water-shed of the Sobat and White
Kile rivers. From the ridge he de-
scended into the valley of the Asua,
which river Captain Burton regarded
as the main stream of the White Nile,
but which, when Mr. Baker crossed it
in January, did not contain enough
water to cover his boots. On arriving
at Shooa, a large number of the porters
deserted him, but he pushed on for
Enora. He crossed Karuma Falls in
the same boat which had carried
Captain Speke across, but he was de-
tained for son^e days by the disinclina-
tion of the King EZamrasi to allow
strangers to pass over, and it was only
when Mr. Baker had exhibited himself
on an elevated spot in full European
costume that he received the desired
permission. It appeared that a trading
party, headed by one Debono, a Mal-
tese, who had escorted Speke and
Grant, had made a foray upon Kam-
rasi's country, and Mr. Baker was
therefore looked upon with suspi-
cion. From Earuma Falls the
Nile flows due west, a rapid
stream, bordered with fine trees. King
Kamrasi, who was a well-dressed and
cleanly person, although a great cow-
ard, was very suspicious, and sought to
prevent Mr. Baker continuing his jour-
ney by representing that the great
lake was six month^ journey — a state-
ment which Mr. Baker, himself ill, with
his wife prostrate from fever, and his
attendants refractoir, received as a
fatal blow to all his hopes. Learning,
however, from a native salt-dealer that

the lake could be reached in something
like ten days, he induced Eamrasi, by
the present of his sword, to drink blood
with his head man, and to allow them
to depart In crossing the Earan river
on the way to the lake Mrs. Baker was
struck down by a sunstroke, and re-
mained almost insensible for seven days,
during which time the rain poured
down in torrents. On the eighteenth
day after leaving Eamrasi they came
in sight of the looked-for lake, a
limitless sheet of blue water sunk
low in a vast depression of the coun-
try. He descended the steep clifis,
1,500 feet in height, leading Mrs. B&ker
by the hand, and, reaching the clean
sandy beach, drank of the sweet waters.
The western shore, sixty miles distant,
consisted of ranges of mountains 7,000
feet in height Upon achieving the ob-
ject of their journeys, Mr. Baker named
the lake Albert Nyanza. That lake,
together with that of Victoria Nyanza,
may be accepted as the ^reat reservoir
of the Nile. Embarking m canoes upon
the lake, the party proceeded for thir-
teen days to the point where the upper
river from Earuma Falls enters the lake
by a scarcely perceptible current, while
the lake itself suddenly turned west-
ward ; but its boundaries in that direc-
tion, as well as those of its southern ter-
mination, are unknown. The Nile is-
sued from the lake precisely as the na-
tives had reported to Speke and Grant,
and from it^ exit th^ river is navigable
as far as the narrows near the junction
of the Asua. The author saw altogether
from elevations three-fourths of the
course of the Nile between its issue
from the lake to Miani's Tree. Mr.
Baker's progress up the Upper or Ear-
uma river was stopped, at fifteen miles
distance, by a grand waterfall, which
had been named Murchison Falls, in
honor of the distinguished president of
the Geographical Society. Upon their
return to Eamrasi's country the travel-
lers were detained nearly twelve
months, the king being so impresa-
ed with the skiU and knowledge of
his European visitors that he could
not be persuaded to let them leare
him. Ultimately the travellers man-
aged to get free,' and, after a variety
01 difficulties with their attendants
and the traders, arrived safely at Alex-
andria.

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NEW PUBLICATIONS.

LiPB OF Saint Tbbesa. Edited by
the Archbishop of Westminster.
London : Horst & Blackett. 1865.

St. Philip J^eri, that gentle and wise
guide of souls, advised those under his
direction to read frequently the "Lives
of the Saints." Experience teaches how
very profitable this is as an incitement to
virtue. As we get a better idea of a
person, a place, or an event by an accu-
rate representation than by the most
graphic description, so the detailed
account of the workings of grace in a
faithful soul oftentimes captivates the
heart for God which firequent and fer-
vent exhortation has failed to reach.
But the amount of good which even the
most striking example will produce
upon the mind of the reader, will de^
pend very materially' upon the way in
which the incidents in the life are pre-
sented. In the work before us we have
the varied experience of one of the very
noblest^ and most courageous souls,
through a long and eventful life, related
in language which charms while it in-
spires. St. Teresa's spirit was peculiarly
one of chivalry and honor. She was a
true child of lier native Spain, that
land of romance, the mother of so large
a proportion of the more distinguished
of the canonized saints of the Church.
Avila, her birthplace, was known as the
" City of Knights." She tells us her-
seli^ how in youth and early woman-
hood she had revelled in stories of
hazardous adventure, of deeds of valor,
and acts of self-devotion, to a degree
which, on reflection in after years, she
thought had been very perilous to her
fidelity to virtue. But grace led
captive that warm and impassioned
heart, and stimulated her to do for God
what many a brave knight is said to
have done for the object of his love.
As St Paul said, " I can do all things
in him who strengtheneth me." So, the
more rough and jagged the front of the
obstacles she had to oppose, the more
Invincible she proved herself to be.
" No, my Lord I" she said on one occa-
aion, " it is no fault of thine that those
who love thee do not great things for
thee; the fault is in our own cowardice

and fears, because we never do any-
thing without mingling with it a thou-
sand apprehensions and Ihuman con-
siderations." The Holy Ghost had in-
fused into her. energetic soul a holy
restlessness, and work, ceaseless work,
hard work, alone could satisfy its crav-
ings. While the foundations of Yalentia
and Burgos were in contemplation, so
many dimculties came up, one after
another, and among them ill health and
the feebleness natural to a life now in
its decline, that it seemed impossible
that they could be effected. In speak-
ing of this particular time she says :
^* It seems to me that one of the great-
est troubles and miseries of life is the
want of noble courage to bring the
body into subjection ; for though pain
and sickness be troublesome, yet I ac-
count this as nothing when the soul can
rise above them in the might of her
love, praising God for them, and receiv-
ing them as gifts from his hand But
on the one hand to be suffering, and on
the other to be able to do nothing, is a
terrible thing, especially for a soul that
has an ardent desire to find no rest,
either interior or exterior, on earth,
but to employ herself entirely in llie
service of her great God." She was in
this unsettled state, her mind oppressed
with doubt, when she begged light of
our Lord at communion. He answered
her interiorly: "Of what art thou
afraid? When have I been wanting
to thee? I am the same now that I
have ever been. Do not neglect to
make these two foundations.^' She then
adds, " O great |^d I how different are
thy words from those of men I I be-
came so resolute and courageous that
all the world would not have bc«i
able to hinder me." Here we have the
key to her whole life. Her stimulus, as
well as strength, was personal love for
our Lord. When circumstances threw
her back for a moment upon her own
feebleness, she was powerless ; but let
her only hear an encouraging word
from him, for which she instinctively
listened, and in a moment she was
fearless and unconquerable. Spiritual
cowardice is the great obstacle which
lies between numberless well-diqposed

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soniB, nowadays, and perfection. How
Taluable, then, and how opportune,
this life of the great-hearted St. Teresa 1
We offer our thanks and gratitude
to the devout and active Archbishop of
Westminster, under whose editorship
this useful life appears. From private
authority we learn that its authoress is
a religious of a convent of Poor Clares
under the direction of the Oblate Fathers
of St Charles, in London. We are
tempted to envy this good religious
the satisfaction and pleasure she must
feel at having been instrumental in
^ving her Catholic brethren so wel-
come and powerful an aid to lead a
holy life. Although the name of the
Oblate Fathers of St. Charles does not
api>ear in connection with this work,
their very recent connection with Dr.
Manning, and their existing relation to
the convent from which this work has
issued, compels us before closing this
notice to thank them for the share
which we suspect them to have had in
its publication. This suspicion is
strengthened by the fact that from
their hands we have received that
perfect specimen of a beautful book,
" The Works of St. John of the Cross ;"
in unity of labor, as in spirit, the twin-
brother of St. Teresa.

The Life and Public Sebvicks op
Andrew Johnson, Seyenteenth

PRESroENT op the UNITED STATES,

including his State Papers and Pub-
lic Speeches. By John Savage, author
of **Our Living Presidents," etc.
Derby & Miller. 8vo, pp. 408.
The life of a man like Andrew John-
son must command the profound atten-
tion of every one who wishes to under-
stand the age and country. It is deeply
interesting to ourselves, who have raised
him from obscurity to^he highest posi-
tion in the nation, and are prepared
to give him, without reference to party
or opinion, our cordial and loyal sup-
port in his efforts to carry out the or-
ganic idea of national life.

The biography of Andrew Johnson is
a history of the epoch. He is a represen-
tative man of his class and age. It illus-
trates the power of will to conquer and
bring to its support a vast amount of
coeval will, making itself the controlling
and representative vM, Few men are
elected who are not in intrinsic as well as
extrinsic harmony with the power elect-
ing. Fraud, chicanery, and deception

have less to do with the resnlta of our
popular elections than is generally and
flippantly asserted. The great charac-
teristics of President Johnson are strong
natural ability, invincible determina-
tion, courage, ambition, loyalty to the
Union, fideuty to his own convictions,
and contempt for privilege and prescrip-
tion.

Mr. Savage has ivritten the text well
and carefully, and interwoven the co-
incident history with more than ordin-
ary correctness. There is one little point
to which we would call attention, in,
the contents of Chapter XVII. the pas-
sage occurs, " Oranger and Thomas rdiew
Barrmdey In the same chapter,
page 281, he says, " Granger and Sher-
man were sent into East Tennessee to
relieve Bumside and raise the siege of
Enozville.*' Granger and Thomas did
not relieve Bumside. The opportune
arrival of General Grant, the intelligent
and vigorous co-operation of Sherman
and Hooker on the extreme flanks, and
the almost spontaneous charge of the
center by the troops of the army of the
Cumberland up and over Missionaiy
Ridge, won the glorious victory of
Chattanooga. General Grant immedi-
ately dispatched Sherman to thts relt^
of Knoxville. Gordon Granger com-
manded a corps temporarily under
Sherman, and was not distinguished
for alacrity or zeal on that occasion.
Sherman relieved Enoxville as a part
of Grant^s ^and plan of the campaign.
The work is issued in handsome style,
and has a correct steel engraving of the
President.

The Letteks op Wolpoano AiCADsrs
Mozart (176d-1791V Translated
from the collection or Ludwig Nohl
by Lady Wallace ; with a portrait and
fac-simile. 2vols., 12mo. New York:
Hurd & Houghton. 1866.
The many thousands living who
know, and the many thousands who
are yet to know, the works of the great
Mozart, will not fail to welcome this
true picture of his artist life. It forms,
indeed, rather a continuous journal,
Very little short of an autobiography,
than a mere chance collection of letters;
extending as they do from a date when
he was but thirteen years old up to with-
in a few days of his death. One would
look in these letters, of course, for a
great deal about music, and musical
composition, operas, QoncertSi and tlie

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857

like, but hardly expect to find so much
as there is of Mozart's personal life, his
thoughts, plans, detailed descriptions of
nearly all he saw and heard, reyealing to
l^e reader, better than any biographer
could, the real character of this crowned
master of the heavenly art Possessing
an intensely viyid imagination and a
sprightly wit, his letters sparkle with
humor. He dearly loves to say odd,
pleasant things to make them laugh
at home. Here is one taken at random :

"Vienna, April 11, 1781.— Td IMum
LaudamusI at last that coarse, mean
Brunetti is ofT, who disgraces his mas-
ter, himself, and all the musicians:
so say Gecarelli and I. Not a word
of truth in any of the Vienna news,
except that Gecarelli is to sing at the
opera in Venice during the ensuing
carnival. Pate Himmel! and all sorts
of devils I I hope that is not swearing,
for if so, I must at once go to confession
again, from which I have just returned,
because to-morrow (Itfaunday Thurs-
day) the archbishop is to administer
the sacrament to the whole court in his
own gracious person. Gecarelli and I
went to the Theatine monastery to try to
find Pater Froschauer, as he can speak
Italian. A pater or a frater^ who was
at the altar trimming the lights, assured
us the Pater, as well as another who per-
fectly knows Italian, were not at home,
and would not return till four o'clock.
What did please me was, that on my
saying to the clerical candle-snuffer
that eight years ago I had played a vio-
lin concerto in this very choir, he in-
stantly named me. Now, as far as
swearing goes, this letter is only a pendr
ant to my former one, to which I hope
to receive an answer by the next post."

Mozart lived and died a pious Gath-
olic. Such might be gleaned from his
compositions, expressive as they are of
that deep religious reverence, and sense
of the sublime majesty of the holy
faith, which he possessed in so marked
a manner. He felt and fully appreci-
ated the power of inspiration which
Gatholic lire possesses to elevate the soul,
and realize in art, as in every form of
the beautiful and the true, its noblest
aspirations. "You know," he writes
to his father, "that there is nothing
I desire more than a ^ood appoint-
ment — ^good in reputation — ^good in
money — no matter where, provided it
be in a Gatholic country." The piety
of his ordinary life may be seen in the

manner in which he prepared for his
marriage. " Previous to our marriage,"
he writes, " we had for some time past
attended mass together, as well as con-
fessed and taken the holy communion :
and I found that I never prayed so fer-
vently, nor confessed so piously, as by
her side, and she felt the same."

There is throughout these letters a
certain free, off-hand way of dealing
with all sorts of subjects and persons
which evinces a strong and independent
spirit, and shows us that Mozart, though
often obliged to dawdle at the heels of
niggardly and exacting patrons, never
lost his own self-respect. He had too
keen a sense of his own merits, and of
the too frequent lack of any merit at all
in his competitors, not to be pardonably
vain. He sought praise, it is true, and
revelled in it, and loved to repeat what
had been said pf him, yet with so much
boyish simplicity as to banish from the
mind of the reader all judgment of af-
fectation. He gives an amusing account
of an interview with the composer
Becke, of whom, it must be confessed,
he was not a little jealous. " At his re-
quest I tried his piano, which is very
good. He often said 'Bravo!' I ex-
temporized, and also played the sonatas
in B and D. In short, he was very po-
lite, and I also polite, but grave. We
conversed on a variety of topics — among
others, about Vienna, and more particu-
larly that the emperor was no great
lover of music. He said, ' It is true he
had some knowledge of composition,
but of nothing else. I can still recall
(and here he rubbed his forehead) that
when I was to play before him I had no.
idea what to play, so I began with some*
fugues and trifles of that sort, which in
my own mind I only laughed at.' I
could scarcely resist saying, * I can quite
fancy your laughing, but scarcely so
loud as I must have done had I heard
you.' He further said (what is the
fact) that the music in the emperor's
private apartments is enough to finghten
the crows. I replied, that whenever I
heard such music, if I did not quickly
leave the room, it gave me a headache.
' Oh, no t it has no such effect on me ;
bad music does not affect mynerves^
but fine music never fails to give me a
headache.' I thought to myself again,
such a shallow head as yours is sure to
sufferwhen listening to what is beyond
its comprehension.''
Altogether, it is a deligbtfiil bo(^

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858

Ifi9W PubUeoHons*

It comes to UB in a neat scholarly dress,
creditable to the publishers, and as
worthy of a wide circulation among the
lovers of art as it is certain to have a
distinguished entr6e into all literary cir-
cles.

History op the UirrrED States Cat-

ALBT FBOM THE FORMATION OF THE

Federal GovEBNMEirr to the Ist
OF June, 18Qd. To which is added a
list of aU the Caralry Regiments, with
Names of their Commanders, which
have been in the United States service
since the breaking out of the Rebel-
lion. By Albert G. Brackett, Major
First U. S. Cavalry, Colonel Ninth
Illinois Volunteer Cavalry, etc., etc.
12mo., pp. 837. New York : Harper
& Brothers. 1865.
CoL Brackett has presented the his-
tory of the U. S. cavalry, brought down
to 1863, in a mpdest and soldierlike
manner. It is the first attempt at a
systematic literary record of an arm of
the service, and we hope it will be fol-
lowed by others, in order to perpetuate
traditions most interesting to the peo-
ple and honorable to the brave men
who have trodden the wilds of the for-
est and prairie, subdued the savage, and
performed gallant deeds from the Rio
Grande to the Columbia, and from the
James to the Colorado of the West.

Few persons living in towns and cities
can appreciate the intelligence, courage,
and cheerful self-sacrifice which have
been the characteristics of American
soldiers, who have borne such an im-
portant but unobtrusive part in the
conquest of the natural obstacles to the
'settlement of the continent, and been
the pioneers on the great lines of emi-
gration and improvement. The mate-
rial subjugation of the wilderness has
been no less heroic than their military
triumphs. In all these great events the
caval^ ha0 acted a most conspicuous
part

This book will be welcomed at all the
military posts, and become an authority
at every mess-table and camp-fire. Its
personal reminiscences are, perhaps, its
most pleasing and attractive feature.
They recall vividly men and scenes iden-
tified with our early life, now passed
away for ever. Col. Brackett has done
a graceful thing in including Dr. Joseph
B. Brown, U.S. A., in his dedication; a

Surer man and better officer does not
ve than Dr. Brown.

The work concludes at a period when
the volunteer cavalry was beginning to
be usefiil and efficient. The history will
not be complete till their splendid ser-
vices under Wilson at the battle of Nash-
ville are recorded. No one who saw
them moving in long gleaming lines on
the extreme right on the morning of the
15th of December, 1864, or heard the
ceaseless converging roll of the repeating
carbines of the dismounted two thou-
sand reverberating amidst the wood-
crowned hills, will ever forget the pic-
ture or the sound.

Thoughts on the Future Civil
Policy op Amebic a. By 'John Wil-
liam Draper, M.D., LL.D. Crown
8vo., pp. 317. Harper & Brothers.
Third Edition.

This is the title of a beautifiiDv
printed and bound volume, by Prof
Draper, who is well known for his
scientific attainments and elegant
scholarship.

It might be called a treatise on the
psychology and physiology of national
life, especially applied to the American
republic in its present and possible
character and destiny. ' It is written
firom a point of view directly opposed
to Catholic theolo^ and philosophy,
and asserts the dominion of the natural
in opposition to the supernatural. It
rejects the supernatural and substitutes
irresponsible force for intelligent, be-
nignant Providence. It recognizes
omy the plane of natural reason, and
denies by implication the transition from
the natural to the supernatural in the
incarnation.

Dr. Draper is the best representative
of the school of Guizot, Carlyle, and
Buckle, inasmuch as he is more calm
and dispassionate, and if he possess less
erudition than they, he has more scien-
tific knowledge and the discipline of
practical teaching to chasten and mod-,
ify his forms of thought and expression J
Dr. Draper, we do not question, desires
conscientiously to promulgate the true
doctrines of national life and develop-
ment. He announces many important
truths, and his analyses of historic
periods in the domain of the material
and intellectual are often clear, precise,
and beautiful. There is a good deal of
orientalism in his thoughte, and it seems
to us that his own imagination is pro-
foundly affected by the gorgeous pic-
tures passing before it in^e process of

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859

intellectaal cre^ion. The flame obser-
vation applies to his style and imagery,
and his writings possess the power, like
Carlyle^s, of stimulating the imagination
of the leader to the highest degree,
often to the detriment of the reason.

He chooses the close of his magnifi-
cent periods to dart a keen, condensea^
carefully studied, dogmatic assertion in-
to the mind like an arrow, while the fac-
ulties are for the moment blinded by
the splendor of diction and the pomp
of highly colored illustration*

Dr. Draper is exceedingly cautious
and guarded as to his conclusions, and
Jeaves the necessary inferences to be
drawn by the reader. His influence
has a tendency toward one of two direc-
tions, either an* oriental, sensuous, hope-
less mtellectual apathy, or a senseless,
because objectless, material activity.

Dr. Draper does not deny the exists
ence of Qod; but how he can assert it
while attempting to demonstrate the
omnipotence of natural law and force^
we do not understand. His doctrines
lead either to nihilism or pantheism.
Dr. Draper is entitled to high
respect as a philosopher of the natural
order from Catholics, for the reason
that he has always been gener-
ous in his statements of Catholicity in
its natural and exteripr aspects and
relations. His tributes to the Church
are among the most cordial, apprecia-
tive, and eloquent that have been
uttered in modern times by non-Catho-
lics. He has however done much in
the present volume to diminish this
claim, established in some of his
former writings. He is the representa-
tive in this country, at least, of
the great controversy between the
Church and the natural life of man —
between the two orders, natural and
supernatural — ^between science and au-
thority.

There can be no antagonism between
science and infallible authority ; for
truth is a unit, comes from God, and
returns to him, like light from the sun,
its type and figure. ReU^on has
nothing to fear from science. The oc-
casional apparent opposition has been
personal and temporary, not ex-cathe-
dral and eternal. There can be no con-
flict between the spoken word of God
and his actualized word, creation. The
dispute is an old one. There is no
change in the principles involved; but
the zorm Li modified by experience,

development, and scientific research.
It must be reviewed in the retrospect of
history, present knowledge, and the
prevision of science. There can be no
doubt but the illumination of the whole
rubjec twill illustrate (it cannot prove)
the truths of revelation, as practical
science illustrates the judgments of
common sense.

Dr. Diaper is an able philosopher add
doctor 01 material progress and the
natural order. His advice to the peo-
ple of this country is^sound and wise,
and it will be well for our temporal
prosperity if his suggestions are heeded
by tnose who have control of public
affairs. His work is in some sense
complementary of Dr. Brownson^s re-
cent great work,and there are some strik-
ing analogies between them.

The binding and execution of the
book are in Harpers^ best style, and
leave little to be desired in this de-
partment of luxury.

The Croppy: A Tale of the Irish Re-
bellion of 1798. By the O'Hara Fam-
ily, with Introduction by Michael
Banim, Esq., the survivor of the
O'Hara Family. 12mo., pp. 464. Bos-
ton : Patrick Donahoe.
The scene of this stonr is laid princi-
pally in the county of Wexford, Ireland,
where "the Rebellion of '98" chiefiy
raged during the spring and summer of
that memorable year. The narrative is
highly interesting, and contains about
the best account of the battles of " Vine-
gar Hill " and " New Ross," as well as
of other skirmishes and battles between
the insurgents and the English troops.
It also gives a curious insight into the
workings of the society of "United
Irishmen" and, also, of the "Orange-
men " of that period. There are many
fine passages in this story, which was
written by the present editor of the new
edition, Mr. Michael Banim.

The Catholic's Vadb Jf ecuk ; A Se-
lect Manual of Prayers for Daily
Use. Compiled from Approved
Sources. Pp. 415. Philadelphia:
Eugene Cummiskey.
This new prayer-book is published
with the approbation of the Right Rev.
Dr. Wood, Bishop of Philadelphia,
from the London edition of ^^Yade
Mecum." It is a xiaeSal compilation of
prayers, and possesses one merit highly
recommendable— 'it is just the siifie to

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860

New PMieaHanM.

cany in one's pocket without any in-
conyenience, and contains all the pray-
ers necessary for ordinary occasions.

RiCHAim COBDBK, THB APOSTLB OF

Free Trade: his Political Career

and Public Services. A Biography.

By John McGilchrist, author of " Life

of LordDundonald,'' "Men who have

Hade Themselves," etc. 12mo., pp.

205. Harper & Brothers. 1865.

This neat little volume contains a

well-written life of Richard Cobden,

and a succinct history of the Anti-Corn

Law League and agitation, the great

work of his life.

Mr. Cobden, although an islander and
an Englishman, justly merited the title
of "the international man." He was a
man of peace, because war is hostile to
trade, and breaks up the lines of traffic,
as well, no doubt, from more humane
and generous motives. He never sym-
pathized with the ignoble jealousy and
enmity toward this country so common
in England, and was throughout the
friend and defender of the Union.

His rise from obscurity to wealth,
position, and almost unbounded influ-
ence, is a remarkable event, and illus-
trates the tremendous power of trade
and commerce. He rose on the tide
which commenced with the adaptation
of machinery and application of steam,
which has wrought uie greatest revolu-
tion in the history of the world. He
knew how to take advantage of his
great opportunities, and used the ability
thus acquired to advance the interests
of humanity and general well-being.
His life is an example to our present
race of very rich men, and possibly may
suggest to them objects more noble
than mere accumulanon and personal
luxury. ^ -

BOOKS BEGBTVED.

Prom B. Appleton & Co., New York :
"Life of the Most Rev. John Hughes,
D.D., First Archbishop of New York.
With selections from his private corre-
spondence." By John R. G. Hassajxl. 1
voL 8vo.

We regret not having received this
handsome volume in time for a notice in
this plumber of The Catholic World.
Prom a hasty glance through its pages
we judge that~ Mr. Hassard has done
his work faithfully and welL The
book is gotten up in Appleton^g best

style. We shall give an extended
notice of it in our next number.

Prom G. & C. Mbbriam, Springfield,
Mass.: "An American Dictionary of
the English Language." By l^oah
Webster, LL.D. Thoroughly revised,
and greatly enlarged and improved, by
Chauncey A. Goodrich, D.D., and Koah
Porter, B.D. 1 vol. royal quarto, illus-
trated. Pp. 1,840.

From D. & J. Sadlibr '& Co., New
York. Numbers 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 13
of the " Lives of the Popes ;" Nos. 5, 6, 7,
8^ 9 of Banim's Complete Works. " Chris-
tian Missions, their Agents and their
Results." By T. W. Marshall. 2 vols.
8vo., pp. 1,200. "The Peep o» Day,
or John Doe ;" " The Croppy : a tale
of the Irish rebellion of 1798;" and
"Croohore of the Billhook," by the
O^Hara Family. A new edition, with
introduction and notes, by Michael
Banim, the survivor of the O^Hara Fam-
ily. 2 vols. 12mo., pp. 412 and 435.

From John Mubphy & Co., Baltimore,
Md. : " Manual of the Apostleship of
Prayer." By the Rev. H. Ramiere, S.J.,
Director of the Association. Translated
from the French. 82mo., pp. 168.
"The 'Catholic' Church and the
Roman Catholic Church : Li a Friendly
Correspondence between a Catholic
Priest and an Episcopal Minister.'*
Pamphlet, 16 pages.

We have received from Messrs. J.
GuKNEY & Son, 707 Broadway, New
York, an excellent photographic like-
ness of the late Rev. J. W. Cummings,
D.D.

Mr. Pbtbb F. CumnKGHAic, of Phila-
delphia, announces as in press ^'The |
Life of Blessed John Bachman," with
a fine steel portrait of the saint; I
."The Life of St Cecilia," by Gueran-
ger; and four new volumes of the
" Young Catholic^s Library."

Lawbbncb Kbhob has in press, and
will publish early in April, a small
volume of poems by Aubrey de Vere,
entitled, "May Carols, and Hymns and
Poems."

The Messrs. Badlieb & Co., New
York, have just issued the " Catholic
Almanac and Ordo for the year of our
Lord 1806." It contains the names of
the rev. clergy ; religious and literaiy
institutidns in nearly all the dioceses in
the United States and Cana^^; a list
of the hierarchy in Lrelan<li Jewell as
other yalnable infomkation. ^

7.7

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