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THE
CATHOLIC WOKLD.
Of
GENEKAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.
VOL, ni.
APRIL TO SEPTEMBER, 1866.
NEW YORK:
LAWRENCE KEHOE, PUBLISHER,
145 Nassau Strbbt.
1866.
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.Vj»
HARVARD COLLEGE UBRARy
TREAT FUND ^
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CONTENTS.
AU-IUUoir Etc ; or, The TWt of FotarHy, »T, Ml.
▲bbex, GU«tonbar7, ISO.
Animal Life, Curiosities of, 889.
Alexandria, Coriatlan Scboola of, 854, 481
Abbeville, a Day at, 600.
Asees, Dogs, Cato, etc, 088w
A Celtic Legend, 810.
Benedictines, Rise of, IfiO.
Burled Alive, 80^
Cariosities of Animal Life, 288.
Catholic Publication Socletr, The, 878.
Chiistian Schools of Alexandria, The, 8M, 484.
Cuckoo and Nightingale, The, 548.
Cardinal Tosti, 85L
Br. Spring, Remtnlsoenees of, 180.
Dreamers and Workers, 418.
De Ou6rln, Eug4nie, Letters from Paris, 474.
Eirenicon, Reply to, hy ^ery Rev. Dr. Neimmn, 48.
Pamphlets on the, 817.
£ve de la Tour d*Adaa^ 868.
Ecce Homo, 8)8.
Episcopal Church, Doctrine on Ordlnailon, 781.
Vtance, Ttro Pictures of Life in, 411.
Prancbcan MUsions on the Nile, 7«8b
Glastonbury Abbey, ISO.
Gerbet, 1* Abbe, 806.
God Bless Tou, 608.
Gipsies, The, 708.
Raren't Time, 98.
Hnrter, Frederick, 115.-
Heaven, Nearest Place to, 488.
Ireland and the Informers of 1799, 128.
Irish Folk Books of the Last Century, 079.
Jenlfer*s Prayer, 17, 188, 818.
Kilkenny, a Month in, 801.
Legend, a Celtic, 810.
Miscellany, 187, 481, 670, 868.
Madeira, Tinted Sketches in, 985.
Newman, Yery Rey. Dr., Saints of the Desert, 16, 170,
884.
Newman, Very Rer. Dr., Reply to Dr. Pasey*8 Efareni-
con, 46.
^New Tork; Religion in, 881.
Necklace, the Pearl, 60S.
Nile, Franciscan Missions on the, 768.
Nile, Solution of |he Problem of the, 88&
Old Thomeley*s Heirs, 404, 448, 599, 788.
Our Ancestors, Industrial Arts of, 548, 780.
Patriarchate of Constantinople, Present SUte of, 1.
Prayer, Jenlfer*s, 17. 188, 818.
"Problems of the Afe. 145, 989, 518, OH, 768.
Perico the Sad, 497, 660, 787.
Perreyve, Henri, 845.
Reminiscences of Dr. Spring, 189.
Religion In New Tork, 881.
Reading, Use and Abuse of, 468.
Rome the CiTUlser of Nations, 688.
Saints of the Desert, The, 16, 170, 884
Steam-Engine, Proposed Substitutes for, 89.
St Paul, Youtii of, 681.
Sealskins and Coppersklns, 557.
The Age, Problems of, 145, 889, 518, 577, XSS.
Turkestan, A Pretended Dervish in, 19S, 870.
Two Pictures of Life In France before 1848, 411.
Three Women of our Time, 884.
Tosti, Cardinal, 851.
Unconvicted, 404, 448, 699, 788.
Use and Abuse of Reading, 468.
Yirtoe, Statistics of, 781.
Weddhigs, East Indian, 685.
POETRY.
Bury the Dead, 879.
Bwued and Blessed, 806.
Christine, 88, 171, 885.
Claims. 556.
Carols from Candonero, 699.
Christian Crown, The, 786.
D«y-Dreams, 488.
Hymn, 54a
Holy Saturday, 684.
Lockharts, Legend of the, 187.
Lost for Gold, 686.
Mater Dlvinie GratiM, 811
Mayfireese,44S.
Cor Neighbor, 817.
Our Motiier«s CaU, 462.
Poor and Rich, 840.
Peace, 4ia
Requiem JEteroam, 868.
Shell. Song of the, 96.
Sapphics, 617.
Sacrilege, the Curse of, 668.
Sonnet, 860.
The King and the Bbhop, 6fi8L
Therein, 697.
The Martyr, 817.
Thy Will be Done, 7781
Words of Wladom, ISL
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iv
ConUnis,
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Archblihop Hugbet, Life of, 140.
ApoftlMhIp of Pr«yer, 488^
Agnes, 481.
Appleton*8 Annaal Gyolopiedla, 719.
Army of the Potomac, Medical RecoUectloof of, 864w
Biology, Spencer's Principles of, 425.
Blessed Vlngln, DeroUon to In North America, 67i.
Biographical Dictionary, 674
Books for Young People, 720.
Olt<*rion, Tackerman»8, 148.
Christ the Light of the World, 141
Ohristas Judex. 2S8.
Christian Examiner, 4S7.
Cliristlne,717.
Cosas de EspaAa, 858L
Dictionary, Webster's, 148.
Draper's 7ext Books of Chemistry, etc, 676.
Darras' Church History, 719.
Blrenloon, Dr. Posey's, 88a
Eag^nle de Ga^rln, Letters of, 860.
English Language, Practical Grammar of, 800.
Paber's New Book, 287.
Fronde's History of England, 718.
Grahams, The, 288,
Grant, Headley's Ufe of, 675.
Hughes, Archbishop, Life of. 14a
Holy Childhood, Report of, 6T8.
Headley's Ufe of Grant, 676.
Homes without Hands, 800.
Kennett, Story of, 481.
Keating's Ireland, 482.
Mount Hope Trial, 429.
Marshall's Missions, 480.
May Carols, De Vere's, 482.
Marcy's Army Life, 716.
New-Englander, The, 866.
Prayer, Apoetleship of, 428.
Priest and People, Good Thoughts for, 481.
Poetry of the CkyH War, 676.
Queen's English, A Plea for the, 857.
Spencer's Principles of Biology, 4*23.
Spalding's Bflscellaoea, 671.
Shakespeare on Insanity, 800.
Wyoming, Valley of, S80.
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THE
CATHOLIC WO ELD.
VOL, nL, NO. 1.— APRIL, 1866.
[OUaDfAL.]
THE PRESENT STATE OF THE PATRIARCHATE OP CON-
STANTINOPLE*
In the year 1841, the bishops of
the Protestant Episcopal dioceses of
Massachusetts, New York, New
Jersey, Connecticut, Missouri, Mary-
land, and Pennsylvania, professing to
speak in the name of their church in
the United States, addressed the fol«
lowing language to the schismatical
Patriarch of Constantinople, whom
they style ''the venerable and right
reverend father in God the Patriarch
of the Greek Churchy resident at Con-
stantinople :"
''The church in the United States
of America, therefore, looking to the
triune God for his blessings upon its
effi>rt8 for unity in the body of Christ,
turn with hope to the Patriarch of
Constantinople, the ^ritual head of
the ancient and venerMe Oriental
(^vrchr^
This is by no means the only in-
Btance of overtures of this kind, look-
ing toward a union between Protest-
ant Episcopalians and Eastern schis-
matics, vriththe view of concentrating
* «• L*Eff Use Orlentale, par JaconeB O. Pit-
slploa, Irondateor d6 la 8oci6te^ Chr^tlenne
Orientale." Borne: Imprimerle de la Propa-
gande, 185S.
t quoted In
»---•» p. 4T.
the ''Memoir of Ber. F. A.
VOL. m. 1
the opposition to the Roman See un-
der a rival Oriental primacy. The
Non-jurors, who were ejected from
their sees at the overthi*ow of the
Stuarts, proposed to the Synod of
Bethlehem to establish the primacy in
the patriarchate of Jerusalem; but
their proposal was met by a decidedly
freezing refusal The American
bishops who signed the letter from
which the foregoing extract is taken
show a remarkable desire to bow
down before some ecclesiastical power
more ancient and venerable tlian
themselves; and in their extreme
eagerness to propitiate the Eastern
prelates, they acknpwledge without
scruple the most arrogant titles usurp-
ed by the Patriarch of Constantino-
ple, (dthough from their want of famil-
iarity with the ecclesiastical language,
they do it in a very unusual and pe-
culiar style. Whatever may be at
present the particular views of those
who are seeking to bring about a
union between the Protestant Epiaco*
pd churches and the Easterns, in le-
gardtothe orderof hierarchical organi-
zation, they are evidently disposed to
pay court to the successor of Phodus
and Michael Gerularius, and to espoose
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2
The Present State of ike Patriarchate of Oonstantinoph.
warmly his quarrel against Rome.
His figure is the foremost one in the
dispute, and there is eveiy disposition
to take advantage as far as possible
of the rank which the See of Constan-
tinople has held since the fifth centu-
ry, first bj usurpation and afterward
by the concession of Rome, as second
to the Apostolic See of St. Peter.
We do not accuse all those who are
concerned in the union movement of
being animated by a spirit of enmity
against Rome. Some of them, we be-
lieve, are seeking for the healing of
the schisms of Christendom in a truly
Catholic spirit, although not fully en-
lightened concerning the necessary
means for doing so. We may cher-
ish the same hope concerning some of
the Oriental prelates and clergy also,
especially those who have manifested
a determination not to compromise a
single point of Catholic dogma for the
sake of union with Protestants. We
are quite sure, however, that the loud-
est advocates of union in the Prot-
estant ranks, and their most earnest
and hearty sympathizers in the East,
•are thoroughly heretical and schis-
matical in their spirit and intentions,
and are aiming dt the overthrow of
the Roman Church, and a revolution
in the orthodox Eastern communion,
as their dearest object. While, there*
fore, we disclaim any hostile attitude
toward men hke Dr. Pusey and other
unionists of his spirit, and would nev-
er use any language toward them
which is not kind and respectful, we
are compelled tc|brand the use which
other ecclesiastics in high position
have sought to make of this Greek
question as entirely unprmcipled.
Their cringing and bowing before the
miserable, effete form of Christianity at
€!onstantinople, dictated as it is chiefiy
by hatred against Rome, is something
unworthy of hon^t Christians and in-
telligent Englishmen and Americans.
Many very sincere and well-disposed
persons are no doubt misled by their
artful misrepresentations. On that
account it is very necessary to bring
out as clearly as possible the true
state of the case, as regards Oriental
Christendom, that it may be seen how
little support Anglicanism or any
kind of Protestantism can draw from
that quarter; and how strongly the
entire system of Catholic dogma is
sustained by the history and trsditions
of the Eastern Church.
We may possibly hereafter discuss
more at large some of these important
subjects relating to the Eastern
Church and the schism which has deso-
lated its fairest portions for so many
centuries. On this occasion we in-
tend merely to throw a little light on
the present actual condition of the
patriarchate of Constantinople, in or-
der to dissipate any illusion that may
have been created by high-sounding
words, and to show how little reason
there is to "turn with hope to the
spiritual head of the Oriental Church"
for any enlightening or sanctifying in-
fluences upon the souls which are
astray from the fold of St. Peter.
We waive, for the time, all considera-
tion of past events, anterior to the pe-
riod of Turkish domination, and all
discussion of the remote circumstances
which have brought the See of Con-
stantinople into its present state of
degradation, and of obstinate seces-
sion from the unity of the Church.
We take it as we find it, under the
Mohanunedan dominion, and will en-
deavor to show how it stands in rela-
tion to other churches of the East,
and what are ita claims on the respect
and honor of Western Christians.
The Patriarch of Constantinople is
not the Patriarch of the " Greek
Church." There is no designation of
this kind known in the East The
style there used is, the " Holy Eastern
Church." The Greek rite, or form of
celebrating mass and administering
the sacraments in the Greek lan-
guage, is only one of the rites sanction-
ed by the Catholic Church which are
in use among those Christians who are
not under the Latin rite. What is
usually called in the West the Greek
Church has several independent or-
ganizations. The Patriarch of Con-
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The Present State of Ae Patriarchate of Constantinople.
3
stantinople^ who very early snbja-
gated the patriarchs of Alexandria,
Antlocb, and Jerusalem to his domin-
ion, now rules over the same patri-
archates, which have dwindled to very
'^ insignificant dimensions, and over all
the separated orthodox Christians of
the Turkish empire. The Russian
Church, which was erected into a dis-
tinct patriarchate by Ivan III^ is un-
der the supreme jurisdiction of the
imperial governing synod. The Pa-
triarch of Constantinople is* treated
with respect and honor, and referred
to for advice and counsel, by the Rus-
sian authorities ; but he has no more
jurisdiction in Russia than the Arch-
bishop of Baltimore has in the prov-
ince of New York, The Church of
Greece not only threw off all depend-
ence on the See of Constantinople
after the revolution, but renounced
ail communication with it, for reasons
to be mentioned hereafter. The sepa-
rated Greek Christians of the Austrian
empire are governed by the Patriarch
of Carlovitz, and there is at least one
other separate jurisdiction in the
liontenegrine provinces. The Patri-
arch of Constantinople possesses, there-
fore, an actual jurisdiction over a
fraction only of the Eastern Church.
"Within the proper limits of his own pa-
triarchate this jurisdiction is absolute,
both in ecclesiastical and civil matters,
subject only to the supreme authority
of the sultan. Immediately after the
capture of Constantinople by the
Tm^s, the Sultan Mahomet IL con-
ferred upon the Patriarch Grennadius
the character of Milet-bachi, or chief
of a nati<H)ality, giving him investi-
ture by the pastoral staff and mantle
with his own hands. The reason of
his doing so was, that the Mohamme- ^
dan law recognizes only Mohamme-
dans as'members'of a Mohammedan
nationality. In more recent times,
the sultans, disgusted by the venal
and tyrannical conduct of the patriarchs,
have refused to confer this inyestiture
in person, and it is now done by the
grand vizier. Eight metropolitans,
namely, those of Chalcedon, Ephesus,
Derendah, Heracl^ Cyzicus, Nico-
media, Cassar^a, and Adrianople,
form the supreme council of the patri-
archate, and, with the patriarch, ad-
minister the ecclesiastical and civil
government of the Christians of their
communion throughout the Ottoman
empire. They have the control of
the common chest or treasury of the
Oriental rite in Turkey, and of that of
the provinces ; two great funds es-
tablished originally for helping poor
Christians topay the exactions levied on
them by the Mussulmans, but at pres-
ent diverted to quite other uses by
their faithless and rapacious guar-
dians. They are also exclusively
privileged to act as ephori or financial
agents and bankers for the other one
hundred and thirty-four bishops of the
' Turkish provinces, each one of them
having as many of these episcopal cli-
ents as he can get
Possessed of such* an amount of
ecclesiastical and civil power as the
patriarchate of Constantmople hiis been
within the Ottoman empire for several
centuries, it is plain that it might
have become the centre of an incalcu-
lable influence for the spiritual, moral,
and social good of its subjects. Every-
thing would seem to have combined
to throw into the hands of the patri-
arch and his subordinate bishops the
power of being truly the protectors
and fathers of their people, an^ to
furnish them with the most powerful
motives for being faithful to their
trust. The oppressed, despised, and
impoverished condition of their poor, ^
miserable people, slaves of a fanatical,
barbarous, anti-Christian despotism,
was enough to have awakened every
noble and disinterested emotion in
their bosoms, had they been men;
and to have aroused the most devot-
ed, self-sacrificing charity and zeal in
their hearts, had they been Christians
worthy of the name or true Chris-
tian pastors. Moreover, if they had
been true patriots, and really devoted
to the interests of Christianity and the
church, there was every inducement
to avail themselves of their position
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Pre$eiU State of ike Patriarchate of Comtantinopk.
and to watch the opportunitj of calti-
▼ating unity and harmony with the
CaUiolic Church and the powerful
Christian nations of the West, in order
to secure their eventual deliverance
from the detestable Moslem usurpa-
tion, and the restoration of religion
among them to its ancient glory. All
causes of misunderstanding and dis-
sension had been done away at the
Council of Florence. The perfect
dogmatic ajj^reement between the East
and the West had been fully estab-
lished. The Greek and other Orien-
tal rites, and the local laws and cus-
toms, had been sanctioned* The
patriarchs and hierarchy had been
confirmed in their privileges. The
Patriarch of Constantinople was eveu
tacitly permitted to retain his high-
sounding but unmeaning title of ecu-
menical patriarch without rebuke, and
allowed to exercise all the jurisdic-
tion which other patriarchs or metro-
politans were willing -to concede to
him, subject to the universal suprem-
acy of Rome. The remembrance
of the gallant warfare of the Latin
Christians against their common Mos-
lem enemy, and especially of the he-
roic devotion of the cardinal legate
and. his three hundred followers, who
had buried themselves under the walls
of Constantinople at its capture, ought
to have effaced the memory of former
wrongs* and subdued the stupid, fanat^
ical, unchristian sentiment of nation-
al antipathy a<]^inst Christians of an-
other race. Everything concurred to
invite them to play a noble and glori-
ous part toward their own Christian
countrymen and toward Christendom
in generaL We are compelled, how-
ever, to say, with shame aud pain, that
they have proved so recreant to every
one of these trusts and opportunities,
their career has been one of such un-
paralleled infamy and perfidy, as to
cover the Christian name with ignomi-
•The Crataden nndonbtedly committed some
great oatrages, in revenge far the treachery of
the Byzantines, and some Latin misBionariea
Imprudently atUcked the Oriental rites and
coBtoms, bat these acts were always dlsap-
proTed and condemned by the Popes.
ny, and to . merit for themselves the
character of apostates from Christiani-
ty — seducers, corruptors, oppressors,
and robbers of their own people*
We will first give a sketch of the
line of conduct they have pursued in
relation to ecclesiastical matters, and
afterward of their administration of
their civil authority.
It is notorious that the schismatical
bishops and clergy of Turkey neglect
almost entirely the duty of preaching
the word of God and giving good
Christian instruction to their people.
The sacraments are administered in
the most careless and perfunctory
manner, and real practical Christian
piety and morality are in a very low
state both among clergy and laity.
The clergy themselves are grossly ig-
norant and unfit for the exercise of
their office, taken from the lowest
class of the people, without instruction
or preparation for orders, and treated
by their superiors as menial servants.
The bishops and higher clergy do not
trouble themselves to remedy this
gross incapacity of their inferiors, or
to supply it by their own efibrts.
Consequently, the conmion Christian
people of their charge have fallen
into, a state of moral degradation be-
low that of the Turks themselves, by
whom they ai^ despised as the out-
casts of society. The striking con-
trast between the schismatical clergy,
monasteries, and people, and the Catho-
Lc, is proverbial among the Turks,
and an object of remark even by Prot-
estant travellers. It is probable that
there have been many exceptions to
the general rule of incompetence and
supine neglect ; but, viewing the case
as a whole, it f must be said that the
patriarchs of Constantmople and their
subordinate prelates have completely
failed to do their duty as pastors of
their people and their instructors
and guides in religion and virtue.
Their unfortunate position furnishes
no adequate excuse, as will be seen
when we examine a little further into
the enterprises they have actually
been engaged ui, and see how well
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Present Suoe of the PcOriarchate of ChmUuUinople.
5
ihej have saoceeded in aooomplbhing
what they have really desired and un-
dertaken, which is nothing else than
their own selfish aggrandizemenL
Look at the contrast between their
conduct and that of the Catholic hier-
archies of Russia, Poland, and Ire-
land nnder similar circumstances of
oppression, and every shadow of ex-
cuse will vanish. No doubt there
were many causes making it difficult
to elevate the character of the ordina-
ry deigy and the people, and tending
to keep them down to a low level of
intelligence and knowledge. This
would furnish an excuse for a great
deal, if there had been an evident
struggle of the hierarchy to do their
best in remedjring the evil. Instead
of douig this, they are the principal
causes of the perpetuation and aggra-
vation of this degraded state. Since
the decay of the Ottoman power com-
menced, the clergy have had it in
their power to bid defiance in great
measure to the Turkish government
They have been able to control im-
mense sums of money and to wield a
great commercial and financial influ-
ence. They might have employed
the intervention of Christian powers,
aud espedaily of Russia, if they had
been governed by enlightened and
Christian motives, in order to gain
just rights and the means of improve-
ment for their people. The Ottoman
government, itself, has come to a
more just and liberal policy, in which
it would have welcomed the aid of the '
Christian hierarchy, had there been
one worthy of the name. Their com-
plete apathy at all times to every-
thing which concerns the spiritual and
moral welfare of their subjects will
warrant no other conclusion than
that they have practically apostatized
from the faith and church of Christ,
and are mere intruders into the fold
which they lay waste and ravage.
In their attitude toward the Catho-
lic Church and the Holy See, the
hierarchy of the patriaichate are ig-
norantly, violently, and obstinately
schlsmatical, and even heretical The
public and official teaching of the
Eastern Church is orthodox, and there-
fore no one is adjudged to be a here-
tic simply because he adheres to that
communion. One who intelligently
and obstinately adheres to a schism as
a state of permanent separation from
the See of St. Peter, is, however,
at least a constructive heretic, and is
very likely to be a formal heretic, on
several doctrines which have been
defined by the Catholic Church. The
nature of the opposition of the clergy
of Constantinople to the Roman
Church, the grounds on which they
defend their contumacious rebellion,
and the dogmatic arguments which
they employ in the controversy, are
such as to place them in the position
of the most unreasonable and contu-
macious schismatics, and as it appears
to our judgment, in submission to that
of more learned theologians, of here-
tics also. So far as their influence
extends, and it is very great, they are
chiefly accountable for the isolated
condition of the entire non-united
Eastern Church. As the ambition
of the Patriarch of Constantinople
was the original cause of the schism,
so now the ignorant and violent
obstinacy of the clergy of the patri-
archate, and their supreme devotion
to their own selfish and narrow per-
sonal and party interests, is, in con-
nection with a similar though less
odious spirit in the chief Muscovite
clergy, and the worldly policy of the
Russian czar, the chief cause of its
perpetuation.
The clergy of Constantinople have
not hesitated to resort to forgery in
order to do away with the legal and
binding force of the act of their own
predecessors in subscribing and pro-
mulgating throughout their entire
jurisdiction the act of union establish-
ed at the Council of Florence. Gen-
nadius, the first patriarch elected
ailer the Turkish conquest, was one of
the prelates who signed the decree
of the Council of Florence, a learned •
and virtuous man, and is believed to
have lived and died in the commun-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
6
The Present State of the Patriarchate of Oonetantinoph.
ion of the H0I7 See. Actual commu-
nication between Constantinople and
Borne was, howeyer, rendered abso-
lutely impossible by the deadly hos-
tility of ike conquerors to their prin-
cipal and most dangerous foe. The
slightest attempt at any intercourse
with the Latin Christians would have
caused the extermination of all the
Christian subjects of the Ottoman
empire. It is difficult to discorer,
therefore, when and how it was that
the supremacy of the Roman Church,
whose actual exercise was thus at first
impeded by the necessity of the
case, was again formally repudiated
by the patriarchs. There is a letter
extant, written in the year 1584 by
the Patriarch Jeremiah to Pope
Gregory XUL, in which he says
that '^ it belonged to him, as the head
of the Catholic Church, to indicate the
measures to be employed against the
Protestants," and requests him in vir-
tue of this office to point out what meas-
ures can be taken to arrest the ad-
vance of Protestantism. This is the
last official act of the kmd of which
there is any record. The patriarchs
and their associates have relapsed
into an attitude toward the Holy See
which is equally schismatical and
arrogant, though through their de-
graded condition far more ridiculous
than that which was assumed by
their predecessors before the Council
of Florence. In order to nullify, as
far as possible, tlie legal force of the
act of union promulgated by that coun-
cil, they have resorted to a forgery, and
have published the acts of a pretend-
ed council under a patriarch who
never existed and whom they call
Athanasius. There is no precise
date attached to these forged acts, but
they are so arranged as to appear to
have been promulgated soon after the
return of the emperor and prelates
from Italy, and before the Turkish
conquest ; and in them, some of the
principal prelates whtf signed the
decrees of the Council of Florence are
represented as abjuring and beggmg
paurdon for what they had done.
They are said to have been moved
to ^18 by the indignation of their
people and a sedition in Constantino-
ple in which the rejection of the act
of union was demanded. The for-
gery is too transparent to be worthy
of refutation, and could never have
been executed and palmed off as gen-
uine in any other place than in Con-
stantinople. They have also put
out a book called the ^ Pedalium," in
which they revive all the frivolous
pretexts on account of which the
infamous Michael Cerularius and his
ignorant ecclesiastical clique of the
Bas Empire pretended to prove the
apostacy of the Bishop of Rome and
all Western Christendom from the
faith and communion of the Catholic
Church, and the consequent succes-
sion of the Bishop of Constantinople
to the universal primacy. The clergy
of the patriarchate have taken the
position that the Catholic Church at
present is confined to the limits of
what we call the Greek Church. They
claim for themselves, therefore, that
place which they acknowledge for-
merly belonged to the See of Rome,
and thus seek to justify and carry out
the usurpation of supreme and uni-
versal authority indicated by the
title of ecumenical patriarch. The
absurdity of this is evident, from the
very grounds on which the title was
originally assumed, and the traditional
maxims which directed the policy of
the ambitions Byzantine prelates
throughout the entire period of the
Greek empire. The original and only
claim of the bishops of Constantino-
ple, who were merely suffragans of
the Metropolitan of Heraclkt before
their city was made the capital of the
empire, to the patriarchal dignity,
was the political importance of the
city. Because Constantinople was
new Rome, therefore the Bishop of
Constantinople ought to be second to
the Bishop of ancient Rome ; and not
only this, but he ought to rule over
the whole East with a supremacy
like that which the Bishop of Rome
had always exercised over the whole
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Present State of the Patriarchate of Constantinople.
t«or1d. This &lse and schismatical
principle is contrary to the fundamen-
tal principle of Catholic church
organization, viz., that the subordi-
nation of episcopal sees springs from
the divine institution of the primacy
in the See of St. Pet^r, and is regu-
lated by ecclesiastical canons on spiritu-
al grounds, which are superior to all
considerations of a temporal nature.
The Patriarch of Constantinople has
long ago lost all claim to precedence
or authority based on the civil dignity
of the city as the seat of an empire.
According to the principles of his
predecessors, the primacy ought to
have been transferred to the Patri-
arch of Moscow, when the Russian
patriarchate was established by
Ivan ILL Nevertheless, he still con-
tinues to style himself ecumenical
patriarch, and the eight metropolitans
who form his permanent synod. con-
tinue to keep the precedence over all
other bishops of the patriarchate,
although their sees have dwindled in-
to insignificance, and other episcopal
towns far exceed them in civil import-
ance. In point of fact, the baseless-
ness of his claim to universal juris-
diction has been recognized by the
Eastern Church. His real authority
is confined to the Turkish empire,
where it is sustained by the civil pow-
er. Russia has long been indepen-
dent of him. The Church of Greece
has comflfttely severed her connection
with him. The schismatical Greeks
of the Austrian empire, and those of
the neighboring provinces, are several-
ly independent. The false principle
that produced the Eastern schism in
the first place thus continues to work
oat its legitimate effect of disintegra-
tion in the Eastern communion itself^
by separating the national chui*ches
from the principal church of Constan-
tinople, which would itself crumble to
pieces if the support of the Ottoman
power were removed. The privileges
of the See of Constantinople have
now no valid claim to respect, except
that derived from ecclesiastical can-
ODS ratified by time^ general consent,
anc^ the sanction of the Roman
Church. The instinct of self-preser-
vation ought to compel its rulers to
fall back on Catholic principles, and
submit themselves to the legitimate
authority of the Roman Pontiff as the
head of the Catholic Church through-
out the world. They are following,
however, the contrary impulse of self-
destruction, to which they are aban-
doned by a just God as a punishment
for their treason to Jesus Christ and
his Vicar, and in every way seeking
to strengthen and extend the barrier
which separates them from the Roman
Church.
This policy has led them to do all
in their power to establish a dogmatic
difference between the Oriental Church
and the Church of Rome. Not only
do they represent the difference in re-
gard to the procession of the Holy
Spirit from the Son, as expressed by
the « Filioque " of the Creed, which
was fully proved at the Council of
Florence to be a mere verbal differ-
ence, as a difference in regard to an
essential dogma, but they have brought
in others to swell their list of Latin her-
esies. The principal dogmatic differ-
ences on which they insist are three :
the doctrine of purgatory, the quality
of the bread used in the holy eucharist,
and the mode of administering bap-
tism. Only the most deplorable igno-
rance and factiousness could base a
pretence of dogmatic difference on such
a foundation. In regard to purgatory,
the Roman Church has defined or re-
quired nothing beyond that which is
taught by the doctrinal standards of
the Eastern Church. The difference in
regard to the use of leavened or un-
leavened bread, and the mode of bap-
tism, is a mere difference of rite. In
regard to the last-mentioned rite, how-
ever, the clergy of Constantinople have
even sui'passed their usual amount of
ignorance and effrontery. They pre-
tend that no baptism except that by trine-
immersion is valid, and consequently
that the vast majority of Western
Christians are unbaptized. This posi-
tion of theirs, which will no doubt be*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
8
The Present Staie of ike Patriarchate of OonstanHmph.
very satisfactory to our Baptist breth-
ren, makes sweeping work, not only
with the Latin Church, but with Prot-
estant Christendom. Where there is no
baptism, there is no ordination, no sac-
rament whatever, no church. WhatwUl
our Anglican friends say to this ? The
clergy of Constantinople rebaptize un-
conditionally every one who applies
to be received into their communion,
whether he be Catholic or Protestant,
clei^gyman or layman. It would be
folly to argue against this sacrilegious
absurdity on Catholic grounds. It is
enough to show their inconsistency
with themselves, by mentioninfi^ the
fact that the Russian Church allows
the validity of baptism by aspersion,
and that even their own book of can-
ons permits it in case of necessity.
But why look for any manifestation of
the learning, wisdom, or Christian
principle which ought to characterize
prelates from men who have bought
their places for gold, and who sell every
episcopal see to the highest bidder?
The simony and bribery which have
been openly and unblushingly prac-
tised by the ruling clerical faction of
the Turkish empire since the time
when the monk Simeon bought the
patriarchal dignity from the sultan,
make this page of ecclesiastical history
one of the blackest and most infamous
in character. As we might expect
under such a system, virtuous and
worthy men are put aside, and the epis-
copate and priesthood filled up from the
creatures and servile followers of the
rulmg clique. Such men naturally
disgrace their holy character by their
immoral lives, and bring opprobrium
on the Christian name. The history
of the patriarchate of Constantinople,
therefore, since the period of Genna-
dius and the first few successors who
followed his worthy example, has been
stained with blood and crime, and
darkened by scenes of tragic infamy
and horror. We will relate one of
the most recent of these, as a sufficient
proof and illustration of the heavy in-
dictment we have made against the
patriarchal clergy.
At the time of the Greek revolutic^,
the patriarch and principal clergy of
Constantinople received orders from
the sultan to use their power in sup-
pressing all co-operation on the part
of the Christians in Turkey with their
brethren in Greece, and to denounce to
the Ottoman government all who were
suspected of conniving at the insurrec-
tion. Their political position no doubt
required of them to remain passive in
the matter, to refrain from positively
aiding the revolutionists, and also to
suppress all overt acts of the Christians
under their jurisdiction against the
government. Nevertheless, as a peo-
ple unjustly enslaved by a barbarous,
anti-Christian despotism, they owed
nothing more to their masters than
this exterior obedience to the letter of
the law. They could not be expected
to enter with a hearty and zealous
sympathy into the measures of the
government for suppressing the rev-
olution; and, indeed, every genuine
and noble sentiment of Christianity
and patriotism forbade their doing so,
and exacted of them a deep, interior
sympathy with their cruelly oppressed
brethren who were so nobly struggling
to free their country from the hated
yoke of the Moslem conqueror. The
really high-minded Greeks of the em-
pire did thus sympathize witli their
brethren. The ruling clergy, how-
ever, manifested a zeal for the inter-
ests of the Ottoman coui#so otttrS
and so scandalous that it not only
outraged the feelings of their own sub-
jects, but, as we shall see, aroused the
suspicions of the tyrants before whom
they so basely cringed, and brought
destruction on their own heads. The^
accused a great number of Christians
of complicity in the insurrection, seiz-
ing the opportunity of denouncing
every one who had incurred their ha-
tred for any reason whatever, so that
the prisons were soon crowded with
their unfortunate victims, all of whom
sufiered the penalty of death. The
patriarch pronounced a sentence of
msyor excommunication against Prince
Ypsilantiy and all the Greeks who
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Preient SuOe of Ae Patriarchate of OanstanHnapk.
9
took part m the revolt. A few dajs
afterward) on the first Sanday of Lent^
during the solemnities of the pontifical
mass, the patriarch, his eight chief
metropolitans, and fifteen other bish-
ops, pronounced the same sentence of
excommunication, together with the
sentence of deposition and degradation,
against seven bishops of Greece, parti-
Bans of Prince Tpsilanti, and all their
adherents, signing the decree on the
altar of the cathedral church. Such
a storm of indignation was raised by
tiiis nefarious act, that the prelates
were obliged to pacify their people bj
pretending that they had acted under
the compulsion of the government. A
few days after, the patriarch and the
majority of the bishops who had signed
the decree were condemned to death
and executed, on the charge of partici-
pating in the revolution. Even after
the great powers of Europe had ac^
knowledged the independence of
Greece, the ruling clergy of Constan-
tinople endeavored to curry favor at
court by sending a commission, under
the presidency of the metropolitan of
ChalcMon, to recommend to the Greeks
a return to the Turkish dominion!
It is needless to say that this invita-
tion was declined, although we cannot
but admire the self-control of the Greek
princes and prelates when we are told
that it was declined, and the ambassa-
dors dismissed, in the most polite man^
ncr.
One more intrigue, the last one
they have been left the opportunity of
trying, closes the history of their re-
lations with the Church of Greece.
The clergy and people of the new
kingdom were equally determined to
throw off completely and for ever the
ecclesiastical tyranny of Constantino-
ple. At the sarnie time they were dis-
posed to act with diplomatic formality
and ecclesiastical courtesy, as well as
in conformity with the laws and prin-
ciple of the orthodox church of the
East The second article of the consti-
tutional chart of the kingdom defines
m a precise and dignified manner the
position of the national church. ^ The
orthodox Church of Greece, acknowl-
edgmg our Lord Jesus Christ as its
head, is perpetually united in dogma
with the great Church of Constantino-
ple and every other church holding the
same dogmas, preserving, as they do,
immutably the holy canons of the
apostles and councils, and the sacred
traditions. Nevertheless, it is auto-
cephalous, exercising independently of
every other church its rights of juris-
diction, and is administered by a sacred
college of bishops." This article was
established in 1844. In 1850, the cler-
gy obtained from the government the
appointment of a commission, compos-
ed of one clei^yman, the archimandrite
Michael Apostolides, professor of
theology in the University of Athens,
and one layman, Peter Deligianni,
chargi d^affairee at Constantinople,
to establish concordats with the patri-
archate and the governing synod of
Russia, on the basis of the above cited
article of the Greek constitution. In
lieu of this proposed concordat, the
Greek commissioners were duped by
the patriarchal synod into signing
a synodal act, in which the Patriarch
of Constantinople, qualifying his see
as the vine of which other churches
are the branches, and styling himself
and his associates "^Aypavdoi Tlowevec
Kot iucpi^uc ^vXoKeg rOv kovovuv ttjc 'E^-
KXrfaia^ — ^^ Watchfiil shepherds and
scrupulous guardians of the canons of
the chureh^-^retends by his own
authority to grant independent juris-
diction to the Church of Greece as a
privilege. At the same time he desig-
nates the Archbishop of Athens as
the perpetual president of the synod,
ordains that the holy chrism shall
always be brought from Constantinople,
and imposes other obUgatious intended
to serve as signs of dependence on
the Patriarchal Church. The Greek
parliament, however, annulled this
concordat, and the synod of Greek
bishops at Athens determined that
henceforth there should be no relation
between the Church of Greece and
that of Constantinople, subsequently
even forbidding priests ordained out of
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
10
The Present State of the Patriarehate of OonsUmtinopU.
the kingdom to officiate in the priest-
hood. Although the Greek clergy had
shown themselves so forbearing and
patient, it seems that the arrogance and
perfidy of the clergj of Constantinople
had at last roused their just indigna-
tion. The learned archimandrite Phar-
macides published a book against the
Bjuodal act and the policy of the Con-
Btantinopolitan clergy, entitled '^Antito-
mo3 ; or, Concerning the Truth," in
which he ridicules the pompous preten-
sions which they make to pastoral vig-
ilance and fidelity in these words :
" Since you obtained the sacerdotal
dignity by purchase, if you had really
the intention in becoming bishops to
watch aiid to fatigue yourselves by
guarding the Church, no one of you
would be a bishop ; for you would not
have spent your money in buying vigils
and labors."
Such being the nature of the solici-
tude of these watchful pastora and
scrupulous guardians of the canons for
the welfare of those over whom they
claim a patriarchal authority, wo need
not be surprised at any amount of
reckless contempt which they may
show for the general interests of Chris-
tendom, and the admonitions they
from time to time receive from the
veritable pastor of the flock of Christ.
Nevertheless, we cannot but wonder
that the respectable portion of the
Oriental episcopate should permit
themselves to be compromised by an
act which seems to cap the climax of
even Byzantine stupidity and effront-
ery. We refer to the reply to the
noble and paternal encyclical of Pius
IX. to the Oriental bishops, put forth
by Anthimus, the late patriarch. An-
thimus himself was notorious through-
out the city for his habits of drunken-
ness, which were- so gross as to inca-
pacitate him from all business and ex-
pose him to the most ignominious in-
sults even from his own subordinates..
The letter which he and several of his
bishops subscribed and sent to the
Holy Father was written by the monk
Constantino CBconomus, and, in answer
to the earnest and affectionate appeals
of the Holy Father to return to the
unity of the Catholic Church, makes
the following astounding statement :
^*The three other patriarchs, in
difficult questions, demand the frater-
nal counsels of the one of Constantino-
ple, because that city is the imperial
residence, and this patriarch has the
synodal primacy. If the question can
be settled by his fraternal co-operation,
very well. But if not, the matter is
referrediothegovernment{i^.,OiU)m»xi)^
according to the established laws."*
We think that the reason of the
grave charge of schism, heresy, and
apostacy from the fundamental, con-
stitutive principles of the Catholic
Church, which we have made against
the higher clergy of Constantinople,
will now be apparent to every candid
reader. The history of their action in
relation to the Church of Greece proves
that their principles and policy tend to
disintegmte within itself still more that
portion of Christendom which they have
alienated from the communion of Rome
and the West, and thus to increase the
force of the movement of decentraliza-
tion, and to augment the number of sep-
arate, local, mutually independent, and
hostile communions. That the natural
tendency of this principle is to produce
dogmatic dissensions, and to efface the
idea of Catholic unity, is too evident
from past history to need proof. It is
only neutralized in the East by the
stagnation of thought, and the conse-
quent immobility of the Oriental
mind from its old, long established
traditions. The essentially schismat-
ical virus of the principle is in the
subordination of organic, hierarchical
unity to the temporal power and the civil
constitutibn of states, or the church-and-
state principle in its most odious form,
which was never more grossly ex-
pressed than in the letter above cited of
Anthimus. This principle not only tends
to increase disintegration in the church,
but to bar the way to a reintegmtion
in unity, and to destroy all desire* of a
return to unity, as is also amply proved
by the acts of the clergy of Constanti-
nople. A schisnuktical principle held
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ths Present State of the Painarchaie of ContUmtinopU.
11
and acted on id sach a way as to make
schigm a perpetual conditioD, and thus
not merely to interrupt communion for
a time but to destroy the idea of Cath-
olic unity, becomes hereticaL More-
orer, when doctrinal forms of express-
ing dogmas of faith, or particular forms
of administering the rites of religion,
are without authority set forth as es-
aeotial conditions of orthodoxy, and
made the basis of a judgment ofheresy
against other churches, those who
make this false dogmatic standard are
guilty of heresy. This is the case
with the clergy of Constantinople, who
make the difference respecting the use
of " Filioque " in the Creed the pre-
text for accusing the Latin Church of
heresy, and who deal similarly with
the doctrine of purgatory, and the ques-
tions respecting unleavened bread in the
eucharist and immersion ii| baptism.
They have constantly persisted in their
eflto to establish an essential dog-
matic difference between the Latin
and Greek Churches and to make the
peculiarities of the Greek rite essen-
tial terms of Catholic communion, in
Older to widen and perpetuate the
breach between the East and West, and
to maintain their own usurped princi-
pality. They have been the authors
of the schism, its obstinate promoters,
the principal cause of thrusting it upon
the other parts of the Eastern Church,
and the chief instrument of thwarting
the charitable efforts of the Holy See
for the spiritual good of the Oriental
Christians. They hare done it in spite
of the best and most ample opportuni-
ties of knowing the utter falsehood
of all the grounds on which their schism
is based, in the face of the example
and the writings of the best and most
learned of their own predecessors, and
with a recklessness of consequences,
and a disregard of the interests of their
own people and of religion itself, which
merits for them the name not only of
heretics, but of apostates from all but
the name and outward profession of
Christianity.
This last portion of the case agamst
them we must now prosecute a Htde
further, by showing what has been
their conduct in the exercise of their
temporal power over their fellow-Chris^
tians in Turkey.
The reasons and extent of the civil
authority conferred upon the Patriarch
Gennadius by Mahomet II. have al-
ready been exposed. It is obvious that
although this authority would have en-
abled the governing clergy to succor
and console their unhappy people in
then: condition of miserable slavery, if
they had been possessed of truly apos-
tolic virtue, it opened the way to the
most frighUul tyranny and oppression,
by presenting to the worst and most
ambitious men a strong motive to as-
pire to the highest offices in the church.
No form of government can be woi-se
than that of privileged slaves of a des-
pot over their fellow-slaves. Accord-
ingly, but a short time elapsed before
the unhappy Christians of Turkey be-
gan to suffer from the effects of this
terrible system. Simoniacal bishops
who bought their own dignity by brib-
ing the sultans and their favorites, and
sold all the inferior offices in their gift
to the highest bidder ; who were care-
less and faithless in the discharge of
their spiritual duties; and who had
apostatized from the communion of
the Catholic Church, would, of course,
exercise their civil functions in the
same spirit and according to the same
policy. They associated themselves in-
timately with the Janissaries, on whom
they relied for the maintenance of their
power ; gave their system of policy the
name of the ** System of Cara-C5awa»/'
that is, ^ Ecclesiastical Janissary Sys-
tem ;" enrolled themselves as members
of the OrtoM or Janissary companies,
and bore their distinguishing marks
tattooed on their arms. This redoubt-
able body found its most powerful ally
in the clergy up to the time of its de-
struction by Mahmoud II. The au-
thor of the work whose title is placed
at the head of this article, James G.
Pitzipios, is a native Christian sub-
ject of the Sultan of Turkey, and was
the secretary of an imperial commis-
sion appointed to examine into the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
12
The Pmeni SuOe of the Patriarehaie of OongUmtinopk.
dvil and financial administration of the
Cbrifitian communities, as well as to
hear their complaints against their
rulers. His position and circumstan-
cesy therefore, have enabled him to in-
vestigate the matter thoroughly. His
estimate of the civil administration of
the clergy of the patriarchate from the
time of Mahomet H. to that of Mah-
moud n« — ^that is, from the Turkish con-
quest to the projected reformation in
the Ottoman government — ^is expressed
in these words :
" We have seen why it was that the
Sultan Mahomet U. delegated the en-
tire temporal power over his Christian
subjects to the Patriarch Gknnadius
and his successors ; gave to the relig-
ious head of the Christians of his em-
pire the title of MUet-bachiy and ren-
dered him the absolute master of the
lot of all his co-religionists, as well as
responsible for their conduct and for
their fulfilment of all duties and obli-
gations toward the government Such
an arrangement was calculated to pro-
duce in its conmiencement some alle-
viations and even some advantages to
these unfortunate Christians, as in
point of fact it actually happened.
But it was sure to degenerate sooner
or later into a frightfiil tyranny, such
as is naturally that of privileged slaves
placed over those of their own race.
Accordingly, as we have stated in sev-
eral places already, the clergy of Con-
stantinople made use of all the means
of oppression, of vexation, and of pil-
lage of which the cunning, the de-
praved conscience, and the rapacity of
slaves in authority are capable. The
clergy of Constantinople having be-
come in this way the absolute arbiters
)of the goods, the conscience, the social
rights, and indirectly even of the lives
of all their Eastern co-religionists, con-
tinued to abuse this temporal power
not only during the period of the old
regime, but even after the destruction
of the Janissaries, and, again, after the
reform in Turkey, and up to the pres-
ent moment'* ♦ (1855).
• "L'BgliM Orlentale," p. 1y., pp. 17. 18.
The allusion to the refonn in the
lost clause of this extract requires a
fuller explanation, and this explanation
will furnish the most conchisive evi-
dence of the degradation of the patriarchs
ate, by showing that not only have its
clergy submitted to be the tools of the
Ottoman government when it was dis-
posed to oppress the Christians in the
worst manner, but that they have even
resisted and thwarted the efibrts. of
that government itself, when it was
disposed to emancipate the Christians
from a part of their bondage.
The Sultan Mahmoud U., a man of
superior genius and enlightened views,
devoted all the energies of his great
mind to the effort of restoring his em-
pire, rapidly verging toward dissolu-
tion, to prosperity and splendor. He
devised for this end a gigantic scheme
of political reformation, one part of
which was the abolition of all civil dis-
tinction between his subjects of differ-
ent religions. He was unable to do
more, during his lifetime, than barely
to commence the execution of his
grand project. His son and successor,
Abdul-Me^Jid, continued to prosecute
the same work, and, at the beginning
of his reign, published a decree called
the J^nzimaty enjoining certain refor-
mations in the manner of administer-
ing law and justice in the provinces.
The Christian inhabitants of Turkey
were the ones who ought to have
profited most by this decree. On the
contrary, the very privileges which it
accorded them, by withdrawing them
in great measure from the authority
of &e local Mussulman tribunals, de-
prived them of their only resource
against the oppressions and exactions
of their own clergy, and rendered their
condition worse. The bishops succeed-
ed in getting a more exclusive control
than ever over all cases of jurisdiction
relating to Christians, and made use of
their power to fleece their people more
unmercifully than they had ever done
before. Encouraged by the publica-
tion of die Tinzimat, these unhappy
Christian communities ventured to send
remonstrances to the Ottoman govem-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Present State of the Patriarchate of Conttantinople.
13
ment agiunst their crael and mercen*
aiy pastors. In consequence of these
remonstrances, the Porte addressed the
following official note, dated Feb, 4,
1850y to the Patriarch of Constantino-
ple:
*^ Since, according to the Christian re-
ligion, the bishops are the ffestors of
the people, they ought to guide them
in the right way^ protect them, and
console them, but never oppress them.
As, however, many metropolitans and
bishops oonmiit actions in the provin-
ces which even the most despicable of
men would not dare to perpetrate^ the
Christian populations, crushed under
this oppression, address themselves
continually to the government, suppli-
cating it to grant them its assistance
and protection. Consequently, as the
government cannot refuse to take into
consideration these just complaints of
its own subjects, it wills absolutely that
these disorders cease. It invites, there-
fore, the patriarch to convoke an as-
sembly of bishops and of the principal
laymen of his religion, and, in concert
with them, to consider fraternally of
the means of doing away with these
oppressions and the just complaints
in regard to them, by regulating their
ecclesiastical and communal adminis-
tration in conformity with the precepts
of their own religion and with the in-
structionB of the Tinzimat*" *
A very edifying sermon tiiis, from
a Mohammedan minister of state to the
^spiritual head of the ancient and
venerable Oriental Church I" Like
many other sermons, however, it did not
produce a result corresponding to its ex-
cellence. The good advice it contained
was followed up by levying a new tax.
The patriarch sent immediately to all
the bishops a circular in which he pre-
scribed to them ^ to admonish the peo-
ple, that since the government had im-
posed upon the church the obligation
of conforming to the demands of cer*
tain dioceses, and applying everywhere
the system of giving fixe^ salaries to
the bishops, the most holy patriarch
is obliged to conform himself to the or-
ders of the government and to put them
in execution as soon as possible. But
since both the general commune of
Constantinople and the particular ones
of the several dioceses are burdened with
debts which amount to about 7,000,000
of piastres, it is just that the people
should previously pay off these debts ; .
the bishops are, therefore, ordered to '
proceed immediately to an exact enu-
meration of all the Christian inhabit-
ants of the cities, towns, and villages,
without excepting either widows or
unmarried persons. In this way the
patriarchate, taking the census as its
guide, can assign to each Christian the
sum which he is bound to pay for the
pre-extinction of the communal debts,
and afterward apply the system of
fixed episcopal revenues.^' *
The poor people, terrified by this
enormous tax, and by the persecution
which overtook the prime movers in
the remonstrance, as the secretary of
the commission on the Tinzimat informs
us, " swallowed painfully their griev-
ances and no longer dared to continue
their just reclamations to the govern-
ment" The Ottoman government, in-
timidated by the threats of the ecclesi-
astical Janissaries of the Cara-Cusan,
" was obliged to yield to the force of
circumstances, as they were used to do
in the time of their terrible conJrireSf
and abandoned the question complete-
ly"
The Greek revolution has also in
one way aggravated the lot of the
Christians of Turkey, by causing the
compulsory or voluntary removal from
the capital of the principal merchants
and other Christians of superior sta-
tion and influence, who formed the
greatest check upon the unworthy
clerical rulers. Under the name of
<< primates of the nation,** they had a
share in the management of ecclesias-
tical finances and other temporal af-
fairs, and as their compatriot, Mr.
Pitzipios, affirms, ^ these good citi-
zens, inspired by their charitable senti-
• Ibid., p. 111., p. 141
•Ibid., pp. 144, i4S.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
14
The Present State of the Patriarchate of Oorutantinople.
ments, and encouraged by the infla-
ence which they had with the Ottoman
government, repressed greatly the
abuses of the clergy, and moderated,
as far as they were able, the vexations
of the people."* The men of this class
who remained in Constantinople were
removed by the government, as for-
eigners, from all share in the adminis*
tration of Christian' affairs, and their
places filled with the creatures of the
patriarchal clique, men of the lowest
rank and character, who were ready
tools for every nefarious work.
As a natural consequence of the
faithless abuse of the sacred religious
and civil trust committed to the higher
clergy, they and their inferior clergy
are detested and despised by their peo-
ple, who are held in subjection to them
only by physical coercion. Mr. Pit-
zipios assures us that there is among
them a very strong predisposition to
Protestantism. A form of deism, in-
troduced byTheophilus Cairy, a Greek
pi*iest, who died in prison in the year
1851, made great progress before it
was suppressed by the civil power, and
is now secretly working with great ac-
tivity in Greece and Turkey.
We cannot but think that the last
and most degraded phase of the By-
zantine Bos Empire, impersonated in
the schismatical patriarchate of Con-
stantinople, is destined soon to pass
away. We hope and expect soon to
see the end of the Ottoman power,
which alone sustains this odious ecclesi-
astico-political tyranny. The signs of
the political horizon appear to indicate
that Russia is destined to gain posses-
sion of the ancient seat of the Greek
empire. However this may be, if the
Church of Constantinople, and the oth-
er far more ancient churches within
her sphere of jurisdiction, are ever to
be restored to a heahhy Christian vi-
tality, and made to reflourishasofold,
it must be by a thorough ecclesiastical
reformation, which shall sweep away
the present dominant clique in the
clergy and the whole policy which
they have established.
• Ibid., p. 147.
The beginning of tliis reformation
has already been inaufj^rated in the
kingdom of Greece. The bishops of
that kingdom, in recovering freedom
from thQ odious yoke of Constantino-
ple, have, recovered the character of
Christian prelates and pastors. The
severe remarks which we have made
respecting the Oriental hierarchy
must be understood as applicable only
to that particular clique who have
heretofore made themselves dominant
through intrigue and violence. There
no doubt have been, and are, among
the higher clergy of the Turkish
empire, some e^eptions to the gener-
al rule of incompetence and moral
unworthiness. The Greek bishops
themselves who were established in
their sees under the old regime, man-
ifested by their open or tacit concur-
rence in the revolution that virtue
had not completely died out under
the pressure of a long slaveiy. Since
the establishment of Grecian inde-
pendence, the measures they have
taken, in concert with the other mem-
bers of the higher secular and monas-
tic clergy and the government, for
the amelioration of religion, are such
as to reflect honor on themselves, and
to give great promise for the future*
They live in a simple and frugal man-
ner, and some of them, instead of
leaving millions of piastres to their
relatives, like their Turkish brethren,
have not left behind them enough
money to defray their own funeral
expenses. They endeavor to select
the best subjects for ordination to the
priesthood and to give them a good
theological and religious training.
Professorships of theological science
are established in the University of
Athens. The catechism is carefully
taught to the young people and chil-
dren, and every year ten of the most
competent among the clergy are sent
at the public expense to preach
throughout all the towns and villages
of the kingdom. Such is the hap-
py result of the successful effort of
these noble Greeks, so endeared to
every lover of learning, valor, and
Digitized by CjOOQIC
T%« Present StaU of the Patriarchate of Chnstantinople.
15
religion for the memories of their
glorious antiquity, to shake off the
joke of the sultans and the patriarchs
of Constantinople. It is this misera-
ble amalgam of Moslem despotism,
and usurped or ahused spiritual pow-
er in the hands of a degenerate
clei^ at Constantinople, which is
the great obstacle in the way of the
regeneration of the East. We have
already seen that the ecclesiastical tyr-
anny of the patriarchate is now con-
fined to the one hundred and forty-
two small bishoprics, and the few
millions of people included in them,
which are situated in Turkey. Nev-
ertheless, the political views of the
Russian emperors, and the tradition-
al reverence of the Russian clergy,
still maintain the patriarch and his
synod in a modified spiritual su-
premacy over the Russian Church,
to which two-thirds of the Oriental
rite belong. If Constantinople shonld
fall into the hands of any of the great
powers of Western Christendom, of
course the Cara-Casan, or system of
mixed ecclesiastical and civil despo-
tism, will be overturned, the patriarch
will become a mere primate among
the other metropolitans of the
nation, and the patriarchate be re-
duced to a simply honorary dignity
like that of the Western patriarchs of
Venice and Lisbon. If the Czar
becomes the master of European Tur-
key, the same result will take place,
with this only exception, that the See
of Constantinople will become the
primatial see of the Russian empire,
and the Russian hierarchy will take the
place of the effete Byzantine clergy,
which they are far more worthy, from
their learning and strict morality, to
occupy.
What is to be the political and ec-
clesiastical destmy of the East, and
Russia, iia gigantic infant, who can
foretell, without prophetic gifts? If
the Russian emperors prove that they
are destined and are worthy to begin
anew and to fulfil the grand design of
CoQstantine, Theodosius, Justinian,
Pnlcheria, and Irene, by creating a
thoroughly Christian empire of the
East, we shall rejoice to* see them en-
throned in Constantinople. If they are
destined to restore the cross to the dome
of St. Sophia, and to renovate the
ancient glory of that temple, desecrat-
ed by Christian infamy more than by
the Moslem crescent, we shall exult
in their achievement If new Chrys-
ostoms and Gregories shall rise up to
efface the dishonor of their predeces-
sors, we will forget the past, and give
them the homage due to true and
worthy successors of the saints. We
have no desire to see the Church of
Constantinople degraded, or the East-
tern Church humiliated. The Oriental
Church is orthodox and catholic in its
faith, and its several great rites are .
fully sanctioned and protected by the
Holy See. The heresies which are
found among a portion of its clergy
are personal heresies, and have never
been established by any great synod,
or incorporated into their received
doctrinal standards. We do not con-
demn the great body of its people of
even formal schism, but rather com-
passionate them as suffering from a
state of schism which has been forced
on them by a designing and unworthy
faction, and is perpetuated in great
part through misunderstanding, preju-
dice, and national antipathies. The
causes and grounds of this unnatural
state must necessarily come up among
them very soon for a more thorough in-
vestigation. Study, thought, discus-
sion, and contact with Western Cathol-
icism, as well as Western Protestant-
ism and rationalism, will compel them *
to place themselves face to face with
their own hereditary and traditional
dogmas ; and either to be consistent
with themselves, and submit to the su-
premacy of the Roman See, or to give
up their orthodoxy and open the doors
to a religious revolution. We cannot
deny that the latter alternative is pos-
sible, although we are sure that Dr.
Pusey, and men like-minded with him,
would deplore it as a great calamity.
We trust it will be otherwise. The
Easter morning of resurrection, which
Digitized by CjOOQIC
16
ScdnU of the Desmi.
we are now 4debra1ing, dawned for
us in t^ JEJasL It is the land, of
Christ and his apostles, th^ birth-place
of our religion. We hope the day of
resurrection for its decayed and lan-
guishing churches maynot be far distant.
From The Monta.
'SAINTS OF THE DESERT.
BT THE RBY. J. H. NBWMAN, D.D.
1. Abbot Antony pointed out to a
brother a stone, and said to him, ^ Be-
rile that stone, and beat it soundly."
When he had done so, Antony said,
, " Did the stone say anything ?^ He
answered, " No."
Then said Antony : "Unto this per-
fection shalt thou one day come.''
2. When Abbot Arsenius was ill,
they laid him on a mat, and put a pil-
low under his head, and a brother was
scandalized.
Then said his attendant to the
brother : " What were you before you
were a monkT' He answered, "A
shepherd." Then he asked again,
"And do you live a harder or an easier
life now than then ?" He replied, " I
have more comforts now." Then said
the other, " Seest thou this abbot ?
When he was in the world he was the
father of emperors. A thousand slaves
with golden girdles and tippets of vel-
vet waited on him, and rich carpets
were spread under him. Tkau hast
gained by the change which has made
thee a monk ; it is thou who art now
encompassed with comforts, but he is
afflicted."
d. When Abbot Agatho was near
his end, he remained for three days
with his eyes open and steadily fixed.
His brethren shook him, sayings
"Abbot, where are you ?"
He replied, "I stand before the
judgment seat."
They said, " What, father I do you
you too fear ? think of your works.'*
He made answer : " I have no con-
fidence till I shall have met my God."
4. Abbot Pastor was asked, " Is it
good to cloak a brother's fault ?"
He answered : "As often as we hide
a brother's sin, God hides one of ours,
but he tells ours in that hour in which
we tell our brother's."
5. The Abbot Alonius said : " Un-
less a man says in his heart, I and
my God are the only two in the world,
he will not have rest"
6. Abbot Pambo, being summoned
by St Athanasius to Alexandria, met
an actress, and forthwith began to
weep. " I weep," he said, " because
I do not strive to please my God as
she strives to please the impure."
7. An old monk fell sick and for
many days could not eat, and his nov-
ice made him some pudding. There
was a vessel of honey, and there was
another vessel of linseed oil for the
lamp, good for nothing else, for it was
rancid. The novice mistook, and
mixed up the oil in the pudding. The
old man said not a word, but ate it
The novice pressed him, and helped
him a second time, and the old man
ate again.
When be offered it the third time,
the old man said, "I have had
enough f but the novice cried, " In-
deed, it is very good. I will eat some
with you."
When he had tasted it, he fell on .
his face and said : " Father, I shall be
the death of you ! Why didn't you
speak ?"
The old man answered : " Had it
been God*8 will that I should eat hon-
ey, honey thou wouldst have given me."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jen\fer's Prayer.
17
From The Literary Workman.
JENIFER'S PRATE^R,
BY OLIVER CEANE.
IN THBBE PARTS.
He and she stood in a room in an
ina in the town of Hull — and how she
weptl Crying as a child cries, with
a woman's feelings joining exquisite
pain to those tears; which tears, in a
way wonderful and peculiar to beau-
tiful women, scarcely disordered her
face, or gave anything worse to her
countenance than an indescribably pa-
thetic tenderness.
He was older than she was by full
ten years. He only watched her.
And if the most acute of my readers
had watched Am, they would hare
been no wiser for their scrutiny.
At last she lefl the room ; he had
opened the door and offered his hand
to her. It was night; and she changed
her chamber-candle from her right
hand to her left, and gave tliat right
hand to him. He held it, while he
said : ^ I spoke because I dread the in-
fluence of the honse we are going to,
and of those whom you will meet
there."
« Thank you. Good night" And
so she got to a great dark bed-room,
and knelt down, like a good girl as she
was, and cried no more, but was in
bed and asleep before he had left the
place he had taken by the side of the
sitting-room fire, leaning thoughtfully
against the mantel-shelf, when her ah-
sence had made the room lonely.
Then he ran down stairs and rushed
out into the streets of the kmscly Hull
— Kingston of the day of Edward L
The man we speak of was no antiqua-
ry, and he troubled himself neither
with the Kingston of the royal Ed-
vou lu. 2
ward nor the Vaccaria of the abbot
from whom the place was bought ; he
walked at a quick pace through streets
dim and streets lighted, toward the
ships, or among the houses ; to where
he could see the great headland of
Holdemess, or behold nothing at all
but the brick wall that prevented his
going further, and told him by strong
facts that he had lost his way. So he
wandered, walking fast often — again,
walking slowly; his head bowed
down, his features working, and his
eyes flashing — clenched hands, or
hands clasped on his breast, as if to
keep down the surging waves of mem*
ory, which carried on their crests
many things which now he could only
gnash his teeth at in withering vexa-
tion. /
He and she had come from Scot-
land. I have S2ud that she was beau-
tiful — she was English, too ; but he
was Scotch boni and bred, and not
dark and stem, or really wild or
poetic, as a Scotchman in a story
ought to be. He was simply a strong,
well-formed man, of dark, ruddy com-
plexion, and fine, thick, waving brown
hair. He might have been a noble-
man, or a royal descendant of Hull's
own king. He looked it all, without
being downright handsome. But he
was, in fact, only one of the many men
who have come into a thousand a
year too soon for the preservation of
prudence. Between sixteen, when he
succeeded to it, and twenty-one, when
he could spend it, he had committed
many follies, and found friends who
turned out worse than declared ene-
mies — since twenty-one he had fallen
Digitized by CjOOQIC
18
Jenifei^s Prayer*
in love more tllSn once. He bad been
praised, blamed, accused, acquitted.
But whether or not this man was good
or bad, no living soul could .tell. He
was well off, well looking, well read,
and in good company. lie re-entered
the inn at Hull that April night, stood
by the fire smoking, asked ^r a cup
of strong coffee, went to bed.
The next morning the two met at
breakfast They were going south.
No matter where. Whether to the
dreamy vales of Devonshire, to ver-
dant Somersetshire, or the gardens of
Hampshire — ^no matter.' They were
going to what the north Britons call
^ the south. And it did not mean Alge-
ria. Railways were not everywhere
then as railways are now. They had
to travel nearly all day, then to '* coach
it *• to a great town, in whose history
coaches have now long been of the
past. Then to get on a second day
by the old " fast four-horse," and to
arrive about five o'clock at a little
quiet country town, where a carriage
would take them to the friends and the
house whose influence he dreaded.
In fact, that night, in the inn sitting-
room, he had offered marriage to the
girl whom he had in charge for safe
gaardianship on so long a journey to
her far-off home where he was to be a
guest She had felt that he had abused
his trust and taken an unfair advan-
tage of her; also, she was in that
peculiarly feminine state of mind
which is neitlier expressed by no nor
by yeg. She had upbraided him. He,
pleading guilty in his soul, was in a
horror at the thought of losing her ;
losing her in that way too, because he
had done wrong. Being miserable, he
liad shown his misery as a strong
man may. He spoke, and self-re-
proachfully; but, as he pleaded, he
betrayed all he felt The girl saw his
clasped hands, his bent form, as he
leaned down from the chair on which
he sat in the straggling attitude which
expressed a disordered mind. He
spoke, looking at the carpet, not loud
nor long, but with a terrible earnest-
ness that frightened the girl, and then
she cried all the more, and seemed to
shrink away as if in ahirm, and^yet
ahnost angrily. Why would he speak
so fiercely — why had he taken this
advantage of her ?
Then lie had risen np quickly, and
said, " Well, you know all now. We
will talk of something else." But she
only shook her head and moved away,
and, as we have seen, went to bed.
The next morning they met calmly
enough. On his side it was done with
an effort ; on hers without effort, yet
with a little trembling fear, which went
when she saw his calm, and she poured
out tea, and he drank it, and only a
rather extraordinary silence told of too
much having being said the night be-
fore.
Now, why was all this? Why were
this man and this young English girl
travelling thus to the sweet south coast,
and to expecting friends ?
While they are travelling on their
way, we, you and I, dear reader, will
not only get on before them, but also
turn back the pages of life's story, and
read its secrets.
They were going to a great house
in a fine park, where fern waved its
tall, mounted feathers of green, and
hid the dappled deer from sight-—
whcro great ancestral oaks spread
protecting branches ; where hawthorn
trees, that it had taken three genera-
tions of men to make, stood, large,
thick, knotted, twisted — strange, dark,
stunted looking trees they looked, till
spring came, and no green was like
their green, and the glory of their
flower-wreaths people mside pilgri-
mages to see. The place was called
Beremouth.
A mile and a half off was a town ;
one of those odd little old places which
tell of days and fashions past away.
A very respectable place. There had
lived in Marston the dowager ladies
of old country families, in houses which
had no pretensions to grandeur as you
passed them in the extremely quiet
street, but which on the other side
broke out into bay windows, garden
fronts, charming conseiTatories, and a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
good many otiier things which help to
m%ke life pleasant. So the inhabitants
of MarsU>n were not all mere country-
town's people. They knew themselves
to be somebodies^ and they never for-
got it.
Now, in this town dwelt a certain
widow lady; poor she was, but she
had a pedigree and two beautiful
daughters. Mary and Lucia Morier
were not two commonly, or even un-
commonly, pretty girls; they were
wonderfully beautiful, people said,
and nothing less. So lovers came a
courting. One married a Scotchman,
a Mr. Erskine. They liked each
other quite well enough, Lucia
thought, when she made her promises,
and received his; and so they did.
They lived happily ; did good ; wish-
ed for children but never had any,
and so adopted Mr. Erskine's orphan
nephew — ^namely, the very man who
behaved with such strange imprudence
in the inn at Hull. Mr. Erskine the
nncle was twenty years older than
Mrs. Erskine the aunt. Mr. Erskine
the younger was but a child when
they adopted him. But he was their
heir, as well as the inheritor of his
father's' fortune, and they loved and
cared for him.
Mary Morier did differently. She
married at twenty, her yoimger sister
having married the month before at
eighteen. Mary did differently, for
she did imprudently. They had had
a brother who was an agent for cer-
tain mines thirty miles off ; and there
he lived; but he came home often
enough, and made the house in the
old town gay. A year before the
sister married, in fact while that sister
was away on a visit to friends in
Scotland, the brother came home ilL
He was ill for six months. It is
wonderBil how much expense is in-
curred by a mother in six months for
a son who is sick. It made life very
di£Bcult. The money to pay for
Lucia's journey home had to be
thought of. To bo sure, she was not
there to eat and drink, but then her
extra finery had cost something.
Proj/er,
19
George had only earned one hundred
a year. It had not been more than
enough to keep him. lie came home
ill with ten pounds in his pocket, be-
side his half-year's rent, which would
be due the next month — certainly
money at this time was wanted, for
our friends were sadly pinched. But
the one most exemplary friend and
servant Jenifer was paid her wages,
and tea and sugar money to the day ;
and the doctor got so many guineas
that he grew desperate and suddenly
refused to come — ^then repented, and
made a Christian-like bargain, that he
would go on coming on condition that
he never saw another piece of any.
kind of money.
Mary and her mother looked each
other in the face one day, and that
look told all. There was some plate,
and they had watches, and a little fine
old-fashioned jewelry — ^yes, they ibust
go. They were reduced to poverty at
last — ^this was more than <^ limited
means" — hard penury had them with
a desperate grasp.
Fortune comes in many shapes, and
not ofbcn openly, and with a flourish
of trumpets — ^neither did she come in
that way now; but shamefacedly,
sneakingly, and ringing the door-beU
with a meek, not to say tremulous
pull ; and her shape was that of a
broad- built, short, wide-jawed, lanky-
haired, pig-eyed, elderly man, with a
curious quantity of waistcoat showing,
yet, generally, well dressed. **Your
mistress at home ?' " Yes, Mr,
Brewer." *<Mr. George better?"
"No. Never will be, sir." "Bless
me ! I beg your pardon !" " Granted
before 'tis asked, sir." "Ah! yes;
I have a little business to transact
with your mistress. Can I see her
alone P* Mr. Brewer was shown by
Jenifer into the little right-hand par-
lor. He gravely took out a huge
pocket-book, and then a small parchr
ment-covercd account-book appeared.
I believe he had persuaded himself
that he was really going to transact
business, and not to perform the
neatest piece of deception that a re-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
20
Jenifer's JPto^er^
spectable gentleman ever attempted*
A lady entered the room. • *^ Madam,
jour son bos been mj agent for mines
three years — ^my mine and land agent
since Christmas. He takes the ad-
ditional work at seventy-fi^e pounds a
year extra. The half of that is now
due to him. I pay that myself. I
have brought it" And thu'ty-seven
pounds ten shillings Mr. Brewer put
on the table, saying, *< I will take
your receipt, madam. Don't trouble
Greorge's head about business; for
when you do speak of that you will
have, I am sorry to say, to inform
him that in both hjs places I have* had
to put another man. I have to give
George three months' payment at the
rate of one hundred and seventy
pounds a year, as I gave him no
quarter's warning. That is business,
do you understand?" asked Mr.
Brewer. '*It is for my son to dis-
chai^ himself, sir — since he cannot"
—the mother's voice faltered. "Ah
-—only he didn't, and I did," said Mr.
Brewer. "Your receipt? When
your son recovers, let him apply to
me. I am sorry to end our connexion
so abruptly. But it is business.
Business, you know" — ^and there Mr.
Brewer stopped, for Mary Morier was
in the room, and her beauty filled it,
or seemed to do so. And Mr. Brew-
er departed muttering, as he had mut-
tered before often, " the most beautiful
^rl in the world." StiU, ho had an
uncomfortable sensation, for he felt he
was an underhand sneak, and that
Mary had found him out ; and so she
had. She knew that her brother had
been "discharged" only to afford a
pretext for giving the quarter's mon-
ey ; and she was sure that his being
land agent, at an additional seventy-
five pounds a year, was a pure un-
adulterated fiction.
Mr. Brewer was an extraordinary
man. He had a turn for the super-
natural He would have liked above
all things to have worked miracles.
He' did do odd things, such as we
have seen, which he made, by means
of the poetic quality that characterized
him, a purely natural act. He was
praising Greorge for a saving, prudent,
industrious young man, who had never
drawn the whole of his last year's
salary, before an hour was over. And
his story looked so like truth that he
believed it himself.
Mr. Brewer was what people call
" a ris^i man." But then his father
had been rising — and, for the matter
of that, his grandfather too. All their
fortunes had flowed into the life of the
man who has got into this story ; and
he, having had a tide of prosperity
exceeding all others, in height, and
strength, and riches, had found him-
self stranded on the great shore of so-
ciety, at forty years of age, with more
thousands a year than he liked to be
generally known. Could he have
transformed himself into a benignant
fairy he would have been very happy,
and acts of mercy would have abound-
ed on the earth. But no— Mr. Brew-
er was Mr. Brewer, and anything less
poetic to look at — ^more impossible as
to wands, and wings, and good fairy
appendages, it is difficult to imagine.
Mr. Brewer was a middle-aged man,
with hands in his pobkets ; plain truth
is always respectable. There it is.
But there was a Mrs. Brewer.
Now Mrs. Brewer was an excellent
woman, but not excellent after the
manner of her husband. She was
three years older. They had not been
in love. They liad married at an
epoch in Mr* Brewer's life when pub-
lic affiurs occupied his time so entire-
ly as to make it desirable to haye
what people call a " missus ;" we are i
afraid that Mr. Brewer himself so \
called the article, a " missus, at home.'*
Mrs. Brewer had been " a widow lady
— ^young— of a sociable and domestic
disposition " who " desired to be house-
keeper—to be treated confidentially,
and as one of the family — to a widow-
er — with or without children." On
inquiry, it was found that young Mrs.
Smith had not irrevocably determined
that the owner of the house tliat she
was to keep should have been the
husband of one wife, undoubtedly
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jenifer^u Prayer,
21
dead ; the widower was an expression
only, a sort of modest way of putting
the plain fact of a single man, or a
man capable of matrimony — the ex-
pression meant all that; and when
Mrs. Smith entered on the housekeep-
ing, she acted up to the meaning of
the advertisement, and married Mr.
Brewer. Neither had ever repented.
Let that be understood. Only, Mr.
Brewer, when he knew he could live
in a great house, dine off silver, keep
a four-in-hand, or a pack of hounds,
or enter on any other legitimate mode
of spending money, did none of them ;
but eased his mind and his pocket by
such contrivances as we have seen re-
sorted to in the presence of the beau-
tiful Mary Morier. He tried curious
experiments of what a man would do
with ten pounds. He had dangerous
notions as to people addicted to cer-
tain villanies being cured of their
moral diseases by the administration
of a hundred a year. In some round-
about waj'S he had put the idea to the
proof, and not always with satisfactory
results. He held as an article of
faith — nobody could guess where he
found it — that there were people in
the world who could go straighter in
prosperity than in adversity. He
never would believe that adversity
was a thing to be suffered. He had
replied to a Protestant divine on that
subject, illustrated in the -case of a
starving family, that that might be,
only it was no concern of his, and he
would not act upon the theory. And
the result was a thriving, thankful
family in Australia, to whom Mr.
Brewer was always, ever after, send-
ing valuable commodities, and receiv-
ing flower-seeds and skins of gaudy
feathered birds in return.
Mr. Brewer had a daughter, Claudia
was her name. *' A Bible name," said
Mr. Brewer, and bowed his head, and
felt he had done his duty by the girl.
What more could he do? • She went
to school, and was at school when he
was paying money in Mrs. Morier's
parlor. Slie was then ten years old ;
and being a clever child, she had, in
the holidays just over, chosen to talk
French, and nothing else, to a friend
whom she had been allowed to bring
with her. A thing that had caused
great perturbation in the soul of her
honest father, who prayed in a word-
less, but real anxiety, that the Bible
name might not be thrown away on
the glib-tongued little gipsy. It will
be perceived that Claudia was a diffi-
culty.
Now, when Mr. Brewer was gone
out of Mrs. Morier's house, the mother
took up the money, wiped her eyes,
and said, ** What a good boy George
was." And Mary said ^Tes;" and
knew in her heart that if there had
been any chance of George living, Mr.
Brewer would never have done that.
George died. There was money,
just enough . for all wants. Lucia
came home engaged to bo married
to I^Ir. Erskine. And when she
was gone there went with her a cer-
tain seven hundred pounds, her for-'
tune, settled— what a silly mockery
Mr. Erskine thought it — on her chil-
dren. The loss made the two who were
left very poor. Lucia sent her mother
gifts, but the regular and to be reckon-
ed on eight-and-twenty pounds a year
were gone. She who had eaten, drank,
and dressed was gone too — ^but still it
was a loss ; and Mary and her mother
were poor. Also, Mary had long been
engaged to be married to the son of a
younger branch of a great county fam-
ily house, Lansdowne Lorimer by
name. He was in an attorney's office
in Marston. In that old-world place,
the attorney, himself of a county fam-
ily, was a great man. It was hard to
see Lucia marry a man of money and
land, young Lorimer thought, so he
advised Mary to assert their indepen-
dence of all earthly considerations, and
marry too. And they did so.
The young man had no father or
mother. He had angry uncles and
insolent aunts, and family friends, all
to be respected, and prophets of evil,
every one of them. He had, also,
a place in the office, a clear head,
a determined will, a handsome per-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
22
Jenifer's Prayer.
gon, a good pedigree, and a beauti-
ful wife. She, sSso, had her eight-
and-twenty pounds a year. But
they gave it back regularly to Mrs.
Morier; for, you know, they, the young
people, were young, and they oould
work. Mrs. Morier never spent this
money. She and Jenifer, the prime
minister of that court of loyal love, put
it by, against the evil day, and they
had just enough for themselves and
the cat to live upon witliout it.
The county families asked their im-
prudent kmsman to visit them with iiis
bride. How they flouted her. How
they advised her. How they congrat-
ulated her that she had always been
poor. How they a^sared her that she
would be poor for ever. How, too,
they feared that Lansdowne would
never bear hard work, nor anxiety, nor
any other of those troubles which were
80 very sure to happen. How sur-
prised they were at the three pretty
silk dresses, the one plain white mus-
lin, and the smart best white net. How
they scorn exl when they heard that she
and Jenifer, and her mother, and a girl
at cightpence a day, had made them
all. And, then, how they sunned them-
selves in her wonderful beauty, and
accepted the world's praises of it, and
kept the triumph themselves, and hand-
ed over to her the gravest warnings of
its being a dangerous gift.
Dangerous, indeed! it was the pride
of Lorimer's life. And Mary was ac-
complished, far more really accom-
plished than the lazy, half-taught
creatures who had never said to them-
selves that they might have to play
and sing, and speak French and Ital-
ian, for their or their children's bread.
Mary had said it to herself many a
time since her heart had been given to
the man who was her husband. A
• true, brave, loving heart it was, and
that which her common sense had
whispered to it that heart was strong
to do, and would be found doing if the
day of necessity ever came. So, at
that Castle Dangerous where the bride
and bridegroom were staying, Mary
outshone others, and was not the bet-
ter loved for that; and one old Lady
Caroline crowned the triumph by or-
dering a piano-forte for the new homo
at Marston, with a savage '' Keep up
what you know, child; you may be
glad of it one day." Old Lady Caro-
line was generally considered as a
high-bred privileged savage. But
that was the only savage thing she
ever said to Mary. She told Lorimer
that he was a selfish, unprincipled
brute for marrying anybody so perfect
and so pretty. And Lorimer bore her
misrepresentations with remarkable
patience, only making her a ceremoni-
ous bow, and saying in a low voice,
**You know better." "I know you
will starve,'' and she walked off with-
out an answer.
They did not starve. In fact, they
prospered, till one sad day when Lori-
mer caught cold — and again and again
caught cold — cough, pain, symptoms of
consumption — ^a short, sad story; and
then the great end, death. Maiy was
a widow three years after her wedding
day, with a child of two years of age
at her side, and an income from a life
insurance made by her husband of
one hundred a year. We have seen
the child — grown to a beautiful girl of
seventeen — we have seen her in the
room with Mr. Erskine, at the inn at
Hull.
Mrs. Lorimer went back to live with
her mother, Jenifer, and the great white
cat.
The year after this great change,
Mrs. Brewer died, and Claudia at thir-
teen was a greater difficulty than ever.
The first holidays after the departure
of the good mother, the puzzled father
had written to the two Miss Gains-
boroughs to bring the child to Marston
and stay at bis house during the holi-
days. He entertained them for a week,
and then went off on a tour through
Holland. The next holidays he pro-
posed timt they should take a house
at Brighton, and that he should pay
all expenses. This, too, was done, and
]^Ir. Brewer went to a hotel and there
made friends with his precocious daugh-
ter in a way that surprised and pleased
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jenifei's Ptager.
83
him. He visited the joung lady,
and she entertained him. He hired
horses, and they rode together. He
took hoxes at the theatre, and they
made parties and went together. He
gave the girl jewelry and fine clothes,
and they really got to know each oth-
er, and to enjoy life together as could
never have been the case had they not
been thus left to their own way. The
child no longer felt herself of a differ-
ent world from that of her parents — ^the
father had a companion in the child
who could grace his position, and keep
her own. They parted with love and
anxious lookiugs forward to the sum-
.mer meeting. They were both in pos-
session of a new happiness. When
Mr. Brewer got back to Marston, he
led a dull, dreamy life — ^a year and a
half of widowhood passed — then he
went to Mrs. Morier's, saw Mary, and
asked her to be his wife. It is not
easy to declare why Mary Lorimer
said — after some weeks of wondering-
mindedncss — why she said "Yes."
She knew all Mr. Brewer's goodness.
She preferred, no doubt, not to wound
a heart that had so often sympathized
with the wounded. She never, in her
life, could have borne to see him vexed
without great vexation herself. She
liked that he should be rewarded.
She was interested in Claudia. She
liked the thought of two hundred a
year settled on her mother. She liked
to feel that her own little Mary might
be brought up as grandly as any of
those little saucy "county family"
damsels, her cousins, who already
looked down on her, and scorned her
pink spotted calico frock.
Mary and Mr. Brewer walked
quietly to church; Mrs. Morler still
in astonishment, and Jenifer" dazed ;"
bat all the working people loved Mr.
Brewer. And they walked back,
man and wife, to her mother's house,
and had a quiet substantial breakfast
before they started for London. And
when there Mr. Brewer told her that
they werc not to return to the respec-
table stone-fronted house facing the
market-place in Marston, but tlmt he
had bought Lord Byland's property —
and that Beremouth was theiis.
Beremouth, with its spreading park,
and river, and lake, its miles of old
pasture-land, its waving ferns, anJ
dappled deer ; Beremouth, with its
forest and gardens, royal oaks and
twisted hawthorn trees ^ Beremouth,
the finest place in the county. And
all that Mary felt was, that he who
had kept this secret, had had a true .
hero's delicacy, and had never thought
to bribe her, or to get her by pur-
chase into his home. I think she
almost loved him then.
In due time, after perhaps six
months of wandering, and of prepara-
tion, Mr. and Mrs. Brewer arrived at
their new home, made glorious by all
that taste and art could do, with Lon-
don energy working with the power
of gold. With them came Claudia.
The child loved her new mother with
an abandonment of heart and a per-
fect approval. She was still too
young to argue, bnt she was not too
young to feel. The mother she had
now got, though not much more than
ten years older than herself, was the
mother to love, admire, delight in—
the mother who could understand her.
Then Beremouth just suited this
young lady's idea of what was worth
having in this world ; and without any
evil thought of the homely mother who
had gone, there was a thought that
" Mother-Mary," as Mrs. Brewer was
called by her step-daughter, looked
right at Beremouth, and that another
class of person would have looked
wrong there— so wrong that her fa-
ther under such circumstances would
never have put himself in the position
of trying the experiment.
Minnie Lorimer was very happy in
her great play-ground; for all the
world, and all life, was play to little
Minnie. She loved her new sister;
and the new sister patronized and petted
her, so all seemed right It was, in-
deed, a great happiness for Claudia
that her father had chosen Mary Lori-
mer. Claudia was a vixenish, lit^
tie handsome gipsy ; very clever, very
Digitized by CjOOQIC
24
Jenifers Prayer.
high-spirited, fall of life, health, and
flin — a girl who could have yielded
to very few, and who brought the
homage of heart and mind to *' Moth-
er-Mary," and rejoiced in doing it.
These two grew to be great friends,
and when after three years Claudia
came home and came out^ all parties
were happy.
In the meantime Mr. Brewer's way
in the world had been straight, plain,
and rapidly travelled. The county
was at his feet. Mary was no longer
congratulated on having been brought
up to poverty. Behind her back
there were plenty of people to say
that Mr. Brewer was happy in having
for bis wife a well connected genlle-
woman. Her pedigree was told, her
poverty forgotten. Her singing and
playing, dancing and drawing, were
none the worse for unknown thousands
a year. And people wondered less
openly at the splendor of velvets and
diamonds than they had at the new
muslin gown. To Maiy herself life
was very different in every way.
Daily, more and more, she admired
her husband, and approved of him.
It was the awakening into life of a
new set of feelings. She knew none
of the love and devotion she had felt
for her first husband. Mr. Brewer
never expected any of it. But he in-
tended that she should, in some other
indescribable manner, fall in love
with him, and she was doing it every
day — which thing her husband saw,
and welcomed life with great satisfac-
tion in consequence.
It was when Claudia came out that
tlie man we have seen, Horace Ers-
kine, fii*st came to them. He was
just of age. Mary did not like him.
She could give no reason for it. Her
sister had always praised him — but
Mary cotdd not like him. He came
to them for a series of gay doings,
and Mr. Brewer admired him, and
Claudia — ^poor little Claudia! She
gave him that strong heart of hers ;
that spirit that could break sooner
than bend was quite enslaved — she
loved him, and he had asked for her
love, and vowed a hundred times that
he could never be happy without it.
He asked her of her father, and Mr.
Brewer consented. It was not for
Mary to say no ; but her heart went
cold in its fear, and she was very
sorry.
The Erskines in Scotland were de-
lighted — all deemed doing well. But
when Horace Erskine talked to Mr.
Brewer about money, he was told
that Claudia would have on her mar-
riage five thousand pounds ; and ten
thousand more if she survived him
would be forthcoming on his death —
that was all. " Enough for a wo-
man,*' said Mr. Brewer ; and Erskine .
was silent. It went on for a few
weeks, Horace, being flighty and odd,
Claudia, for the first time in her life,
humble and endearing. Then he
told her that to him money was neces-
sary ; then he asked her to appeal to
her father for more ; then she treated
the request lightly, and, at last, posi-
tively refused. I f she had n ot enough,
he could leave her. If he left her,
would she take the blame on herself?
It would injure him in his future
hopes and prospects to have it sup-
posed to be his doing if they parted ?
Yes, she said. It was the easiest
thing in the world. "Who cared ? — ^not
he of course — and, certainly, not
Claudia Brewer. It broke her heart
to find him vile. But she was too-
discerning not to see the truth; her
great thought now was to hide it. To
hide too from every one, even from
" Mother-Maiy,'* that her heart felt
death-struck — that' the ^ole place
was poisoned to her — ^that life at
Beremouth was loathsome.
She took a strange way of hiding
it
A county election was going on.
The man whom Mr. Brewer hoped to
see elected was a guest at Beremouth.
An old, grey-haired, worldly, states-
manlike man. A man who petted
Claudia, and admired her ; and who
suddenly woke- up one day to a
thought — ^a question — a species of
amusing suggestion, which grew into a
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
Jenifeii's Prayer.
25
pmfoand wonderland then even warm-
ed into a hope — surely that pretty
bright young heiress liked him, had a
fancy to be the second Lady Greystock.
It was a droll thought at first, and he
played with it ; a flattering fancy, and
he encouraged it. He was an honest
man. He knew that he was great,
cleyer, learned. Was there anything
80 wonderful in a woman loving him ?
He settled the question by asldng
Claudia. And shepromised to be his wife
with a real and undisguised gladness.
Her spuit and her determination were
treading the life out of her heart.
She was sincere in her gladness.
She thought she could welcome any
duties that took her away from life at
Bcremouth, and gave her place and
position elsewhere.
Mary suspected much, and feared
eyerything. But Claudia felt and
knew too much to speak one word of
the world of hope and joy and love
that had gone away from her. She
declared that she liked her old love^
and gloried in his grey hairs, and in
the great heart that had stooped to ask
for hers.
Now what are we to say of Horace
Erskine ? Was he wholly bad ? First,
he had never loved Claudia with a real
devotion. He had admired her ; she
had Joved him. He had gambled —
green turf and green cloth — gambled
and recklessly indulged himself till he
had got upon the way to ruin, and had
begun the downward path, and was
glad to be stopped in that slippery
descent by a marriage with an heiress.
There was a sparMe, an originality,
about Claudia. It was impossible not
to be taken with her. But Claudia
with only that fortune was of no use
to him. He knew she was brave and
true-hearted ; so he boldly asked her
to guard his name — in fact, to give him
up, and not injure his next chance with
a better heiress by telling the truth.
He told her the truth ; that he wanted
money, and money he must have.
She would not tell him that the ^orst
part of her trial was the loss of her
idoL It was despising him that brok^
her heart. But because h3 had been
her idol she would never injure him —
never tell.
So the day came, and at Marston
church she married Sir GUjoffrey
Greystock, "Mother-Miiry" wonder-
ing ; Mr. Brewer believing, in the in-
nocence of his heart, that the fancy
for Horace Erskine had been a bit of
the old wilfulness. " The kst bit—
' the last," he said, as ho spoke of it to
her that very day, making her chilled
heart knock against her side as he
spoke, and kissed her, and sent her
with blessings from the Bcremouth
that she had married to get away from.
To get away — it had more to do with
her marrying than any other thought.
To get away from the house, the
spreading pastures, the bright garden,
and above all from the old deer pond
in the park — the most beautiful of
all the manv lovely spots that nature
and art, and time and taste, had joined
to create and adorn Bcremouth. The
old deer pond in the park ! Shelter-
ed by ancient oak ; backed by interlac-
ing boughs of old hawthorn trees;
shadowed by taU, shining, dark dense
holly, that glowed through the winter
with its red berries, and contrasted
With the long fair wreaths of hawthorn
flowers in the sweet smiling spring.
There, in this now dreaded place,
Horace Erskine had first spoken of
love; and there how often had he
promised her the happiness that had
gone out of her life — ^for ever. In
the terrible nights, when her broken-
hearted pains were strongest, this
deer pond in the park had been before
her closed eyes like a vision. In its
waters she saw in her sleep her face
and his, so happy, so loving, so trust-
ing, so true. Then the picture in
that water changed, and she watched
it in her feverish dreams with horror,
but yet was obliged to gaze, and the
truth went out of his face, and the
terror came into hers. And, worse
and worse, he grew threatening — he
was cold — ^he had never loved — ^ho
was killing her ; and she fell, fell from
her height of happuicss ; no protecting
Digitized by CjOOQIC
26
Jenifet^s Prayer.
arm stayed her, and the dark waters
opened, and she heard the rushing
sound of their deadly waves closmg
over her, as she sunk — ^sunk — ^again
and again, night after night Oh, to
get away, to get away! And she
blessed Sir GeofFrey, and when he
said he was too old to wait for a wife
she was glad, for she had no wish to
wait. Change, absence, another home,
another life, another world — these
things she wanted, and they had come.
Is it any wonder that she took them as
the man who is dying of thirst takes
the longed-for drauglit, and drains the
cup of mercy to the dregs ?
It was a happy day to marry. Mr.
Brewer had not only an excuse, but a
positively undeniable reason for being
bountiful and kind. For once he
could openly, and as a matter of duty,
make the sad hearts in Marston — and
elsewhere — ^sing for joy. His blessings
flowed so liberally that he had to apolo-
gize. It was only for once — he beg-
ged everybody's pardon, but it could
never happen again ; he had but this
one child, and she was a bride, and so
if they would forgive everything this
onco 1 And many a new life of glad-
ness was begun that day ; many a bur-
then lost its weight ; many a record
went up to the Eternal memory to
meet that man at the inevitable hour.
Little Mary was the loveliest brides-
maid the world ever saw; standing
alone like an angel by her dark sister's
side. She was the only thing that
Claudia grieved to leave. She was
glad to flee away from "Mother-Mary."
She dreaded lest those sweet wistful
eyes should read her heart one day;
and she could not help rejoicing to get
away from that honest, open-hearted
father's sight Her poor, wrecked,
shrunken heart — her withered life,
could not bear the contrast with his
free, kind, bounteous spirit that gave
such measure of love, pressed down
and running over, to all who wanted it
Her old husband, Sir Geoffrey, resem-
bled that great good heart in whose
love she had learnt to think all men
true, more than did her young lover
Horace Erskinc — she could be humble
and thankful to Sir Geoffrey ; a well-
placed approval was a better thing
than an ill-placed love. So with that
little vision of beauty, Minnie Lorlmcr,
by her side, Claudia became Sir Greof-
frey's wiie.
Four months past, the bride and
bridegroom were entertaining a grand
party at their fine ancestral home, and
* Mr. Brewer was the father of a son
and heir. Horace Erskine read both
announcements in the paper one morn-
ing, and ground his teeth with vexa-
tion. He went to his desk and took
out three letters, a long lock of silky
hair, a small miniature— these things
he had begged to keep. Laughing, he
had argued that he was almost a rela-
tion. His uncle had married "Molher-
Mary's" sister. She had had no
strength to debate with him. Slie had
chosen to wear the mask of indifference,
too, to him. He now made these
things into a parcel and sent them to
Sir Geoffrey Greystock without one
word of explanation. \Vlien they were
gone ho wrote to liis uncle, begged for
some money, got it, and started for
Vienna. The money met him in Lon-
don, and he crossed to France the
same day.
In the midst of great happiness the
strong heart of good Sir Geoffrey stood
still. His wife sought him. She
found him in his chair in a fit On a
little table by his side was (he parcel
just received. Claudia knew all. She
took the parcel into the room close by,
called her dressing room, rung for
help, but in an hour Sir Geoffrey was
dead ; and Claudia had burnt the let-
ters and the lock of silky hair.
The business of parliament, the ex-
citement attendant on his marriage
with that beautiful girl, the entertain-
ment of that great house full of com-
pany — ^theso reasons the world reck-
oned up, and found sufficient to an-
swer the questions and the wonderings
on Sir Geoffrey's death. But when
those solemn walls no longer knew
their master, Claudia, into whose new
life the new things held but an an-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jenifer's Prayer.
27
steady place, grew ill. First of all,
sleepless nights : how could she sleep
with the sound of those waters bj the
deer pond in her ears ? How could
she help gazing perpetuallj at the pic-
ture on the pond's still surface: Horace
and Sir Geoffrey, and herself not
able to turn aside the dealh-stroke,
but standing, fettered bj she knew
not what, in powerless misery, only
obliged to see the changing face of her
husband till the dead seemed to be
again before her, and Horace melted
out of sight, and she woke, dreading
fever and praying against delirium ?
She was overcome at last. Terrible
boars came, and "Mother-Mary's**
Bweot face mingling with some strong,
subduing, lifc-endangcring dream, was
the first thing that seemed to bring her
back to better things, and to restore
her to herself.
In fact, Claudia had had brain fever,
and whether or not she was ever to
know real health again was a problem
to be worked out by time. Would
she come back to her father^s house ?
No I The very name of Beremouth
was to be avoided. Would she go
abroad ? Oh, no ; there was a dread
of separation upon her. ^ Somewhere
where you can easily hear of me, and
I of you; where you can come and
see me, for I shall never see Bere-
mouth again." It was her own thought,
and so, about five miles from Bere-
mouth, in the house of a Doctor
Bankin, who took ladies out of health
into his family, Claudia determined to
go. It was every way the best thing
that could be done, for every day
shewed more strongly than the last
that Claudia would never be what is
emphatically called "herself*' again.
So people said*
Dr. Bankin was kind, learned, and
wise ; Mrs. Rankin warm-hearted and
friendly. Other patients beside Lady
Grcystock were there. It was not a
private asylum, and Claudia was not
mad; it was really what it called it-
self, a home which the sick might
share, with medical attendance, cheer^
fill company, and out-door recreations
in a well-kept garden and extensive
grounds of considerable beauty. Clau-
dia had known Dr. and Mrs. Rankin,
and had called with her father at Blag-
den, where they lived. And there her
father and " Mother-Mary " took her
three months afler her husband's
death, looking really aged, feeble, and
strangely sad.
After a time — it was a long time —
Claudia was said to be well. " Per-
fectly recovered," said Dr. Rankin,
"and in really satisfactory health,"
So she was when Mmnie Lorimer stood
in the room at the inn in Hull, talking
to that very Horace Erskine, who was
bringing her home from her aunt's in
Scotland to her mother at Beremouth.
"Sweet seventeen!" Very sweet
and beautiful, pleasing the eye, grati-
fying the mind, filling the heart with
hope, and setting imagination at play
— ^Minnie Lorimer was beautiful, and
with all that peculiar beauty about her
that belongs to " a spoilt child " who
has not been spoilt after all.
Claudia — ^how old she looked] Clau-
dia, with that one only shadow on her
once bright face, was still living with
T>r, and Mrs. Rankin. It was Lady
Greystock*s pleasure to live with them.
She said she had grown out of the
position of a patient, and into their
hearts as a friend. "Was it not so ?"
she asked. It was unpossible to deny
that which really brought happiness
to everybody. " Well, then, I shall ,
build on a few rooms to the house, ;
and I shall call them mine, and I shall
add to the coach-house, and hire a
cottage for my groom and his wife — I
shall live here. Why not ? You will
take care of me, and feed me, and
scold me, and find me a good guidable
creature. You know I shall be ill if
you refuse."
It all happened as she chose. Hers
was the prettiest carriage in the coun-
ty, the best hoi'se3,the most perfectly
appointed little household — ^for she
had her own servants. Among her
most devoted friends were the good
doctor and his wife. Lady Greystock
was as positive and as much given to
Digitized by CjOOQIC
28
Jenifer' 9 Prcyer.
govern as the clever little Claadia in
school-girl days. But the arrange-
ment was a success, and <^ Mother-
Mary,** who saw her constantly, was
very glad. Only one trouble surviv-
ed ; Claudia would never go and stay
at Beremouth. She would drive her
ponies merrily to the door, and even
spend an hour or two within the house,
but never would she stay there — nev-
er I She used to say to herself that
she dared not trust herself with the
things that had witnessed her love,
her sorrow, her marriage — ^with the
things that told her of him who had
mined everything like a murderer —
as he was.
And so, to save appearances, she
used to say that she never stayed away
fix)m Blagden for a single night, and
she never lefl off black. It was not
that she wore a widow's dress, or cov-
ered up the glories of her beautiful
hair. She was but twenty-nine at the
moment recorded in the first page of
this story. She was very thin and
pale, but she was a strong woman, and
one who required no more care than
any other person ; but she had deter-
mined never again to see Horace Ers-
kine. What he had done had become
known to her, as we have seen. She
only bargained with life, as it were, in
this way, that that man should be out
of it for ever. And for this it was
that she made her resolution and
kept it.
Horace Erskine had been abroad for
some years ; but though she had felt
safe in that fact, she had looked into
the future and kept her resolution.
And 60 she lived on at Blagden, doing
good, blessing the poor, comforting
tho afflicted, visiting the sick, and beau-
tifying all things, and adorning all
places that came within her reach.
Certain things she was young enough
to enjoy greatly; the chief of these
was the contemplation of Frederick
Brewer, her half-brother, a line boy of
nine years old, for nine years of widow-
hood had been passed, and through all
that time this boy, her dear father^s
son, had been Lady Greystock's de-
light. She loved « Mother-Mary * all
the better for having given him to her
father, and she felt a strong, unutter-
able thanksgiving that, his birth hav-
ing been expected, the test of whether
or not Horace Erskine loved her for
herself had been applied before she
had become chained to so terrible a
destiny as that of being wife to a thank-
less, disappointed man. Terrible as
her great trial had been, she might
have suffered that which, to one of her
temper, would have been far worse.
So Fred Brewer would ride over to
see his sister. Day after day the
boy*s bright face would be laid beside
her own, and to him, and only to him,
would she talk of Sir Geoffrey. Then
they would ride together down to
Marston to see Mrs. Morier and Jen-
ifer, who was a true friend, and lived
on those terms with the lady who
loved her well; tlien to the market-
place where the old home stood, now
turned into an almshouse of an
eccentric sort, with all rules included
under one head, that the dear old
souls were to have just whatever they
wanted. Did Martha Gannet keep
three parrots, and did they eat as
much as a young heifer? and scream,
too ? ah, that was their nature — ^never
go against a dumb creature's nature,
Mr. Brewer said there was always
cruelty in that — ^and did they smell,
and give trouble, and would they be
mischievous, and tear Mrs. Betty's
cap ? Indeed. Mr. Bjewer was de-
lighted. An excellent excuse for giv-
ing new caps to all the inmates, and to
look up all troubles, and mend every-
body's griefs — such an excellent thing
it was that the fact of thi-ee parrots
should lead to the discovery of so many
disgraceful neglects that Mr. Brewer
begged leave to apologize very heart-
ily and sincerely while he diligently
repaired them. It was a very odd
school to bring up young Freddy iu.
But we are obliged to say that he was
not at all the worse for it
And here we must say what we
have not sidd before. Mr. Brewer
was a Catholic He and Jenifer wero
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PrQposed Substitutes for the Steam-Engine.
29
Catholics ; Mrs. Brewer had not been
a Catholic ; and Claudia had been left
to her mother's teaching. When
Freddj was bom, Mr. Brewer consid-
ered his ways. And what he saw in
his life we may see shortlj. He had
been bom of a Catholic mother who
had died, and made his Protestant
father promise to send him to a Cath-
olic schooL He bad stood alone in the
world, ho had always stood alone in
the world. He seemed to see nothing
else. Three miles from Marston was
a little dirty sea-port, also a sort of
fishing place. A place that bore a bad
character in a good many ways. Some
people would have finished that char-
acter by saying that there were Pa-
pists there. To that place every Sun-
day Mr. Brewer went to mass. Many
and many a lift he had given to Jenifer
on those days. How much Jenifer's
talk assisted his choice of Mary for his
wife, we may guess. When Freddy
was bom Jenifer said her first words on
the subject of religion to Mr. Brewer :
"You will have him properly bap-
tized:^' "Of course." "Order me
the pony cart, and Til go to Father
Daniels." *• I must tell Mrs. Brewer."
^ Leave that to me — -just send for the
cart." It iiY» left to Jenifer. By night
the priest had come and gone. It had
not been his first visit. He had been
there .many times, and had known that
he was welcome. The Clayton mis-
sion had felt the blessing of Mr. Brew-
er's gold. He had seldom been at
the house in the market-place in Mars-
ton, but at Beremouth Mary had
plucked her finest flowers, and sent
them back in the old gentleman's gig>
and he had been always made welcome
in her husband's house with a pretty
grace and many pleasant attentions.
Now, when Freddy was baptized, Mr.
Brewer went to his wife and bent over
her, and said solemnly, "Mary — my
dear wife ; Mary — ^I thank thee, dar-
ling. I thank thee, my love.' And
the single tear that fell on her cheek
she never forgot.
Then Mr. Brewer met Jenifer at his
wife's door. " It's like a new life, Jen-
ifer." And the steady-mannered wom-
an looked in his bright eyes and saw
how trae his words were.
" It's a steady life of doing good to
everybody that you have ever led, sir.
It was a lonely life once, no doubt. I
was dazed when she married you.
But, eh, master ; I have thai to think
about, and thai to pray for, that a'most
makes me believe in anything hap*
pening to you for good, when so much
is asked for, day and night, in my own
prayer."
" Put us into it; let me and mme be
in Jenifer's prayer," he said, and passed
on.
TO B> OOKTOTUaO.
From The Month.
PROPOSED SUBSTITUTES FOR THE STEAM-ENGINE.
The present year has been remark-
aUe for the large number of machines
invented for the purpose of super-
seding steam, in at least some of its
lighter tasks. Many of these are due
to French engineers; being further
proofs, if any were required, of the
great activity now displayed ^ in
France in all matters of mechanical
invention.
Two of these new engmes are es-
pecially interesting as illustrating that
all-important law in modem physics,
the correlation or convertibility of
forces. By this is meant that the
forces of inanimate nature, such as
light, heat, electricity — nay, even the
muscular and nerve forces of living
beings — ^have such a mutual depend-
ence and connection that each one is
only produced or called into action by
another, and only ceases to be manifest
when it has ^ven birth to a fresh
force in its turn. Thus motion (in the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
80
Proposed SuisUtuies for the SteamrEngine.
shape of friction) produces heat, elec-
tricity, or light; heat produces light
or electricity ; eleetricity, magnetism ;
and 80 on in an endless chain, which
links together all the phenomena of
this visible universe.
As a metaphysical principle, this is
as old as Aristotle, and may be found
dimly foreshadowed in the forcible lines
of Lucretius:
** Percnnt imbreB, nbl eos pater aether
In grcmiam matris terrat prsBCipitaylt ;
At uitidflc Burgunt frugCD, ramlque virescnnt,
Arboribas crcdcantip9se, feiaqao gravautar,
Ilinc alitar porro notttrum genaa atquo fera-
rum.
Hand Igitur penttaa perennt qacecamque vi-
deo tar,
Saaudo aliad cz alio reflcit natnra, nee nllam
em glgni patitar, niei morte aetata aliena.***
But the rediscovery of this law, as a
result of experiment, is due to English
physicists of our own day ; and it is so
invaiiably true, and the produced
force is always so perfectly propor-
tioned to the force producing it, that
somef have gone so far as to revive a
very old hypothesis in philosophy,
supposing that all the forces of nature
are but difiercntly expressed forms
of the Divine Will.
As a corollary to this law, it follows
that many a force of nature, hitherto
'heglected because of its position or
intractability, may be turned to practi-
cal account by using it to produce
some new power, which may be either
stored up or transmitted to a distance,
and so can be employed wherever and
whenever it is required. Thus, in the
first machine we propose to notice, a
M. Cazal has just hit upon a plan by
which to use the power of falling
water at a considerable distance. He -
employs a water-wheel to turn a mag-
neto-electric machme (of the kind used
for medical purposes, on a very krge
scale), and the electric force so obtain-
ed may be conveyed to any distance,
and employed there as a motive power.
In this way a mountain stream in the
Alps or Pyrenees may turn a lathe,
or set a loom in motion, in a workshop
in Paris or Lyons ; or even (as has
• Lncret. lib. 1. 230-(».
t Dr. Carpenier, PhUos. Trana. 18S0, vol. ii.
been remarked), if a wire were laid
across the Atlantic, the whole force of
Niagara would be at our disposal.
The idea is at present quite in its in-
fancy ; but we are told that the few
experiments hitherto made show that
such an engine is not only very ingen-
ious but perfectly feasible, and (most
important of all) economicaL
The second engine gave promise of
considerable success when first brought
out in Paris about eight months ago.
It was invented by a M. Tellier, and
proceeds on the principle of storing up
force, to be used when wanted. It has
long been well known to chemists that
a certain number of gases (as chlorine,
carbonic acid, ammonia, and sulphu-
retted hydrogen) can be condensed
into liquids by cold or pressure, or both
combined. Of all the^e gases, ammo-
nia is the most easily liquefied, requir-
ing for this purpose, at ordinary tem-
peratures, a pressure only six and a
half times greater than that of the
atmosphere. A supply of liquid am-
monia obtained in thin manner is kept
by M. Tellier in a closed vessel, and
surrounded with a freezing mixture,
so that it has but little tendency to re-
turn to the gaseous state. A small
quanity is allowed to escape from this
reservoir under the piston of the en-
gine, and, the temperature there being
higher than in the reservoir, the am-
monia becomes at once converted into
gas, increasing thereby to more than*
twelve hundred times its previous bulk,
and so driving the piston with great force
to the top of the cylinder. A little water
is now admitted, which entirely dis-
solves the ammonia, a vacuum being
thus created, and die piston driven
down again by the pressure of the air
without M. Tellier employs three
such cylinders, which work in succes-
sion ; and the only apparent limit to
the power to be obtained from this ma-
chine is tlie amount of liquid ammonia
which would have to be used, about
three gallons (or twenty-two pounds)
being required for each horse-power
per hour. There is no waste of mate-
rial ; for the water which has dissolved
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Proposed SubstiMes far the Steam-Effffine.
81
the gas is Bavedy and the ammonia re*
covered from it by eyaporation, and
afterwards ccondensed into a liquid.
^L Tellier proposed to use his engine for
propelling omnibuses and other yehi-
cles ; but it would appear that it is too
expensive and too cumbrous to be
practically useful ; there can, however,
be very little doubt that the principle
will be used with success in some new
form. A patent has quite recently
been taken out for such an engine in
England. It will be perceived at once
how the ammonia engine illustrates the
law of storing up force. It originates
DO power of its own, but simply gives
out by degrees the mechanical force
which had been previously employed
to change the ammonia from a gas to
a liquid.
Lenoir's '' gas-engine" has been
more successful; for, although but a
few months old, it has been already
largely adopted in Parisian hotels,
schools, and other large establish-
ments, for raising lifts, making ices,
and even — ^for what is not done now-a-
days by machinery ?— cleaning boots.
In London, it was lately exhibited in
Cranboume Street, and is now used
for turning lathes and for other light
work.
This engine, like the ammonia-
engine, is provided with an ordinary
cylinder, into which coal-gas and air
are admitted, under the piston, in
the proportions of eleven parts of the
latter to one of the former. The
mixture is then exploded by the elec-
tric spark, and the remaining air,
being greatly expanded, drives up the
piston. When the top is reached the
gas and air are again admitted, but
this time above the piston, and the
explosion is repeated, so that the pis-
ton is driven down again. The
most ingenious part of the whole
thing is the mechanism by which the
electric spark is directed alternately
to the upper and lower ends of the
cylinder. This cannot be satisfacto-
rily explained without a diagram, but
is brought about (roughly speaking)
by connecting either end of the cylin-
der with a semicircle of brass, which
is touched by the ^' rotary crank" in
the course of its revolution. The
crank is already charged with elec-
tricity, and so communicates the elec-
tric spark to each of the semicircles in
turn. The cylinder is kept plunged
in water, so that there is no fear of its
overheating by the constant explo-.
sions.
This engine has cheapness for its
niain recommendation. A half-horse*
power gas-engine (the commonest
power made) costs, when complete,
£65, and consumes twopence worth
of gas per hour; while the cost of
keeping the battery active is about
fourpence per week.
An engineer of Lyons, M. Millon,
has since proposed to use, instead of
coal-gas, the gases produced by pass-
ing steam over red-hot coke. These
gases are found to explode rather
more quickly than coal-gas, when
mixed with common air, and fired by
the electric spark. They will proba-
bly be found cheaper and more effi-
cient when they can be obtained ; but
in many cases coal-gas will bo the
only material available.
A M. Jules Gros has recently in-
vented an engine in which gun-cotton
is exploded in a strong reservoir and
air compressed in another, the com-
pressed air being afterward employed
to move the pistons of the maclune.
This sounds more dangerous than it
perhaps really is, since gun-cotton is
now known to be more tractable than
gunpowder, when properly used; but
we very much doubt whether the ma-
chine can be regular or economical
enough to be more than a curiosity.
To close the list of French inven-
tions of this kind, we may state that
Count de Moliii has lately patented an
electro-magnetic machine, which, he
states, will be more powerful than any
previously made. It is too compli-
cated for a mere verbal description to
be of any use; but is apparently not
free from the fault of all electro-
magnetic engines, of costing too much
to be of practical value.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
32 a$n$tin»: A JVoubadcws's Song.-
CHEISTINE.
A TROUBADOUR'S SONG,
IN WZTB OASTOB,
BY OSOBGB H. MILES.*
PJBELTTDE.
The Queen hath built her a fairy Bower
In the shadow of the Accursed Tower,
For the Moslem hath left his blood-stained lair,
And the banner of England waveth there.
Thither she luretli the Lion IQng
To hear a wandering Trovere sing;
For well she knew the Joyous Art
Was surest path to Richard's heart.
But the Monarch's glance was on the sea —
Sooth, he was scarce in minstrel mood,
For Philip's triremes homeward stood
With all the Gallic chivalry.
And as he watched the filmy sail
Upon the furthest billow fail,
lie muttered, "Richard ill can spare
Thee and thy Templars, false and fair;
Yet God hatn willed it — home to thee,
Death or Jerusalem for mel"
Then pressing with a knightly kiss
The peerless nand that slept in his,
"Ah, would our own Blondel were here
To try a measure I wove last e'en.
What songster hast tliou caught, my Queen,
Whose harp may soothe a Monarch's ear?"
She beckoned, and the Trovere bowed
To many a Lord and Ladye fair
That gathered round the royal pair;
But most his simple song was vowed
To a sweet shape witli dark brown hair,
Half hidden in the gentle crowd ;
Pale as a spirit, sharply slender.
In maiden beauty's crescent splendor.
And never yet bent Minstrel Knee
To Mistress lovelier than she.
* Copyright lecured.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Chriaine: A 7\raubadam'$ Song. 88
THB FIB8T 80K0*
Ye have hear^ of the Castle of Miolan
And how it hath stood since time began,
Midway to yon mountain's brow,
Gnarding the beautiful valley below :
Its crest the clouds, its ancient feet
Where the Arc and the Isere murmuring meet
Earth hath few lovelier scenes to show
Than Miolan with its hundred halls,
Its massive towers and bannered walls,
Looming out through the vines and walnut woods
That gladden its stately solitudes.
And mere might ye hear but yestermom
The loud halloo and the hunter's horn,
The laugh of mailed men at play.
The drinking bout and the roundelay.
But now all is sternest silence there.
Save the bell that calls to vesper prayer ;
Save the ceaseless surge of a father's wail,
And, hark ! ye may hear the Baron's Tale.
XL
" Come hither. Hermit ! — ^Yestermom
I had an only son,
A gallant fair as e'er was bom,
A knight whose spurs were won
In the red tide by Grodfrey's side
At Ascalon.
VOL. m. 8
Digitized by CjOOQIC
84 OknsHn0: A lirouhadow^s Song.
" But yestermom he came to me
For blessing on his lance,
And death and danger seemed to flee
The joyannce of Iiis glance,
For he would ride to win his Bride,
Christine of Franoe«
^ All sparkling in the snn he stood
In mail of Milan dressed,
A scarf, the gift of her he wooed,
Lay lightly o'er his breast.
As, with a clang, to horse he q>rang
With nodding crest
" Gaily he grasped the stirrup cup
Afoam with spicy ale,
But as he took the goblet up
Mothought his cheek grew pale.
And a shudder ran through the iron man
And through his mail.
" Oft had I seen him breast the shock
Of squire or crowned king,
His front was firm as rooted rock
When spears were sliivering:
I knew no blow could shake liim so
From living thing.
" 'Twas something near akin to death
That blanched and froze his cheek,
Yet 'twas not death, for he had breath,
And when I bade him speak,
Unto his breast his hand he pressed
With one wild shriek.
" The hand thus clasped upon his heart
So sharply curbed the rein,
Grey Cahph, rearing ^th a start,
Went bounding o^er the plain
Away, away with echoing neigh
And streaming mane.
^^ After him sped the menial throng ;
I stirred not in my fear;
. Perchance I swooned, for it seemed not long
Ere the race did reappear.
And my son still led on his desert-bred.
Grasping his spear.
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
.OMMm/ a Trauhadowi'9 Song. 35
^ IJncliaDged in look or limb, be came.
He and his barb so fleet,
His hand still on his heart, the same
Stem bearing in his seat,
And wheeling Vonnd with sudden bound
Stopped at my feet
<< And soon as ceased that wildering tramp
^What ails tliee, boyP I cried —
Takinff his hand all cbill and damp —
* What means this fearful ride ?
Alight, aliffht, for lips so white
Would scare a Bride P
" But sternly to his steed clove he, «
And answer made he none,
I clasped him by his barbed knee
And tiiere I made my moan;
While icily he stared at mo,
At mo alone.
^ A strange, unmeaning stare was that,
And a page beside me said,
*If ever corse in saddle sat,
Our lord is certes sped!'
But I smote the lad, for it drove me mad*
To think him dead.
" What ! dead so young, what 1 lost so soon,
My beautiful, my brave 1
Sooner the sun should find at noon
In central heaven a gravel
Sweet Jesu, no, it is not so
When Thou canst savel
*^ For was he dead and was he sped,
When he could ride so well,
So bravely bear his plumed head?
Or, was't some spirit fell
In causeless wrath liad crossed his path
With fiendish spell?
" Oh. Hermit, 'twas a cruel sight.
And He, who loves to bless,
Ne'er sent on son such bitter blight.
On sire such sore distress,
Such piteoTis pass, and I, alas,
So powerless I
Digitized by CjOOQIC
86 Cknsiine: A Ihnibadauf^$ Song.
" They wonid have ta'en him from his horse
The while I wept and prayed,
They would have lain him like a coree
Upon a litter made
Of traversed spear and martial gear.
But I forbade.
^ I gazed into his face again,
I chafed his hand once more,
I summoned him to speak, in vain —
He sat there a& before,
While the gallant Grey in dumb dismay
His rider bore.
• « Full well, full well Grey Caliph then
The horror seemed to know.
E'en deeper tlian my mailed men
Methought he felt our woe;
For the barbed head of the desert-bred
Was drooping low.
^^ Amazed, aghast, he gazed at me,
That mourner true and good.
Then backward at my boy looted he.
As if a word he sued.
And like sculptured pile in abbey aisle
The train there stood.
" I took the rein : the frozen one
Still fast in saddle sate.
As tremblingly I led him on
Toward the great castle gate. ^
O walls mine own, why have ye grown
So desolate? —
" I led them to the castle gate
And paused before the shrine
Where throned in state from earliest date,
Protectress of our line.
Madonna pressed close to her breast
The Babe Divine.
" And kneeling lowly at her feet,
I begged the Mother mild
That she would sue her Jesu sweet
To aid my stricken child ;
And the meek stone face flaahed full of grace
As if she smiled.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
{Jkrittme: A TVoubadowf^$ Song. 37
" And meihonglit the eyes of the Full of Grace
Upon my darling ehone,
Till living seemed that marble face
And the living man seemed stone,
While a halo played round the Mother Maid
And round her Son.
" And there was radiance everywhere
Surpassing light of day,
On man and horse, on shield and spear
Burned the bright, blinding ray;
But most it shone on my omy one
And his gallant Grey.
" A sudden clang of armor rang,
My boy lay on the sward.
Up high in air Grey Galiph sprang,
An instant fiercely pawed.
Then trembling stood aghast and viewed
His fallen lord.
" Then vnth the flash of fire away
Like sunbeam o'er the plain,
Away, away with echoing neigh
And wildly waving mane.
Away he sped, loose from his head
The nying rein.
" I watched the steed from pass to pass
Unto the welkin's rim,
I feared to turn my eyes, alas,
To trust a look at him;
And when I turned, my temples burned
And all grew dim.
" Sweet if such swoon could endless be,
Fet speedily I woke
And missed my boy: they showed him ma
FuU length on bed of oak.
Clad as 'twas meet in mail complete
And sable cloak.
" All of our race upon that bier
Had Vested one by one,
I had seen my father lying there,
And now there lay my son!
Ah I my sick soul bled the while it said —
* Thy will be done 1'
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S8 Ouristiike: A Troubadour's Song.
^' Bright glanced tlie crest, bright gleamed the spur,
That well had played their part,
His lance Btill clasped, nor coiud wey stir
His left hand from his heart;
There fast it clove, nor would it move
With all their art
" I foimd no voice, I shed no tear.
They thought me well resigned.
All else who stood around the bier
With weeping much were blind;
And a mourning voice went through the house
Like a low wind.
^ And there was sob of aged man
And woman's wailing cry,
All cheeks were wan, all eyes o'erran,
Yon fair-haired maidens sigh.
And one apart with breaking heart
"Weeps bitterly.
" But sharper than spear-thrust, I trow,
Their wailing through me went;
Stem silence suited best my woe,
And, howe'er well the intent.
Their menial din seemed half akin
To merriment
" For oh, such grief was mock to mine
Whose days were all undone.
The last of all this ancient line
To share whose grief was none 1
Straight from the hall I barred them all
And stood alone.
** * Receive me now, thou bed of oak I*
I fell upon the bier.
And, Hermit, when this morning broke
It found me clinging there.
O maddening morn ! That day dare dawn
On such a pair I
a
I sent for thee, thou man of (jod,
To watch with me to-night;
My boy still liveth, by the rood,
Nor shall be funeral rite! —
But, Ilermit, come: this is the room:
There Ues the KnightP
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Christina: A Trovbadowi'B Song. 89
m.
But she apart
With breaking heart? —
That very yestermom she stood
In the deepest shade of the walnut wood,
As a Knight rode by on his raven steed,
Crying, "Daughter mine, hast thou done the deedt
I gave thee the venom, I gave thee the spell,
A jealous heart might use them well."
But she waved her white arms and only said,
"On oaken bier is Miolan laid!"
"Deadriauffhed the Knight. "Then round Pilate's Peak
Let the red li^ht burn and the eagle shriek.
When Miolan? heir lies on the bier,
Low is the only lance I fear:
I ride, 1 ride to win my Bride,
Ho, Eblis, to thy servant's side.
Thou hast sworn no foe
Shall laj me low
Till die dead m arms against me ride P
THS BE002n> SONG.
They passed into an ancient hall
With oaken arches spanned.
Full many a shield hung on the wall.
Full many a broken brand.
And barbed spear and scimetar
From Holy Land.
And scarfs of dames of high degree
With gold and jewels rich,
And many a mouldered effigy
Li many a mouldering nicne,
Like grey sea shells whose crumbling cells
Bestrew the beach.
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40 ObtrisUne: A nwbadaur's Sang.
The sacred dead possessed the place,
The silent cobweb wreathed
The tombs where slept that warrior race,
With Bwords for ever sheathed:
You seemed to share the very air
Which they had breathed.
Oh, darksome was that funeral room,
Those oaken arches dim,
The torchlight, struggling through the gloonti,
Fell faint on effige grim,
On dragon dread and carved head
Of Cherubim.
Of Cherubim fast by a shrine
Whereon the last sad rite
Was wont for all that ancient line,
For dame and belted knight —
A shrine of Moan which death alone
Did ever light
But light not now that altar stone
Whfle hope of life remain,
Though darksome be that altar lone,*
Uimt that funeral fane.
Save by the rays cast by the blaze
Of torches twain.
Of torches twain at head and heel
Of him who seemeth dead,
Who sleepeth so well in his coat of steel.
His cloak around him spread —
The young Knight fair, "virtio lieih there
On oaken bed.
One hand still fastened to his heart.
The other on his lance,
While through his eyelids, half apart.
Life seemeth half to glance.
"Sweet youth awake, for Jesu's sake,
From this strange trance!"
But heed or answer there is none.
Then knelt that Hermit old;
To Mother Mary and her Son
Full many a prayer he told,
Whose wondrous words the Church records
In lettered gold:
\
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(Pristine/ A Ihroubadowr^s Song. 41
And many a precions litany
And many a pious vow,
Th^i rising said, ^^If fiend it be,
That fiend ahdl leave thee now!"
And traced the sign of the Cross divine
On lips and brow.
As well expect yon cherub's wings
To wave at matin bell!
Not all the relics of the kings
Could break that iron spell.
" Pray for the dead, let mass be said,
Toll forth the kneU!''
^^I^ot ^etl" the Baron gasped and sank
As if beneath a blow,
With lips all writhing as they drank
The oi'egs of deepest woe ;
With eves aglare, and scattered hair
Tossed to and fro.
So swings the leaf that lingers last
When wintry tempests sweep,
So reels when storms have stripped the mast
The galley on the deep,
So nods the snow on Eigher's brow
Before the leap.
Uncertain 'mid his tangled hair
His palsie(l finjgers stray,
He «mueth in his dumb despair
like a sick child at play.
Though wet, I trow, with tears eno'
That beard so grey.
Oh, Hermit, lift him to your breast,
There best his heart may bleed ;
Since none but heaven can give him rest,
Heaven's priest must meet his need :
Dry that white beard, now wet and weird
As pale sea-weed.
Uprising slowly from the ground,
.With short and .frequent breath.
In aimless circles, round and round,
Tho Baron totteretli
With trailing feet, a mpumer meet
For house of death.
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42 OhritHne: A H^oubadaw/^$ JShng.
Tillji pausing by the shrine of Moan,
He said, the while he wept,
"Here, Hermit, here mine only one,^
When all the castle slept,
As maiden knight, o'er armor bright,
His first watch kept
" This is the casque that first he wore,
And this his vimn shield.
This lance to his &st tilt he bore,
With tins first took tiie field —
How light, how l&che to that hnge ash
fle now doth wield 1
" This blade hath levelled at a blow
The she-wolf in her den.
With tiiis red falchion he laid low
The slippery Saracen.
Godt will that hand, so near his brand,
Ne'er strike again?
" Frown not on him, ye men of old.
Whose glorions race is nm;
Frown not on him, mj fathers bold.
Though many the field ye won:
His name and los may mate with yours
Though but begun !
" Keceive him, ye departed brave,
Unlock the gates of light.
And rai^e yourselves about his grave
To hail a brother knight.
Who never erred in deed or word
Against the right I
" But is he dead and is he sped
Wiihouten scathe or scar?
Why, Hermit, he hath often bled
From sword and scimetar —
IVe seen him ride, wounds gaping wide.
From war to war,
" And hath a silent, viewless thing
Laid danger's darling low, «
When youth and hope were on the wing
And life in morning glow ?
Not yonder worm in winter's storm
Ferisheth so 1
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Christine: A I^otibadow^s Song. 43
^ Oh, Hermit, thou hast heard, I ween,
Of trances long and deep,
But. Hermit, hast thou ever seen
That grim and stony sleep.
And canst thou tell how long a spell
Such slumbers keep?
** Oh, be there naught to break the charm,
To thaw this icy chain ;
Has Mother Church no word to warm
These freezing lips a^ain;
Be holy prayer and ba]^ms rare
Alike in vain ? . . . .
" A curse on ihy ill-omened head ;
Man, bid me not deOT)air; '^
Churl, say not that a Knight is dead
When ne can couch his spear ;
When he can ride ^Monk, thou hast lied.
He liveS) I swear t
« Up from that bier ! Boy, to thy feet !
KnoVst not thy father's voice?
Thou ne'er hast disobeyed . . . is't meet
A sire should summon thrice?
By these grey hairs, by these salt tears,
Awake, arise I
" Ho, lover, to thy ladye flee.
Dig deep the crimson spur;
Sleep not *twixt this lean monk and me
when thou shouldst kneel to her I
Oh 'tis a sin, Christine to win
And thou not stir I
" Ho, laggard, hear yon trumpet's note
Gro sounding to the skies,
The lists are set, the banners float.
Yon loud-mouthed herald cries,
^ Bide, gallant knights, Christine invites.
Herself the prize 1'
"Ho, craven, shun'st thou the mel^e,
When she expects thy brand
To prove to-day in fair tourney
A title to her hand?
Up, dullard base, or by the mass
I'll make thee standi" • • . .
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44 (Pristine: A Ihmbad&uf^s Song.
Thrice strove he then to wrench apart
Those fingers from the epear.
Thrice strove to sever from the heart
The hand that rested there.
Thrice strove in vain with frantic strain
That shook the bier.
Thrice with the dead the living strove,
Their armor rang a peal,
The sleeping knight he would not move
Although the sire did reel:
That stately corse defied all force,
Stubborn as steel.
" Ay, dead, dead, deadP the Baron cried;
" Dear Hermit, I did rave.
O were we sleeping side by side! . .
Good monk, 1 penance crave
For aU I said .... Ay, he is dead,
Pray heaven to save!
"Betake thee to thjr crucifix,
And let me while I may
Bain kisses on these frozen cheeks
Before they know decay.
Leave me to weep and watch and keep
The worm at bay.
" Thou wilt not spare thy prayers, I trust;
But name not now the grave —
111 watch him to the very dust! ....
So, Hermit, to thy cave.
Whilst here I cling lest creeping thing
Insult the brave I"
Why starts the Hermit to his feet^
why springs ho to the bier,
Why calleih he on Jesu sweet,
Staying the starting tear.
What whispereth he naif trustfully
And half in fear?
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(Pristine: A Trwiadow's Sang. 45
" Sir Knight, thy ring hath razed his flesh —
'Twas in thy frenzy done;
Lo, from his wrist how fast and fresh
The blood-drops trickling nm;
Heaven yet may wake, for Mary's sake,
Thy warrior son.
^^ Heap ashes on thy head, Sir Enight,
In sackcloth gird thee well,
The shrine of Moan mnst blaze in light,
The morning mass must swell;
Aronse from sleep the castle keep,
Sonnd every bell I"
Thpy come, pale maid and mailM man
They throng into the hall,
• The watcher trom the barbican,
The warder from the wall.
And she apart, with breaking heart,
The last of all.
^^Tni^oiho! IrUroibo!^
The morning mass begins;
"J/^a culpa! mea cutjpa!^
Forgive ns all our sins;
And the rapt Hermit channts with streaming eyes,
That seem to enter Paradise,
''Gloria! Gloria!''
The shrine of Moan had never known
That gladdest of all hynms.
n.
The fair-haired maiden standeth apart
In the chapel gloom, with breaking heart.
Bat a smile broke over her face as she said,
* " The draught was well measmred, I ween ;
He liveth, thank Allah, bnt not to wed
His beautiful Christine.
Ko lance hath Miolan couched to-day :
Let the bride for the bridegroom watch, and pray.
Till the lists shall hear £e shriek
Of the Dauphin's daughter borne away
By the Knight of Pilate's Peak."
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46
Dr. Newman'B Answer to Dr. Pusey.
A LETTER TO THE REV. E. B. PDSEY, D.D„ ON HIS RECENT
EIRENICON.
BY JOHN HEKBT NBWUAN, D.D., OF THB ORATOBT.
Yenl, Domlne, tX noli tardire, relaxa fttcinora plebl tiw ; et roToca dispenot In tamm iiuun.
No ODe who desires the union of
Christendoni, afler its many and long-
standing divisions, can have any other
feeling than joy, my dear Puscy, at
finding from your recent volume that
you see your way to make definite
proposals to us for effecting that
great object, and are able to lay down
the basis and conditions on which you
could co-operate in advancing it It
is not necessary that we should con-
cur in the details of your scheme, or
in the principles which it involves, in
order to welcome the important fact
that, with your personal knowledge
of the Anglican body, and your expe-
rience of its composition and tenden-
cies, you consider tlie time to be
come when you and your friends may,
without imprudence, turn your minds
to thi contemplation of such an enter-
prise. Even were you an individual
member of that church, a watchman
upon a high tower in a metropolis of
religious opinion, we should naturally
listen with interest to what you had
to report of the state of the sky and
the progress of the night, what stars
were mounting up or what clouds
gathering; what were the prospects
of the three great parties which An-
glicanism contains within it, and what
was just now the action upon them
respectively of the politics and science
of the time. You do not go into
these matters ; but the step you have
taken is evidently the measure and
the issue of the view which you have
formed of them alL
However, you are not a mere indi-
vidual; from early youth you have
devoted yourself to the Established
Church, and after between forty and
fifty years of unremitting labor in its
service, your roots and your branches
stretch out through every portion of
its large territory. You, more than
any one else alive, have been the
present and untiring agent by whom a
great work has been effected in it;
and, far more than is usulil, you have
received in your lifetime, as well as
merited, the confidence of your breth-
ren. You cannot speak merely for
yourself; your antecedents, your ex-
isting infiuence, are a pledge to us
that what you may determine will be
the dctermmation of a multitude.
Numbers, too, for whom you cannot
properly be said to spes^, will be
moved by your authority or your
arguments ; and numbers, again, who
are of a school more recent than your .
own, and who are only not your fol-
lowers because they have outstripped
you in their free speeches and demon-
strative acts in our behalf, will, for
the occasion, accept you as their
spokesman. There is no one any-
where — among ourselves,^ in your
own body, or, I suppose, In the Greek
Church — ^who can affect so vast a
circle of men, so virtuous, so able, so
learned, so zealous, as come, more or
less, under your influence ; and I can*
not pay them all a greater compli-
ment, than to tell them they ought all
to be Catholics, nor do them a more
affectionate service than to pray that
they may one day become such. Nor
can I address myself to an act more
pleasing, as I trust, to the Divine
Lord of the church, and more loyal
and dutiful to his Vicar on earth,
than to attempt, however, feebly, to
promote so great a oonsommation.
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Dr. NewmaaiC% Answer to Dr. Pusey.
47
I know the joy it would give those
oonscieDtiouB men of whom I am
Bpeaking to be one with ourselves.
I know how their hearts spring up
with a spontancons transport at the
very thought of union; and what
Teaming is theirs afler that great priv-
ilege, which they have not, commun-
ion with the See of Peter and its pres-
ent, past, and future. I conjecture it
by what I used to feel myself, while
yet in the Anglican Church. I recol-
lect well what an outcast I seemed
to myself when I took down from the
ahelves of my library the volumes
of St. Athanasius or St. Basil, and
aet myself to study them ; and how,
on the contrary, when at length I was
brought into Catholicism, I kissed
them with delight, with a feeling that
in them I had more than all that I
bad lost, and, as though I were direct-
ly addressing the glorious saints who
llequeathed them to the Church, I
said to the inanimate pages, '^You
are now mine, and I am now yours,
beyond any mistake." Such, I con-
ceive, would be the joy of the per-
sons I speak of, if* they could wake up
one morning and find themselves pos-
« sessed by right of Catholic traditions
and hopes, without violence to their
own sense of duty; and, certainly,
I am (he last man to say that such
violence is in any case lawful, that the
daima of conscience are not para-
mount, or that any one may overleap
what he deliberately holds to be
God's command, in order to make
his path easier for him or his heart
lighter.
I am the last man to quarrel with
this jealous deference to the voice of
oar conscience, whatever judgment
others may form of us in conse-
qaenoe, for this reason — because
Uieir case, as it at present stands, has,
as yoa know, been my own. You
recoUect well what hard things were
said against us twenty-five years ago,
which we knew in our hearts we
did not deserve. Ilencc, I am now in
the position of the^ fugitive queen in
the welMmown passage, who, ^ baud
ignara mali" herself, had learned to
sympathize with those who were in-
heritors of her past wanderings.
There were priests, good men, whose
zeal outstripped their knowledge, and
who in consequence spoke confidently,
when they would have been wiser
had they suspended their adverse
judgment of those whom they had
soon to welcome as brethren in com-
munion. We at that time were in
worse plight than your friends are
now, for our opponents put their very
hardest thoughts of us into print One
of them wrote thus in a letter
addressed to one of the Catholic
bbhops :
" That this Oxford crifiis is a real prog-
ress to CatUolicism, 1 have all along con-
sidered a perfect delusion. ... I look
upon Mr. Newman, Dr. Posey, and their
associates as wily and crafty, though un-
skilful, guides. . . . The embrace of
Mr. Newman is the kiss that would betray
ns. . . . But— what is the most strik-
ing feature in the rancorous malignity of
these men— their calumnies are often lav-
ished upon us, when we should be led to
think that the subject-matter of their
treatises closed every avenue against their
vituperation. The three last volumes fof
the Tracts] have opened my eyes to the
craftiness and the cunning, as well as the
malice, of the members of the Oxford
convention. ... If the Puseyites are
to be the new apostles of Qreat Britain,
my hopes for my country are lowering
and gloomy. ... I would never have
consented to enter the lists against this
strange confraternity ... if I did
not feel that my own orelate was opposed
to the guile and treachery of these men.
.... I impeach Dr. Pnsey and his
friends of a deadly hatred of our religion.
. . . . What, my lord, would the Holy
See think of the works of these Pusey-
ites? . . ."
Another priesty himself a convert,
wrote:
"As wo approach toward Catholicity
our love and respect Increases, and our
violence dies away ; bat the bulk of these
men become more rabid as they become
like Rome, a plain proof of their designs.
... I do not believe that they are
any nearer the portals of the Catholic
Church than the most prejudiced Metho-
dist and Evangelical preacher. . . . v
Such, rev. sir, is an outline of my views
on the Oxford movement."
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48
Dr. Newman's Answer to Dr. Pusey.
I do not Bay that such a view of us
was annatural; and, for myself, I
readily confess that l^ad used ahoot
the church such language that I had
no claim on Catholics for any mercy.
But, after all, and in fact, they were
wrong in their anticipations — ^nor did
their brethren agree with them at the
time. Especially Dr. Wiseman (as he
was then) took a larger and more
generous view of us ; nor did the Holy
See interfere, though the writer of one
of these passages invoked its judg-
ment. The event showed that the
more cautious line of conduct was the
more prudent ; and one of the bishops,
who had taken part against us, with a
supererogation of chanty, sent me on
his death-bed an expression of his sor^
row for having in past years mistrust-
ed me. A faulty conscience, faith-
fully obeyed, through Grod's mercy,
had in the long run brought me right.
Folly, then, do I recognize the
rights of conscience in this matter. I
find no fault in your stating, as clearly
and completely as you can, the diffi-
culties which stand in the way of your
joining us. I cannot wonder that you
begin with stipulating conditions of
union, though I do not concur in them
myself, and think that in the event you
yourself would be content to let them
drop. Such representations as yours
are necessary to open the subject in
debate ; they ascertain how the land
lies, and serve to clear the ground.
Thus I begin ; but, after allowing as
much as this, I am obliged in honesty
to say wliat I fear, my dear Puaey,
will pain you. Yet I am confident,
my very dear friend, that at least you
will not be angry with me if I say,
what I must say, or say nothmg at all,
that there is much both in the matter
and in the manner of your volume
calculated to wound those who love
you well, but love truth more. So it is ;
with the best motives and kindest in-
tentions, '^Coedimur, et totidem pla-
gis consumimus hostem.'* We give
you a sharp cut, and you return it.
Yoa complain of our being " dry, hard^
and unsympatbizing f and we answer
that yon are mi&ir and irritallng.
But we at least have not [Hrofesaed to
be composing an Irenicon, when we
treated you as foes. There was one of
old time who wreathed his sword in
myrtle; excuse me — ^you discharge
your olive-branch as if from a catapult.
Do not think I am not serious ; if I
spoke seriously, I should seem to speak
harshly. ' Who will venture to assert
that the hundred pages which yoa
have devoted to the Blessed Virgin
give other than a one-sided view of
our teaching about her, little suited to
win us? It maybe a salutary cas-
tigation, if any of us have fairly pro-
voked it, but it is not making the best
of matters ; it is not smoothing the
way for an understanding or a com«
promise. It leads a writer in the most
moderate and liberal Anglican news-
paper of tho day, the " (^ardian," to
turn away from your representation of
us with horror. "It is langnage^l
says your reviewer, "which, after
having often heard it, we stUl can only
hear with horror. We had rather not
quote any of it, or of the comments
upon it." What c6uld an Exeter liall
orator, what could a Scotch commen*
tator on tho Apocalypse, do more for
his own side of tho controversy by the
picture he drew of us ? You may be
sure that what creates horror on one
side will be answered by indignation
on tho other, and these are not the
most favorable dispositions for a peace
conference. I had been accustomed
to think that you, who in times past
were ever less declamatory in contro-
versy than myself, now that years had
gone on, and circumstances changed,
had come to look on our old warfare
against Rome as cruel and inexpe*
dient. Indeed, I know that it was a
chief objection urged against me only
last year by persons who agreed with
you in deprecating an oratoiy at Ox-
ford, which at that time was in pros-
pect, that such an undertaking would
be the signal for the rekindling of
that fierce style of polemics whi<^ is
now out of date. I had &ncied yoa
shared in that opinion ; bat now» as if
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Dr. NewmcaCi Answer to Dr. Pusey.
49
to show how imperative jou deem its re^
newal, jou actually bring to life one of
my own strong sayings in 1S41, which
had long been in the grave — that ^' the
Roman Church comes as near to idola-
try as can be supposed in a churchy
of which it said, ^ The idols he shall
utcerly abolish/" p. 111.
I know, indeed, and feel deeply, that
joor frequent references in your vol*
ume to what I have lately or former-
ly written are caused by your strong
desire to be still one with me as far as
you can, and by that true affection
which takes pleasure in dwelling on
such sayings of mine as you can still
accept with the full approbation of
yoar judgment. I trust I am not un-
grateful or irresponsive to you in this
respect ; but other considerations have
an imperative claim to be taken into
account. Pleasant as it is to agree
with yon, I am bound to explain my-
self in cases in which I have changed
my mind, or have given a wrong im-
pression of my meaning, or have been
wrongly reported ; and^ while I trust
that I have better than such personal
motives for addressing you in prints
yet it will serve to introduce my main
subject, and give me an opportunity
for remarks which bear upon it indi-
rectly, if I dwell for a page or two on
such matters contained in your volume
aa concern myself.
1. The mistalyc which I have prin-
cipally in view is the belief, which is
widely spread, that I have publicly
spoken of the AngUcan Church as " the
great bulwark against infidelity in this
land." In a pamphlet of yours, a year
old, you spoke of *'a very earnest body
of Roman Catholics " who "rejoice in
an the workings of God the Holy Ghost
in the Church of England (whatever
they think of her), and are saddened
by what weakens her who is, in God's
hands, the great bulwark against infi-
delity in this land." The concluding
words you were thought to quote from
my " Apoli^^" In consequence, Dr.
libmning, now our archbishop, replied
to y oo, asserting, as you say, ** the con-
tndictory of that statement^ In that
VOL. III. 4
counter-assertion he was at the time
generally considered (rightly or wrong-
ly, as it may be), though writing to
you, to be reaUy correcting statements
in my " Apologia," wilhout introducing
my name. Further, in the volume
which you have now published, you
recur to the saying, and you speak of its
author in terms which, did I not know
your partial kinndess for me, would
hinder me from identifying him with
myself. You say, "The saying was
not mine, but that of one of the dce[)-
est thinkers and observers in the Ro-
man communion," p. 7. A friend has
suggested to me that, perhaps, you
mean De IVIaistre; and, from an an-
onymous letter which I have received
from Dublin, I find it is certain that
the very words in question were once
used by Archbishop Murray ; but you
speak of the author of them as if now
alive. At length a reviewer of your
volume, in the " Weekly Register," dis-
tinctly attributes them to me by name,
and gives me the first opportunity I
have had of disowning them; and
this I now do. What, at some time
or other, I may have said in conversa-
tion or private letter, of course, I can-
not tell ; but I have never, I am sure,
used the word " bulwark " of the An-
glican Church deliberately. What L
said m my "Apologia" was this : That
that church was " a serviceable break-
water against errors more fundamental
than its own." A bulwark is an in-
tegral part of the thing it defends;
whereas the words " serviceable " and
" breakwater " imply a kind of protec-
tion wliich is accidental and de facto.
Again, in saying that the Anglican
Chuixh is a defence against "errors
more fundamental than its own," I im-
ply that it has errors, and those funda-
mental.
2. There is another passage in your
volume, at p. 337| which it may be
right to observe upon. You have
made a collection of passages from the
fathers, as witnesses in behalf of your
doctrine that the whole Christian faith
is contained in Scripture, as if, in your
sense of tho words. Catholics contra-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
50
Dr. NewmarCB Answer to Dr. Pa$ey.
dieted you here. And you refer to my
notes on Sl Athanasius as contribut-
ing passages to your list; but, afler
all, neither do you, nor do I in my
notes, afiinn any doctrine which Rome
denies. Those notes also make fre-
quent reference to a traditional teach-
ing, which (be the faith ever so cer-
tainly contained in Scripture) still is
necessary as a Regula Fidei, for show-
ing us tliat it is contained there — vid.
pp. 283, 344— and this tradition, I
know, you uphold as fully as I do in
the notes in question. In consequence,
you allow that there is a twofold rule.
Scripture and tradition; and this is
all that Catholics say. How, then, do
Anglicans differ from Rome here?
I believe the difference is merely one
of words ; and I shall be doing, so far,
the work of an Irenicpn, if I make
dear what this verbal difference is.
Catholics and Anglicans (I do not say
Protestants) attach different meanings
to the word "proof,** in the contro-
versy whether the whole faith is, or is
not, contained in Scripture. We mean
that not every article of faith is so con-
tained there, that it may thence be logi-
cally proved, independently of tibe
teaching and authority of the tradition ;
but Anglicans mean that every article
of faith is so contamed there, that it
miay thence be proved, provided there
be added the illustrations and com-
pensations of the tradition. And it
is in this latter senflc, I conceive, the
fathers also speak in the passages which
you quote from them. I am sure at
least that St. Athanasius frequently
adduces passages as proofs of points
in controversy which no one would
see to be proofs unless apostolical
tradition were taken into account,
first as suggesting, ^then as authori-
tatively ruling, their meaning. Thus,
you do not deny that the whole is
not in Scripture in such sense that
pure unaided logic can draw it from the
sacred text ; nor do v>e deny that the
faith is in Scripture, in an improper
sense, in the sense that tradition is
able to recognize and determine it
there. You do not profess to dispense
with tradition ; nor do we forbid the
idea of probable, secondary, symboli-
cal, connotative senses of Scripture,
over and above those which properly
belong to the wording and context. I
hope you will agree with me in this.
3. Nor is it only in isolated passages
that you give me a place in your vol-
ume. A considerable portion of it is
written with reference to two publica-
tions of mine, one of which you name
and defend, the other you tacitly pro-
test against : "Tract 90," and the « Es-
say on Doctrinal Development," As to
" Tract 90," you have from the first, as
all the world knows, boldly stood up
for it, in ppite of the obloquy which it
brought upon you, and have done me
a great service. You are now repub-
lishing it with my cordial concurrence ;
but I take this opportunity of noticing,
lest there should be any mistake on
the part of the public, that you do so
with a different object from that which
I had when I wrote it Its original
purpose was simply that of justifying
myself and others in subscribing to
the Thirty-nine Articles while profess-
ing many tenets which had popularly
been considered distinctive of the Ro-
man faith. I considered that my inter-
pretation of the Articles, as I gave it in
that Tract, would stand, provided the
parties imposing them allowed it, otlier-
wise I thought it could not stand; and,
when in the event the bishops and public
opinion did not allow it, I gave up my
living, as having no right to retain it.
My feeling about the interpretation is
expressed in a passage in <' Loss and
Gam," which runs thus :
" ' Lb it/ asked Reding, ' a received view r
* No view is received/ said the other ; ' the
Articles themselves are received, bat there
is no authoritative interpretation of them
at all.' ' WeU,' said Reding, 'is it a tol-
erated view?' 'It certainly has been
strongly opposed,' answered Bateman;
' bat it has never been condemned.' ' That
is no answer,' said Charlee. 'Does any
one bishop hold it ? Did any one bishop
ever hold it ? Has it ever been formally
admitted as tenable by any one bishop?
Is it a view got up to meet existing diffl-
colties, or has it an historical existence?'
Bateman could give only one answer to
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. NewmaC9 Answer to Dr. Pmey. 61
tliese qaestioim, aa they were Buccessively Btill more promising drcuinstance I tliink
pot to Mm. • I thought bo/ said Charles ; your lordship will with me consider the
•the view is specious certainly. I don't vlan which the eventful 'Tract No 90*
we why it might not have done, had it has pursued, and in which Mr. Ward Mr
been tolerably sanctioned ; but you have Oakeley, and even Dr. Pusey have airreed*
no sanction to show me. As it stands, it I aUude to the method of brinaim tJieir
is a mere theory struck out by individuals.
Oar church might have adopted this
mode of interpretins the Articles; but,
from what you tell me, it certainly has
not done so.' "— <;h. 15.
However, the Tract did not carry
its object and conditions on its face,
and necessarily lay open to interpre-
tations very far from the true one. Dr.
Wiseman (as he then was), in partic-
ular, with the keen apprehension
which was his characteristic, at once
saw in it a basis of accommodapon be-
tween Anglicanism and Rome. He
snggested broadly that the decrees of
the Council of Trent should be made the
pule of interpretation for the Thirty-
nine Articles, a proceeding of which
Sancta Clara, I think, had set the ex-
ample ; and, as you have observed, pub-
lished a letter to Lord Shrewsbury on
the subject) of which the following are
extracts :
^ ^ . . bringing their
aoetnnea into accordance toith ourt }yg ex-
planation, A foreign priest has pointed
out to us a valuable document for our con*
sideratlon— ' Bossuet's Reply to the Pope/
when consulted on the best method of
reconciling the followers of the Augsburg
Confession with the Holy See. The learned
bishop observes, that Providence had al-
Ipowed so much Catholic truth to be pre-
served in that Confession that full ad-
vantage should be taken of the circum-
stance; tliat no retractations should be
demanded, but an explanation of the
Confession in accordance with Catholic
doctrines. Now, for such a method as
this, the way is in part prepared by the
demonstration that such interpretation
may be given of the most difficult Arti-
cles as wiU strip them of all contradic-
tion to the decrees of the Tridentine
Synod. The same method may be pur-
sued on other points ; and much pain may
thus be spared to individuals, and much
difficulty to the church."— Pp. 11, 85, 88.
This use of my Tract, so different
from my own, but sanctioned by the
We Catholics must necessarily deplore ^"^^ "?^® ^^ our cardinal, you are
• "- - now revivmg; and I gather from your
doing so, that your bishops and the
opinion of the public are likely now,
or in prospect, to admit what twenty-
five years ago they refused. On this
point, much as it rejoices me to know
your anticipation, of course I cannot
have an opinion.
4. So much for "Tract 90." On the
other hand, as to my " Essay on Doc-
trinal Development,*' I am sorrjr to
find you do not look upon it with
friendly eyes; though h6w, without
its aid, you can maintain the doctrines
of the Holy Trinity and incarnation,
and others which you hold, I cannot
understand. You consider my princi-
ple may be the means, in time to come,
of introducing into our Creed, as por-
tions of the necessary CathoHc faith,
the infallibili^ of the Pope, and va-
rious opinions, pious or profane, as it
may be, about our Blessed Lady. I
hope to remove your anxiety as to
these consequences^ before I bring mj
[England's] separation as a deep moral
evil — as a state of schism of which noth-
ing can justify the continuance. Many
members of the Anglican Church view it
in the same light as to the first point — ^its
aad evil ; though they excuse their indi-
vidual position in it as an unavoidable
misfortune. . . . We may depend
upon a willing, an able, and a most zeal-
ous cooperation with any efibrt which we
may make toward bringing her into her
rightful position, in Catholic unity with
VSd Holy See and the churches of its obe-
dience—in other words, with the Church
Catholic. Is this a visionary idea T Is it
merely the expression of a strong desire ?
I know that many i«ill so judge it ; and,
perhaps, weze I to consult my own quiet,
I would not venture to express It. But I
will, in slmpllci^ of heart, ding to hope-
fnlnesSk cheered, as I feel it, by so many
promidng appearances. . . .
" A natural question here presents itself
— what fsdlities appear in the present
state of things for bringing about so hap-
w a consummation as the reunion of
taiglsTid to the Catholic Church, beyond
what have before existed, and ps^icular-
ly under ArehbishopB Laud or Wake ? It
strikes me, many. Flist^ etc ... A
Digitized by CjOOQIC
52
Dr, Newnum^a Anmoer to Dr. Puny.
observations to an end ; at present I
notice it as mj apology for interfering
in a controversy which at first sight is
no business of mine.
5. I have another reason for writ-
ing ; and that is, unless it is rude in
me to say so, because you seem to
think writing does not become me. I
do not like silently to acquiesce in
such a judgment You say at p. 98 :
** Nothing can be more unpractical than
for an individaal to throw himself into
the Roman Church because ho could ac-
cept the letter of the Council of Trent.
Those who were bom Roman Catholics
have a liberty which, in the nature of
things, a person could not have who left
another system to embrace thai of Rome.
I cannot imagine how any faith oould
stand the shock of leaving one system,
criticising it, and cast himself into an-
other system, criticising it. For myself, I
have always felt that nad (which God of
his mercy avert hereafter also) the Eng-
lish Church, by accepting heresy, driven
me out of it, I could have gone in no
other way than that of closing my eyes,
and accepting whatever was put before
me. But a liberty which individuals
could not use, and explanations which, so
long as they remain individual, must be
unauthoritative, might be formally made
by the Church of Rome to the Church of
England aa the basis of reunion."
And again, p. 210 :
" It seems to me to be a psychological
Impossibility for one who has already ex-
change one qrstem for another to make
those distinctions. One who, by his own
act, places himself under authority, can«
not moke conditions about his submission.
But definite explanations of our Articles
have, before now, been at least tentative-
ly offered to us, on the Roman and Greek
side, as suffident to restore communion;
and the Roman explanations too were, in
most cases, mere supplements to our Ar-
ticles, on points upon which our Church
had not spoken."
Now passages such as these seem
almost a challenge to me to speak,
and to keep silence would be to assent
to the justice of them. At the cost,
then, of speaking about myself, of
which I feel there has been too much
of late, I observe upon them as fol-
lows : Of course, as you say, a con-
vert comes to learn, and not to pick
and choose. He comes in simplicity
and confidence, and it does not occur
to him to weigh and measure every
proceeding, every practice which he
meets with among those whom he has
joined. He comes to Catholicism as
to a living system, with a living teach-
ing, and not to a mere collection of
decrees and canons, which by them-
selves are of course but the frame-
work, not the body and snbetanoe, of
the church. And this is a truth which
concerns, which binds, those also who
never knew any other religion, not
only the convert. By the Catholic
system I mean that rule of life and
those practices of devotion for which
we shall look in vain in the Creed of
Pope Pius. The convert comes, not
only to believe the church, but also
to trust and obey her priests, and to
conform himself in charity to her peo-
ple. It would never do for him to re-
solve that he never would say a Hail
Mary, never avail himself of an indul-
gence, never kiss a crucifix, never ac-
cept the Lent dispensations, never
mention a venial sin in confession.
All this would not only be unreal, but
dangerous, too, as arguing a wrong
state of mind, which could not look to
receive the divine blessing. More-
over, he comes to the ceremonial, and
the moral theology, and the ecclesiasti-
cal regulations which he finds on the
spot where his lot is cast. And again,
as regards matters of politics, of edu-
cation^ of general expedience, of taste,
he does not criticise or controvert.
And thus surrendering himself to the
infiuences of his new religion, and not
losing what is revealed trudi bj at-
tempting by his own private rule to
discriminate every moment its sub-
stance from its accidents, he is gradual-
ly so indoctrinated in Catholicism as at
length to have a right to speak as
well as to hear. Also, in course of
time, a new generation rises round
him ; and there is no reason why he
should not know as much, and decide
questions with as true an instinct, as
those who perhaps number fewer
yearo than he does Easier. oommuiK
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Newman^s Answer to Dr. Pmey,
58
ions. He has mastered the fact and
die natare of the differences of theo-
logian from theologian, school fix>m
school, nation from nation, era from
era. He knows that there is much of
what may be called fashion in opin-
ions and practices, according to the
circumstances of time and place, ac-
cording to current politics, the charac-
ter of the Pope of the day, or the chief
prelates of a particular country, and
that fiishions change. His experience
tells him, that sometimes what is de-
nounced in one place as a great offence,
or pffeached up as a first principle,
has in another nation been immemori-
aily r^;arded in just a contrary sense,
or has made no sensation at all, one
way or the other^ when brought before
public opinion'; and that loud talkers,
in the church as elsewhere, are apt to
carry all before them, while quiet and
conscientious persons commonly have
%o pYQ way. He perceives that, in
matters which happen to be in debate,
ecclesiastical authority watches the
state of opinion and the direction and
coarse of controversy, and decides ac-
cordingly ; so that in certain cases to
keep back his own judgment on a
point is to be disloyal to his fiuperiors.
So far generally ; now in particular
as to myself. After twenty years of
Oatholic life, I feel no delicacy in
giving my opinion on any point when
there is a call for me, and the only
reason why I have not done so sooner,
or more often than I have, is that
diere has been no calL I have now
reluctantly come to the conclusion
that your volume U a calL Certain-
ly, in many instances in which theo-
k>gian di&rs from theologian, and
country from country, I have a defi-
nite judgment of my own ; I can say
oo without offence to any one, for the
very reason that from the nature of
the case it is impossible to agree with
all of them. I prefer English habits
of belief and devotion to foreign,
£rom the same causes, and by the
aame right, which justify foreigners
in preferring their own. In following
tbo(M of my people, I show less singu-
larity and create less disturbance
than if I made a flourish with what is
novel and exotic And in this line of
conduct I am but availing myself of
the teaching which I fell in with on
becoming a Catholic; and it is a
pleasure to me to think that what I
hold now, and would transmit after
me if I could, is only what I received
then. The utmost delicacy was ob-
served on all hands in giving me ad-
vice; only one warning remains on
my mind, and it came from Dr.
Griffiths, the late vicar-apostolic of
the London district. He warned me
against books of devotion of the Ital-
ian school, which were just at
that time coming into England; and
when I asked him what books he re-
commended as safe guides, he bade me
get the works of Bishop Hay. By
this I did not understand that he was
jealous of all Italian books, or made
himself responsible for all that Dr.
Hay happens to have said; but I
took him to caution me against a
character and tone of religion, excel-
lent in its place, not suited for Eng-
land. When I went to Rome, though
it may seem strange to you to say it,
even there I learned nothing inconsist^
ent with this judgment. Local influ-
ences do not supply an atmosphere
for its institutions and colleges, which
are Catholic in teaching as well as in
name. I recollect one saying among
others of my confessor, a Jesuit fa-
ther, one of the holiest, most prudent
men I ever knew. He said diat we
could not love the Blessed Virgin too
much, if we loved our Lord a great
deal more. When I returned to
England, ih^ first expression of theo-
logical opinion which came in my
way was apropos of the series of
translated saints' lives which the late
Dr. Faber originated. That expres-
sion proceeded from a wise prelate,
who was properly anxious as to the
line which might be taken by the
Oxford converts, then for the first
time coming into work. According as
I recollect his opinion, he was appre-
hensive of the effect of Italian compo-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
64
Dr. NeumuaCs Atuwer to Dr. Ptuey.
sitions, as nnsuited to this country,
and suggested that the lives should
be original works, drawn up by our-
selyes and our friends from Italian
sources. If at that time I was
betrayed into any acts which were of
a more extreme character than I
should approve now, the responsibili-
ty of course is mine ; but the impulse
came not from old Catliolics or superi-
ors, but from men whom I loved and
trusted who were younger than my-
self. But to whatever extent I might
be carried away, and I cannot recol-
lect any tangible instances, my mind
in no long time fell back to what seems
to me a safer and more practical
course.
Though I am a conven, then, I
think I have a right to speak out;
and that the more because other
converts have spoken for a long time,
while I have not spoken ; and with still
more reason may I speak without
offence in the case of your present
criticisms of us, considering that, in
the charges you bring, the only two
English writers you quote in evi-
^ dence are both of them converts,
younger in age than myself. I put
aside the archbishop, of course, be-
cause of his office. These two
authors are worthy of all considera-
tion, at once from their character and
from their ability. In their respect-
ive lines they are perhaps without
equals at this particular time; and
they deserve the influence they pos-
sess. One is still in the vigor of his
powers; the other has departed amid
the tears of hundreds. It is pleasant
to praise them for their real qoallflca-
tions ; but why do you rest on them
as authorities ? Because the one was
** a popular writer ;" but is there not
sufficient reason for this in the
fact of his remarkable gifls, of his
poetical fancy, his engaging frank-
ness, his playful wit, his affec-
tionateness, his sensitive piety, with-
out supposing that the wide dif-
fusion of his works arises out of
his particular sentiments about the
Blessed Yirgm? And as to our
other friend, do not his energy, acute-
ness, and theological reading, dis-
played on the vantage ground of the
historic " Dublin Review,** fully
account for the sensation he has pro-
duced, without supposing that any
great number of our body go his
lengths in their view of the Pope's
infallibility? Our silence as regards
their writings is very intelligible:
it is not agreeable to protest, in
the sight of the world, against the
writings of men in our own commun-
ion whom we love and respect. But
the plain fact is this — they came to
the Church, and have thereby saved
their souls ; but they are in no senoe
spokesmen for English Catholics, and
they must not stand in the place ci
those who have a real title to such an
office. The chief authors of the pass-
ing generation, some of them still
alive, others gone to their reward, are
Cardinal Wiseman, Dr. Ullathome,
Dr. Lingard, Mr. Tiemey, Dr. Oliver,
Dr. Rock, Dr. Waterworth, Dr.
Husenbeth, and Mr. Flanagan; which
of these ecclesiastics has said any-
thing extreme about the prerogatives
of ^e Blessed Virgin or the infalli-
bility of the Pope?
I cannot, then, without remon-
strance, allow you to identify the doe-
trine of our Oxford friends in ques-
tion, on the two subjects I have men-
tioned, with the present spirit or the
prospective creed of Catholics ; or to
assume, as you do, that, because tiiey
are thorough-going and relentless in
their statements, therefore they are
the harbingers of a new age, when to
show a dcfbrence for antiquity will be
thought little else than a mistake.
For myself, hopeless as you consider it,
I am not ashamed still to take my
stand upon the fathers, and do not
mean to budge. The history of their
times is not yet an old almanac to me.
Of course I maintain the value and
authority of the " Schola," as one of
the loci theologict ; still I sympathize
with Petavius in preferring to its
"contentious and subtle tibeology"
that " morC' elegant and fruitful teach-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr, NewnuaC$ Answer to Dr. Pum^,
55
ing which is moulded afler the image
of erudite antiquity." The fathers
made me a CathoHc, and I am not
going to kick down the ladder bj
which I ascended into the church.
It 18 a ladder quite as serviceable for
that purpose now as it was twenty
years ago. Though I hold, as you
remaik, a process of derelopment in
apostolic truth as time goes on, such
development does not supersede the
fathers, but explains and completes
them. And, in particular, as regards
onr teaching concerning the Blessed
Virgin, with the fathers I am content ;
and to the subject of that teaching I
mean to address myself at once. I
do so because you say, as I myself
have said in former years, that <^ that
▼ast system as to the Blessed Virgin
• • • . to all of us has been the
special crux of the Roman system,"
p. 101. Here, I say, as on other
points, the fathers are enough for me.
I do not wish to say more than they,
and will not say less. You, I know,
will profess the same ; and thus we
can join issue on a clear and broad
principle, and may hope to come to
some intelligible result. We are to
have a treatise on the subject of our
Lady soon from the pen of the most
reverend prelate; but that cannot
interfere with such a mere argument
from the fathers as that to which I
shall confine myself here. Nor in-
deed, as regards that aigument itself,
do I profess to be offering you any
new matter, any facts which have not
been used by others — by great di-
vines, as Petavius, by living writers,
nay, by myself on other occasions ; I
write afresh nevertheless, and that for
Uiree reasons : first, because I wish to
contribute to the accurate statement
and the full exposition of the argu-
ment in question; next^ because I
may gain a more patient hearing than
has sometimes been granted to better
men than myself; lastly, because
there just now seems a call on me, un-
der my circumstances, to avow plain-
ly what I do and what I do not hold
aboat the Blessed Virgin, that others
may know, did they come to stand
where I stand, what they would and
what they would not be bound to hold
concermng her.
I begin by making a distinction
which will go far to remove good part
of the difficulty of my undertaking, as
it presents itself to ordinary inquirers
— the distinction between faith and de-
votion. I fully grant that devotion to-
ward the Blessed Virgin has increas-
ed among Catholics with the progress
of centuries ; I do not allow that the
doctrine concerning her has undergone
a growth, for I believe that it has
been in substance one and the same
from the beginning.
By "faith" I mean the Creed and
the ^ceptance of the Creed ; by " de-
votion" I mean such religious honors
as belong to the objecis of our faith,
and the payment of those honors.
Faith and devotion are as distinct in
fact as they are in idea. We cannot,
indeed, be devout without faith, but
we may believe without feeling devo-
tion. Of this phenomenon every one
has experience both in himself and in
others ; and we express it as often as
we speak of realizing a truth or not
realizing it It may be illustrated,
with more or less exactness, by mat-
ters which come before us in the
world. For instance, a great author,
or public man, may be acknowledged
as such for a course of years ; yet
there may be an increase, an ebb and
flow, and a fashion, in his popularity.
And if he takes a lasting place in the
minds of his countrymen, he may
gradually grow into it, or suddenly be
raised to it. The idea of Shakespeare
as a great poet has existed from a
very early date in public opinion ; and
there were at least individuals then
who understood him as well, and hon-
ored him as much, as the English peo-
ple can honor him now ; yet, I think,
there is a national devotion to him in
this day such as never has been be-
fore. This has happened because, as
education spreads in the country, there
are more men able to enter into his
Digitized by CjOOQIC
56
Dr. NeumwaCi Answer to Dr. Ptuey,
poetical genias, and, among these,
more capacity again for deeply and
critically understanding him ; and yet,
from the first, he has exerted a great
insensible influence over the nation,
as is seen in the circumstance that his
phrases and sentences, more than can
be numbered, have become almost
proverbs among us. And so again in
philosophy, and in the arts and
sciences, great truths and principles
have sometimes been known and ac-
knowledged for a course of years;
but, whether from feebleness of intel-
lectual power in the recipients, or ex-
ternal circamstances of an accidental
kind, they have not been turned to ac-
count. Thus, the Chinese are said to
have known of the properties of the
magnet from time immemorial, ^d to
have used it for land expeditions, yet
not on the sea. Again, the ancients
knew of the principle that water finds
its own level, but seem to have made
little application of their knowledge.
And Aristotle was familiar with the
principle of induction ; yet it was left
for Bacon to develop it into an ex-
perimental philosophy. Illustrations
such as these, though not altogether
apposite, serve to convey that distmc-
tion between faith and devotion on
which I am insisting. It is like the
distinction between objective and sub*
jective truth. The sun in the spring-
time will have to shine many days be-
fore he is able to melt the frost, open
the soil, and bring out the leaves ; yet
he shines out from the first, notwith-
standing, though he makes his power
felt but gradually* It is one and the
same sun, though his influence day by
day becomes greater; and so in the
Catholic Church, it is the one Virgin
Mother, one and the same from first
to last, and Catholics may acknow-
ledge her; and yet, in spite of that
acknowledgment, their devotion to
her may be scanty in one time and
place and overflowing in another.
This distinction is forcibly brought
home to a convert, as a peculiarity of
the Catholic religion, on his first intro-
duction to its worship. The faith is
everywhere one and the same ; but a
large liberty is accorded to private
judgment and inclination in matters of
devotion. Any large church, with its
collections and groups of people, will
illustrate this. The fabric itself is
dedicated to Almighty Grod, and that
under the invocation of the Blessed
Virgin, or some particular saint; or
again, of some mystery belonging to the
Divine name, or to the incarnation, or
of some mystery associated with the
Blessed Virgin. Perhaps there are
seven altars or more in it, and these
again have their seveiBl saints. Then
there is the feast proper to the partic-
ular day ; and, during the celebration
of mass, of all tiie worshippers who
crowd around the priest each has his
own particular devotions, with which
he follows the rite. No one interferes
with his neighbor ; agreeing, as it were,
to differ, they pursue independently a
common en^ and by paths, distinct
but converging, present themselves be-
fore God. TJien there are confra-
ternities attached to the church : of the
sacred heart, or the precious blood ; as-
sociations of prayer for a good death,
or the repose of departed souls, or the
conversion of the heathen : devotions
connected with the brown, blue, or red
scapular; not to speak of the great
ordinary ritual through the four sea-
sons, the constant presence of the bless-
ed sacrament, its ever recurring rite of
benediction, and its extraordinary forty
hours' exposition. Or, again, look
through some such manual of prayers
as the BaccoltOj and you at once will
see both the number and the variety
of devotions which are open to indi-
vidual Catholics to choose from, ac-
cording to their religious taste and
prospect of personal edification.
Now these diversified modes of hon-
oring God did not come to us in a day,
or only from the apostles ; they are
the accumulations of centuries; and,
as in the course of years some of them
spring up, so others decline and die
Some are local, in memory of some
particular saint who happens to be the
evangelist, or patron, or pride of the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Ifewman^a Jntwer to Dr. Pusey.
57
nadon, or who is entombed in the
church, or in the city where it staiids ;
and these, necessarilj, cannot have an
earlier date than the saint's day of
death or interment there. The first of
such sacred observances, long before
these national memories, were the de-
votions paid to the apostles, then
those which were paid to the martyrs ;
yet there were saints nearer to our
Lord than either martyrs or apostles ;
but, as if these had been lost in the ef-
fulgence of his glory, and because they
were not manifested in external works
separate from him, it happened that
for a long while they were less thought
of. However, in process of time the
apostles, and then the martyrs, exerted
lead inflnence than before over the pop-
ular mind, and the local saints, new
creations of God's power, took their
plac^, or again, the saints of some re-
ligious order here or there established.
Then, as comparatively quiet times
succeeded, the religious meditations of
holy men and their secret intercourse
with heaven gradually exerted an in-
fluence out of doors, and permeated
the Christian populace, by the instru-
mentality of preaching and by the cere-
monial of the church. Then those
luminous stars rose in the ecclesiastical
heavens which were of more august
dignity than any which had preceded
them, and were late m rising for the
very reason that they were so special-
ly glorious. Those names, I say, which
at first sight might liave been expected
to enter soon into the devotions of the
feuthful, with better reason might have
been looked for at a later date, and ao»
taolly were late in their coming. St
Joseph fomishes the most striking
instance of this remark; here is the
clearest of instances of the distinc-
tion between doctrine and devotion.
Who, from his prerogatives and the tes-
timony on which they come to us, had
a greater claim to receive an early re-
cognition among the ^ithful ? A saint
of Scripture, the foster-father of our
Lord, was an object of the univar-
sal and absolute faith of the Chris-
tian world &om the firet, yet the devo-
tion to him is comparatively of late
date. When once it began, men
seemed surprised that it had not been
thought of before ; and now they hold
him next to the Blessed Virgin in their
religious affection and veneration.
As regards the Blessed Virgin, I
shall postpone the question of devotion
for a while, and inquire first into the
doctrine of the undivided church (to
use your controversial phrase) on the
subject of her prerogatives.
What is the great rudimental teach-
ing of antiquity from its earliest date
concerning her? By << rudimental
teaching" I mean the prtmd facie
view of her 3)erson and office, the broad
outline laid down of her, the aspect
under which she comes to us in the
writings of the fathers. She is the
second Eve.* Now let us consider
what this implies. £ve had a definite,
essential position in the first covenant.
The fate of the human race lay with
Adam ; he it was who represented us.
It ^ as in Adam that we fell; though
Eve had fallen, still, if Adam had stood,
we should not have lost those super-
natural privileges which were bestowed
upon him as our first father. Yet
though Eve was not the head of the
race, still, even as regards the race,
she had a place of her own ; for Adam,
to whom was divinely committed the
naming of all things, entitled her ^ the
mother of all the living ;" a name sure-
ly expressive not of a fact only but of
a dignity ; but further, as she thus had
her own general relation to the human
race, so again had she her own special
place, as regards its trial and its fall
in Adam. In those primeval events,
Eve had an integral share. *<The
woman, being seduced, was in the
transgression." She listened to the
evil angel ; she offered the fruit to her
husband, and he ate of it. She co-
operated not as an irresponsible in-
strument, but intimately and person-
ally in the sin ; she brought it about.
As the history stands, she was a sine
qua nofiy a positive, active cause of it.
• Fitf. "BsuyonDeTelopmentof Doctrine,**
l&i5, p. 884, etc
Digitized by CjOOQIC
58
2)r. Newman^s Answer to Dr. Pusey.
And she had her share in iU punish-
ment ; in the sentence pronounced on
her, she was recognized as a real agent
in the temptation and its issue, and
she suffered accordingly. In that aw-
ful transaction there were three parties
concerned — the serpent, the woman,
and the man ; and at the time of their
sentence an event was announced for
the future, in which the three same
parties were to meet again, the ser-
pent, the woman, and the man ; but it
was to be a second Adam and a second
Eve, and the new Eve was to be tlie
mother of the new Adam. ^I will
put enmitj between thee and the wom-
an, and between thj seed and her seed.**
The seed of the woman is the word in-
carnate, and the woman whose seed or
son he is is his mother Marj. This
interpretation and the parallelism it in-
volves seem to me undeniable ; but, at
all events (and this is mj point), the
parallelism is the doctrine of the fa-
thers, from the earliest times ; and, this
being established, hj the position and
office of Eve in our fall, we are able
to determine the position and office of
Marj in our restoration.
I shall adduce passages from their
writings, with their respective coun-
tries and dates; and the dates shall
extend from their births or conversions
to their deaths, since what thej pro-
pound is at once the doctrme which
thej had received from the genera-
tion before them, and the doctrine
which was accepted and recognized as
true bj the generation to whom they
transmitted it.
First, then, St. Justin Martyr (a.d.
120-165), St. IreniBus (120-200),
and TertuUian (160-240). Of these
Tertullian represents Africa and
Rome, St Justin represents Pales-
tine, and St. Irenaeus Asia Minor and
Gaul— or rather he represents St. John
the Evangelist, for he had been taught
by the martyr St. Polycarp, who was
the intimate associate, as of St. John,
60 of the other apostles. ^
1. St. Justm :♦
• I haye attempted to translate literally with-
oot caring to wrlie JSnglUh.
•* Wo know that he, before all creatares
proceeded from the Father by his powoi
and will,. . . and by means of the Virfui
bacame man, that by what way the dis
obedience arising from the serpent had its
beginning, by that way also it might have
an undoing. For Eve, bein^ a virgin and
undefiled, conceiving the word that was
from the serpent, brought forth disobedi-
ence and death; but the Virgin Mary,
taking faith and joy, when the angel told
her the good tidings, that the Spirit of the
Lord should come upon her and the power
of the highest overshadow her, and there-
fore the holy one that was bom of hex
was Son of 6^od, answered. Be it to me ac-
cording to thy word."— 2^pA. 100.
2. Tertullian:
" God recovered his image and likenesB,
which the devil had seized, by a rival op-
eration. For into Eve, as yet a virgin,
had crept the word which was the framer
of death. Equally into a virgin was to be
introduced the Word of Qod which was
the builder-up of life ; that, what by that
sex had gone into perdition, by the same
sex might be brought back to salvation.
Eve had believed the serpent ; Mary be-
lieved Gabriel ; the fault which the one
committed by believing, the other by be-
lieving has blotted out." — De 6am.
Ohriit, 17.
3. St Iren«us :
" With a fitness, Mary the Virgin Is
found obedient, saying, ' Behold thy hand-
maid, O Lord ; be it to me according to
thy word.' But Eve was disobedient ; for
she obeyed not, while she was yet a vir-
gln. As she, having indeed Adam for a
usband, but as yet being a virgin, . . be-
coming disobedient, became the cause of
death both to herself and to the whole hu-
man race, so also Many, having the pre-
destined man, and being yet a virgin, be-
ing obedient, became both to herself and
to the whole human race the cause of sal-
vation. . . . And on account of this the
Lord said, that the first would be last and
the last first. And the prophet signifies
the same, saying, ' Instead of fathers you
have children.' For, whereas the Lord,
w^hen bom, was the first begotten of the
dead, and received into his bosom the
primitive fathers, he regenerated them
into the life of God, he himself becoming
the beginning of the living, since Adam
became the beginning of the dying.
Therefore also Luke, commencing the
lines of generations from the Lord, refer-
red it back to Adam, signifyinff that he
regenerated the old fathers, not they him,
iato the gospel of life. And so the knot
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. NewnunCs Answer to Dr. Pu$ey.
69
of Ere's disobedience received its nnloos-
ing throagh the obedience of Mary ; for
what Eve, a virgin, lx>und by incredulity,
that Maij, a virgin, onlooeed by faith." —
Adv. Hmr, iU. 22. 34.
And again:
" Ab Eve by the speech of an angel was
seduced, so al to flee Qod, transmesing
his word, so also Mai^ received the good
tidings by means of the angel's speech, so
as to bear God within her, being obedient
to his word. And, though the one had
disobeyed God, vet the other was drawn
to obey God ; that of the virgin Eve tl^e
virgin Mary might become the advocate.
And, as by a virgin the human race had
been bound to death, by a virgin it is
saved, the balance being preserved, a Vir-
ginia disobedience by a virgin's obedience."
-JWi«.v.l9.
Now, what IS especially noticeable in
these three writers is, that they do
not speak of the Blessed Virgin as
the physical instrument of our Lord's
taking flesh, but as an intelligent, re-
sponsible cause of it; her faith and
obedience being accessories to the in-
carnation, and gaining it as her reward.
As Eve failed in these virtues, and
thereby brought on the fall of the race
in Adam, so Marj bj means of them
had a part in its restoration. You
implj, pp. 255, 256, that the Blessed
Virgin was onlj a physical instrument
in our redemption ; ^ what has been
said of her by the fathers as the
chosen vessd of the incarnation, was
applied ^>6rsona% to her " (that is, by
Catholics), p. 151; and again, *' The
&thers speak of the Blessed Virgin
as the instrument of our salvation, in
thai she gave birth to the Redeemer,''
pp. 155, 156 ; whereas St. Augustine,
in well-known passages, speaks of her
as more exalted by her sanctity than
by her relationship to our Lord.*
However, not to go beyond the doc-
trine of the three fathers, they unan-
imoosly declare that she was not a
mere iostrument in the incarnation,
such as David, or Judah, may be con-
sidered ; they declare she co-operated
in our salvation, not merely by the
descent of the Holy Ghost upon her
• Opp., t. S» p. S, eoLSSD, t. S, col. Z^
body, but by specific holy acts, the
effect of the Holy Ghost upon her
soul ; that, as Eve forfeited privileges
by sin, so Mary earned privileges by
the fruits of grace ; that, as Eve was
disobedient and unbelieving, so Mary
was obedient and believing ; that, as
Eve was a cause of ruin to all, Mary
was a cause of salvation to all; that, ,
as Eve made room for Adam's fall, so
Mary made room for our Lord's
reparation of it; and thus, whereas
the free gift was not as the offence, but
much greater, it follows that, as Eve
co-operated in effecting a great evil,
Mary co-operated in efiecting a much
greater good.
And, beside the run of the argu-
ment, which reminds the reader of
St. Paul's antithetical sentences in
tracing the analogy between Adam's
work and our Lord s work, it is well
to observe the particular words under
which the Blessed Virgin's o£Eice is
described. TertuUian says that
Mary "blotted out" Eve's fault, and
*' brought back the female sex," or
^the human race,, to salvation;"
and St. IrensBUs says that " by obedi-
ence she was the cause or occasion"
(whatever was the original Greek word)
^of salvation to herself and the
whole human race f that by her the
human race is saved; that by her
Eve's complication is disentangled;
and that she is Eve's advocate, or
friend in need. It is supposed by
critics, Protestant as well as Cathohc,
that the Greek word for advocate in
the ongioal was paraclete ; it should
be borne in mind, then, when we are
accused of giving our Lady the titles
and offices of her Son, that St. Irenie-
us bestows on her the special name
and office proper to the Holy Ghost.
So much as to the nature of this
triple testimony ; now as to the worth
of it. For a moment put aside St.
Irenseus, and put together St Jus-
tin in the East with TertuUian in
the West I think I may assume
that the doctrine of these two fathers
about the Blessed Virgin was the re-
ceived doctrine of their own respects
Digitized by CjOOQIC
60
Dr. Newnum*s Answer to Dr. Posey.
ire times and places; for \mters a^
ter all are but witnesses of facts and
beliefs, and as such thej are treated
hj all parties in cpntroversial discus*
sion. Moreover, the coincidence of
doctrine which thej exhibit, and,
again, the antithetical completeness or
it, show that they themselves did not
originate it. The next question is,
Who did ? For from one definite or-
gan or source, place or person, it
must have come. Then we must in-
<intre, what length of time would it
take for such a doctrine to have ex-
tended, and to be received, in the sec-
(Hid century over so wide an area;
that is, to be received before the year
200 in Palestine, Africa, and Borne ?
Can we refer the^common source of
these local traditions to a date later
than that of the apostles, St. John*
dying within thirty or forty years of
St. Justins conversion and Tertul-
lian's birth? Make what allowance
you will for whatever possible excep-
tions can be taken to this representa-
tion ; and then, after doing so, add to
the concordant testimony of these two
fathers the evidence of St. Irenaeus,
which is so close upon the school of
St. John himself in Asia Minor.
" A three-fold cord," as the wise man
says, " is not quickly broken." Only
suppose there were so early and so
broad a testimony to the eSOect that
our Lord was a mere man, the son of
Joseph ; should we be able to insist
upon the faith of the Holy Trinity as
necessary to salvation? Or suppos-
ing three such witnesses could be
brought to the &ct that a consistory
of elders governed the local churches,
or that each local congregation was
an independent church, or that the
Christian community was without
priests, could Anglicans maintain
their doctrine tibat the rule of episco-
pal succession is necessary to consti-
tute a 'church? And recollect that
the Anglican Church especially ap-
peals to the ante-Nicene centuries,
and taunts us with having superseded
their testimony.
Having then adduced these three
fathers of the second century, I have
at least got so far as this, viz., no
one, who acknowledges the force of
early testimony in determining Chris-
tian truth, can wonder, no one can
complain, can object, that we Catho-
lics should hold a very high doctrine
concerning the Blessed A^i'gin, unless
indeed stronger statements can be
brought for a contrary conception of
her, either of as early, or at least of a
later date. But, as far as I know,
no statements can be brought from the
ante-Nicene literature to invalidate
the testimony of the three fathers
concerning her; and little can be
brought against it from the fourth
century, while in that fourth cen-
tury the current of testimony in her
behalf is as strong as in the second ;
and, as to the fifth, it is far stronger
than in any former time, both in its
fulness and its authority. This will
to some extent be seen as I pro-
ceed.
4. St Cyril, of Jerusalem (315-
8B6), speaks for Palestine :
"Since thioagh Eve, & viigixi, came
death, it behoved that through a virgin,
or ratber from a virgin, should life ap-
pear ; that, as the serpent had deceived
the one, so to the other (iabriel might
bring good tidings."— C^. xii. 15.
5. St. Ephrem Syrus (lie died
378) is a witness for the Syrians
proper and the neighboring Orientals,
in contrast to the Qraeco-Syrians. A
native of Nisibis, on the farther side
of the Euphrates, be knew no Ian*
guagebut Syriac:
" Through Eve the beautiful and desir-
able glory of men was eztinguiBhed ; bat
it has revived through Mary.^' — Opp, Syr,
U. p. 318.
Again:
" In the beginning, by the eln of our
first parents, death passed upon all men ;
to-day, through Mary, we are translated
from death unto life. In the beginning,
the serpent filled the ears of Eve, and the
poison spread thence over the whole body ;
to4ay, Maiy from her ears received the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. NewmtaCt Jmwer to Dr. Pusay.
61
diampion of eternal hsppineM; what,
theiefop^ was an instroment of death,
vas &n instrument of life also." — ill. p.
607.
I have already referred to St
Paal's contrast betweea Adam and
oar Lord in his Epistle to the Bo*
mans, as also in his first Epistle to
the Corinthians. Some writers at*
tonpt to BBj that there is no doctrin-
al troth, but a mere rhetorical dis-
pkij, in those passages. It is quite
as easj to say so as to attempt so to
dispose of this received comparison,
in the writings of the fathers^ be-
tween Eve and Maiy.
6. St. Epiphanius (320-400) speaks
for Egypt, Palestine, and Cyprus :
" She it is who is signified by Eve, en-
Igmatically receiving the appellation of
the mother of the living. ... It was
a wonder that after the fall she had this
great epithet. And, according to what is
material, from that Eve all the race of
men on earth is generated. Bat thns in
troth from Mary the Life itself was born
in the world, that Maiy might bear living
things and become the mother of living
things. Therefore, enigmaticallj, Mary
is caiUed the mother of living things. . .
Also, there is another thing to consider
as to these women, and wonderfal*-as to
Eve and Maiy. Eve became a cause of
dsath to man . . . and Mary a canse
of life ; . . . that life might be in-
stead of death, fife excluding death which
came from the woman, viz., he who
throogh the woman has become oar life."
"Hmr. 78. 18.
7. By the time of St. Jerome (331-
420), the contrast between Eve and
Harf had almost passed into a groverb*
He says (Ep. xxiL 21, ad Eustoch.),
« Death by Eve, life by Mary." Nor
let it be supposed that he, any more
than the preceding fathers, considered
the Blessed Virgin a mere physical
instrument of giving birth to onr Lord,
who is the life. So far from it, in the
^isfJe from which I have quoted, he
k only adding another yirtue to that
• crown which gained for Mary her di-
vine maternity* They have spoken of
fidth, joy, and obedience ; St. Jerome
addsy what tbey bad only aoggeited^
vii^mity. After the manner of the
fathers in his own day, he is setting forth
the Blessed Mary to the high-born
Boman lady whom he is addressing
as the model of the virginal life ; and
his argument in its behalf is, that it is
higher than the marriage state, not in
itself, viewed in any mere natural re-
spect^ but as being the free act of self-
consecration to Grod, and from the per-
sonal religious purpose which it in*
volves :
''Higher wage/' he says, "is due to
that which is not a compulsion, but an of-
fering; for, were virginity commanded,
marriage would seem to be put oat of the
question ; and it would be most cruel to
force men agamst nature, and to extort
from them an angel's life." — 20.
I do dot know whose testimony is
more Important than St. Jerome's, the
friend of Pope Damasus at Borne, the
pupil of St. Gregory Nazianzen at
Constantinople, and of Dldymus in
Alexandria, a native of Dalmatia, yet
an inhabitant, at different times of his
life, of Gaul, Syria, and Palestine.
8. St. Jerome speaks for the whole
world, except Africa ; and for Africa
in the fourth century, if we must limit
so world-wide an authority to place,
witnesses St. Augustine (354-430).
He repeats the words as if a proverb ;
" By a woman death, by a woman
life " (0pp. t. V. Serm. 233) ; else-
where he enlarges on the idea con-
veyed in it. In one place he quotes
St. IrcnsBus's words as cited above
(adv. Julian i. 4). In another he
speaks as follows :
" It is a great sacrament that, whereas
through woman death became our portion,
so life was born to us by woman ; that, in
the case of both sexes, male and female,
the baffled devil should be tormented,
when on the overthrow of both sexes he
was rejoicing; whose punishment had
been small, if both sexes had been liber-
ated in us, without our being liberated
through both."— Qj)p. U vl. De Agon,
Christ, a 24.
9. St. Peter Cbrysologus (400-
450), Bishop of Bavenna, and one of
Digitized by CjOOQIC
62
Dr. Newman* $ Answer to Dr. Putey.
the chief authorities in the fourth 6en«
eral Council :
"Blessed art thou among women; for
among women, on whose womb Eve, who
was caraed, brought punishment, Marj,
being blest, rejoices, is honored, and is
looked up to. And woman now is truly
made through grace the mother of the
living, who had been by nature the mother
of the dying. . . . Heaven feels awe
of God, angels tremble at him, the crea-
ture sustains him not, nature sufficeth
not, and yet one maiden so takes, receives,
entertains him, as a guest within her
breast, that, for the very hire of her home,
and as the price of her womb, she asks,
she obtains, peace for the earth, glory for
the heavens, salvation for the lost, life for
the dead, a heavenly parentage for the
earthly, the union of God himself with
homan flesh." — 8erm. 140.
It is difficult to express more ex*
plicitly, though in oratorical language,
that the Blessed Virgin had a real,
meritorious co-operation, a share
which had a " hire " and a ** price " in
the reversal of the fall
10. St. Fulgentius, Bishop of Ruspe
in Africa (468-533). The homily
which contains the following passage
is placed by Ceillier (t. xvi. p. 127)
among his genuine works :
"In the wife of the first man, the
wickedness of the devil depraved her se-
duced mind ; in the mother of the second
Man, the ^^roco of God preserved both her
mind inviolate and her flesh. On her
mind he conferred the. most firm faith ;
from her fiesh he took away lost alto-
gether. Since then man was in a miser-
able way condemned for sin, therefore
without sin was in a marvellous way bom
the God man."— /&rOT. 2, p. 124, De
Dupl. Nativ.
Accordingly, in the sermon which
follows (if it is his), he continues, il-
lustrating her office of uniTcrsal moth-
er, as ascribed to her bj St. Epiphani-
us:
"Gome ye virgins to a virgin, come ye
who conceive to her who conceived, ye
who bear to one who bore, mothers to a
mother, ye that suckle to one who suckled,
young girls to the young girl. It is for
this reason that the Aargin Mazy has
taken on her in our Lord Jesus Christ all
these divisions of natore, that to aU
women who have reoonrso to her she
may be a succor, and so restore the whole
race of women who come to her, being
the new Eve, by keeping virginity, as the
new Adam, the Lord Jesus Christ, recov-
ers the whole race of men."
Such is the rudimental view, as I
have called it, which the fathers have
given us of Mary, as the second Eve,
the mother of the living. I have cited
ten authors. I could cite more were
it necessary. Except the two last,
they write gravely and without any
rhetoric I allow that the two last write
in a different style, since the extracts I
have made are from their sermons;
but I do not see that the coloring con-
ceals the outline. And, afler all, men
use oratory on great subjects, not on
small; nor would they, and other
fathers whom I might quote, have
lavished their liigh language upon the
Blessed Virgin, such as they gave to no
one else, unless they knew well that
no one eUe had such claims as she
had on their love and veneration.
And now I proceed to dwell for a
while upon two inferences, which it
is obvious to draw from the rudiment-
al doctrine itself; the first relates to
the sanctity of the Blessed Virgin,
the second to her greatness.
1. Her sanctity. She holds, as
the fathers teach us, that office in our
restoration which Eve held in our
falL Now, in the first place, what were
Eve's endowments to enable her to
enter upon her trial ? She could not
have stood against the wiles of the
devil, though she was innocent and
sinless, without the grant of a large
grace. And this she had— a heaven-
ly gifl, wliich was over and above
and additional to that nature of hers,
which she received from Adam, as
Adam before her had also received
the same gift, at the very time (as it
is commonly held) of his original ere* j
ation. This is ^glican doctrine as
well as Catholic ; it is the doctrine of
Bishop BulL He has written a dis«
sertation on the point. He speaks of
the doctrine which ^ many of the
schoohnen affinn, that Adam was cre«
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Newman^B Antwer to Dr* Pusey.
63
ated in grace — that is, received a prin-
ciple of grace and divine life from bis
very creation, or in the moment of the
infusion of his soul; of which,** he
says, " for toj own part I have little
doubt." Agun, he says : ^ It is abun-
dantlj manifest, from the many testi-
monies alleged, that the ancient doc-
tors of the church did, with a general
consent, acknowledge that our first
parents, in the state of integrity, had
in them something more than nature —
that is, were endowed with the divine
principle of the Spirit, in order to a
supernatural felicity."
Now, taking this for granted, be-
cause I know that you and those who
agree with you maintain it as well as
ye do, I ask, Was not Mary as fully
endowed as Evo ? is it any violent in-
ference that she, who was to co-oper-
ate In the redemption of the world, at
least was not less endowed with pow-
er from on high, than she who, given
as a helpmate to her husband, did in
the event but co-operate with him for
its ruin? If Eve was raised above
human nature by that indwelling mor-
al gifl which we call grace, is it rash
to say that Mary had a greater
grace? And this consideration gives
significance to the angel's salutation
of her as " full of grace" — an inter-
pretation of the original word which
is undoubtedly the right one, as soon
as we resist the common Protestant
assumption that grace is a mere ex-
ternal approbation or acceptance, an-
swering to the word " favor ;" whereas
it is, as the fathers teach, a real in-
ward condition or superadded quality
of sooL And if Eve had this super-
natural inward gift given her from
the moment of her personal existence,
ia it possible to deny that Mary too
had this gift from the very first mo-
ment of her personal existence ? I do
^ot know how to resist this inference
— ^well, this is simply and literally the
doctrine of the immaculate conception.
I say the doctrind of the immaculate
conception is in its substance this, and
nothing more or less than this (put^
ting aside the question of degrees <^
grace) ; and it really does seem to me
bound up in that doctrine of the fa-
thers, tliat Mary is the second Eve.
It is to me a most strange phenom-
enon that so many leameid and de-
vout men stumble at this doctrine,
and I can only account for it by sup-
posing that, in matter of fact, they do
not know what we mean by the im-
maculate conception; and your vol-
ume (may I say it?) bears out my
suspicion. It is a great consolation
to have reason for thinkuig so— for
believing that in some sort the persons
in question arc in the position of
those great saints in former times
who are said to have hesitated about
it, when they would not have hesitat-
ed at all if the word ** conception'*
had been clearly explained in that
sense in which now it is universally
received. I do not see how any one
who holds with Bull the Catholic doc-
trine of the supernatural endowments
of our first parents, has fair reason
for doubting our doctrine about the
Blessed Virgin. It has no reference
whatever to her parents, but simply
to her own person ; it does but affirm
that, together with the nature which
she inherited from her parents, that is,
her own nature, she had a super-
added fulness of grace, and that from
the first moment of her existence.
Suppose Eve had stood the trial, and
not lost her first grace, and suppose
she had eventually had childi*en,
those children from the first moment
of their existence would, through
divine bounty, Imve received the
same privilege that she had ever had ;
that is, as she was taken from Adam's
side, in a garment, so to say, of grace,
so they in turn would have received
what may be called an immaculate
conception. They would have been
conceived in grace, as in fact they are \
conceived in sin. What is there r
difficult in this doctrine? What is
there unnatural? Mary may be
called a daughter of Eve unfallen.
You believe with us that St. John
Baptist had grace given to him three
months before his birth, at the time
Digitized by CjOOQIC
64
J9r. Neymutn's Answer to Dr. Putey.
that the Blessed Virgin visited his
mother. He accordingly was not
immaculatclj conceived, because he
was alive before grace came to him ;
but our Lady's case only differs from
his in this respect, that to her grace
came not three months merely be-
fore her birth, but from the first mo-
ment of her being, as it had been
given to Eve.
But it may be said, How does this
enable us to say that she was con-
ceived without original sin f If An-
glicans knew what we mean by origin-
al sin, they would not ask the ques-
tion. Our doctrine of original sin is
not the same as the Protestant doc-
trine. "Original sin," with us, can-
not be called sin in the ordinary
sense of the word '* sin ;" it is a term de-
noting the imputation of Adam's sin, or
the state to which Adam's sin re-
duces his children ; but by Protest-
ants it is understood to be sin in the
same sense as actual sin. We, with the
fathers, think of it as something nega-
tive ; Protestants as something posi-
tive. Protestants hold that it is a
disease, a change of nature, a poison
internally corrupting the soul, and
propagated from father to son, after
the manner of a bad constitution;
and they fancy that we ascribe a dif-
ferent nature from ours to the Bless-
ed Virgin, different from that of her
parents, and from that of fallen
Adam. We hold nothing of the
kind ; we consider that in Adam she
died, as others ; that she was includ-
ed, together with the whole race, in
Adam's sentence ; that she incurred
his debt, as we do ; but that, for the
sake of him^ who was to redeem her
and us upon the cross, to her the debt
was remitted by anticipation ; on her
the sentence was not carried out, ex-
cept indeed as regards her natural
death, for she died when her time
came, as others. All this we teach,
but we deny tiiat she had original
sin ; for by original sin we mean, as
I have ali^ady said, something nega-
tive, viz., this only, the deprivation of
that supematand unmerited grace
which Adam and Eve had on their
creation — ^deprivation and the conse-
quences of deprivation. Mary could
not merit, any more than they, the
restoration of that grace ; but it was
restored to her by God's free bounty
from the very first moment of her ex-
istence, and thereby, in fact, she nev-
er came under the original curse,
which consisted in the loss of it. And
she had this special privilege in or-
der to fit her to become tlie mother
of her and our Redeemer, to fit her
mentally, spiritually, for it ; so that, by
the aid of the first grace, she might
80 grow in grace that when the angel
came, and her Lord was at hand, she
might be " fuU of gr^ce," prepared, as
far as a creature could be prepared,
to receive him into her bosom.
I have drawn the doctrine of the
immaculate conception, as an immedi-
ate inference, from the primitive doc-
trine that Mary is the second Eve.
The argument seems to me conclusive ;
and, if it has not been universally tak-
en as such, this has come to pass be-
cause there has not been a clear under-
standing among Catholics what ex-
actly was meant by the immaculate
conception. To many it seemed to im-
ply that the Blessed Virgin did not die
in Adam, that she did not come under
the penalty of the fall, that she was
not redeemed; that she was conceived
in some way inconsistent with the
verse in the Miserere psalm. If con-
troversy had in earlier days so cleared
the subject as to make it plain to all
that the doctrine meant nothing else
than that, in fact, m her case the gen-
eral sentence on mankind was not car-
ried out, and that by means of the in-
dweUing in her of divine grace from
the first moment of her being (and this
is all the decree of 1854 has declared),
I cannot believe that the doctrine would
have ever been opposed; for an in-
stinctive sentiment has led Christians
jealously to put the Blessed Mary
aside when sin comes into discussion.
This is expressed in the well-known
words of St. Augustine. All have sin-
ned "except tlw holy Virgin Mary,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. NeWTmaCs Amwer to Dr. Pusej/.
65
coQceming whom, for the honor of the
Lord, I wish no question to be raised
at all, when we are treating of sins "
(de Nat. et Grat 42) ; woi^ which,
whatever St. Augustine's actual occa-
sion of using them (to which you re-
fer, pw 176), certainly, in the spirit
whikh they breathe, are well adapted
to convey the notion that, apart from
her relation to her parents, she had
not personally any part in sin what-
ever. It is true that several great
fathers of the fourth centuiy do imply
or assert that on one or two occasions
she did sin venially or showed infirm-
ity. This is the only real objection
which I know of; and, as I do not wish
to pass it over lightly, I propose to
consider it at the end of this letter.
2. Now, secondly, her grecdness.
Here let us suppose that our first pa-
rents had overcome in their trial, and
bad gained for their descendants for ever
the full possession, as if by right, of the
privileges which were promised to their
obedience — grace here and glory here-
after. Is it possible that those de-
scendants, pious and happy from age
to age in their temporal homes, would
have forgotten their benefactors?
Would they not have followed them
in thought into the heavens, and grate-
fully commemorated them on earth ?
The history of the temptation, the
craft of the serpent, their steadfastness
in obedience — ^the loyal vigilance, the
sensitive purity of Eve — ^the great is
sue, salvation wrought out for all
generations — would have been never
from their minds, ever welcome to
their ears. This would have taken
place from the necessity of our nature.
Every nation has its mythical hymns
and epics about its first fathers and its
heroes. The great deeds of Charle-
magne, Alfred, Coeur de Lion, Wallace,
Louis the Ninth, do not die ; and though
their persons are gone from us, we
make much of their names. Milton's
Adam, after his fall, understands the
force of this law, and shrinks from the
prospect of its operation :
VOL. m. 6
** Who of all affofl to saccoed bnt, feellog
The evil on Dim broaght bj me, will corse
My head 7 lil fare oar ancestor impure ;
For this we may thank Adam/*
If this anticipation has not been ful-
filled in the event, it is owing to the
needs of our penal life, our state of
perpetual change, and the ignorance
and unbelief incurred by the fall ; also
because, fallen as we are, from the
hopefulness of our nature we feel more
pride in our national great men than
dejection at our national misfortunes.
Much more then in the great kingdom
and people of God — ^the saints are ever
in our sight, and not as mere ineffec-
tual ghosts, but as if present bodily in
their past selves. It is said of them,
"Their works do follow them;* what
they were here, such are they in heav-
en and in the chureh. As we call
them by their earthly names, so wc
contemplate them in their earthly char-
acters and histories. Their acts, call-
ings, and relations below are types
and anticipations of their mission
above. Even in the case of our Lord
himself, whose native home is the
eternal heavens, it is said of him in his
state of glory, that he is a " priest for
ever f and when he comes again he
will be recognized, by those who
picreed him, as being the very same
that he was on earth. The only ques-
tion is, whether the Blessed Virgin
had a part, a real part, in the economy
of grace, whether, when she was on
earth, she secured by her deeds any
claim on our memories ; for, if she did,
it is impossible we should put her
away from us, merely because she is
gone hence, and not look at her
stiU, according to the measure of her
earthly history, with gratitude and ex-
pectation. If, as St. Irenseus says, she
did the part of an advocate, a friend
in need, even in her mortal life, if, as
St. Jerome and Sl Ambrose say, she
was on earth the great pattern of vir-
gins, if she had a meritorious share in
bringing about our redemption, if her
maternity was earned by her faith and
obedience, if her divine Son was sub-
ject to her, and if she stood by the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
66
Dr. Newman's Amwer to Dr. Pusey.
cross with a mother's heart and drank
in to the full those sufferings which it
was her portion to gaze upon, it is im-.
possible that we should not associate
these characteristics of her life on earth
with her present state of blessedness ;
and this surely she anticipated, when
she said in her hymn that '^ all genera-
tions shall call her blessed."
I am aware that, in thus speaking,
I am following a line of thought which
is rather a meditation than an argu-
ment in controversy, and I shall not
carry it further ; but still, in turning to
other topics, it is to the point to in-
quire whether the popular astonish-
ment, excited by our belief in the
Blessed Virgin's present dignity, does
not arise from the circumstance that
the bulk of men, engaged in matters of
the world, have never calmly consid-
ered her historical position in the gos-
pels so as rightly to realize (if I may
use the word a second time) what that
position imports. I do not daim for
the generality of Catholics any greater
powers of reflection upon the objects
of their faith than Protestants com-
monly have, but there is a sufficient
number of religious men among Cath-
olics who, instead of expending their
devotional energies (as so many serious
Protestants do) on abstract doctrines,
such as justification by faith only, or the
sufficiency of holy Scripture, employ
themselves in the contemplation o^
Scripture facts, and bring out in a tangi-
ble form the doctrines involved in
them, and give such a substance and
color to the sacred history as to influ-
ence their brethren, who, though su-
perficial themselves, are drawn by
their Catholic instinct to accept con-
clusions which they could not indeed
themselves have elicited, but which,
when elicited, they feel to be true.
However, it would be out of place to
pursue this course of reasoning hero ;
and instead of doing so, I shall take
what perhaps you may think a very
bold step— I shall find the doctrine of
our Lady*8 present exaltation in Scrip-
ture.
I mean to find it in the vision of
the woman and child in the twelfth
chapter of the Apocalypse.* Now here
two objections will be made to me at
once : first, that such an interpretation
is but poorly supported by the fathers ;
and secondly, that in ascribing such a
picture of the Madonna (as it may be
called) to the apostolic age, I am com-
mitting an anachronism.
As to the former of these objec-
tions, I answer as follows : Christians
have never gone to Scripture for
proofs of their doctrines till there was
actual need from the pressure of con-
troversy. If in those times the Bless-
ed Virgin's dignity were unchallenged
on all hands as a matter of doctrine,
Scripture, as far as its argumentative
matter was concerned, was likely to
remain a sealed book to them. Thus,
to take an instance in point, the Cath-
olic party in the English Church (say
the Non-jurors) , unable by their theory
of religion sunply to take their stand
on tradition, and distressed for proof
of their doctrines, had their eje;& sharp-
ened to scrutinize and to understand
the letter of holy Scripture, which to
others brought no instruction. And
the peculiarity of their interpretations
is tlus — that they have in themselves
great logical cogency, yet are but
faintly supported by patristical com-
mentators. Such is the use of the
word Tzoulv or fojctre in our Lord's
institution of the holy eucharist, which,
by a reference to the old Testament,
is found to be a word of sacrifice.
Such again is Xemwpyovvrcjv in the
passage in the Acts, " As they minis'
tered to the Lord and fasted," which
.agam is a sacerdotal term. And such
the passage in Rom. xv. 16, in which
several terms are used which have an
allusion to the sacrificial eucharistie
rite. Such, too, is St. Paul's repeated
message to the hattsehold of Onesipho-
rus, with no mention of Onesiphoms
hiniself, but in one place, witli the ad-
dition of a prayer that ^^ he might find
mercy of the Lord" in the day of
• FIrf. "EBBay on Doctr. Dorelopmeni," p.
884, and Blehop Ullatborne^s work oa Xh» *'Im-
Biaculate Conception," p. T7.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Newman^B Answer to Dr. Pusey.
67
judgment, which, taking into account
it8 wording and the known usage of
the first centuries, we can hardly de*
nj is a prayer for his souL Other
texts there are which ought to find a
place in ancient controTersies, and the
omission of which by the fathers af-
fords matter for more surprise ; those,
for instance, which, accoiding to Mid-
dleton's rule, are real proofs of our
Lord's divinity, and yet are passed
over by CathoHc disputants ; for these
bear upon a then existing controversy
of the first moment and of the most
urgent exigency.
As to the second objection which I
have supposed, so &r from aDowIng it,
I consider that it is built upon a mere
imaginary fact, and that the truth of
the matter lies in the very contrary
direction. The Virgin and Child is
noC a mere modem idea ; on the con-
trary, it is represented again and
again, as every visitor to Rome is
aware, in the paintings of the Cata-
combs. Mary is there drawn with the
Divine Infant in her lap, she with
hands extended in prayer, he with
his hand in the attitude of blessing.
No representation can more forcibly
convey the doctrine of the high digni-
ty of the mother, and, I will add, of
her power over her Son. Why should
the memory of his time of subjection be
6o dear to Christians, and so carefully
preserved? The only question to be
determined, is the precise date of these
remarkable monuments of the first
a^ of Christianity. That they belong
to the centuries of what Anglicans
call the "undivided church" is cer-
tain; but lately investigations have
been pursued which place some of
them at an earlier date than any one
anticipated as possible. I am not in a
position to quote hugely from the
works of the Cavaliere de Rossi, who
has thrown so much light upon the
sabject; but I have his ^Imagini
Soelte,*^ published in 1863, and they
are- sufficient for my purpose. In
this work he has given us from the
CSataoombe various representations of
the Virg^ and Child; the latest of
these belong to the early part of the
fourth century, but the earliest he be-
lieves to be referable to the very age
of the apostles. He comes to t^
conclusion from the style and the skill
of the composition, and from the his-
tory, locali^, and existing inscriptions
of the subterranean in which it is
found. However, he does not go so
far as to insist upon so early a date ;
yet the utmost liberty he grants is to
refer the painting to the era of the
first Antonines — ^^at is^ to a date within
half a century of the death of St John.
I consider then that, as you fairly use,
in controversy with Protestants, the
traditional doctrine of the church in
early times, as an explanation of the
Scripture text, or at least as a sugges-
tion, or as a defence, of the sense
which you may wish to put on it,
quite apart from the question whether
your interpretation itself is traditional,
BO it is lawful for me, though I have
not the positive words of the fathers
on my side, to shelter my own inter-
pretation of the apostle's vision under
the fact of the extant pictures of
Mother and Child in the Roman Cata-
combs. There is another principle
of Scripture interpretation which we
should hold with you — when we speak
of a doctrine being contained in Scrip-
ture, we do not necessarily mean that
it is contained there in direct categori-
cal terms, but that there is no other
satisfactory way of accountmg for the
language and expressions of the sacred
writers, concerning the subject-matter
in question, than to suppose that tliey
held upon it the opinions which we
hold ; that they would not have spoken
as they have spoken unless they held
it. For myself I have ever felt the
truth of this principle, as regards the
Scripture proof of the Holy Trinity ;
I should not have found out that doc-
trine in the sacred text without previous
traditional teaching ; hut when once it
is suggested from without, it commends
itself as the one true interpretation,
from its appositeness, because no other
view of doctrine, which can be ascrib-
ed to the inspired writers, so happily
Digitized by CjOOQIC
68
Dr. Newman*s Antwer to Dr. Pusey.
solves the obscurities and seeming in-
consistencies of their teaching. And
now to applj what I have said to the
passage in the Apocalypse.
If there is an apostle on whom, h
prtortj our eyes would be fixed, as
likely to teach ns about the Blessed
YirgiD, it is St. John, to whom she
was committed b^ our Lord on the
cross — with whom, as tradition goes,
she lived at Ephesus till she was
taken away. This anticipation is con-
firmed h posteriori; for, as I have
said above^ one of the earliest and
fullest of our informants concerning
her dignity, as being the second* Eve^
is Irenssus, who came to Lyons from
Asia Minor, and had been taught by
the immediate disciples of St. John.
The apostle's virion is as follows :
^ A great sign appeared in heaven ;
a woman cbthed with the sun, and
the moon under her feet ; and on her
bead a crown of twelve stars. And
being with child, she cried travailing
in birth, and was in pain to be de-
livered. And there was seen an-
other sign in heaven; and behold a
great red dragon . . . And the
dragon stood before the woman who
was ready to be delivered, that, when
she should be delivered, he might de-
vour her son. And she brought forth
a man-child, who was to rule all na-
tions with an iron rod ; and her son
was taken «p to God and to his throne*
And the woman fied into the wilder-
ness." Now I do not deny, of course,
that, under the image of the woman,
the church is signified; but what I
would maintain is this, that the holy
apostle would not have spoken of
the church under this particular im-
age unless there had existed a Bless-
ed Virgin Mary, who was exalted on
high, and the object of veneration to
aU the faithful.
No one doubts that the ^'man-
child" spoken of is an allusion to our
Lord ; why, then, is not ^ the woman"
an allusion to his mother? This
surely is the obvious sense of the
words; of course it has a further
sense also, which is the ^pe of the
image ; doubtless the child represents
the chUdren of the church, and doubt-
less the woman represents the church ;
this, I grant, is the real or direct
sense, but what is the sense of the
symbol ? ioho are the woman and the
child ? I answer, They are not per-
sonifications but persons. This is
true of the child, therefore it is true of
the woman.
But again: not only mother and
child, but a serpent, is introduced into
the vision. Such a meeting of man,
woman, and serpent has not been
found in Scripture, since the begin-
ning of Scripture, and now it is found
in its end. Moreover, in the passage
in the Apocalypse, as if to supply, be-
fore Scripture came to an end, what
was wanting in its beginm'ng, we are
told, and for the first time, that the
serpent in Paradise was the evil
spirit. If the dragon of St. John is
the same as the serpent of Moses,
and the man-child is << the seed of the
woman," why is not the woman her-
self she whose seed the man-child is ?
And, if the first woman is not an alle-
gory, why is the second ? if the first
woman is Eve, why is not the second
Mary?
But this is not all. The image of
the woman, according to Scripture
usage, is too bold and prominent for a
mere personification. Scripture is
not fond of allegories. We have in-
deed frequent figures there, as when
the sacred writers speak of the arm or
sword of the Lord ; and so too when
they speak of Jerosalem or Samaria
in the feminine ; or of the mountains
leaping for joy, or of the church as a
bride or as a vine ; but they are not
much given to dressing up abstract
ideas or generalizations in personal
attributes. This is the classical rath-
er than the Scripture style. Xeno-
phon places Hercules between Virtue
and Vice, represented as women ;
.^^schylus introduces into his dranut
Force and Violence; Viigil gives
personality to public rumor or Fame,
and Flautus to Poverty. So on mon-
uments done in the classical style, we
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. NewnujttCi Antwer to Dr. Putey.
69
see virtaes, Tiees, riverB, renown,
death, and the like, turned into hoQum
^J^uTCS of men and women. I do not
say there are no instances at all of
this method in Scripture, but I saj
that sach poetical compositions are
strikingly unlike its usual method.
Hins we at once feel its difference
from Scripture, when we betake our*
selves to the Pastor of Hermes, and
find the church a woman, to St. Me-
thodius, .and find'Virtue a woman, and
to St Gregory's poem, and find Vir-
ginity again a woman. Scripture
deals with types rather than personifi-
cations. Israel stands for the chosen
people, David for Christ, Jerusalem
for heaven. Consider the remarkable
representations, dramatic I may call
them, in Jeremiah, Ezechiel, and
Hosea ; predictions, threatenings, and
promises are acted out by those
prophets. Ezechiel is commanded to
shave his head, and to divide and
scatter his hair ; and Ahias tears his
garment, and gives ten out of twelve
parts of it to Jeroboam. So, too, the
structure of the imagery in the Apoc-
alypse is not a mere allegorical crea-
tion, but is founded on the Jewish
ritual. In like manner our Lord's
bodily cures are visible types of the
power of his grace upon the soul ;
and his prophecy of the last day is
conveyed under that of the fall of Je-
rusalem. Even his parables are not
simply ideal, but relations of occur-
rences which did or might take place,
onder which was conveyed a spiritu-
al meaning. The description of Wis-
dom in the Proverbs, and other sacred
books, has brought out the instinct of
commentators in this respect. They
felt that Wisdom could not be a mere
personification, and they determined
that it was our Lord ; and the later
of these books, by their own more defi-
nite language, warranted that inter-
pretation. Then, when it was found
that the Arians used it in derogation
of our Lord's divinity, still, unable to
tolerate the notion of a mere allegory,
coQmienl|tor8 applied the description
to the Blessed Virgin. Coming back
then to the Apocalyptic vision, I ask,
If the woman must be some real
person, who can it be whom the apos-
tle saw, and intends, and delineates,
bat that same great mother to whom
the chapters in the Proverbs are ac-
commodated ? And let it be observ-
ed, moreover, that in this passage,
from the allusion iiuit to the history
of the fall, she may be said still to
be represented under the character of
the second Eve. I make a further
remark ; it is sometimes asked, Why
do not Uie sacred writers mention our
Lady's greatness ? I answer, she was,
or may have been, alive when the
apostles and evangelists wrote ; there
was just one book of Scripture cer-
tainly written after her death, and
that book does (if I may so speak)
canonize her.
But if all this be so, if it is really
the Blessed Virgin whom Scripture
represents as clothed with the sun,
crowned with the stars of heaven,
and with the moon as her footstool,
what height of glory may we not at*
tribute to her ? and what are we to
say of those who, through ignorance,
run counter to the voice of Scripture,
to the testimony of the fathers, to the
traditions of East and West, and
speak and act contemptuously toward
her whom her Lord delighteth to hon-
or?
Now I have said aU I mean to say
on what I have called the rudunental
teaching of antiquity about the Bless-
ed Virgin ; but^ afler all, I have not in-
sisted on the highest view of her prero-
gatives which the fathers have taught
us. You, my dear friend, who know
so well the ancient controversies and
councils, may have been surprised
why I should not have yet spoken of
her as the Theotocos ; but I wished to
show on how broad a basis her great-
ness rests, independent of that woo-
derful title ; and again, I have been
loth to enlarge upon the force of a
word, which is rather matter for devo-
tional thought than for polemical dis-
pute. However, I might as well not
Digitized by^CjOOQlC
70
Dr. NewmatCn Antwer to Dr. Pusey.
write on mj subject at all as altogeth-
er be silent upon it.
It is, then, an integral portion of
the faith fixed bj ecumenical council,
a portion of it which jou hold as
weU as I, that the Blessed Virgin is
Theotocos, Deipara, or Mother of
God ; and this word, when thus used,
carries with it no ylmixture of rheto-
ric, no taint of exffayagant affection ;
it has nothing else but a well-weighed,
grave, dogmatic sense, which corre-
sponds and is adequate to its sound.
It intends to express that God is her
Son, as truly as any one of us is the
son of his own mother. If this be so,
what can be said of any creature
whatever which may not be said of
her? what can be said too much, so
that it does not compromise the attri-
butes of the Creator? He, indeed,
might have created a being more per-
fect, more admirable, than she is ; he
might have endued that being, so
created, with a richer grant of grace,
of power, of blessedness ; but in one
respect she surpasses aU even possible
creations, viz., that she is Mother of
her Creator. It is this awful title,
which both illustrates and connects to-
gether the two prerogatives of Mary,
on which I have been lately enlarging,
her sanctity and her greatness. It is
the issue of her sanctity ; it is the
source of her greatness. What digni-
ty can be too great to attribute to her
who is as closely bound up, as inti-
mately one, with the Eternal Word,
as a mother is with a son? What
outfit of sanctity, what fulness and re-
dundance of grace, what exuberance
of merits must have been hers, on the
supposition, which the fathers justi-
fy, that her Maker regarded them at
all, and took them into account, when
he condescended ^ not to abhor the Vir-
gin's womb?" Is it surprising, then,
that on the one hand she should be
immaculate in her conception ? or on
the other that she should be exalted as
a queen, with a crown of twelve stars ?
Men sometimes wonder that we call
her mother of life, of mercy, of sal-
vation ; what are all these titles com-
pared to that one name, Mother of
God?
I shall say no more about this title* ^
here. It is scarcely possible to write
of it without diverging into a style of
composition unsuited to a letter ; so I
proceed to the history of its use.
The title of Theotoeos* begins with
ecclesiastical writers of a date hardly
later than that at which we read of
her as the second Eve. It first oc-
curs in the works of Origen (185-
254) ; but he, witnessiujg for Egypt
and Palestine, witnesses also that it
was in use before his time; for, as
Socrates informs us, he 'interpreted
how it was to be used, and discussed
the question at length** (Hist. vii. 32).
Within two centuries (431), in the
general council held against Nestori-
us, it was made part of the formal
dogmatic teaching of the church. At
that time Theodoret, who from his
party connections might have been
supposed disinclined to its solemn rec-
ognition, owne^ that ^ the ancient and
more than ancient heralds of the or-
thodox faith taught the use of the
term according to the apostolic tradi-
tion." At the same date- John of An-
tioch, who for a while sheltered Nes-
torius, whose heresy lay in the rejec-
tion of the term, said, *' This title no
ecclesiastical teacher has put aside.
Those who have used it are many and
eminent, and those who have not used
it have not attacked those who did.''
Alexander again, one of the fiercest
partisans of Nestorius, allows the use
of the word, though he considers it
dangerous. ^ That in festive solemni-
ties,'* he says, "or in preaching or
teaching, theotocos should be unguard-
edly said by the orthodox without ex-
planation is no blame, because such
statements were not dogmatic, nor
said with evil meaning." If we look
for those, in the interval between
Qrigen and the council, to whom Al-
exander refers, we find it used again
and again by the fathers in such of
their works as are extant : by Arche-
• Fid. "TraxiaUUoii of St Atlui#8iiu," pp.
4W, 440, 447. ^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr* Newman* $ Answer to Dr. Putey.
71
lanB of Mesopotamia, Easebias of
Palestine, Alexander of Egypt, in the
third century ; in the fourth, by Atha-
nasius many times with emphasis, by
Cyril of Palestine, Gregory Nyssen of
Cappadocia, Gregory Nazianzen of
Oappadocia, Antiochus of Syria, and
Ammonius of Thrace ; not to speak
of the Emperor Julian, who, having
no local or ecclesiastical domicile,
speaks for the whole of Christendom.
Another and earlier emperor, Con«
stantine, in his speech before ihe as-
sembled bbhops at T^icssa, uses the
still more explicit title of '^ the Virgin
Mother of God ;" which is also used
by Ambrose of Milan, and by Vincent
and Cassian in the south of France,
and then by St. Leo.
So much for the term ; it would be
tedious to produce the passages of
authors who^ using or not using the
tenn, convey the idea. ''Our God
was carried in the womb of Mary,'*
says Ignatius, who was martyred a.d.
106. « The word of God," says Hip-
polytus, ^ was carried in that virgin
frame." " The Mak6r of aU," says
AmphilochiuB, ^ is bom of a vii^in."
^She did compass without circum-
scribing^ the Sun of justice — ^the Ever-
lasting is bom," says Chrysostom.
** God dwelt in the womb," says Pro-
dus. ^ When thou hearest that God
speaks from the bush," asks Theodo-
tos, ^ in the bush seest thou not the
Virgin P' Cassian says, " Mary bore
her Author." <*The one God only-
begotten," says Hilary, ^ is introduced
into the womb of a virgin." ''The
Everlasting," says Ambrose, "came
into the Virgm." "The closed gate,"
says Jerome, "by which alone the
Ix>rd God of Israel enters, is the Vir-
gin Mary." " That man fix>m heav-
en,** says Capriolus, " is God conceived
in the womb." " He is made in thee,"
says Augustine, " who made thee."
This being the faith of the fathers
about the Blessed Virgin, we need
not wonder that it should in no long
time be transmuted into devotion. No
wonder if their language should be
unmeasuredi when so great a temi as
" Mother of God" had been formaUy
set down as the safe limit of it No
wonder if it became stronger and
stronger as time went on, since only
in a long period could the fulness of
its import be exhausted. And in
matter of fact, and as might be antici-
pated (with the few exceptions which
I have noted above, and wl^ich I am
to treat of below), the current of
thought in those early ages did uni-
formly tend to nuike much of the
Blessed Virgin and to increase her
honors, not to circumscribe them.
Little jealousy was shown of her in
those times ; but, when any such nig-
gardness of devotion occurred, then
one father or other fell upon the of-
fender, with ^eal, not to say with
fierceness. Thus St. Jerome inveighs
against Helvidius; thus St. Epipha-
nius denounces ApoUinaris, St
Cyril Nestorius, and St Ambrose
Bonosus; on the other hand, each
successive insult offered to her by in-
dividual adversaries did but bring out
more faHj the intimate sacred affeo*
tion with which Christendom regard-
ed , her. " She was alone, and
wrought the world^s salvation and
conceived the redemption of all/' says
Ambrose ;* " she had so great grace,
as not only to preserve virginity her-
self, but to confer it upon those whom
she visited." " The rod out of the stem
of Jesse," says Jerome, " and the east*
em gate through which the high priest
alone goes in and out, yet is ever
shut" "The wise woman," says
Nilus, who " hath clad believers, from
the fleece of the Lamb bom of her,
with the clothing of iucorraption, and
delivered them from their spiritual
nakedness." " The mother of life, of
beauty, of miyesty, the morning star "
according to Antiochus. " The mys-
tical new heavens," "the heavens
carrying the Divinity," "the fruitful
vine," " by whom we are translated
from death to life," according to St
Ephr^m. "The manna which is
delicate, bright, sweet, and virgin,
• '' BaM7 on Doctr. Dey.," p. «)&
Digitized by CjOOQIC
72
Dr. NewmaiCi Answer to Dr. Pusey.
which, as though coming from heaven,
has poured down on all the people of
the churches a food pleasanter than
honej," according to St. Maximus.
Proclus calls her <<the unsullied
shell which contains the pearl of
price," ** the church's diadem," " the
expression of orthodoxj/* "Run
through all creation in your thought,"
he says, "and see if there be one
equal or superior to the H0I7 Virgin,
Mother of God.*' "Hail, mother,
clad in light, of the light which sets
not," says Thcodotus, or some one
else at Ephesus — " hail, all-tindefiled
mother of holiness ; hail, most pellu-
cid fountain of the life-giying stream."
And St. Cyril too at Ephesus, " Ilail,
Mary, Mother of Grod, majestic com-
mon-treasure of the whole world, the
lamp unquenchable, the crown of vir-
gmity, the staff of orthodoxy, the in-
dissoluble temple, the dwelling of
the illimitable, mother and virgin,
through whom he in the holy gospels
is called blessed who cometh in the
name of the Lord, .... through
whom the Holy Trinity is sancti-
fied, through whom angels
and archangels rejoice, devUs are put
to flight, .... and the fallen crea-
ture is received up into the heavens,
etc, etc." * Such is but a portion of
the panegyrical language which St
Cyril used in the third ecumenical
council.
I must not close my review of the
Catholic doctrine concerning the
Blessed Virgin without directly
speaking of her intercessory power,
though I have incidentally made men-
tion of it already. It is the immedi-
ate result of two truths, neither of
which you dispute : first, that " it is
good and useful," as the Council of
Trent says, "suppliantly to invoke
the saints and to have recourse to
their prayers ;" and secondly, that the
Blessed Mary is singularly dear to
her Son and singularly exalted in
sanctity and glory. However, at the
risk of becoming didactic, I will state
• Opp., t. 6, p. 865.
somewhat more fully the grounds on
which it rests.
To a candid pagan it must have
been one of the most remarkable
points of Christianity, on its first ap-
pearance, that the observance of
prayer formed so vital a part of its
Organization; and that, though its
members were scattered all over the
world, and its rulers and subjects had
so little opportunity of correlative
action, yet they, one and all, found
the solace of a spiritual intercourse,
and a real bond of union, in the prac^
ticc of mutual intercession. Prayer,
indeed, is the very essence of religion ;
but in the heathen religions it was
cither public or personal; it was a
state oidinance, or a selfish expedient,
for the attainment of certain tangible,
temporal goods. Very different from
this was its exercise among Chris-
tians, who were thereby knit together
in one body, different as they were
in races, ranks, and habits, distant
from each other in country, and help-
less amid hostile populations. Yet
it proved sufficient for its purpose.
Christians could not correspond ; they
could not combine; but they could
pray one for another. Even their
public prayers partook of this charac*
ter of intercession; for to pray for
the welfare of the whole church was
really a prayer for all classes of men,
and all the individuals of which it was
composed. It was in prayer that the
church was founded. For ten days
all the apostles " persevered with one
mind in prayer and supplication, with
the women, and Mary the Mother of
Jesus, and with his brethren." Then
again at Pentecost "they were all
with one mind in one place ;" and the
converts then made are said to have
" persevered in prayer." And when,
a^r a while, St. Peter was seized
and put in prison with a view to his
being put to death, " prayer was made
without ceasing" by the church of
' God for him ; and, when the angel
released him, he took refuge in a
house '* where many were gathered
together in prayer."
Dr. Newman'$ Answer to Dr. Putey.
73
We are so aceoBtomed to these pas-
sages as hardly to be able to do jus*
tice to their singular significance ; and
thej are followed up by various pas-
sages of the apostolic epistles. St.
Paul enjoins his brethren to '^praj
with all prayer and supplication at all
times in the Spirit, with all in-
stance and supplication for all
Baints," to "pray in every place,"
*< to Diake supplicadon, prayers, inter-
cessions, giving of thanks for all men."
And in his own person he ''^ceases
not to give thanks for them, com-
memorating them in his prayers,"
and ^always in all his prayers
making supplication for them all with
joy-
Now, was this spiritual bond to
cease witJi life? or had Christians
similar duties to their brethren de-
parted? From the witness of the
early ages of the church, it appears
that they had; and you, and those
who agree with you, would be the
last to deny that they were then in the
practice of praying, as for the living,
so for those also who had passed into
the intermediate state between earth
and heaven. Did the sacred com-
munion extend further still, on to the
inhabitants of heaven itself? Here
too you agree with us, for you have
adopted in your volume the words of
the Council of Trent which I have
quoted above. But now we are
brought to a higher order of thoughts.
It would bo preposterous to pray
^ for those wbo are already in glory ;
but at least they can pray for us,
and we can ask their prayers, and
in the Apocalypse at least angels are
introduced both sending us their bless-
ing and presenting our prayers before
the divine Presence. We read there
of an angel who ^ came and stood be-
fore the altar, having a golden cen-
ser;" and "there was given to him
much incense, that he should offer of
the prayers of all saints upon the
golden altar which is before the throne
of Crod." On this occasion, surely,
the angel Michael, as the prayer in
mass considers hiioD, performed the
part of a great intercessor or media*
tor above for the children of the church
militant below. Again, in the begin-
ning of the same book, the sacred
writer goes so far as to speak of
" grace and peace " being sent us, not
only from the Almighty, but ^ from
the seven spirits that are before his
throne," thus associating the Eternal
with tiie ministers of his mercies;
and this carries us on to the remark-
able passage of St. Justin, one of the
earliest fathers, who, in his "Apology,"
says, " To him (God), and his Son who
came from him, and taught us these
things, and the host of the other good
angels who follow and resemble them,
and the prophetic Spirit, we pay vene-
ration and homage." Further, in the
Epistle to the Hebrews, St. Paul in-
troduces, not only angels, but "the
spirits of the just" into the sacred
communion : "Ye have come to Mount
Sion, to the heavenly Jerusalem, to
myriads of angels, to God, the Judge
of all, to the spirits of the just made
perfect, and to Jesus, the Mediator of
the New Testament." What can be
meant by having " come to the spirits
of the just," unless in some way or
other tiiey do us good, whether by
blessing or by aiding us ? that is, in a
word, to speak correctly, by praying
for us ; for it is by prayer alone that
the creature above can bless or aid the
creature below.
Intercession thus being the first
principle of the church's life, next it is
certain again that the vital principle of
that intercession, as an availing power,
is, according to the will of God, sanc-
tity. This seems to be suggested by
a passage of St. Paul, in which the
supreme intercessor is said to be
"the Spirit:" "The Spirit himself
maketh intercession for us ; he maketh
intercession for the saints according to
God." However, the truth thus im-
plied is expressly brought out in other
parts of Scripture, in the form both of
doctrine and of example. The words
of the man bom blind speak the com-
mon sense of nature : " TS any man be
a worshipper of God, him he hearcth."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
74
Dr. Newman's Aniwer to Dr. Pu$eg.
And apostles confirm them:^ ^^The
prayer of a just man availeth much,"
and *< whatever we ask we receive, be-
cause we keep his commandments."
Then, as for examples, we read of
Abraham and Moses as havmg the
divine purpose of judgment revealed
to them beforehand, in order that they
might deprecate its execution. To
the friends of Job it was said, ^ My
servant Job shall pray for you ; his
face I will accept Elias by his
prayer shut and opened the heavens.
£lsewhere we read of " Jcremias,
Moses, and Samuel," and of ^ Noe,
Daniel, and Job," as being great medi-
ators between God and his people*
One instance is given us, which testifies
the continuance of so high an office
beyond this life. Lazarus, in the par-
able, is seen in Abraham's bosom. It
is usual to pass over this striking pas-
sage with the remark that it is a Jew-
ish expression ; whereas, Jewish belief
or not, it is recognized and sanctioned
by our Lord hSnself. What do we
teach about the Blessed Virgin more
wonderful than this ? Let us suppose
that, at the hour of death, the faithful
are committed to her arms; but if
Abraham, not yet ascended on high,
had charge of Lazarus, what offence is
it to affirm the like of her, who was
not merely " the friend," but tJie very
"Mother of God?"
It may be added that, though it
availed nothing for influence wit]^ our
Lord to be one of his company if
sanctity was wanting, still, as the gos-
pel shows, he on various occasions al-
lowed those who were near him to be
the means by which supplicants were
brought to him, or miracles gained
from him, as in the instance of the
miracle of the loaves ; and if on one
occasion he seems to repel his mother
when she told him that wine was
wanting for the ^ests at the mar-
riage feast, it is obvious to remark on
it that, by saying that she was then
separated from him because his hour
was not yet come, he implied that,
when that hour was come, such separ-
ation would be at an end. Moreover,
in fact, he did, at her intercession,
work the miracle which she desired.
I consider it impossible, then, for
those who believe the church to be one
vast body in heaven and on earth, in
which every holy creature of Grod has
his place, and of which prayer is the
life, when once they recognize the
sanctity and greatness of the Blessed
Virgin, not to perceive immediately
that her office above is one of perpet-
ual intercession for the faithful mili-
tant, and that our very relation to her
must be that of clients to a patron,
and that, in the eternal enmity which
exists between the woman and the
serpent, while the serpent's strength
is liiat of being the tempter, the weap-
on cf the second Eve and Mother of
God is prayer.
As then these ideas of her sanctity
and greatness gradually penetrated the
mind of Christendom, so did her in-
tercessory power follow close upon
and with them* From the earliest
times that mediation is symbolized in
those representations of her with up-
lifted hands, which, whether in plaster
or in glass, are still extant in Home —
that church, as St. Iremeus says, with
which " every church, that is, the feith-
ful from every side, must agree, be-
cause of its more powerful principal-
ity ;" « into which," as Tertuliian adds,
" the apostles poured out, together
with their blood, their whole doctrines."
As far, indeed, as existing documents
are concerned, I know of no instance
to my purpose earlier than a.d. 234,
but it is a very remarkable one ; and,
though it has been oflen quoted in the
controversy, an argument is not the
weaker for frequent use.
St' Gregory Nysscn,* a native of
Cappadocia in the fourth century, re-
lates that his namesake, Bishop of Neo-
Csesarea, sumamed Thaumaturgus,
in the century preceding, shortly be-
fore he was called to the priesthood,
received in a vision a creed, which is
still extant, from the Blessed Mary at
the hands of St, John. The account
* Tid. ^ Stity on Doctr. DeT./^ P* 880*
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
Dr. Newman*$ Answer to Dr. Pusey.
75
niD8 thns : He Tva)B deeply pondering
thedogical doctrine, which the hereticH
of the day depraved. <*In such
ihoaghtSy'' says his namesake of Nys-
Ba,^he was passing the night, when
one af^>eared, as if in human form,
aged in appearance, saintly in the fash-
ion of his garments, and very vener-
able both in grace of countenance and
general mien. Amazed at the sight,
be started from his bed, and asked who
it was, and why he came ; but, on the
other calming the perturbation of his
mind with his gentle voice, and saying
he had appeared to him by divine
command on account of his doubts, in
order that the truth of the orthodox
faith might be revealed to him, he took
courage at the word, and regarded
him with a mixture of joy and fright.
Then, on his stretching his hand
straight forward and pointing with his
fingers at something on one side, he
followed with his eyes the extended
hand, and saw another appearance op-
posite to the former, in the shape of a
woman, but more than human. • . •
When his eyes could not, bear the ap-
parition, he heard them conversing
together on the subject of his doubts ;
and thereby not only gained a true
knowledge of the &ith, but learned
their names, as they addressed each
other by their respective appellations.
And thus he is said to have heard the
person in woman's shape bid < John the
Evangelist ' disclose to the young man
the mystery of godliness ; and he an-
swered that he was ready to comply
in this matter with the wish of Hhe
Mother of the Lord,' and enunciated a
formulary, well turned and complete,
and BO vanished. He, on the other
liand, immediately committed to writ-
ing that divine teaching of his mysta*
gogue, and henceforth preached in the
church according to that form, and be-
queathed to posterity, as an inheritance,
that heavenly teaching, by means of
which his people are instructed down
to this day, being preserved from all
heretical eviL" He proceeds to re-
beaise the creed thus given, ^ There is
one God, &ther of a living Word,'*
etc Bull, after quoting it in his work
upon the Nicene faith, alludes to this
history of its origin, and adds, " No
one should think it incredible that such
a providence should befal a man whose
whole life was conspicuous for reve-
lations and miracles, as all ecclesiasti-
cal writers who have mentioned him
(and who has not ?) witness with one
voice."
Here she is represented as rescuing
a holy soul from intellectual error.
This leads me to a ^rther reflection.
You seem, in one place in your vol-
ume, to object to the antiphon, in
which it is said of her, " All heresies
thou hast destroyed alone.*' Surely
the truth of it is verified in this age,
as in former times, and especially by
the doctrine concerning her on which
I have been dwellmg. She is the
great exemplar of prayer in a gener-
ation which emphatically denies the
power of prayer in totOj which deter-
mines that fatal laws govern the uni-
verse, that there cannot be any direct
communication between earth and
heaven, that Grod cannot visit his
earth, and that man cannot infiuence
his providence.
I cannot help hoping that your own
reading of the fathers will on the
whole bear me out in the above
account of their teaching concerning
the Blessed Virgin. Anglicans seem
to me to overlook the strength of the
argument adducible ^rom their works
in our favor, and they open the at-
tack upon our mediaeval and modem
writers, careless of leaving a host of
primitive opponents in their rear. I
do not include you among such
Anglicans; you know what the fa-
thers assert ; but, if so, have you not,
my dear firiend, been unjust to your-
self in your recent volume, and made
far too much of the dlfierences which
exist between Anglicans and us on
this particular point ? It is the office
of an Irenicon to smooth difficulties ;
I shall be pleased if I succeed in re-
moving some of yours. Let the pub-
lic ju(^ between us here« Had you
Digitized by CjOOQIC
76
Dr. NmffmatCs Antwer to Dr. Piuejf.
happened in jonr volame to introduoe
joar notice of our teaching about the
Blessed Virgin with a notice of the
teaching of the fathers concerning
her, ordinary men would have consid-
ered that th^e was not much to
choose between you and us. Though
you appealed ever so much to the
authority of the ''undivided church/'
they certainly would have said that
you, who had such high notions of
the Blessed Mary, were one of the
last men who had a right to accuse us
of quasi-idolatry» When they found
you calling her by the titles of Mother
of God, Second Eve, and Mother of
all Living, the Mother of life, the
Morning Star, the Stay of Believers,
the Expression of Orthodoxy, the
All-undefiled Mother of Holiness, and
the like, they would have deemed it
a poor compensation for such lan«
guage that you protested against her
being called a co-redemptress or a
priestess. And, if they were violent
Protestants, they would not have read
you with that relish and gratitude with
which, as it is, they have perhaps ac-
cepted your testimony against us.
Not that they would have been alto-
gether right in their view of you ; —
on the contrary, I think there is a real
difference between what you protest
against and what with the fathers
you hold ; but unread men and men
of the world form a broad practical
judgment of the things which come
before them, and they would have
felt in this case that they had the same
right to be shocked at you as you
have to be shocked at us; — and
further, which is the point to which I
am coming, they would have said that,
granting some of our modem writers
go beyond the fathers in this matter,
still the line cannot be logically drawn
between the teaching of the fathers
concerning the Blessed Virgin and
our own. This view of the matter
seems to mo true and important; I
do not think the line can be satisfac-
torily drawn, and to this point I
shall now direct my attention.
It is impossible, I say, in a doc-
trine like this, to draw the line dean-
ly between truth and error, right and
wrtmg. This is ever the case in con-
crete matters, which have life. Life
in this world is motion, and involves a
continual process of change. Living
things grow into their perfection, into
their decline, into their death. No
rule of art will suffice to stop the oper^
ation of this natural law, whether in
the material world or in the human
mind. We can indeed encounter dis-
orders, when they occur, by external
antagonisms and remedies; but we
cannot eradicate the process itself
out of which they arise. Life has the
same right to decay as it has to wax
strong. This is specially the case
with great ideas. You may stifle
them ; or you may refuse them elbow-
room ; or you may torment them with
your continual meddling ; or you may
let them have free course and range,
and be content, instead of anticipating
their excesses, to expose and restrain
those excesses ailer ihey have occurred.
But you have only this alternative;
and for myself, I prefer much, wher-
ever it is possible, to be first generous
and then just ; to grant full liberty of
thought, and to call it to account when
abused.
If what I have been saying be true
of energetic ideas generally, much
more is it the case in matters of re-
ligion. Religion acts on the affections ;
who is to hinder these, when once rous-
ed, from gathering in their strength and
running wild? They are not gifled
with any connatural principle within
them which renders them self-g«veni-
ing and self-adjusting. They hurry
right on to their object, and often in
their case it is. More haste and worse
speed. Their object engrosses them,
and they see nothing else. And of
all passions love is the most unman*
ageable ; nay, more, I would not give
much for that love which is never ex-
travagant, which always observes the
proprieties, and can move about in
peifect good taste, under all emergen-
cies. What mother, what husband or
wife, what youth or maiden in bve,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr* Newman*8 Jntwer to Dr. Pmey.
77
bat says a thousand foolish things, m
the waj of endearmenty which the
speaker would be sorry for strangers
to hear ; yet they were not On that
account unwelcome to the parties to
whom they are addressed. Some-
times by bad luck they are written
down, 8<Hnetimes they get into the
newspapers ; and what might be even
graceful, when it was fresh from the
heart, and interpreted by the voioe
and the countenance, presents but a
melancholy exhibition when served
np cold for the public eye. So it is
with devotional feelings. Burning
thoughts and words are as open to
crittdsm as they are beyond it What
is abstractedly extravagant, may in
religions persons be becoming and
beautiful, and only fall under blame
when it is found in others who imitate
them. When it is formalized into
meditations or exercises, it is as re-
pulsive as love^-letters in a police re-
port. Moreover, even holy minds
readily adopt and become familiar
with lauguage which they would
never have originated themselves,
when it proceeds from a writer who
has the same objects of devotion as
they have ; and, if they find a stran-
ger ridicule or reprobate supplication
or praise which has come to them so
recommended, they feel as keenly as
if a direct insult were offered to those
to whom that homage is addressed.
In the next place, what has power to
stir holy and refined souls is potent
also with the multitude ; and die re-
ligion of the multitude is ever vulgar
and abnormal; it ever will be tinc-
tured with fanaticism and superstition
while men are what they are. A peo-
ple's religion is ever a corrupt re-
ligion.' If you are to have a Catholic
Church, you must put up with fish of
every kind, guests good and bad, ves-
aels of gold, vessels of earth. Ton may
beat leligion out of men, if you will,
and then their excesses will take a
different direction; but if you make
use of religion to improve them, they
will make use of religion to corrupt it
And then you will have eflEected that
compromise of which our countrymen
report so unfavorably from abroad : —
a high grand faith and worship which
compel their admiration, and puerile
absurdities among the people which
excite their contempt
Nor is it any safeguard against
these excesses in a religious 83r8tem
that the religion is based upon reason,
and develops into a theology. The-
ology both uses logic and baffles it ;
and thus logic acts both as a protec-
tion and as the perversion of religion.
Theology is occupied with supernatu-
ral matters, and is ever running into
mysteries which reason can neither
explain nor adjust Its lines of
thought come to an abrupt termina-
tion, and to pursue them or to com-
plete them is to plunge down the
abyss. But logic blunders on, forcing
its way, as it can, through thick
darkness and ethereal mediums. The
Arians went ahead with logic for
their directing principle, and so lost
the truth; on the other hand, St
Augustine, in his treatise on the
Holy Trinity, seems to show that, if
we attempt to find and tie t<^ther
the ends of lines which run into infin-
ity, we shall only succeed in contra-
dicting ourselves ; that for instance it
is difficult to find the logical reason
for not speaking of three Gods as well
as of one, and of one person in the
Godhead as well as of three. I do
not mean to say that logic cannot be
used to set right its own error, or that
in the hands of an able disputant the
balance of truth may not be restored.
This was done at the Councils of An-
tioch and Nicaea, in the instances of
Paulus and Arius. But such a pro-
cess is circuitous and elaborate ; and
is conducted by means of minute sub-
tleties which will give it the appear-
ance of a game of skill in the case of
matters too grave and practical to de-
serve a mere scholastic treatment
Accordingly, St Augustine simply
lays it down that the statements in
question are heretical, for the former
is trltheism and the latter Sabellian-
ism. That is, good sense and a large
Digitized by CjOOQIC
78
Dr. NewmKoCi Answer to Br. Pmey
Tiew of tnith are the correctives of
hi8 logic. And thus we have arrived
at the final resolution of the whole
matter; for good sense and a large
view of truth are rare gifts ; whereas
all men are hound to he devout, and
most men tliink they can argue and
conclude.
Now let me apply what I have heen
saying to the teaching of the church
on the subject of the Blessed Virgin.
I have to recur to a subject of so
sacred a nature, that, writing as I am
for publication, I need the apology of
my object for venturing to pursue it.
I say then, when once we have mas-
tered the idea that Mary bore, suck-
led, and handled the Eternal in the
form of a child, what limit is conceiv-
able to the ru3h and flood of thoughts
which such a doctrine involves?
What awe and surprise must attend
upon the knowledge that a crea^re
has been brought so close to the Di-
vine Essence? It was the creation
of a new idea and a new sympathy, a
new faith and worship, when the holy
apostles announced diat God bad be-
come incarnate ; and a supreme love
and devotion to him became possible
which seemed hopeless before that
revelation. But beside this, a sec-
ond range of thoughts was opened on
mankind^ unknown before, and unlike
any other, as soon as it was under-
stood that that incarnate God had a
mother. The second idea is perfectly
distinct from the former, the one does
not interfere with the other. He is
God made low, she is a woman made
high. I scarcely like to use a famil-
iar illustration on such a subject, but
it wiU serve to explain what I mean
when I ask you to consider the differ-
ence of feeling with which we read
the respective histories of Maria
Theresa and the Maid of Orleans ; or
with which the middle and lower
classes of a nation regard a first min-
ister of the day who has come of an
aristocratic house and one who has
risen from the ranks. May God's
mercy keep me from the shadow of a
thought dimming the light or blunting
the keenness of that love of him
which is our sole happiness and oar
sole salvation I But surely, when he
became man he brought home to us
his incommunicable attributes with a
distinctiveness which precludes the
possibility of our lowering him by ex-
alting a creature. He alone has an
entrance into our soul, reads our se-
cret thoughts, speaks to our heart, ap-
plies to us spiritual pardon and
strength. On him we solely depend*
He alone is our inward life ; he not
only regenerates us, but (to allude to
a higher mystery) semper gignit ; he
is ever renewing oar new birth and
our heavenly sonship. In this sense
he may be called, as in nature, so in
grace, our real father. Mary is only
our adopted mother, given us from
the cross ; her presence is above, not
on earth; her office is external, not
within us. Her name is not heard in
the administriition of the sacraments.
Her work is not one of ministration
toward us ; her power is indirect It
is her prayers that avail, and th^y
are effectual by the JicU of him who is
our all in aU. Nor does she hear us
by any innate power, or any personal
gift ; but by his numifestation to her
of the prayers which we make her.
When Moses was on the Mount, the
Almighty told him of the idolatry of
his people at the foot of it, in order
that he might intercede for them ; and
thus it is the Divine presence which
is the intermediating power by which
we reach her and she reaches us.
Woe is me, if even by a breath I
sully these ineffable truths I but still,
without prejudice to them, there is,
I say, another range of thought quite
distinct from them, incommensurate
with them, of which the Blessed Vuv
gin is the centre. If we placed our
Lord in that centre, we should only be
degrading him from his throne, and
making him an Arian kind of a God ;
that is, no God at all. He who
charges us with marking Mary a di-
vinity, is thereby denying the divinity
of Jesus. Such a man does not know
what divinity is. Our Lord cannot
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Newman'i Answer to Dr. Pusey.
79
pray for us, as a creature, as Mary
prays ; he cannot inspire those feelings
which a creature inspires. To her
belongs, as being a creature, a natu- .
ral claim on our sympathy and fa-
miliarity, in that she is nothing else
than our fellow. She is our pride,-^
in the poet's words, ^Our tainted
nature's solitary boast." We look to
her without any fear, any remorse,
any consciousness that she is abl^ to
read us, judge us, punish us. Our
heart yearns toward that pure vir-
gin, that gentle mother, and our con-
gratulations follow her, as she rises
from Nazareth and Ephesus, through
the choirs of angels, to her throne on
high. So weak, yet so strong; so
delicate, yet so glory-laden ; so mod-
e0t, yet so mighty. She has sketched
for us her own portrait in the magni-
ficat. ^ He hath regarded the jpw
estate of his handmaid; for behold,
from henceforth all generations shall
call me blessed. He hath put down
the mighty from their seat ; and hath
exalted the humble. He hath fiUed
the hungry with good things, and the
rich he hath sent empty away." I
recollect the strange emotion which
took by suprise men and women,
young and old, when, at the corona-
tion of our present queen, they gazed
on the figure of one so like a child, so
small, so tender, so shrinking, who
had been exalted to so great an inher-
itance and so vast a rule, who was
such a contrast in her own person to
the solemn pageant which centred in
her. Could it be otherwise with the
spectators, if they had human affec-
tion? And did not the All- wise
know the human heart when he took
to himself a mother? did he not an-
ticipate our emotion at the sight of
such an exaltation ? If he had not
meant her to exert that wonderful
influence in his church which she has
in the event exerted, I wiU use a
bold word, he it is who has perverted
as. If she is not to attract our
homage, why did he make her solitary
in her greatness amid his vast crea-
tion? If it be idolatry in nstoletour
affections respond to our faith, he
would not have made her what she
is, or he would not have .told us that
he had so made her; but, far from
this, he has sent his prophet to an-
nounce to us, ^A virgin shall con-
ceive and bear a son, and they shall
call his name Emmanuel," and we
have the same warrant for hailing
her as God's Mother, as we have for
adoring him as G^d.
Ghristiani^ is eminently an objec-
tive religion. For the most part it
tells us of persons and facts in simple
words, and leaves the announcement
to produce its effect on such hearts as
are prepared to receive it. This at
least is its general character; and
Butler recognizes it as such in his
^Analogy" when speaking of the
Second and Third Persons of the
Holy Trinity: "The internal wor-
ship," he says, ^ to the Son and Holy
Ghost is no further matter of pure re-
vealed command than as Uie relations
they stand in to us are matters of
pure revelation ; for the relations being
known, the obligations to such inter-
nal worship are obligationa of reason
arising o\U of those relations them-
selves." * It is in this way that the
revealed doctrine of the incarnation
exerted a stronger and a broader
influence on Christians, as they more
and more apprehended and mastered
its meaning and its bearings. It is
contained in the brief and simple dec-
laration of St John, "The Word
was made flesh ;" but it required cen-
tury after century to spread it out in
its fulness and to imprint it energet-
ically on the worship and practice of
the Catholic people as well as on their
£Euth. Athanasius was the first and
the great teacher of it He collected
together the inspired notices scattered
through David, Isaias, St Paul, and
St John, and he engraved indelibly
upon the imaginations of the faithful,
as had never been before, that man is
God, and GUxi is man, that in Mary
they meet, and tliat in this sense Mary
• Tid. '*BsM7 on Doctr. !>«▼.," p. SO.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
80
Dr. 2feteman*8 Anstper to Dr. Pusey.
is the centre of all things. He added
nothing to what was known before,
nothing to the popular and zealous
faith that her Son was God ; he has
lefl behind him in his works no such
definite passages about her as those of
St Irenaeus or St. Epiphanius ; but he
brought the circumstances of the in-
carnation home to men's minds bj
the manifold evolutions of his analysis,
and secured it fpr ever from perversion.
Stilly however, there was much to be
done ; we have no proof that Athana-
sius himself had any special devotion
to the Blessed Virgin; but he laid
the foundations on which that devotion
was to rest, and thus noiselesslj and
without strife, as the first temple in
the holj eitj, she grew up into her in-
heritance, and was '' established in
Sion and her power was in Jerusa-
lem." Such was the origin of that
august euUtis which has been paid to
the Blessed Mary for so many centu-
ries in the East and in the West.
That in times and places it has fallen
into abuse, that it has even become a
superstition, I do not care to deny;
for, as I have said above, the same
process which brings to maturity car-
ries on to decay, and things that do
not admit of abuse have very little
life in them. This of course does not
excuse such excesses, or justify us in
making light of them, when they
occur. I have no intention of doing
so as regards the particular instances
which you bring against us, though
but a few words will suffice for what
I need say about them : — ^before doing
so, however, I am obliged to make
three or four introductory remarks.
1. I have almost anticipated my
first remark already. It is this : that
the height of our offending in our de-
votion to the Blessed Virgin would
not look so great in your volume as it
does, had you not placed yourself on
lower ground than your own feelings
toward her would have spontaneously
prompted you to take. I have no
doubt you had some good reason for
adopting this course, but I do not
know it. What I do know is that, for
the fathers' sake, who so exalt her,
you really do love and venerate her,
. though you do not evidence it in your
book. I am glad, then, in this place,
to insist on a fact which WiU lead
those among us who know you not
to love you from their love of her, in
spite of what you refuse to give her ;
and Anglicans, on the other hand, who
do know you, to think better of us, who
refuse her nothmg, when they reflect
that you do not actually go against us,
but merely come short of us in your
devotion to her.
2. As you revere the fathers, so you
revere the Greek Church; and here
again we have a witness on our be-
half of which you must be aware as
fully as we are, and of which you must
really mean to give us the benefit.
In proportion as this remarkable fact
is Understood, it will take off the edge
of the surprise of Anglicans at the
sight of our devotions to our Lady. It
must weigh with them when they dis-
cover that we can enlist on our ^ide
in this controversy those seventy mil-
lions (I think they so consider them) of
Orientals who are separated finom our
communion. Is it not a very pregnant
&ct that the Eastern churches, so inde-
pendent of us, so long separated from
the West, so jealous of antiquity, should
even surpass us in their exaltation of
the Blessed Virgin? Tliat tliey go
further than we do is sometimes de-
nied, on the ground that the Western
devotion toward her is brought out
into system, and the Eastern is not ;
yet this only means really that the
Latins have more mental activity,
more strength of intellect, less of rou-
tine, less of mechanical worship among
them, than the Greeks. We are able,
better than they, to give an account of
what we do ; and we seem to be more
extreme merely because we are more
definite. But, afier all, what have
the Latins done so bold as that substi-
tution of the name of Mary for the
name of Jesus at the end of the
collects and petitions in the breviary,
nay, in the ritual and liturgy ? Not
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dn Hfewmom'i Jmwer to Dr, Puse^f.
81
merely in local or pq)ii]ar, and in
semi-anthorized devotions, which are
the kind of sources that supplies jou
with jour matler of accusation against
US, bat in the fonnal prayers of the
Greek eucharistic service, petitions are
offered, not ^ in the ' name of Jesus
Christ," but « of the Theotocos." Such
a phenomenon, in such a quarter, I
thmk, oaght to make Anglicans mer-
d(hl tow^ those writers among our-
selves who have been excessive in sing-
ing the praises of the Deipara. To
make a nile of substituting Mary with
att saints for Jesus in the public service,
bas more '< Mariolatry " in it than to
alter the Te Deum to her honor in pri-
vate devotion.
8. And thus I am brought to a
tbiid remaric supplemental to your ac-
cusation of us* Two krge views, as I
have said above, are opened upon our
devotional thoughts in Christianity;
the one centring in the Son of Mary,
the other in Sie Mother of Jesus.
Ndther need obscure the other; and
in the GathoHc Church, as a matter of
fact, neither does. I wish you had
either frankly allowed this in your
vofaone, or proved the contrary* I
wish, when you report that ^^ a certain
proportion, it has been ascertained
hy those who have inquired, do stop
short m her," p. 107, that you had
added your belief, that the case was
&r otherwise with the great bulk of
Catholics. Might I not have expected
it? May I not, without sensitiveness,
be somewhat pained at the omission ?
From mere Protestants, indeed, I ex-
pect nothing better. They content
themselves with saying that our devo-
tions to our Lady mutt necessarily
throw our Lord into the shade, and
thereby they relieve themselves of a
great deal of trouble. Then they
catch at any stray fact which counte-
nances or seems to countenance their
prejudice. Now I say plainly I never
will defend or screen any one from
your just rebuke who, through false
devotion to Mary, forgets Jesus. But
I should like the fact to be proved
Ihst ; I cannot hastily admit it. There
VOL. in. 6
is this broad fiict the other way : that
if we look through Europe we shall
find, on the whole, that just those na-
tions and countries have lost their
faith in the divinity of Christ who
have given up devotion to his Mother,
and that those, on the other hand, who
have been foremost in her honor, have
retained their orthodoxy. Contrast,
for instance, the Calvinists with the
Grreeks, or France with the north of
Germany, or the Protestant and Cath-
olic communions in Lreland. As to
England, it is scarcely doubtful what
would be- the state of its Established
Church if the Liturgy and Articles
were not an integral part of its estab-
lishment; and when men bring so
grave a diarge against us as is implied
in your volume, they cannot be sur-
prised if we in turn say hard things
of Anglicanism.* In the Catholic
Church Mary has shown herself, not
the rival, but the minister of her Son.
She has protected him, as in his in-
fancy, so in the whole history of the
religion. There is, then, a plain his-
torical truth in Dr. Fisher's words
which you quote to condemn : " Jesus
is obscured, because Mary is kept in
the tackground."
This truth, exemplified in history,
might abo be abundantly illustrated,
did my space admit, from the lives
and writings of ho]y men in modem
times. Two of them, St. Alfonso
Ligttori and the Blessed Paul of the
Cross, for ail their notorious devotion
* I luire m>o1a|n more on this Bnbject in my
"Essay on DevlfcpmenV' P- 438. "Nor doe* It
avaU to object, that, in this contrast of devo-
tional exorcises, the nnman is sure to supplant
the divine, from the infirmity of out nature ;
for, I repeat, the question is one of fact, wheiher
it has done so. And next, it must be asked,
whetfier tht character qf Protestant devotion
toward <ntr Lord has been that qf worship at
all : and not rather such as we pay to an excel*
leni human being? . . . Carnal minds will
ever create a carnal worship for themselves : and
to forbid them the service of the saints will have
no tendency to teach them the worship of God.
Moreover. . . . great and constant as is the
devotion which the Catholic pays to St. Mary, it
has a special province, and has far more connec-
tion with the public services and the festive aspeci
<^ Christian£vy and with cerUln extraordlnjrv
offices which she holds, than with what is strid-
hf personal and prtmary In religion." Our late
(Sumnal, on mv reception, singled out tome this
last sentence for the oxpresalon of his especial
approbation.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Neunnan*i Jntwer to Dr, Put^*
to the Mother, have shown their su-
preme l3ve of her divine Son in the
names which thej have giyen to their
respective congregations, viz, "^ of the
Redeemer/' and ** of the Cross and
Passion.'' However, I will do no
more than refer to an apposite pas-
sage in the Italian translation of the
work of a French Jesuit, Fr. Nepveu,
" Christian Thoughts for every Day in
the Year," which was recommended
to the friend who went with me to
Rome by the same Jesuit father
there with whom, as I have already
said, I stood myself in such intimate
relations ; I believe it is a fair speci-
men of the teaching of our spiritual
books:
"The love of Jesus Christ is the most
sure pledge of our fatare happiness, and
the most infallible token of our predesti-
nation. Mercy toward the poor, devotion
to the Holy Virgin, are very sensible
tokens of predestination; nevertheless
they are not absolutely infallible ; bat one
cannot have a oncere and constant love
of Jesus Christ without being predestin-
ated. . . . The destroying angel
which bereaved the houses of the Egyp-
tians of their first-bom, had respect to all
the houses which were marked with the
blood of the Lamb."
And it is also exemplified, as I
verily believe, not only in formal and
distinctive confessions, not only in
books intended for the educated class,
but also in the personal religion of the
Catholic populations. When stran-
gers are so unfavorably impressed
with us, because they see images of
our Lady in our churchy, and crowds
flocking about her, they forget that
there is a Presence within the sacred
walls, infinitely more awful, which
claims and obtains from us a worship
transceiidently different from any de-
votion we pay to her. That devotion
might indeed tend to idolatry if it
were encouraged in Protestant
churches, where there is nothing high-
er than it to attract the worshipper;
but all the images that a Catholic
church ever contained, all the cruci-
fixes at its altars brought together, do
not eo affect its frequenters as the
lamp which betokens the presence or
absence there of the blessed sacra-
ment. Is not this so certain, so noto-
rious, that on some occasions it has
been even brought as . a charge
against us, that we are irreverent in
church, when what seemed to the ob-
jector to be irreverence was but the
necessary change of feeling which
came over those who were there on
their knovnng that their Lord was
away?
The mass again conveys to us the
same lesson of the sovereignty of the
incomato Son ; it is a return to Calva-
ry, and Mary is scarcely named in it
Hostile visitors enter our churclies on
Sunday at mid-day, the time of the
Anglican service. They are surprised
to see the high mass perhaps poorly
attended, and a body of worshippers
leaving the music and the mixed mul-
titude who may be lazily fulfilling
their obligation, for the silent or the
informal devotions which are offered
at an i&age of the Blessed Virgin.
They may be tempted, with one of
your informants, to call such a temple
not a " Jesus Church," but a " Mary
Church." But, if they understood
our ways, they would know that we
begin the day with our Lord and then
go on to his mother. It is early in
the morning that religious persons go
to mass and conmiunion. The high
mass, on the other hand, is ihe festive
celebration of the day, not the special
devotional service ; nor is there any
reason why those who have been at a
low mass already, should not at that
hour proceed to ask the intercession
of the Blessed Yirgui for themselves
and all that is dear to them.
Communion, agaiu, which is given
in the morning, is a solemn, unequivo-
cal act of faith m the incarnate God,
if any can be such ; and the most gra-
cious of admonitions, did we need one,
of ips sovereign and sole right to pos-
sess us* I knew a lady who on her
death-bed was visited by an excellent
Protestant friend. She, with gpeat
tenderness for her soul's wclfiure, ask-
ed her whether her prayers to the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Ihwman'9 Jnswer to Dr. Piuey.
88
Blflsaed Yiigin did not, at that awful
hour, lead to foigetfblneBS of her Sa-
viour. ** Forget him I" she replied
with fmrpnae ; ^ why, he has just been
bete." She had been receiving him
in communion* When, then, my dear
Pusej, you read anything extravagant
in praise of our Lady, is it not char-
itable to ask, even while you condemn
it in itself, did the author write noth.-
Ing' ebe ? Did he write on the bless-
ed sacrament ? Had he given up ^' all
for Jesus P' I recollect some lines,
the happiest, I think, which that au-
thor wrote, which bring out strikingly
the reciprocity, which I am dwelling
QD, of the respective devotions to
Mother and Son:
** Bat tcomAil men bate coldly said
Tby love was leading me from Qod :
And yet In this I did bat tread
The Tery path my Savioor trod.
« Tbey know bnt little of thy wortli
Wno apeak these heartleaa words to me;
For what did Jeans love on earth
One hair so tenderly as thee T
** Oet me the grace to love thee more ;
Jeaos wiligive, if thoa wilt plead ;
And, Mother, when lifers cares are o^cr,
Oh, I shall love thee then Indeed.
'* Jeans, when his three hours were mn,
Bequeathed thee ttota. the cross to me ;
And oh I how can I love thy Bon,
Bweet Mother, If I love not thee r"
4. Thus we are brought from the
ooQsideration of the sentiments them-
selves, of which you complain, to the
persons who wrote, and the places
where they wrote them. I wish you
had been led, in this part of your
work, to that sort of careful labor
which you have employed in so mas-
terly a way in your investigation of
the circumstances of the definition of
the immaculate conception. In the
latter case yon have catalogued the
bishops who wrote to the Holy See,
and analyzed their answers. Had
you in like manner discriminated and
fecated the Marian writers, as you
can them, and observed the times,
places, and circumstances of their
works, I think they would not, when
brouglit together, have liad their pres-
ent stardmg effect on the reader. As
it is, they inflict a vague alarm upon
the mindy as when one hears a noise.
and does not know whence it comes
and what it means. Some of your
authors, I know, are sunts ; all, I sup-
pose, are spiritual writers and holy
men ; but the majority are of no great
celebrity, even if they have any kind
(^ weight Suarez has no business
among them at all, for, when he says
that no one is saved without the
Blessed Yirgin, he is speaking not of
devotion to her, but of her intercession.
The greatest name is St Alfonso
Liguori ; but it never surprises me to
read anything unusual in the devo-
tions of a saint. Such men are on a
level very different from our own, and
we cannot understand them. I hold
this to be an important canon in the
lives of the saints, according to the
words of the apostie, <<The spiritual
man judges all things, and he himself
is judged of no one.'' But we may
refrain from judging, without proceed-
ing to imitate. I hope it is not disre-
spectful to so great a servant of God
to say, that 1 never read his ^ Glories
of Mary ;" but here I am speaking
generally of all saints, whether I
know them or not; and I say that
they are beyond us, and that we must
use them as patterns, not as copies.
As to his practical directions, St. Al-
fonso wrote them for Neapolitans,
whom he knew, and we do not know.
Other writers whom you quote, as De
Salazar, are too ruthlessly logical to
be safe or pleasant guides in tiie deli-
cate matters of devotion. As to De
Montford and Oswald, I never even
met with their names, till I saw them
in your book ; the bulk of our laity,
not to say of our clergy, perhaps
know them little better than I do.
Nor did I know till I learnt it from
your volume that there were two
Bemardincs. St Bemardine, of
Sienna, I knew of course, and knew
too that he had a burning love for
our Lord. But about tiie other,
^ Bemardine de Bustis," I was quite
at fault I find from* the Protestant
Gave that he, as well as his name-
sake, made himself conspicuous also
for his zeal for the holy name,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
84
Dy. Newinan*s Amwer to Dr. Piuey.
which is much to' the point here.
" With Buch deyotion was he carried
away,'* says Cave, '*for the bare name
of Jesus (which, by a new device of
Bemardine, of Sienna, had lately be-
gan to receive divine honors), that he
was urgent with Innocent VEH. to
assign it a day and rite in the calen-
dar.''
One thing, however, is clear about
all these writers; that not one of
them is an Englishman. I have gone
through your book, and do not find
one English name among the various
authors to whom you refer, except, of
course, the name of that author whose
lines I have been quoting, and who,
great as are his merits, cannot, for the
reasons I have given in the opening
of my letter, be considered a repre-
sentative of English Catholic devotion.
Whatever these writers may have said
or not said, whatever they may have
said harshly, and whatever capable of
'fair explanation) still they are foreign-
ers ; we are not answerable for their
particular devotions ; and as to them-
selves, I am glad to be able to quote
the beautiful words which you use
about them in your letter to the " Week-
ly Register" of November 25th last
" I do not presume," you say, ** to pre-
scribe to Italians or Spaniards what
they shall hold, or how they shall ex-
press their pious opinions ; and least
of all did I think of imputing to any
of the writers whom I quoted that they
took from our Lord any of the love
which they gare to his jSiother.'* In
these last words, too, you have sup-
plied one of the omissions in your vol-
ume which I noticed above.
5. Now, then, we come to England
itself, which after all, in the matter of
devotion, alone concerns you and me ;
for though doctrine is one and the
same everywhere, devotions, as I
have abeady said, are matters of
the particular time and the particular
country. I suppose we owe it to tlie
national good sense that English Cath-
olics have been protected from the
extravagances which are elsewhere to
be foundl And we owe it, also, to the
wisdom and moderation of the Holy
See, which in giving us the pattern for
our devotion, as well as the rule of
our faith, has never indulged in those
curiosities of thought which are both
so attractive to undisciplined imagina-
tions and so dangerous to grovelling
hearts. In the case of our own com-
mon people I think such a forced style
of devotion would be simply unintelli-
gible; as to the educated, I doubt
whether it can have more than an oc-
casional or temporary influence. K
the Catholic faith spreads in England,
these peculiarities will not spread with
it. There is a healthy devotion to the
Blessed Mary, and there is an artifi-
cial ; it is possible to love her as a
Mother, to honor her as a Yirgm, to
seek her as a Patron, and to exsdt her
as a Queen, without any injury to solid
piety and Christian good sense: lean-
not help calling this the English style.
I wonder whether you find anything to
displease you in the " Garden of the
Soul,*' the « Key of Heaven," the"Vade
Mecum," the " Golden Manual," or the
" Crown of Jesus P' These are the books
to which Anglicans ought to appeal
who would be fair to us in this matter.
I do not observe anything in them
which goes beyond the teaching of the
fathers, except so far as devotion goes
beyond doctrine.
There is one collection of devotions,
beside, of the highest authority, which
has been introduced from abroad of
late years. It consists of prayers of
various kinds which have been indul-
gencedby the popes ; and it commonly
goes by the name of the " Raccolta."
As that word suggests, the language
of many of the prayers is Italian, while
others are in Latin. This circum-
stance is unfavorable to a translation,
which, however skilful, must ever sa-
vor of the words and idioms of the ori-
ginal ; but, passing over this necessa-
ry disadvantage, I consider there is
hardly a clause in the good-sized rel-
ume in question which even the sensi-
tiveness of English Catholicism woald
wish changed. Its anxious observance
of doctrinal exactness is almost a fault
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. 2fewman*9 AmmBer to Dr. Piuey*
85
It seems afiraid of usiDg the words
''giye me," ^make me,'* in its ad-
dresses to the Blessed Virgpn, which
are as nataral to adopt as in address
ing a parent or friend* Surely we do
not disparage dirine Providence when
we saj that we are indebted to our
parents for our life, or when we ask
their f>lessing; we do not show anj
atheistical leanings because we saj
that a man's reooverj must be left to
nature, or that nature supplies bruto
animals with instincts. In like manner
it seems to me a simple purism to in-
sist upon minute accuracj of expres-
sicm in derotional and popular writings*
Howeyer, the " Raccolta," as com-
ing horn responsible authoritj, for the
most part observes it. It commonly
uses the phrases, ^ gain for us by thy
prayers," ^obtain for us," <<pray
to Jesus for me," ^ speak for me,
Mary," << carry dion our prayers,"
*^ ask for us graee," *^ intercede for the
people of God," and the like, marking
thereby with great emphasis that she
is nothing more than an advocate, and
not a source of merey. Nor do I rec-
ollect in this book more than one or
two ideas to which you would be likely
to raise an objection. The strongest
of these is found in the novena before
her nativity, in which, apropot of her
birth, we pray that she ^ would come
down again and be re-bom spiritually
in our souls f but it will occur to you
that St. Paul speakp of lus wish to
impart to his converts, '^ not only the
gospel, but his own soul ;" and writing
to the Corinthians, he says he has
^ begotten them by the gospel," and t%
Phiiemen, that he had '< begotten
Onesimn» m his bonds ;" whereas St.
James, with greater accuracy of ex-
pression, says * of his own will hath
God begotten us with the word of
troth." Again we find the petitioner
saying to the Blessed Mary, ^ In thee
I pUi^ all my hope f but this is ex-
pkuned in another passage^ ''Thou
art my best hope after Jesus." Again,
we read elsewhere, '' I would I had
a greater love for thee, since to love
thee 18 a great mark of predestinar
tion ;" but the prayer goes on, ^ Thy
Son deserves of us an immeasurable
love $ pray that I may have this grace
-«-a great love for Jesus ;" and ftulher
on, '^ I covet no good of the earth, but
to love my God alone."
Then, again, as to the lessons
which our Catholics receive, whether
by catechizing or instruction, you
would find nothing in our received
manuals to which yon would not as-
sent, I am quite sure. Again, as to
preaching, a standard book was
drawn up three centuries ago, to sup-
ply matter for the purpose to the par-
odiial clergy. You incidentally men-
tion, p. 153, that the comment of
Cornelius h Lapide on Scripture is
''a repertorium for sermons;" but I
never heard of this work being used,
nor indeed can it, because of its size*
The work provided for the purpose
by the church is the ^ Catechism of
the CouncU of Trent," and nothing
extreme about our Blessed Lady is
propounded there. On the whole, I
am sanguine that yon will come to the
conclusion that Anglicans may safely
trust themselves to us English Catho-
lics as regards any devotions to the
Blessed Virgin which might be re-
quired of them, over and above the
rule of the Council of Trent
6. And, now at length coming to
the statements, not English, but for-
eign, which offend you in works writ-
ten in her honor, I will frankly say
that I read some of those which you
quote with grief and almost anger;
for they seemed to me to ascribe to
the Blessed Virgin a power of
'^searching the reins and hearts"
which is the attribute of God alone ; and
I said to myself, how can we any
more prove our Lord's divinity from
Scriptore, if those cardinal passages
which invest him with divine preroga-
tives after all invest him with nothing
beyond what his Mother shares with
him? And how, again, is there any-
thing of incommunicable greatness in
his death and passion, if he who was
alone in the garden, alone upon the
cross, alone in the resurrection, ailer
Digitized by GoOglC
86
Dr. NtwmatC^ Anmoer t» Dr. Pii$ey.
all is not alone, but shared his solitary
work with his Blessed Mother— with
her to whom, when he entered on his
ministry, he said for our instruction,
not as grudging her her proper gloiy,
^ Woman, what have I to do with
thee 7* And then again, if I hate those
perverse sayings so much, how much
more must she, in proportion to
her love of him? And how do we
show our love for her, by wounding
her in the very apple -of her eye?
This I said and say ; but then, on the
* other hand, I have to observe that
these strange words after all are but
few in number, out of the many pas-
sages you cite ; that most of them ex-
emplify what I said above about the
difficulty of determining the exact
point where truth passes into error,
and that they are allowable in one
sense or connection, and false in an-
other. Thus to say that prayer (and
the Blessed Virgin's prayer) is om-
nipotent, is a harsh expression in
everyday prose; but, if it is ex-
plained to mean that there is nothing
I which prayer may not obtain irom
God, it is nothing else than the very
promise mode us in Scripture.
Again, to say that Mary is the cen-
tre of all bcang, sounds inflated and
profane; yet alter all it is only one
way, and a natural way, of saying
that the Creator and the creature met
together, and became one in her
womb ; and as such, I have used the
expression above. Again, it is at
first sight a paradox to say that
^ Jesus is obscured, because Mary is
kept in the background;" yet there
is a sense, as I have shown above, in
which it is a simple truth.
And so again certain statements
may be true, under circumstances and
in a particular time and place, which
are abstractedly false; and hence it
may be very unfair in a controversial-
ist to interpret by an English or a
modem rule whatever may have been
asserted by a foreign or mediaeval
author. To say, for instance, dog-
matically, that no <me can be saved
without personal devotion to the
Blessed Virgin, would be an miteoa-
ble proposition : yet it might be true
of this man or that, or of this or that
country at this or thatdate ; and if the
very statement has ever been made by
any writer of consideration (and this
has to be nsoertained), then perhaps
it was made precisely under these
exceptional circumstances* If an
Italian preacher made it, I should
feel no disposition to doubt him, at'
least as regards Italian youths and'
Italian maidens.
Then I think yon have not always
made your quotations with that con-
sideration and kindness which is your
rule. At p. 106 you say, ^It is
commonly said, that if any Roman
Catholic acknowledges that Mt is
good and useful to pray to the saints,'
he is not bound himself to do so.
Were the above teaching true, it
would be cruelty to say so ; because,
according to it, he would be forfeiting
what is morally necessaiy to his sal-
vation." But now, as to the fiict,
where is it said that to pray to our
Lady and the saints is necessary to
salvation? The proposition of St
Alfonso is, that ** God gives no grace
except through Mary f tiiat is, through
her intercession. But intercession is
one thing, devotion is another. And
Suarcz says, ^ It is the universal sen-
timent that the intercession of Mary
is not only useful, but also in a cer-
tain manner necessary (* but still it is
the question of her intercession, not of
our invocation of her, not of devoti<»i
to her. If it were so, no Protestant
^uld be saved ; if it were 80> there
would be grave reasons for doubting
of the salvation of St Chrysostom or
St Athanasius, or of the primitive
martyrs; nay, I should like to know
whether St Augustine, in all his vol-
uminous writings, invokes her once.
Our Lord died for those heathens who
did not know him; and his mother
intercedes for those Christians who do
not know her ; and she intercedes ac-
cording to his will, and, when he
wills to save a particular soul, she at
once prays for it. I say, he wiUs in-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. NewmcaCi Jntwer to Dr. Puseg.
87
deed acoording to ber prayer, but then
she prays according, to bis will.
Tbongb then it is natural and prudent
for Uiose to have recourse to ber who,
from the church's teaching, know ber
power, yet it cannot bo said that de-
votion to her is a tine quA nan of sal-
vation. Some indeed of the authors
whom you quote go further ; they do
speak of devotion; but even then
they do not enunciate the general
proposition which I have been disal-
lowing. For instance, they say, ^ It
18 morally impossible for those to be
saved who neglect the devotion to the
Blessed Virgin ;" but a simple omis-
sion is one thing, and neglect another.
'^ It is impossible for any to be saved
who turns away from her ;" yes ; but
to ^ tarn away^ is to offer some posi-
tive disrespect or insult toward her,
and that with sufficient knowledge;
and I certainly think it would be a
very grave act if, in a Catholic coun-
try (and of such the writers were
speaking, for they knew of no other),
with ave-marias sounding in the air,
and images of the Madonna at every
street imd road, a Catholic broke off
or gave up a practice that was uni«
venal, and in which he was brought
up, aiid deliberately put her name out
of his thoughts.
7. Though, then, common sense
may determine for us that the line of
prudence and propriety has been cer-
tainly passed in the instance of certain
statements about the Blessed Vir^,
it is often not easy to prove the point
logically ; and in such cases authority,
if it attempt to act, would be in the
position which so often happens in
oar oonrts of law, when the commis-
sion of an offence is morally certain,
bat the government prosecutor cannot
find l^al evidence sufficient to insure
conviction. I am not denying the
light of sacred congregations, at their
will, to act peremptorily, and without
assignmg reasons for die judgment
they pass upon writers; but, when
they have found it inexpedient to take
this severe course, perhaps it may
happen from the circumstances of the
case that there is no other that they
can tf|ke, even if they would. It is
wiser then for the most part to leave
these excesses to the gradual opera-
tion of public opinion — that is, to the
opinion of educated and sober Catho-
lics ; and this seems to me the healthi-
est way of putting them down. Tet
in matter of fact I believe the Holy
See has interfered from time to time,
when devotion seemed running into
superstition ; and not so long ago. I
recollect hearing iu Gregory the
XVI.'s time of books about the Bless-
ed Viigin which had been suppressed
by authority ; and in particular of a
representation of the immaculate con-
ception which he had forbidden, and
of measures laken against the shock-
ing notion that the Blessed Mary is
present in the holy eucharist in the
sense in which our Lord is present ;
but I have no means of verifying the
information I received.
Nor have I time, any more than
you have had, to ascertain how far
great theologians have made protests
against those various extravagances
of which you so rightly complain.
Passages, however, from three well-
known Jesuit fathers have oppor-
tunely come in my way, and in one of
them is introduced, in confirmation,
the name of the great Gerson. They
are Canisius, Petavius, and Baynaud-
us ; and as they speak very appositely,
and you do not seem to know them,
I will here make some extracts from
them:
(1.) Canisius:
" We confess that in the euUue of Mary
It has been and is possible for corruptions
to creep in ; and we have a more than or-
dinary desire that the pastors of the
Church should be carefuUj vigilant here,
and ^ve no place to Satan, whose charac-
teristic office it has ever been, whUe men
sleep, to sow the cockle amid the Lord's
wheat. . . . For this purpose it is his
wont gladly to avail himself of the aid of
heretics, fiinatics, and false Catholics, as
may be seen in the instance of this Mdri-
antu cuUue, This cuUue, heretics, suborned
by Satan, attack with hostility
Thus, too* certain mad heads are so de-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
88
2V. NswmaiCB Answer io Dr. Puseg.
mented by Satan, as to embrace super-
stitions and idolatries instead of the true
cvUu9y and neglect altogether the due
measuies whether in respect to Qod or to
Mary, Such indeed were the CollTridians
of old. . . . Such that Qenuan herds-
man a hundred years ago, who gave out
publicly that he was a new prophet and
had had a vieion of the Deipara, and told
the people in her name to pay no more
tributes and taxes to princes. ....
Moreover, how many Catholics does one
see who, by great and shocking negli-
gence, have neither care nor regard for
her evUua, but, given to pro&ne and sec-
ular objects, scarce once a year raise their
earthly minds to sinff her praises or to
venerate hsxV'-^De MwHd Dm^rd, p.
618.
(2.) Father Petau says, when dis-
cnssing the teaching of the fathers
about the Blessed Virgin (de Inconi.
xiT. 8) :
*' I will venture to give this advice to
all who would be devout and paneg^cal
toward the Holy Virgin, viz., not to ex-
ceed in their piety and^ devotion to her,
but to be content with true and solid
pmises, and to cast aside what is other-
wise. The latter kind of idoktiy, lurk-
ing, as St. Augustine says, nay implanted,
in human hearts, is greatly abhorrent
from theolopT^, that is from the gravity of
heavenly wisdom, which never thinks or
asserts anything but what is measured
by certain and accurate rules. What that
rule should be, and what caution is to be
used in our present subject, I will not de-
termine of myself, but according to the
mind of a most weighty and most learn-
ed theologian, John Qerson, who in one
of his epistles proposes certain canons,
which he calls truths, by means of which
are to be measured the assertions of theo-
logians concerning the incarnation. . .
By these truly golden pre-
cepts Gerson brings within TOunds the
immoderate license of praising the Blessed
Virgin, and restrains it witmn the meas-
ure of sober and healthy piety. And
from these it is evident that that sort of
reasoning is frivolous and nugatory in
which so many indulge, in order to assign
any sort of grace they please, however
unusual, to the Blessed Virgin, For they
argue thus : ' Whatever the Son of Qod
could bestow for the glory of his mother,
that it became him in fact to fumidi ;' or
again, 'Whatever honors or ornaments
he has poured out on other saints, those
all together hath he heaped upon his
mother ; ' whence they draw their chain of
reasoning to their desired conclusion; a
mode of argumentation which Oerson
treats with contempt as captious and
sophistical."
He adds, what <tf oomse we all
shoald say, that, in thus speaking, he
has no intention to curtail the libertj
of pioas persons in sneh meditations
and oonjectares, on the mysteiieB of
faith, sacred histories, and the Scrip-
ture text, as are of the nature of com-
ments, supplements, and the like.
(3.) Raynaud is an author full of
devotion, if any one is so, to the
Blessed Virgin; yet, in the work
which he has composed in her honor
(^ Dlptycha Mariana "), he says more
^an I can quote Jiere to the same
purpose as I^etau. I abridge some
portions of his text :
" Let this betaken for granted, that no
praises of ours can oome up to the
praises due to the Virgin Mother. But
we must not make up for our inability to
reach her true praise by a supply of ly-
ing embellishment and false honors. For
there are some whose afl^Uon for relig-
ious objects is so Imprudent and lawless,
that they transgress the due limits even
toward the saints. This Origen has ex-
cellently observed upon in the case of the
Baptist, for very many, instead of observ-
ing the measure of charity, consider
whether he might not be ^ the Christ" — p.
0. " . . . St. Anselm, the first, or one
of the first, champions of the pu^blic cele-
bration of the Blessed Virgin s immacu-
late conception, says (de Exoeli. Virg.) that
the church insiders it indecent, tluit any-
thing that admits of doubt should be said
,in her praise, when the things which are
certainly true of her supply such large
materials for laudation. It is right so to
interpret St. Epiphanius also, when he
says that human tongues should not pro-
nounce anything lightly of the Deipara ;
and who is more justly to be charged
with speaking lightly of the most holy
Mother of God, than he who, as if what
is certain and evident did not suffice for
her full investiture, is wiser than the
aged, and obtrudes on us the toadstools of
his own mind, and devotions unheard of
by those holy fathers who loved her best T
Plainly as St. Anselm says that she is the
Mother of God, this by] itself exceeds
every elevation which can be named or
imagined, short of God. About so sub-
lime a majesty we should not speak has-
tily /rom prurience of wit, or flimsy pre.
text of promoting piety ; but with great
maturity of thought ; and, whenever the
maxims of the church and the oracles <tf
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Dr. Nwmtuit Jsuwer to Dr. PuBey.
89
fidtb do not soffiee, then not nKhont the
Bufihigai of the ^ docton.
Those who are sabject to ihia prarienoe of
innovation, do not perceive how broad \b
the drSerenoe between subjecte of human
■denoe and heavenly things. All novelty
ooneeming the olgects of oar faith is to
be put far away ; except so far as by dili-
gent investigation of God's word, written
and unwritten, and a well founded infer-
ence from what is thence to be elicited,
jwmisthing is brought to light which,
though .already indeed there, had not
hitherto been recognized. The innova-
tions which we condemn are those which
rest neither on the written nor unwritten
word, nor on oondu^ns from it, nor on
the judgment of ancimit sages, nor suffl-
dent baSbi of reason, but on the sole color
and pretext of doing more honor to the
I)eipara.''->p. 10.
In another portion of the same
work, he speaks in particnlar of one
of those imaginations to which you
espedally refer, and for which, with-
oQt strict necessity (as it seems to
me), yon aUege Uie authority of h,
Lapide:
"Nor is that honor of the Deipara to
be offered, viz., that the elements of the
body of Christ, which the Blessed Virgin
Bopplied to it, remain perpetually unal-
tered in Christ, and thereby are found
also in the euehaiist. . . . This so-
licitude for the Virgin's glory must, I
consider, be discarded; since, if rightly
considered, it involves an injury toward
Christ, and such honors the vir^n loveth
not. And first, dismissing phuosophical
bagatelles about the animation of blood,
mUk, etc., who can endure the proposition
that a good portion of the substance of
Christ in the eucharist should be wor-
shipped with a €uUu9 less than latriaf
▼iz., liy the inferior euUtts of hffperduliaf
The preferable class of theologians contend
that not even the humanity of Christ is
to be materially abstracteid from the
Word of God, and worshipped by itself;
how then shall we introduce a etUttu of
the Deipara in Christ, which is inferior to
the isuUus proper to him ? How is this
other than casting down of the substance
of Christ from his royal throne, and a deg-
radation of it to some inferior sitting-
place? Is is nothing to the purpose to
refer to such fathers as say that the flesh
of Christ is the flesh of Mair, for they
speak of its origin. What will hinder, if
this doctrine be admitted, our also admit-
ting that there is something in Christ
which is detestable? for, as the first ele-
ments of a body which were communicat-
ed by the Virgin to Christ have (as these
authors say) remained perpetually in
Christ, so the same materia, at least in
part, which belonged t>riginally to the an-
cestors of Christ, came down to the Vir-
gin from her Dftther, unchanged, and taken
from her grandfather, and so on. And
thus, since it is not unlikely that some of
these ancestors were reprobate, there
would now be something actually in
Christ which had belonged to a reprobate
and worthy of detestation."— p. 237.
8. After such explanations, and
with such authorities, to clear my
path, I put away from me, as you
would wish, without any hesitation, as
matters in which my heart and reason
have no part (when taken in their
literal and absolute sense, as any
Protestant would uatnrally take thetn,
and as the writers doubdess did not
use them), such sentences, and
phrases, as these : that the mercy of
Mary is infinite; that Grod has re-
signed into her hands his omnipo-
tence; that (unconditionally) it is
safer to seek her than her Son ; that
the Blessed Virgin is superior to
God; that he is (simply) subject to
her command ; that our Lord is now
of the same disposition as his Father
toward sinners, viz., a disposition to
reject them, while Mary takes his
place as an advocate with Father and
Son; that the saints are more ready
to intercede with Jesus than Jesus
with the Father; that Mary is the
only refuge of those with whom Grod
is angry ; that Mary alone can obtain
a Protestant's conversion; that it
would have sufficed for the salvation
of men if our Lord had died not to
obey his Father, but to defer to the
decree of his mother ; that she rivals
our Lord in being (^od's daughter,
not by adoption, but bv a kind of na-
ture ; that Christ fulfilled the office of
Saviour by imitating her virtues ; that,
as the incarnate Crod bore the image
of his Father, so he bore the image of
his mother; that redemption derived
from Christ indeed its sufficiency, but
from Maiy its beauty and loveliness ;
that us we are clothed with the mer-
its of Christ, 80 we are clothed with
Digitized by CjOOQIC
90
Dr. Newmca/Ci Antwer to Dr. Putey.
the meiita of Marj; that, aa he
is priest, in like manner is she priest-
ess^ that his bod^and blood in the
eucharist are trulj hers and appertain
to her ; that as he is present and re-
ceived therein, so is she present and
received therein ; that priests are min-
isters, as of Christ, so of Marj ; that
elect souls are bom of God and Mary ;
that the Holy Ghost brings into
fruitfulnesB his action by her, produc-
ing in her and by her Jesus Christ in
his members; Uiat the kingdom of
God in our souls, as our Lord speaks,
is really the kingdom of Mary in the
soul — and she and the Holy Ghost
produce in the soul extraordinary
things — and when the Holy Ghost
finds Mary in a soul he flies there.
Sentiments such as these I never
knew of till I read your book, nor, as I
think, do the vast minority of English
Catholics know them. They seem to
me like a bad dream. I could not
have conceived them to be said. I
know not to what authority to go for
them, to Scripture, or to the fathers,
or to the decrees of councils, or to
the consent of schools, or to the tradi-
tion of the faithful, or to the Holy
See, or to reason. They defy all the
loci theohgid. There is nothing of
them in the Missal, in the Roman Cate-
chism, in the Roman '^ Raccolta," in the
" Imitation of Christ," in Gother, Chal-
loner, Milner, or Wiseman, as far as I
am aware. They do but scare and con-
fuse me. I should not be holier, more
spiritual, more sure of perseverance,
if I twisted my moral being into the
reception of them ; I should but be
guilty of fulsome, frigid flattery toward,
the most upright and noble of God's
creatures if I professed them, and of
stupid flattery too; for it would be
like the compliment of painting up a
young and beautiful princess with the
brow of a Plato and the muscle of an
Achilles. And I should expect her to
tell one of her people in waiting to
turn me off her service without warn-
ing. Whether thus ta feel be the
scandalum panndorum in my case, or
the scandalum Pharisisorumj I leave
others to decide ; but I will say plain^
that I had rather believe (which is
impossible) that there is no God at all,
than that Mary is greater than God.
I will have nothing to do with state-
ments which can only be explained by
being explained away. I do not,
however, speak of these statements
as they are found in their authors, for
I know nothing of the originals, and
cannot believe that they have meant
what you say; but I take them Us
they lie in your pages. Were any of
them the sayings of saints in ecstasy,!
should know they had a good mean-
ing ; still, I should not repeat them
myself; but I am looking at- them
not as spoken by the tongues of angels,
but according to that literal sense
which they bear in the mouths of Eng-
lish men and English women. And,
OS spoken by man to man, in England,
in the nineteenth century, I consider
them calculated to prejudice inquirers,
to frighten the unlearned, to unsettle
consciences, to provoke blasphemy,
and to work the loss of souls.
9. And now, after having said so
much as this, bear with me, my dear
friend, if I end with an expostulation.
Have you not been touching ys on a
very tender point in a very rude way ?
Is not the effect of what you have said
to expose her to scorn and obloquy
who is dearer to us than any other
creature? Have you even hinted
that our love for her is anything else
than an abuse? Have you tfajown
her one kind word yourself all through
your book? I trust so, but I have
not lighted upon one. And yet I
know you love her well. Can you
wonder, then — can I complain much,
much as I grieve — ^that men should
utterly misconceive of you, and are
blind to the fact that you have put the
whole argument between you and us
on a new footing ; and that, whereas
it was said twenty-five years ago in
the « British Critic," "Till Rome ceases
to be what practically she is, union is
impomhU between her and Engiand,"
you declare, on the contrary, •* It is
possible as soon as Italy and England,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dr. Ne%Dnum*9 Answer to Dr. Pusey.
91
haying the same faith and the same
centre of uni^, are allowed to hold
severally their own theological opin-
ions ?' Thej have not done you jus-
tice here hecsuisey in truth, the honor
of oar Lady is dearer to them than the
eonTCTsion of England.
Take a parallel case, and consider
how you would decide it yourself.
Supposing an opponent of a doctrine
for which you so earnestly contend,
the eternity of punishment, instead of
meeting you with direct arguments
against it, heaped together a number
of extravagant descriptions of the
place, mode, and circumstances of its
infliction, quoted Tertullian as a wit-
ness for the primitive fathers, and the
Covenanters and Ranters for these last
centuries ; brought passages from the
^Inferno" of Duite, and from the ser-
mons of Whitfield ; nay, supposing he
confined himself to the diapters on the
Bubject in Jeremy Taybr's work on
«" The State of Man," would you think
this a fair and becoming method of
reasoning? and if he avowed that he
should ever consider the Anglican
Church committed to all these acces-
sories of the doctrine till its authorities
formally denounced Taylor and Whit-
field, and a hundred others, would
you think this an equitable dotermina^
tion, or the procedure of a theologian ?
So fiur concerning the Blessed Vir-
ffuiy tiie chief but not the only sub-
ject of your volume. And now, when
I could wish to proceed, she seems to
stop me, for the Feast of her Immacu-
late Ccmception is upon us ; and close
upon its octave, which is kept with
special solemnities in the churches of
this town, come the great antiphons, the
heralds of Christmas. That joyful
season, joyful for all of us, while it
centres in him who then came on
earth, also brings before us in peculiar
prominence that Yirgin Mother who
bore and nursed him. Here she is
not in the background, as at Easter-
tide, but she brings him to us in her
arms. Two great festivals, dedicated
to her honor, to^norrow's and the
Purification, mark out and keep the
ground, and, like the towers of David,
open the way to and fro for the high
holiday season of the Prince of Peace.
And all along it her image is upon it,
such as we see it in the typical repre-
sentation of the Catacombs. May the
sacred influences of this time bring us
all together in unity 1 May it destroy
all bitterness on your side and <4trs I
May it quench all jealous, sour, proud,
fierce antagonism on our side ; and dis-
npate all captious, carping, fastidious
refinements of reasoning on yours!
May that bright and gentie lady, the
Blessed Virgin Mary, overcome you
with her sweetness, and revenge her-
self on her foes by interoeding effect-
ually for their conversion I
I am, yours, most affectionately,
John H. Newicak.
The Oratobt, BntioNaHAMy
InfeBU S. Jmbrasiif 1865.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
93
Bmem'i Kme.
From The Sixpenny Magasine.
HA VENT TIMB
A CHAPTER FOB FABENTS.
<* That boy needs more attention/'
said Mr. Green, referring to his eldest
son, a lad whose wayward temper and
inclinati<m to vice demanded a steady,
consistent, wise, and ever-present ex*
ercise of parental watchfolness and
authority.
'^ Yon may well say that,'' returned
the mother of the boy, for to her the
remark had been made. ^' He is get-
ting entirely beyond me.*'
** If I only had the time to look after
hinJ^' Mr. Green sighed as he ut-
tered these words.
^I think you ought to take more
time for a purpose like this," said Mrs.
Green.
"More time!" Mr. Green spoke
with marked impatience. ^What
time have I to attend to him, Margar
ret ? Am I not entirely absorbed in
business? Even now I should be
at the counting-house, and am only
kept away by your late breakfast."
Just then the breakfast bell rang,
and Mr. and Mrs. Green, accompa-
nied by their children, repaire<l to the
dining-room. John, the boy about
whom the parents had been talking,
was among the number. As they
took their places at the table he ex-
hibited certain disorderly movements,
and a disposition to annoy his young-
er brothers and sisters. But these
were checked, instantly, by his
father, of whom John stood in some
fear.
Before the children had finished
eating, Mr. Green laid his knife and
fork side by side on his plate, pushed
hla chair back, and w^ in the act of
rising, when his wife said :
** Don't go yet. Just wait nntil
John is through with his breakfast.
He acts dreadfully the moment your
back is turned."
Mr. Green turned a quick, lowers
ing glance upon the boy, whose eyes
shrank beneath his angry glance, say-
ing as ho did so :
^ I haven't time to stay a moment
longer; I ought to have been at my
business an hour ago, But see here,
my lad," addressing himself to John,
'< there has been enough of this work.
Not a day passes that I am not wor-
ried with complaints about you.
Now, mark me ! I shall inquire par-
ticularly as to your conduct when I
come home at dinner-time; and, if
you have given your mother any trou-
ble, or acted in any way improperly,
I ^vill take you severely to account.
It's outrageous that the whole family
should be kept in constant trouble
by you. Now, be on your guard !"
A moment or two Mr. Green
stood frowning upon the boy, and then
retired.
Scarcely had the sound of the clos-
ing street-door, which marked the fact
of Mr. Green's departure, ceased to
echo through the house, ere John be-
gan to act as was his custom when
his father was out of the way. His
mother's remonstrances were of no
avail; and, when she finally com-
pelled him to leave the table, he
obeyed with a most provoking and in-
solent manner.
All this would have been prevent-
ed if Mr. Green had taken from
business just ten minutes, and
conscientiously devoted that time to
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ElmfenH Time.
98
Ae goTcmment of his wajward boy
and the protection of the family from
his annoyanoes.
On arriving at his coanting-hoase,
Mr. Green found tWo or three per-
sons waiting, and but a single clerk
in attendance. He had felt some
doubts as to the correctness of his
conduct in leaving home so abruptly,
under the circumstances; but the
presence of the customers satisfied
him that he had done right. Busi-
ness, in his mind, was paramount to
everything else; and his highest duty
to his family he felt to be discharged
when he was devoting himself most
assiduously to the work of procuring
for them the means of external com-
fort, ease, and luxury. Worldly
well-doing was a cardinal virtue in his
eyes.
Mr. Green was the gainer, per-
haps, of two shillings in the way of
profit on sales, by being at his count-
ing-house ten minutes earlier than
would have been the case had he re-
mained with his family until the com-
pletion of their morning meaL What
was lost to his boy by the opportuni*
ty thus afforded for an indulgence in
a perverse and disobedient temper it
is hard to say. Something was, un-
doubtedly, lost — something, the valua-
tion of which, in money, it would be
difficult to make.
Mrs. Green did not complain of
John's conduct to his father at. dinner-
time. She was so often forced to
complain that she avoided the task
whenever she felt justified in doing
so; and that was, perhaps, far too
often. Mr. Green asked no ques-
tions ; for he knew, by experience, to
what results such questions would
lead, and he was in no mood for un-
pleasant intelligence. So John es-
caped, as he £bd escaped hundreds
[of times before, and felt encouraged
'to indulge his bad propensities at
willy to his own injury and the annoy-
ance of all around him.
If Mr. Grreen had no time in the
morning or through the day to attend
to his c^dven, the evening, one might
think, would aflbrd opportunity for
conference with them, supervision of
their studies, and an earnest inquiry
into their conduct and moral and intel-
lectual progress. But such was not
the case. Mr. Green was too much
wearied with the occupation of the day
to bear the annoyance of the children ;
or his thoughts were too busy with
business matters, or schemes of profit,
to attend to the thousand and one
questions they were ready to pour in
upon him from all sides ; or he had a
political club to attend, an engagement
with some merchant for the discussion
of a matter connected with trade, or
felt obliged to be present at the meet-
ing of some society of which he was a
member. So he either left home im-
mediately after tea, or the children
wercsent to bed in order that he might
have a quiet evening for rest, business
reflection, or the enjoyment of a new
book.
Mr. Green had so much to do and
so much to think about that he had no
time to attend to his children; and
this neglect was daily leaving upon
them ineffaceable impressions that
would inevitably mar the happiness of
their afl;er lives. This was particularly
the case with John* Better off in the
world was Mr. Green becoming eveiy
day — ^better off as it regarded money ;
but poorer in another sense — poorer in
respect to home affections and home
treasures. His children were not
growing up to love him intensely, to
confide in him implicitly, and to re-
spect him as their father and friend.
He had no time to attend to them, and
rather pushed them away than drew
them toward him with the strong cords
of affection. To his wife he letl their
government, and she was not equal to
the task.
•* I don't believe," said Mrs. Green,
one day, '< that John is learning much
at the school where he goes. I think
you ought to see after him a little.
He never studies a lesson at home."
" Mr. Elden has the reputation of
being one of our best teachers. His
school stands high," replied Mr. Green.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
94
Owenfi lime.
^TbaJt may happen/' said Mrs.
Green. << Still, I really think you
ought to knoi7, for yourself, how John
is getting along. Of one thing I am
certain, he does not improve in good
manners nor good temper in the
least And he is never in the house
between school-hours, except to get
his meals. I wish you would re-
quire him to be at your counting-
house during the afternoons. School
is dismissed at four o'clock, and he
ranges the streets with other boys, and
goes where he pleases from that time
until night.
"That's very bad,"— Mr. Green
spoke in a concerned voice, — ^^*very
bad. And it must be brpken up.
But as to having liim with me, that is
out of the question. He would be
into everything, and kpcp me in hot
water aU the while. He'd like to
come well enough, I do not doubt;
but I can't have him there."
^ Coiddn't you set him to do some-
thing P'
<< I might. But I haven't time to
attend to him, Margaret Business is
business, and cannot be interrupted."
Mrs. Green sighed, and then re-
marked :
'' I wish you would call on Mr. El-
den and have a talk with him about
John.''
« I will, if you think it best."
'^Do so, by all means. And be-
side, I would give more time to John
in the evenings. If, for instance, you
devoted an evening to him once a
week, it would enable you to under-
stand how he is progressing, and give
you a control over him not now pos-
" You are right in this, no doubt,
Margaret"
But reform went not beyond this
acknowledgment Mr. Green could
never find time to see John's teacher,
nor feel himself sufficiently at leisure,
or. in the right mood of mind, to de-
vote to the boy even a single even-
ing.
And thus it went on from day to
day, from month to monthi and foun
year to year, until, flnall}^ John was
sent home from school by Mr. Elden
with a note to his father, in which
idleness, disorderly conduct, and vi-
cious habits were charged upon him
in the broadest terms.
The unhappy Mr. Green called
immediately upon the teacher, who
gave him a more particular account
of his son's bad conduct, and conclud-
ed by saying that he was unwilling to
receive him back into his school.
Strange as it may seem, it was
four months before Mr. Green " found
time" to see about another school, and
• to get John entered therein ; during
which long period the boy had full
liberty to go pretty much where he
pleased, and to associate with whom
he liked. It is hardly to be supposed
that he grew any better for this.
By the time John was seventeen
years of age, Mr. Green's business
had become greatly enlarged, and his
mind more absorbed therein. With
him gain was the primary thing ; and,
as a consequence, his family held a
secondary place in his thoughts. If
money were needed, he was ever
ready to supply the demand; that
done, he felt that his duty to them
was, mainly, discharged. To the
mother of his children he left the
work of their wise direction in the
paths of life— their government and
education ; but she was inadequate to
the task imposed.
From the second school at which
John was entered he was dismissed
within three months, for bad conduct
He was then sent to school in a dis-
tant city, where, removed from all pap
rental restraint and admonition, he
made viler associates than any he had
hitherto known, and took thus a low-
er step in vice. He was just seven-
teen, when a letter from the principal
of this school conveyed to Mr. Green
such unhappy intelligence of his son
that he immediately resolved, as a
last resort, to send him to sea, before
the mast— and this was done, spite of
all the mother's tearful remonstrances,
and the boy's threats tbat he would
Digitized by CjOOQIC
MwmH Time.
95
escape firom the TeBsel on the yeiy
first opportunity*
And jety for all this sad result of
parental neglect, Mr. Green devoted
no more time nor care to his children.
Business absorbed the whole man.
He was a merchant, both body and
souL His responsibilities were not
felt as extending beyond his counting-
house, fiirther than to provide for the
worldly well-being of his family. Is
it any cause of wonder that, with his
views and practice, it should not turn
out well with his children; or, at
least, with some of them ?
At the end of a year John came
liome from sea, a rough, dgar-smok*
ing, dram-drinking, ovei^grown boy of
eighteen, with all his sensual desires
and animal passions more active than
when he went away, while his intel-
lectual faculties and moral feelings
were in a worse condition than at his
separation from home. Grief at the
change oppressed the hearts of his
parents ; but their grief was unavail-
ing. Various efforts were made to
get him into some business, but he re-
mained only a short time in any of
the phices where liis father had him
introduced. Finally, he was sent to
sea again. But he never returqed to
his friends. In a drunken street-
brawl, that occurred while on shore at
Valparaiso, he was stabbed by a
Spaniard, and died shortly afterward.
On the very day this tragic event took
place, Mr. Green was rejoicing over a
saccessful speculation, from which he
had come out the gainer by two thou-
sand pottnds. In the pleasure this
circumstance occasioned, all thoughts
of the absent one, ruined by his neg-
lect, were swallowed up.
Several months elapsed. Mr. Green
had returned home, well satisfied with
hia day's business. In his pocket was
the allemoon paper, which, after the
younger children were in bed, and the
older ones out of his way, he sat down
to read. His eyes turned to the for-
eign intelligence, and almost the first
sentence he read was the intelligence of
hia son's death* The paper dropped
from his hands, while he uttered an ex-
pression of surprise and grief that
caused the cheeks of his wife, who was
in the roomr to turn deadly pale. She
had not power to ask the cause of
her husband's sudden exclamation ;
but her heart, that ever yearned toward
her absent boy, instinctively divined
the truth.
*^ John is dead I" said Mr. Green, at
length, speaking in a tremulous tone
of voice.
There was from the mother no wild
burst of anguish. The boy had been
dying to her daily for years, and she
had suffered for him worse than the
pangs of death. Burying her face in
her hands, she wept silendy, yet hope-
lessly.
^ If we were only blameless of the
poor child's death I" said Mrs. Green,
lifting her tearful eyes, afler the lapse
of nearly ten minutes, and speaking in
a sad, self-rebuking tone of voice.
When those with whom we are in
close relationship die, how quickly is
that page in memory's book turned on
which lies the recoid of unkindness or
neglect I Already had this page been
turned for Mr. Green, and conscience
was sweeping therefrom the dust that
well-nigh otecured the handwriting.
He inwardly trembled as he read the
condemning sentences that charged
him with lus son's ruin.
'' If we were only blameless of the
poor child's death I"
How these words of the grieving
mother smote upon his heart. He
did not respond to them. How could
he do so at that moment ?
" Where is Edward ?" he inquired,
at length.
^ I don't know," sobbed the mother.
<< He is out somewhere almost every
evening. Oh I I wish you would look
to him a little more closely. He is .
past my controL" f
^I must do so," returned Mr»
Green, speaking from a strong con-
viction of the necessity of doing as his
wife suggested ; 'Mf I only had a lit-
tle more time "
He checked himselfl It was the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
96
Ths Sang of the Shell
old excuse — ^the rock upon which all
his best hopes for his first-born had
been fearfullj wrecked. His lips
closed, his head was bowed, and, in
the bitterness of unavailing sorrow, he
mused on the past, while every mo-
ment the conviction of wrong toward
his child, now irreparable, grew
stronger and stronger.
After that, Mr. Green made an ef-
fort to exercise more control over his
children ; but he had left the reins
loose so long that his tighter grasp
produced restiveness and rebellion.
He persevered, however ; and, though
Edward followed too closely the foot-
steps of John, yet the younger chil-
dren were brought under salutary re-
straints. The old excuse— want of
time — ^was frequently used by Mr.
Green to justify neglect of parental
duties; but' a recurrence of his
thoughts to the sad ruin of his eldest .
boy had, in most cases, the right ef-
fect ; and in the end he ceased to give
utterance to the words — ^'*I haven't
time." However, frequently he fell
into neglect, from believing that busi-
ness demanded his undivided atten-
tion.
[oBMnrAi..]
THE SONG OF THE SHELL.
"WBITTEN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE.
There's a music aloft in the air
As if devils were singing a song;
There's a shriek like the shriek of despair.
And a crash which the echoes prolong.
There's a voice like the voice of the gale,
When it strikes a tall ship on the sea;
There's a rift like the rent of her sail.
As she helplessly drifts to the lee.
There's a rush like the rushing of fiends.
Compelled by an horrible spell;
There's a flame like the flammg of brands,
Snatched in rage from the furnace of helL
There's a wreath like the foam on the wave, •.
There's a silence unbroke by a breath;
There's a thud like the clod in a grave,
There are writhings, and moanings, and death 1
Digitized by CjOOQIC
M-HaOaw Boe; or, Tht list of ISUtin^.
97
From The Lamp.
ALL-IIALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BT BOBEBT CUBTIS.
CHAPTBB XXTI.
The diief was well aware of the
repafatton which the priest had ob-
tained through the parish for medical
skilly and was himself convinced of
how well he deserved it. Indeed, had
the alternative rested in anj case be-
tween Father Farrell and the dispen-
sarj doctor, there was not a parish-
ioner who would not have preferred
his pastor's medical as well as spiritual
aid.
The chief, instead of ordering off
the dispensary doctor to see young
Lennon upon a rumor that he was
worse, went quietly to Father Farrell,
who must know the truth, an^ be able
to give good advice as to what steps,
if any, were necessary to adopt.
The matter turned out to be another
black-crow story. Father Farrell had
also heard it in its exaggerated form,
and had not lost a moment in proceed-
ing to the spoL Young Lennon had
gone out to assist his father in plant-
ing some potatoes — so far the rumor
was correct. But he had been prema-
ture in his own opinion of his con-
valescence. The very first stoop he
made he felt quite giddy ; and although
he did not fall forward on his face, he
was obliged to lean upon his father
for support for a few moments. This
little experiment served to keep him
qniet for a while longer ; but Father
Farrell assured the chief that matters
were no worse than they had been — ^he
might make his mind easy ; there was
no injury beyond the flesh, which, of
course, had become much sorer, and
must do so for a few days still.
The chief, however, suggested the
VOL, lU. 7
prudence, if not the necessity, of hav-
ing a medical man to see hun.
" Not,*' said he, « but that I have as
much, if not more, confidence in your
own skill and experience than in any
which is available in this wild dis-
trict."
**• That is rather an equivocal com-
pliment; but perhaps it is fully as
much as I deserve," said the priest.
"Well, I don't mean it as such,
Father Farrell; but you know a
great responsibihty would rest upon
me, should anything unfortunate
occur."
**! see. It would not do in a
court of justice to put a priest upon
the table in a medical position. I
certainly could not produce a diplo-
ma. You are quite right, my dear
sir; you would be held responsible.
However, I can go the length to as-
sure you that at present there is not
the slightest necessity for medical iud,
particularly — ^between you and me —
under existing circumstances, which I
understand very well. The matter
was a mere accident I am fully per-
suaded. Bat, supposing for a mo-
ment that it was not, I know young
Lennon since he was a child running
to school in his bare feet, with * his
turf and his read-a-ma-daisy ;' and I
am convinced that no power on earth
would induce him to prosecute Tom
Murdock."
« Why ? are they such friends ?"
'< No ; quite the reverse, and that
is the very reason* But ask me no
more about iL Another objection I
see to callmg in the dispensary doc-
tor is this— 4hat I am aware of an ill-
feeling existing between him and Tom
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98
AnrHaUaw Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
Murdock about a prize at a coursing-
match, which the doctor thinks was
unfairly given to Tom Murdock
through his influence with the judge ;
and the doctor was heard to say in
reference to it, 'that it was a long
lane that had no turning.' Now
here would be an open for the doctor
to put a turn on the lane, however
straight it might be in fact. Ho
would not certify that Lennon's life
was out of danger — you would have
to arrest Tom Murdock' ; young Len-
non would go distracted, and tlie two
parishes would be in an uproar. Ill-
will would be engendered between all
the young men of opposite sides, and
all for nothing; for young Lennon
will be as well as ever he was in ten
days. These are my views of the
case. But if your official responsi-
bility obliges you to differ with me, I
am ready to hear you further."
This was a great oration of Father
Farrcll's, but it was both sensible and
tnie from beginning to end, and it
convinced the chief of the propriety of
" resting on his oars" for a few days
longer at all events.
The result proved at least that
there was more luck in leisure than
danger in delay. Emon-a-knock
grew better; but it was by degrees.
• He could not yet venture to attend to
his usual daily labor, by which he so
materially contributed to the support
of the family. The weather was fine,
and " the spring business" was going
forward rapidly in all directions.
Poor Emon fretted that he was not
itble to add his accustomed portion to
the weekly earnings; but Father
Farrell watched him too closely.
Once or twice he stole out to do some
of their own work, and let his father
earn some of the high wages which
was just then to be had ; but his own
good sense told him that he was still
unable for the effort. At the end of
an bourns work the old idea haunted
him that an attempt had been made
to murder him, and if he had been
made a merchant-prince for it, he
could not recollect how it had happen-
ed. The only thmg he did recollect
distinctly about it was, that ShanviUa
won the day, and that he had been
sent home in Winny Cavana's cart
and jennet — that, if he were in a rag-
ing fever, he could never forget.
But it was a sad loss to the family,
Emon's incapacity to work. He had
been now three weeks ill; and al-
though the wound in his head was in
a fair way of being healed, there was
still a confused idea in his mind about
the whole affair which he could not
get rid of. 'At times, as he endeavor-
ed to review the matter as it had actu-
ally occurred, he could not persuade
himself but that it was really an acci-
dent ; and while under this impression
he fch quite well, and able for his oi^
dinary labor. But there were mo-
ments when a sudden thought would
cross his mu)d that it had been a
secret and premeditated attempt upon
his life ; and then it was that the con-
fusion ensued which rendered him un-
able to recollect. What if it were
really this attempt — supposmg that
positive proof could be adduced of the
fact — what then? Would he prose-
cute Tom Murdock? Oh, no. Fa-
ther FarrcU was right; but he had
not formed his opinion upon the true
foundation. Emon-a-knock would
not prosecute, even if he could do so
to conviction. He would deal with
Tom Murdock himself if ever a fair
opportunity should arise ; and if not,
he might yet be in a position more
thoroughly to despise him.
In the meantime Lennon's family
had not been improving in circum-
stances. Emon was losing all the
high wages of the spring's work.
Upon one or two occasions, when he
stealthily endeavored to do a little on
his own land, while his father was
catching the ready penny abroad, he
found, before he was two hours at
work, the haunting idea press upon
his brain ; and he returned to Che
house and threw himself upon the bed
confused and sad. In spite of this,
however, the wound in his head was
now progressing more favorably, and
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99
retamiDg strength renewed a more
cheerful spuit withm him. He
fonght hard against the idea which at
times forced itself upon him. The
priest, who was a constant visitor, sajw
that all was not yet right He took
£mon kindly hy the hand and said :
** My dear young friend, do you not
foel as well as your outward condition
would indicate that you ought to he ?^
« Yes, Father Farrell, I thank God
I feel my strength almost perfectly
restored. I shall be able, I hope, to
give my poor father the usual help in
a few days. The worst of it is that
the throng of the spring work is over,
and wages are now down a third from
what they were a month or three
weeks ago.**
^ If ^o^ be all that is fretting you,
£mon, cheer up, for there is plenty
of work still to be had; and if the
wages are not quite so high as they
were a while Wk, you shall have
constant work for some time, which
will be ][)etter than high wages for a
start. I can myself afford to make
ap for some of the loss this unfortu*
nate blow has caused you. You
must accept of this." And he pulled
a pound-note from his breeches pocket.
If occasionally there were moments
when Emon's ideas were somewhat
confused, they were never clearer or
sharper than as Father Farrell said
this. It so happened that he was
thinking of Winny Cavana at the
moment; indeed, it would be hard to
hit upon the moment when he was
not Shanvilla was proverbially a
poor parish; and Father Farrcll's
continual and expressed regret was,
that he was not able personally to do
more for the poor of his flock. Emon
was sharp enough, and stout enough,
to speak his mind even to his priest,
when he found it necessary.
He looked inquiringly into Father
Farrell's face. "iJo, Father Far-
rell, yon cannot afford it," he said.
*• It is your kindness leads you to say
so; and if you could afford it there
are — and no man knows it better than
joa do— many still poorer fiunilies
than ours in the parish requiring your
aid. But imder no circumstances
shall I touch that pound."
The priest was found out, and be-
came disconcerted; but the matter
was coming to a point, and he might
as well have it out.
^ Why do you lay such an emphasis
upon the word thatV* said he. ^ It is
a very good one," he added, laugh-
ing.
" Well, Father Farrell, I am always
ready and willing to answer you any
questions you may choose to ask me,
for you are always discreet and con-
siderate. Of course I must always
answer any questions you have a
right to ask ; but you have no right to
probe me now."
^'Certainly not, Emon, but you
know a counsel's no Conmuuid."
** Your counsel, Father Farrell, is
always good, and almost amounts to a
command. I beg your pardon, if I
have spoken hastily."
** Emon, my good young friend, and
I will add, my dear young friend, I
do not wish to probe you upon any
subject you are not bound to give me
your confidence upon; but why did
you lay such an emphasis just now on
the word that ? If you do not wish to
answer me, you need not do so. But
you must take tkU pound-note. You
see I can lay an emphasis as well as
you when I think it is required."
" No, Father Farrell. If the note
was your own, I might take the loan
of it, and work it in with you, or pay
you when I earned it. But I do not ,
think it is : there is the truth for you,
Father Farrell."
" I see how it is, Emon, and you
are very proud. However, the truth
is, the pound was sent to me anony-
mously for yon from a friend."
'^She might as well have signed
her name in full," said Emon, sadly,
^ for any loss that I can be at upon the
subject— or perhaps you yourself, Fa-
ther FarreU."
" Well, I was at no loss, I confess.
But you were to know nothing about
it, Emon; only you were so sharp.
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100
M'HaOow Eve; ovj The Test of Futurity.
There is no fear that jotxt intellects
have been injured bj the blowr, at all
events. It was meant kindly, £mon,
and I tbink you ought to take it —
here."
** You think so, Father Farrell ?*
«I do; indeed I do, Emon.**
^ Give it me, then," he said, taking
it ; and before Father Farrell's face
he pressed it to his lips. He then
got a pen and ink, and wrote some-
thing upon it. It was nothing but the
date ; he wanted no memorandum of
anything else respecting it. But he
would hardly have written even that,
had he intended to make use of it.
The priest stood up to leave. He
knew more than he chose to tell
£mon-a-knock. But there was an
amicable smile upon his lips as he
held out his ha&d to bid him good-
by.
Oh, the suspicion of a heart that
loves 1
*« Father Farrell," he said, still hold-
tog the priest's hand, ^*is this the
note, the very note, the identical note,
she sent me ?'
•* Yes, Emon ; I would not deceive
you about iL It is the very note ;
which, I fear," he added, ^ is not like-
ly to be of much use to you.'*
"Why do you say that. Father
Farrell? You shall one day see the
contrary."
" Because you seem to me rather
inclined to ' huxter it up,' as we say,
than to make use of it Believe me,
that was not the intention it was sent
with ; oh, no, Emon ; it was sent with
the hope that it might be of some use,
and not to be hoarded up through any
morbid sentimentality."
" Give me one instead of it. Father
Farrell, and keep this one until I can
redeem it."
*^I have not got another, Emon;
pounds are not so plenty with me."
" And yet you would have persuad-
ed me just now that it was your own
and that you could afford to bestow it
upon me !"
*' Pardon me, Emon, I would not
have persuaded you; I was merely
silent upon the subject until your sus-
picions made you cross-examine me.
I was then plain enough with yon. I
used no deceit ; and I now tell you
plainly that if you take this pound-
note, you ought to use it; otherwise
you will give her who sent itTCiy just
cause for annoyance."
" Then it shall be as she wishes
and as you advise, Father FarrelL I
cannot err under your guidance. I
shall use it freely and with gratitude ;
but you need not tell her that I know
who sent it."
"^ Do you think that I am an aumad'
hawn, Emon? The very thing she
was anxious to avoid herself. I shall
never speak to her, perhaps, upon the
subject."
The priest then left him with a
genuine and hearty blessing, which
could not fail of a beneficial influence.
CHAFTEB XXYII.
The priest had been a true prophet
and a good doctor, and perhaps it was
well for all parties concerned that the
dispensary ^LD. had been dispensed
with. Emon now recovered his
strength every day more and more.
The wound in his head had complete-
ly healed. There was scarcely a
mark lefl of where it had been, unless
yoa blew his beautiful sofl hair aside,
when a slight hard ridge was just per-
ceptible. Father Farrell had procur-
ed him a permanent job of some
weeks, at rather an increase of wages
from what was "going" at the time,
for the spiing business was now over
and work was slack. But a gentle-
man who had recently purchased a
small property in that part of the
country, and intended to reside, had
commenced alterations in the laying-
out of the grounds about his " man-
sion ;" and meeting Father Farrell
one day, asked him if he could recom-
mend a smart, handy man for a tolera-
bly long job. There would be a good
deal of ^ skinning" and cutting of sods,
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AU-Ealbw Eoe; or^ The Test of FuiwrUy.
101
leyelliiig hillocks, and filling up hol-
lows, and wheeling of claj. For the
latter portion of the work, the man
should have help. What he wanted
was a tasty, handy fellow, who would
understand quickly what was required
as it was explained to him.
Father Farrell, as the gentleman
s^d all this, thought that he must
have actually had £mon-a-knock in
his nund*8 eye. He was the very man
yon every account, and the priest at
once recommended him. This job
would soon make up for all the time
poor Emon had lost with his broken
head. And for his intelligence and
taste Father Farrell had gone baiL
Thus it was that Emon after all had
not broken the pound-note, but, in spite
of the priest, had hoarded it as a tro-
phy of Winny*8 love.
Emon would have had a rather long
walk every morning to his work, and
the same m the evening afler it was
over. But Mr. D ^ on the very first
interview with young Lennon, was
sharp enough to find out his value as
a rural engineer, and, for his own sake
as well as Lennon's, he made arrange-
ments that he should stop at a tenant's
house, not far from the scene of his
landscape-gardening, which was likely
to last for some time. Mr. D was
not a man who measured a day's
work by its external extent. He
looked rather to the manner of its ac-
complishment, and would not allow
the thing to be " run over.** He did
not care for the expense; what he
wanted was to have the thing well
done; and he gave Father Farrell
great credit for his choice in a work-
man. If he liked the job when it was
finished, he did not say but that he
would give Lennon a permanent sit-
uation, as overseer, at a fixed salary.
But up to this time be had not seen, nor
even heard of, Winny Gavana, except
what had been implied to his heart by
the priest's pound-note. He was iur-
Cher now from Rathcash chapel than
ever; nevertheless he would show him-
self there, ** God willing," next Sun-
day. What was Tom Murdock's sur-
prbe and chagrin on the following
Sunday to observe *^ that confounded
whelp ** on the road before him, as he
went to prayers — ^looking, too, better
dressed, and as well and handsome as
ever! He thought he had ^put a
spoke in his wheel" for the whole
summer at the least ; and before that
was over, he had determined to have
matters irrevocably cUnchedj if not
setdedy with Miss Winifred Cavana.
Afler what manner this was to be
accomplished was only known to him-
self and three others, associates in his
villany.
The matter had been already dis-
cussed in all its bearings. All the
arguments in favor of, and opposed to,
its success had been exhausted, and the
final result was, that the thing should
be done, and was only waiting a fav-
orable opportunity to be put in prac-
tice. Some matters of detail, however,
had to be arranged, which would take
some time; but as the business was
kept "dark" there was no hurry.
Tom Murdock's secret was safe in the
keeping of his coadjutors, whose ^ oath
of brotherhood " bound them not only
to inviolable silence, but to their assists
ance in carrying out his nefarious de-
signs.
The sight of young Lennon once
more upon the scene gave a spur to
Tom's plans and determination. He
had hoped that that " accidental tip "
which he had given him would at
least have had the effect of reducing
him in circumstances and appearance,
and have kept him in his own parish.
He knew tliat Lennon was depending
upon his day's wages for even the sus-
tenance of life ; that there was a fami-
ly of at least four beside himself to
support ; and he gloated himself over
the idea that a month or six weeks' sick
idleness, recovering at best when there
was no work to be had, would have
left "that whelp" in a condition al-
most unpresentable even at his own
parish chapeL What was his mortifi-
cation, therefore, when he now beheld
young Lennon before him on the road !
'< By the table of war," he said in
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102
Att'HaOow Eve; or. The Test of Futurity.
Ills heart, ^ this must hasten mj plans !
I cannot permit an intimaey to be re-
newed in that qoarter. I must see
jDj friends at once."
Winnj Cavana, although she had
not seen Emon-a-knock since the acci*
dent, had taken care to learn through
her peculiar resources how " the poor
fellow was getting on.** Her friend
Kate Mulvej was one of these re-
sources.
Although it has not yet oozed out in
this story, it is necessary that it should
now do so : Phil M'Dermott, then, was ^
a great admirer of Kate Mulvey.
He was one of those who advocated
an interchange of parishioners in the
courting line. He did not think it fair
tliat " exclusive dealing " should be ob-
served in such cases.
Now, useless as it was, and forlorn
as had been hitl^erto the hope, Phil
M'Dermott, like all true lovers, could
not keep away from his cold-hearted
Kate. It was a satisfaction to him at
all eventd ^' to be looking at her ;*' and
somehow since Emon's accident she
seemed more friendly and condescend-
ing in her manner to' poor PhiL It will
be remembered that Phil M'Dermott
was a great friend of Emon-a-knock*s,
and it may now be said that he was a
near neighbor. It was natural, then,
that Kate Mulvey should find out all
about Emon from him, and ^'have
word" for Winny when they met.
This was one resource, and Father
Farrell, as he sometimes passed Kate's
door, was another. Father Farrell
could guess very well, notwithstanding
Kate's careless manner of asking, that
his information would not rest in her
own breast, and gave it as fully and
satisfactorily as he could.
Kate Midvey, however, " would not
for the world *' say a word to either
Phil M'Dermott or Father Farrell
which could be construed as coming
from Winny Cavana to Emon-a-knock ;
she had Winny's strict orders to that
effect. But Kate felt quite at liberty
to make any remarks she- chose, as
coming from herself.
Poor Emon, upon this his first occa-
sion of, it may be said, appearing in
public after his accident, was greeted,
after prayers were over, with a genuine
cordiality by the Rathcash boys, and
several times interfered with in his ob-
ject of "getting speech" of Winny
Cavana, who was some distance in ad-
vance, in consequence of these delays.
But Winny was not the girl to be
firustrated by any unnecessary prudery
on such an occasion.
" Father," she said, " there's Emon
at our chapel to-day for the first time
since he was hurt. Let us not be be-
hindhand with the' neighbors to con-
gratulate him on his recovery. I see
all the Rathcash people are ghid to see
him."
" And so they ought, Winny ; I 'm
glad you told me he was here, for I
did not happen to see him. Stand
where you are until he comes up."
And the old man stood patiently for
some minutes while Emon's friends
were expressing their pleasure at his
reappearance.
Winny had kept as clear as possible
of Tom Murdock since the accident at.
the hurling match ; so much So that he
could not but know it was intentionaL
Tom had remarked during prayers
that Winny's countenance had bright-
ened up wonderfully when young Len-
non came into the chapel, and took a
quiet place not far inside the door;
for he had been kept outside* by the
kind inquiries of his friends until the
congregation had become pretty thr#ng.
He had observed too, for he was on the
watch, that Winny's eyes had often
wandered in the direction of the door
up to tlie tune when " that whelp " had
entered ; but from that moment, when
he had observed the bright smile \ight
up her face, she had never turned
them from the officiating priest and the
altar.
Tom had not ventured to walk home
with Winny from the chapel for some
Sundays past, nor would he to-day.
What puzzled him not a little was
what his line of conduct ought to be
" with respect to Lennon, whom he had
not seen since the accident. His course
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103
waa, however, taken after a few mo-
ments' reflection. He did not forget
that on the occasion of the blow he
had exhibited much sympathy with
the sufferer, and had declared it to
have been purely accidental. He
should keep up that character of the
afiair now, or make a liar of himself,
both as to the past and his feelings.
** Beside," thought he, "I may so
delay him that Miss Winifred can-
not have the face to delay for him so
long.''
Just then, as Emon had emancipated
himself from the cordiality of three or
four young men, and was about to step
^t quickly to where he saw Winny
and her father standing on the road,
Tom came up.
** Ah, Lennon I" he said, stretching
out his hand, ^ I am glad to see you in
this part of the country again. I hope
you are quite recovered."
''Quite, thank God," said Emon,
poshing by without taking his hand..
" But I see Winny and her father
waiting on the road, and I cannot stop to
talk to you ;" and he strode on. Emon
left out the "Cavana" in the above
sentence on purpose, because he knew
the familiarity its omission created
would vex Tom Murdock.
" Bad luck to your impudence, you
conceited cub, you!" was Murdock's
mental. ejaculation as he watched the
cordial greeting between him and
Winny Cavana, to say nothing of her
father, who appeared equally glad to
see him.
Phil M'Dermott had come for com-
pany that day with Emon, and had
managed to join Kate Mulvey as they
came out of chapel. She had her
eyes about her, and saw very well how
matters had gone so far. For the
first time in her life she noticed the
scowl on Tom Murdock's brow as she
came toward him.
" Grod between us and harm, but he
looks wicked this morning!" thought
she; and she was almost not sorry
when he turned suddenly round and.
walked off without waiting for her so
much aa to '^ bid him the time of day."
« That's more of it," said Tom to
himself. " There is that one now tak-
ing up with that tinker."
He felt something hke the little boy
who said, "What! will nobody come
and play with me?" But Tom did
not, like him, become a good boy after
that
He watched the Cavanas and Len-
non, who had not left the spot where
Lenn6n came up with them until they
were joined by Kate And Phil M'Der-
mott, when they all walked on together,
chatting and laughing as if nobody in
the world was wicked or unhappy.
He dodged them at some distance,
and was not a little surprised to see
the whole party — ^^*the whelp," "the
tinker," and all — ^tum up the lane and
go into Cavana's house.
" That will do^ said he; "I must
see my friends this very night, and
before this day fortnight we'll see who
will win the trick."
Emon-a-knock and PhU M'Der-
mott actually paid a visit to old Ned
Cavana's that Sunday. Tom Mui>
dock had seen them going in, and he
minuted them by his silver hunting-
watch — for he had one. His eye wan-
dered from the door to his watch, and
from his watch to the door, as if he
were feeling the pulse of their visit
He thought he had never seen Kate
Mulvey looking so handsome, or Phil
M'Dermott so clean or so well-
dressed.
But it mattered not. If Kate was
a Venus, Tom will carry out his plans
with respect to Winny, and let Phil
M'Dermott work his own point in that
other quarter. Not that he cared
much for Winny herself, but he want-
ed her farm, and he hated " thai ulhel^
Lennon/*
They remained just twenty-five
minutes in old Cavana's ; this for Kate
Mulvey was nothing very wonderftil,
but for two young men — ^neither of
whom had ever darkened his doors be-
fore-^Tom thought it rather a long
visit
There they were now, going down
the lane together, laughing and chat*
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104
AUrHattwD Eoe; or^ The Tut of Futurity.
ting, all three seeminglj in good
humor.
Cranky and out of temper as he
was, Tom's observation was correct in
more matters than one, Phil IVrDer-
mott was particularly well-dressed on
this occasion, his first visit to Rath-
cash chapel. Perhaps after to-day he
may be oftener there than at his own.
CHAPTBB XXVin.
Perhaps there was nothing extra-
ordinary, after the encouragement
which Emon had met with upon his
first appearance at Rathcash chapel
after "the accident," if he found it
pleasanter to "overtake mass" there
than to come in quietly at Shanvilla.
The walk did him good. Be this as
it may, he was now a regular attend-
ant ^t a chapel which was a mile and
a half further from his home than his
own.
Two Sundays had now come round
since Tom Murdock had seen the re-
ception which " that whelp " had met
with from the Cavanas, not only as he
came out of the chapel, but in asking
him up to the house, and, he supposet^
giving him luncheon; for the visits
had been repeated each successive Sun-
day. Then that fellow llTDermott
had also come to their chapel, and
he and Kate Mulvey had also gone
up with the Cavanas. This was
now the third Sunday on which this
had taken place ; and not only Winny
herself, but her father seemed to
acquiesce in bringing it abouL
Tom's fortnight had passed by, and
he had not *<won the trick," as he had
threatened to do. "Well," thought
he, " it cannot be done in a minute. I
have been dealing the cards, and, con-
trary to custom, the dealer shall lead
beside ; and that soon."
Winny's happy smile was now so
continuous and so gratifying to her
father's heart, that if he had not be-'
oome altogether reconciled to an in-
creased intimacy with Edward Lennon,
he had at all events become a convert
to her dislike to Tom Murdock, and
no mistake.
In spite of all his caution, one or
two matters had crept out as to his
doings, and had come to old Ned's
ears in such a way that no doubt could
remain on his mind of their veracity.
He began to give Winny credit for
more sharpness than he had been in-
clined to do ; and it crossed his mind
once that, if Winny was not mistaken
about Tom Murdock's villany, she
might not be mistaken either about
anybody clse^s taorth. The thought
had not individualized itself as yet In
the meantime young Lennon's quiet
and natural manner, his unvarying at-
tention and respect for the old man
himself, and his apparent carelessness
for Winn/s private company, grew
upon old Ned insensibly ; and it was
now almost as a fixed rule that he
paid a Sunday visit after mass at Rath-
cash, the old man putting his hand
upon his shoulder, and facing him
toward the house at the end of the
lane, saying, " Come, Edward Lennon,
the murphys will be teemed by the
time we get up, and no one can fault
our bacon or our butter."
" My butter, Emon," said Winny on
one occasion, at a venture.
Her father looked at her. But
there was never another word about it.
All this was anything; but pleasing
to Tom Murdock, who always sulkily
dogged them at some distance behind.
Now we shall not believe that Emon-
a-knock was such a muff, or Winny
Cavana sach a prude, as to suppose
that no little opportunity was seized
upon for a kind soft word between
them unknovmt. Nor shall we sup-
pose that Kate Mulvey, who was always
of the party, was such a marplot as to
obstruct su(^ a happy casualty, should
it occur, particularly if Phil was to
the fore.
Emon's careless, loud laugh along
the road, as he escorted Kate to her
own door, gave evidence that his heart
was light and that (as Kate thought,
though she did not question him) mat-
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105
ters were on tbe right road for him.
fVinnj, too, when they met, was so
happy, and so different from what for
a while she had heen, that Kate, al-
though she did not question her either,
guessed that all was right with her too.
Matters, as they now seemed to pro-
gress, and he watched them close, were
daggers to Tom Mnrdock's heart He
had seen Winny Cayana,on more than
one evening, leave the house and take
the turn toward Kate Mulvey's. On
these occasions he had the meanness
and want of spirit to watch her move-
ments ; and although he could not sat-
isfy himself that young Lennon came
to meet her, he was not quite satisfied
that he did not.
Winny invariably turned into Kate
Mulvey's, and remained for a long
visit. Might not "that hound" be
there? — ^Tom sometimes varied his
epithets — ^might it not be a place of as-
signation ? This was but the suspicion
of a low, mean mind like Tom Mur-^
dock's.
The fact is, since Tom's threat about
" winning the trick " he had been rather
idle. His game was not one which
could be played out by correspondence
— he was too cunning for that — and
the means which he would be obliged
to adopt were not exactly ready at his
hand. He saw that matters were not
pressing in another quarter yet, if ever
they should press, and he would ^ ride
a waiting race," and win unexpectedly.
Thus the simile of Tom's thoughts still
took their tone from the race-course, and
he would " hold hard " for another bit.
Circumstances, however, soon occurred
which made him ''push forward to-
ward the front" if he had any hope '^ to
oome in first."
Edward Lennon having finished his
** landscape gardening " at Mr. D 's,
and the overseership being held over
for the present, had got another rather
long job, on the far part of Ked Cavana's
farm, in kiying out and cutting drains,
where the land required reclaiming.
He had shown so much taste and in-
telligence, in both planning and per-
forming, that old Ned was quite de-
lighted with him, and began to regret
^ that he liad not known his value as
an agricultural laborer long before."
There was one other at least — ^if not
two— who sympathized in that regret
At all events, there he was now every
day up to his hips in dirty red clay,
scooping it up from the bottom of lit-
tle drains more than three feet deep, in
a long iron scoop with a crooked handle.
This job was at the far end of Ned's
farm, and, in coming to his work, Len-
non need hardly come within sight of
the house, for the work lay in the direc-
tion of Shanvilla. Emoh did not
'^ quit work " until it was late ; he was
then in anything but visiting trim, if
such a thing were even possible. He,
therefore, saw no more of Winny on
account of the job than if he had been
at work on Uie Giant's Causeway.
But a grand object had been attained,
nevertheless — he was working for Ned
Cavana, and had given him more than
satisfaction in the performance of the
job, and on one occasion old Ned had
called him "Emon-a-wochal," a term
of great familiarity. This was a great
change for the better. If young Len-
non had been as well acquainted with
racing phraseology as Tom Murdock,
he also would have thought that he
would ''make a waituig race of it"
But the expression of his thoughts was
that he **• would bide his time."
The Sundays, however, were still
available, and Emon did not lose the
chance. He now tiecame so regular
an attendant at Rathcash chapel, and
went up so regularly with old Ned and
his daughter afler prayers, that it was
no wonder if people began to talk.
" I donna what Tom Murdock says
to all this, BiD," said Tim Fahy to
a neighbor, on the road fi*om the
chapeL
" The eorra wan of me knows, Tim,
but 1 hear he isn't over-well pbiised."
"Arrah, what id he be plalsed at?
Is it to see a Shanvilla boy, without a
cross, intherlopin' betune him an' his
bachelor ?"
" Well, they say he needn't be a bit
afeared, Lennon is a very good work-
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106
AU-HjOow Eoe; or, The Test of Futurity.
man, and undherstan's dhrainin', an'
ould Ned's cute enough to get a job
well done ; but he'd no more give his
daughter with her fine fortin* to that
chap, than he'd throw her an' it into
the say— b'lieve you me."
"There's some very heavy cloud
upon Tom this while back, any way ;
and though he keeps it very close,
there's people thinks it's what she re-
fused him."
" The sorra fear iv her, Tim ; she
has more sinse nor that"
« Well, riddle me this, Bill. What
brings that chap here Sunda' aflher
Sunda', and what takes him up to ould
Ned Cavana's every Sunda' afither
mass? He is a very good-lookin'
young fellow, an' knows a sheep's head
from a sow's ear, or Tim Fahy's a
fool."
" Och badhershin, doesn't he go up
to walk home wid Kate Mulvey, for
she's always iv the party ?"
" And badhershin yourself, Bill, isn't
Phil M'Dermott always to the fore for
Kate ? — another intherloper from Shan-
villa. I donna what the sorra the
Rathcash boys are about,"
Other confabs of a similar nature
were carried on by different sets as
they returned from prayers, and saw
the Cavanas with their company turn
up the lane toward the house. The
young girls of the district, too, had their
chats upon the subject ; but they were
80 voluble, and some of them so ill-
natured, that I forbear to give the
reader any specimen of their remarks.
One or two intimate associates of
Tom ventured to quiz him upon the
state of affairs. Now none but an in-
timate friend, indeed, of Tom's should
have ventured, under the circumstan-
ces, to have touched upon so sore a
subject, and those who did, intimate as
they were, did not venture to repeat
the joke. No, it was no joke ; and that
they soon found out. To one friend
who had quizzed him privately he
said, " Suspend your judgment, Denis ;
and if I don't prove myself more
than a match for that half-bred kiout,
then condemn me."
But to another, who had quizzee^
him before some bystanders in rather
a ridiculous point of view, he turned
like a bull-terrier, while his face as-
sumed a scowl of a peculiarly unpleas-
ant diaracter.
" It is no business of yours," he said,
" and I advise you to mind your own
affairs, or perhaps FU make you."
The man drew in his horns, and
sneaked off, of course ; and from that
moment they all guessed that the
business had gone against Tom, and
they letl off quizzing.
Tom felt that he had been wrong,
and had only helped to betray himse&l
His game now was to prevent, if pos-
sible, any talk about tho matter, one
way or the other, until his plans
should be matured, when he doubted
not that success would gain him the
approbation of every one, no matter
what the means.
The preface to his plans was, to
spread a report that he had gone back
to Armagh to get married to a girl
with an immense fortune, and he en-
dorsed the report by the fact of his
leaving home; but whether to Ar-
magh or not, was never clearly
known.
Young Lennon went on with his
job, at which old Ned told him "to
take his time, an' do it well It was
not," he said, "like digging a plot,
which had to be dug every year, or
maybe twice. When it was wance
finished and covered up, there it was ;
worse nor the first day, if it was not
done right ; so don't hurry it over,
£mon-a-wochal. I don't mind the
expense; ground can't be dhrained
for nothin', an* it id be a bad job if
we were obliged to be openin' any of
the dhrains a second time, an' maybe
not know where the stoppage lay ; so
take your time, and don't blame ilie if
you botch it."
" You need not fear, sir," said Len-
non. (He always said " bir" as yet.)
^ You need not fear ; if every drain
of them does not run like the stream
from Tubbemaltha, never give me a
day's work again."
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107
^ As far as you have gone, Emon,
I think thej are complate ; we'll have
forty carts of stones in afore Saturda'
night. I hope you have help enough,
boy.** '
"Plenty, sir, until we begin to
cover in."*
"Wouldn't you be able for that
yourself? or couldn't you bring your
fistther with you? Td wish to put
whatever I could in your way."
•* Thank you, sir, very much. I
will do so if I want more help ; but
for the lucre of keeping up his wages
and mine, I would not recommend you
to lose this fine weather in covering
in the drains."
"You are an honest boy, Emon,
and I like your way of talkin', as well
as workin' ; plaise God we won't see
you or your father idle."
Up to this it will be seen that Emon
was not idle in any sense of the word.
He was ingratiating himself, but hon-
estly, into the good graces of old Ned;
" if he was not fishing, he was mend-
ing his nets ;" and the above conver-
sation will show that he was not a
dance at that same.
It happened, upon one or two occa-
sions, that old Ned was with Emon at
leaving off work in the evening, and he
asked him to " cum' up to the house
and have a dhrink of beer, or whiskey-
and-wather, his choice."
But Emon excused himself, saying
he was no fit figure to go into any
decent man's parlor in that trim, and
indeed his appearance did not belie
his words; for he was spotted and
striped with yellow day, from his head
and face to his feet, and the clothes
he brought to the work were worth
nothing.
"Well, you'll not be always so,
Emon, when you're done wid the
scoopin'," said old Ned ; and he add-
ed, laughing, ^ The divil a wan o' me'd
know you to be the same boy I seen
cumin' out o' mass a Sunda'."
Emon had heard, as everybody
else had heard, that Tom Murdock
had left home, and he felt as if an in*
cubus had been lifted off his heart.
Not that he feared Tom in any one
way; but he knew that his absence
would be a relief to Winny, and, as
such, a relief to himself.
Emon was now as happy as his po-
sition and his hopes permitted him to
be ; and there can be little doubt but
this happiness arose from an under-
standing between himself and Winny;
but how, when, or where that under-
standing had been confirmed, it would
be hard to say.
Old Ned's remarks to his daughter
respecting young Lennon were nuts
and apples to her. She knew the day
would come, and perhaps at no far
distant time, when she must openly
avow, not only a preference for Emon,
but declare an absolute determination
to cast her lot with his, and ask her
father's blessing upon them. She
was aware that Ihis could not, that it
ought not to, be hurried. She hoped
—oh, how fervently she hoped ! — that
the report of Tom Murdock's mar-
riage might be true : that of his ab-
sence from home she knew to be so.
In the meantime it kept the happy
smile for ever on her lips to know
that Emon was daily creeping into
the good opinion of her father. Oh !
how could Emon, her own Emon, fail,
not only to creep but to rush into the
good opinion, the very heart, of all
who knew him? Poor enthusiastic
Winny! But she was right. With
the solitary exception of Tom Mur-
dock, there was not a human being
who knew him who did not love Ed-
ward Lennon. But where is the man
with Tom Murdock's heart, and in
Tom Murdock's place, who would not
have hated him as be did ?
CHAPTER XXrX.
Tom Murdock, seeing that his
hopes by fair means were completely
at an end, and that matters were, like-
ly to progress in another quarter at a
rate whidi made it advisable not to let
the leading horse get too far ahead.
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108
r
determined to make a rash to the
front, no matter whether he went the
wrong side of a post or not — ^let that
be settled after.
He had left home, and lefl a report
behind him, which he took care to
have industriously circulated, that he
had gone to Armagh, and was «about
to be married to " a young lady^ with
a large fortune, and that he would
visit the metropolis, Fermanagh, and
perhaps Sligo, before he returned.
But he did not go further than an ob-
scure public-house in a small village
in the lower part of the county of
Cavan. There he met the materials
for carrying out bis plan. The object
of it was shortly this — ^to carry away
Wlnny Cavana by force, and bring
her to a friencTs house in the moun-
tains behind the village adverted to.
Here he was to have an old buckle-
beggar at hand to marry them the
moment Winny's spirit was broken to
consent This man, a degraded cler-
gyman, as the report went, wandered
about the country in green spectacles
and a short, black cloak, always ready
and willing to perform such a job ;
doubly willing and ready for this par-
ticular one from the reward which
Tom had promised him. If even the
marriage ceremony should fail, either
through Winny's obstinacy or the
clergyman's want of spirit to go
through with it in the face of opposi-
tion, still he would keep her for ten days
or a fortnight at this friend's house,
stopping there himself too ; and at the
end of that time, should he fail in ob-
taining her consent, he would quit the
country for a while, and allow her to
return home " so blasted in character"
that even "that whelp" would dis-
own her. There was a pretty speci-
men of a lover — ^a husband I
It was now the end of June. The
weather had been dry for some time^
and the nights were clear and mild;
the stars shone brightly, and the early
dawn would soon present ^ heavy dew
hanging on the bushes and the grass.
The moon was on the wane ; but at a
late hour of the night it was conspicu-
ous in the heavens, adding a str o nger
light to that given by the clearness of
the sky and the brilliancy of the stars.
Rathcash and Rathcashmore were
sunk in still repose; and if silence
could be echoed, it was echoed by the
stillness of the mountains behind
Shanvilla and beyond them. The
inhabitants of the whole district had
long since retired to rest, and now lay
buried in sleep, some of them in con-
fused dreams of pleasure and delight
The angel of the dawn was scarcely
yet awake, or he might have heard
the sound of muffled horses' feet and
muffled wheels creeping along the
road toward the lane turning up to
Rathcash house, about two hours be-
fore day; and he must have seen a
man with a dark mask mounted on
another muffled horse at a little dis-
tance from the cart
Presently Tom Murdock — there is
no use in simulating mystery where
none exists — took cliarge of the horse
and cart to prevent them from mov-
ing, while three men stole up toward
the house. Ay, there is Bully-dba's
deep bark, and they are already at the
door.
« That dog I he'll betray us, boys,"
said one of the men.
" I'd blow his brains out if this pis-
tol was loaded," said another; ^^and
I wanted Tom to give me a cartridge."
" He wouldn't let any one load but
himself, and he was right; a shot
would be twiste as bad as the dog;
beside, he s in the back yard, and
cannot get out Never heed him, but
to work as fast as possible."
Old Ned Cavana and Winny heard
not only the dog, but the voices.
Winny's heart foretold the whole
thing in a moment, and she braced
her nerves for the scene.
The door was now smashed in, and
the three men entered. By this time
old Ned had drawn on his trousers ;
and as he was throwing his coat over
his head to got his arms into the
sleeves he was seized, and ere you
could count ten he was pinioned, with
his arms behind him and his legs tied
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109
at the ankles, and a handkerchief tied
across his mouth. Thus rendered
perfectly powerless, ho was thrown
back upon the. bed, and the room-door
locked. Jamesj Dojle, who slept in
the bam, had heard the crash of the
door, and dressed himself in ^Mcss
than no time," let BuUy-dhu out of
the yard, and brought him to the
front door, in at which he rushed like
a tiger. But Jamesj Doyle did not
go in. That was not his game ; but
he peeped in at the window. No
light had been struck, so he could
make nothing of the state of affairs in-
side, except from the voices ; and
from what he heard he could make no
mistake as to the object of this attack.
He could not teU whether Tom Mur-
dock was in the house or not, but he
did not hear his voice. One man
said, *' Come, now, be quick, Larrj ;
the sooner we're o^ witlk her the bet-
ter."
Jamesy waited for no more; he
turned to the lane as the shortest way,
but at a glance he saw the horse and
cart and the man on horseback on the
road outside; and turning again he
darted off across the fields as fast as
his legs could carry him.
BuUy-dhu^ having gained access to
the house, showed no disposition to
compromise the matter. "No quar-
ter r was his cry, as he flew at the
nearest man to him, and seizing him
by the throat, brought him to the
ground with a sougk, where in spite of
his struggles, he held him fast with a
silent, deadly grip. He had learned
this much, at least, by his encounter
with the mastiff on New Year's day.
Careless of their companion's strait,
who they thought ought to be able to
defend himself, the other two fellows —
and powerful fellows they were — pro-
ceeded to the bed-room to their lefl ;
they had locked the door to their
right, leaving poor old Ned tied and
insensible on the bed. Winny was
now dressed and met them at the
door.
•* Are you come to commit murder V
•he cried, as they stopped her in the
doorway; "or have you done it al-
ready ? Let me to my father's room."
" The sorra harm on him, miss, nor
the sorra take the hair of his head
well hurt no more nor your own.
Come, put on your bonnet an' cloak,
an' come along wld us ; them's our
ordhers."
" You have a master, then. Where
is he? where is Tom Murdock? — ^I
knew Tom Murder should have been
his name. Where is he, I say T*
" Come, come, no talk ; but on wid
your bonnet and cloak at wanst"
" Never ; nor shall I ever leave this
house except torn from it by the most
brutal force. Where is your master,
I say ? Is he afraid of the rope him-
self which he would thus put round
your necks?"
" Come, come, on wid your bonnet
an* cloak, or, be the powers, we'll take
you away as you are."
" Never ; where is your master, I
say?"
" Come, Larry, we won't put up
wid any more of her pillaver ; out
wid the worsted."
Here Biddy Mnrtagh rushed in to
her mistress's aid ; but she was soon
overpowered and tied "neck and
heels," as they called it, and thrown
upon Winny's bed. They had the
precaution to gag her also with a
handkerchief, that she might not give
the alarm, and they locked the door
like that at the other end of the house.
Larry, whoever he was, then pulled
a couple of skeins of coarsd worsted
from his pocket, while his companion
seized Winny round the waist, out-
side her arms ; and the other fellow,
who seemed expert, soon tied her feet
together, and then her hands. A
thick handkerchief was then tied
across her mouth.
" Take care to lave plenty of braith-
in* room out iv her nose, Larry," said
the other ruffian ; and, dius rendered
unable to move or scream, they car-
ried her to the road and laid her on
the car. The horseman in the mask
asked them where the third man was,
and thev replied that he must have
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110
AU-HaUow Eve ; or^ The Tut of Futurity.
"made off" from the dog, for that
they neither saw nor heard him after
the dog flew at him.
This was likely enough. He was
the only man of the party in whom
Tom Murdock could not place the
most unbounded confidence.
"The cowardly rascal," he said.
" We must do without him."
But he had rwt made off from the
dog.
The cart was well provided — to do
Tom Murdoch justice — with a feather-
bed over plenty of straw, and plenty
of good covering to keep out the night
air. They started at a brisk trot, still
keeping the horses' feet and the
wheels muffled; and they passed
down the road where the reader was
once caught at a dog-fight.
But to return, for a few minutes, to
Rathcash house. Bully-dhu was
worth a score of old Ned Cavana,
even supposing him to have been at
liberty, and free of the cords by which
he was bound. The poor old man
had worked the handkerchief by which
he had been gagged off his mouth, by
rubbing it against the bed-post He
had then rolled himself to the door ;
but further than that he was powerless,
except to ascertain, by placing his
chin to the thumb-latch, for he had
got upon his feet, that it was fastened
outside. He then set up a lamentable
demand for help — ^upon Winny, upon
Biddy Murtagh, and upon Bully-dhu.
The dog was the only one who an-
swered him, with a smothered growl',
for he still held fast by the grip he
had taken of the man's throat Poor
Bully I you need not have been so
pertinacious of that grip — Ihe man
has been dead for the last ten min-
utes ! Finding that it was indeed so,
from the perfect stillness of the man,
Bully-dhu released his hold, and lay
licking his paws and keeping up an an-
gry growl, in answer to the old man's
cries.
We must leave them and follow
Jamesy Doyle across the fields, and
see if it was cowardice that made him
run so fiLSt from the scene of danger.
Ah, no I Jamesy was not that sort of
a chap at alL He was plocky as
well as true to the heart's core. Nor
vras his intelligence and judgment at
fault for a moment as to the best
course for him to adopt Seeing the
fearful odds of three stout men
against him, he knew that he could do
tetter than to remain there, to be tied
" neck and crop" like the poor old
man and Biddy. So, having brought
Bully-dhu round and given him 'his
cue, he started off, and never drew
breath until he found himself outside
Emon-a-knock's window at Shanvilla,
on his way to the nearest police
station.
" Are you there, Emon ?" said he,
tapping at iU
** Yes," Emon replied from his bed ;
" who are you, or what do you want ?"
"Jamesy Doyle from Rathcash
house. Get up at wanst ! They have
taken away Miss Winny."
" Great heaven I do you say so ?
Here, father, get up in a jiffy and
dress yourself. They have taken
away Winny Cavana, and we must
be off to the rescue like a shot Come
in, Jamesy, my boy." And wliile
they were "drawing on" their clothes,
they questioned him as to the particu-
lars.-
But Jamesy had few such to give
them, as the reader knows ; for, like a
sensible boy, he was off for help with-
out waiting for particulars.
The principal point, however, was
to know what road they had taken.
Upon this Jamesy was able to answer
with some certainty, for ere he had
started finally off, he had watched
them, and he had seen the cart move
on under the smothered cries of Win-
ny ; and he heard the horseman say,
"Now, boys, through the pass be-
tween * the sisters.' "
"They took the road to the left
from the end of the lane, thats all I
know ; so let you cut across the coun-
try as fast as you can, an' youll bo
at Boher before them. Don't delay
me now, for I must go on to the po-
lice station an' hurry out the sargent
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Ill
and his men ; if 70U can clog them at
the bridge till I cam' up wiUi the po-
lice, all wiU be rights an' wq'11 have
her back wid us. I know very well if
I had a word wid Miss Winny un-
known to the men, she would have
sent me for the police ; but I took you
in my way — h wasn't twenty perch
of a round."
** Thank you, Jamesy, a thousand
times ! There, be off to the sergeant
as fast as you can ; tell him you call-
ed here, and that I have calculated
everything in my mind, and for him
and his men to make for Boher-na-
Milthiogue bridge as fast as popsible.
There, be off, Jamesy, and I'll give
you a pound-note if the police are at
the bridge before Tom Murdock comes
through the pass with the cart."
" You may keep your pound, man I
Fd do more nor that for Miss Winny."
And he was out of sight in a moment.
The father and son were now dress-
ed, and, arming themselves with two
stout sticks, diey did not '^ let the
grass grow under their feet" They
hurried on until they came to the road
turning down to where we have indi-
cated that our readers were once
caught at a dog-fight. Here Emon
examined the road as well as he could
by the dim light which prevailed, and
found the fresh marks of wheels. He
could scarcely understand them. They
were not like the tracks of any wheels
he had ever seen before, and there
were no tracks of horses' feet at all,
although Jamesty had*said there was a
horseman beside the horse and cart
£mon soon put down these unusual
appearances— and he could not well
define them for want of light — to
some cunning device of Tom Murdock ;
and how right ho was I
** Come on, father," said he. ^ I
am quite certain they have gone down
here. I know Tom Murdock has
plenty of associates in the county
Cavan, and the pass between ' the sis-
te^' is the shortest way he can take.
Beside, Jamesy heard him say the
words. Our plan must be to cut
across the country and get to Mil-
thiogue bridge before they get through
the pafts and so escape us. What say
you, father — ^are you able and willing
to push on, and to stand by me ? Rec-
ollect the odds that are against us,
and count the cost."
" Emon, rU count nothing ; but
ni— "
" Here, father, in here at this gap,
and across by the point of Mullagh
hill beyond; we must get to Boher
before them."
^ m count no cost, Emon, I was
going to tell you. I'm both able and
willing, thank God, to stand by you.
You deserve it well of me, and so do
the Cavanas. God forbid I should
renuage my duty to you and them !
Aren't ye ail as wan as the same thing
to me now ?"
Emon now knew that his father
knew all about Winny and him.
" Father," said he, " that is a des-
perate man, and h^'U stop at nothing."
" Is it Bthrivin' to cow me you are,
Emon?"
*' No, father ; but you saw the state
my mother was in as we left."
•^ Yes, I did, and why wouldn't she ?
But shure that should not stop us
when we have right on our side ; an*
God knows what hoult, or distress,
that poor girl is in, or what tliat vil-
lain may do to her; an* what state
would your mother be in if you were
left a desolate madman all your life
through that man's wickedness ?"
These were stout words of his fath-
er, and almost assured Emon that all
would be well.
" Father," he continued, " if we get
to the bridge before them, and can
hold it for half an hour, or less, the
police will be up with Jamesy Doyle,
and we shall be all right"
The conversation was now so fre-
quently interrupted in getting over
ditches and through hedges, and they
had said so much of what they had to
say, that they were nearly quite silent
for the rest of the way, except where
Emon pointed out to his father the
easiest place to get over a ditch, or
through a hedge, or up the face of a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
112
M'HaUtm Eve; or^ TAs Test of Fuihmty.
hilL Both their hearts were evident-
ly in their journej. No less the fa-
ther's than the son's : the will made
the way.
The dappled specks of red had still
an hoar to slumber ere the dawn
awoke, and they had reached the spot ;
there was the bridge, the Boher-na-
Milthiogue of our first chapter, within
a stone's throw of them. They crept
to the battlement and peered into the
pass. As yet no sound of horse or
cart, or whispered word, reached their
ears.
^^They must be some distance off
yet, father," said Emon ; " thank
God ! The police will have the more
time to be up."
" Should we not hide, Emon T*
" Certainly ; and if the police come
up before they do, they should hide
also. That villain is mounted ; and if
a strong defence of the pass was
shown too soon, he would turn and put
spurs to his horse."
As he spoke a distant noise was
heard of horses' feet and unmuffled
wheels. The mulffling had all been
taken off as soon as they had reached
the far end of the pass between the
mountains, and they were now hasten-
ing their speed.
" The odds will be fearfully against
us, father," said Emon, who now felt
more than ever the dangerous position
he had placed his father in, and the
fearful desolation his loss woiild cause
in his mother's heart and in his home.
He felt no fear for himself. « You
had better leave Tom himself to me,
father. I know he will be the man on
horseback. Let you lay hold of the
horse's head under the cart, and knock
one of the men, or both, down like
lightnmg, if you can. You have your
knife ready to cut the cords that tie
her?"
" I have, Emon ; and don't you
fbar me ; one of them shall tumble at
all events, almost before they know
that we are on them. I hope I may
kill him out an' out ; we might then
be able for the other two. Do you
think Tom is armed P' he added, turn-
ing pale. But it was so dark Emon
did not see it
**I am not sure, but I think not
He cannot have expected any opposi-
tion."
'< God grant it, Emon ! I don't
want to hould you back, but don't be
* fool-hardy,' dear boy."
" Do you want to cow me, father,
as you said yourself, just now ?"
"' No, Emon. But stoop, stoop, here
they are."
Crouching behind the battlements
of the bridge, these two resolute men
waited the approach of the cavalcade.
As they came to the mouth of the
pass the elder Lennon sprang to the
head of the horse under the cart, and,
seizing him with his lef^ hand, struck
the man who drove such a blow as
felled him from the shaft upon which
he sat Emon had already seized the
bridle of the horseman who still wore
the mask, and pushing the horse back-
ward on his haunches, he made a
fierce blow at the rider's head with
his stick. But he had darted his heels
— ^spurs he had none — ^into his horse's
sides, which made him plunge forward,
rolling Emon on the ground. For-
ward to the cart the rider then rushed,
crying out, " On, on with the cart !"
But Lennon's father wa« still fastened
on the horse*s head with his left hand,
while with his right he was alternate*
]y defending himself against the two
men, for the first had somewhat recov-
ered, who were in charge of it
Tom Murdock would have ridden
him down also, and turned the battle
in favor of a passage through; but
Emon had regained his feet, and was
again fastened in the horse's bridle,
pushing him back on his haunches,
hoping to get at the rider's head, for
hitherto his blows had only fallen upon
his arms and chest. Here Tom Mur-
dock felt the want of the spurs, for his
horse did not spring forward with life
and force enough upon his assail-
ant
A fearful struggle now ensued be-
tween them. The men at the cart had
not yet cleared their way from tiie
Digitized by CjOOQIC
M-ffaUaw Eve; or^ The Ihei of Faiwrt^.
113
despeimte opposition given them by
old LennoQy who deeded himself
aUj, and at the same time attacked
them inriooslj. He had not time,
however, to cut the cords by which
Winny was bound* A single paose
in the use of his stick for that purpose
would hare been fataL Neither had
he been successful in getting beyond
his first position at the horse's head.
During the whole of this ccmiused at-
tack and defence, poor Wlnny Cavana,
who had managed to shove herself up
into a sitting posture in the cart, con-
tinued to cry out, '' Oh, Tom Mur*
dock, Tom Murdock ! even now give
me up to these friends and be gone,
and I swear there shall never be a
word more about it"
But Tom Murdock was not the man
either to yield to entreaties, or to be
baffied in his purpose. He had waled
Edward Lennon with the butt end of
his whip about the head and shoulders
as well as he could across his horse's
head, which Lennon had judiciously
kept between them, at times making a
jomp up and striking at Tom with
his stick.
Matters had now been interrupted
too long to please Tom Murdoch, and
darting his heels once more into his
horse's sides, he sprang forward,
rolling young Lennon on the road
again.
^All right now, lads!" he cried;
**^ on, on with the cart !" and he rode
at old Lennon, who still held his
ground against both his antagonists
manfully.
Bat all was not right A cry of
^ The police, the police !" issued from
one of the mien at the cart, and Jame-
sy Doyle with four policemen were
seen hurrying up the boreen from the
lower road.
Perhaps it would be unjust to ac-
'cose Tom Murdock of cowardice even
then — it was not one of his faults — ^if
upon seeing an accession of four arm-
ed policemen he turned to fly, leaving
his companions in for it One of them
fled too; but Pat Lennon held the
other fiist
VOL. ni. 8
As Tom tamed to traverse the
mountam pass back again at full
speed, Lennon, who had recovered
himself, sprang like a tiger once more
at the horse's head. Now or never
he must stay his progress.
Tom Murdock tore the mask from
his face, and, pulling a loaded pistol
from his breast, he said : ^ Lennon, it
was not my intention to injure you
when I saw you first spring up from
the bridge to-night ; nor will I do so
now, if your own obstinacy and fool-
hardy nuulness does not bring your
doom upon yourself. Let go my horse,
or by hell I'll blow your brains out !
this shall be no mere tip of the hurl,
mind you." And he levelled the pis-
tol at his head, not more than a foot
from his face.
" Never, with life !" cried Lennon ;
and he aixned a blow at Tom's pistol-
arm. Ah, fatal and unhappy chance I
His stick had been raised to strike
Tom Murdock down, and he had not
time to alter its direction. Had he
struck the pistol^nn upward, it might
have been otherwise ; but the blow of
necessity descended. Tom Murdock
fired at the same moment, and the
only diflerence it made was, that in-
stead of his brains having been blown
out, the ball entered a littie to one
side of his left breast
Lennon jumped three feet from the
ground, with a short, sudden shout^
and rolled convulsively upon the road,
where soon a pool of bloody mud at-
tested the murderous work which had
been done.
The angel of the dawn now awoke,
as he heajrd the report of the pistol
echoing and reverberating through
every recess in the many hearts of
SUevc-dhu and Slieve-bawn. Tom
Murdock fled^if full gallop ; and the
hearts of the policemen fell as they
heard the clattering of his horse's feet
dying away in quadruple regularity
through the mountain pass.
Jamesy Doyle, who was light of
foot and without shoe or stocking,
rushed forward, saying, << Sergeant,
I'll folbw'him to the end of the pass,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
lU
JO-Balhw Eve; or, The Tett of Futurihf.
an' see what road hell take." And he
sped onward like a deer.
^ Come, Ifaher/'^said the sergeanti
^ we'll pursue, however hopeless.
Cotter, let you stop with the prisoner
we have and the joung w<Hnan ; and
let Dcmovan stop with the wounded
man, and stop the blood if he can."
Sergeant Driscol and Maher then
started at the top of their speed, in the
track of Jamesj Dojle, in foil pursuit
There were manj turns and twists
in the pass between the mountains. It
was like a dozen large letter S's
strung together.
Driscol stopped for a moment to
listen. Jamesj was beyond their ken,
round one or two of the turns, and
they could not hear the horse gallop-
ing now.
*^ All's lost," said the sergeant ;
^ he's clean gone. Let us hasten on
until we meet the boy ; perhaps he
knows which road he took."
Jamesy had been stooping now and
then, and peering into the coming
lights to keep well in view the man
whom he pursued. Ay, there he was,
sure enough ; he saw him, almost
plfunly, galloping at the top of his
speed. . Suddenly he' heard a crash,
and horse and rider rolled upon the
ground.
'<He's down, thank God I" cried
Jamesy, still rushingforward with some
hope, and peering into the distance.
Presently he saw the horse trot on
with his head and tail in the air,
without his rider, while a dark mass
lay in the centre of the road.
"You couldn't have betther luck, you
bloodthirsty ruffian, you !" said Jamesy,
who thought that it was heaven's
lightning that, in justice, had struck
down Tom Murdock ; and he main-
tained the same opinion ever after-
ward. At present, however, he had
not time to philosophize upon the
thought, but rushed on.
Soon he came to the dark mass
npon the road. It was Tom Murdock
who lay there stunned and insensible,
but not seriously hurt by the falL
There was nothing of heaven's light-
ning in the matter at alL It was the
common come-down of a stumbling
horse upon a bad mountain road ; but
the result was the same.
Jamesy was proceeding to thank
Gk)d again, and to tie his legs, when
Tom came to.
Jamesy was sorry the man's thrcatee
did not last a little longer, that he
might have tied him, legs and arms.
With his own handkerchief and sus-
penders. But he was late now, and
not quite sure that Tom Murdock
would not murder him also, and " make
off afoot."
Here Jamesy thought he heard the
hurried step of the police coming
round the last turn toward him, and
as Tom was struggling to his feet, a
bright thought struck him. He
" whipt" out a penknife he had in bis
pocket, and, before Tom had suffi-
ciently recovered to know what he was
about, he had cut his suspenders, and
given the waist-band of his trousers a
$Up of the knife, opening it more than
a foot down the back.
Tom had now sufficiently recovered
to understand what had happened, and
to know the strait he was in« He had
a short time before seen a man named
Wolff play Richard HI. in a bam in
C. O. S. ; and if he did not roar lusti-
ly, " A horse, a horse 1 my kingdom
for a horse I" he thought it. But his
horse was nearly half a mile away,
where a green spot upon the roadside
tempted him to delay a little his jour-
ney home.
Tom was not yet aware of the ap-
proach of the police. He made a des-
perate swipe of his whip, which he
still held in his hand, at the boy, and
sprung to his feet. But Jamesy
avoid^ the blow by a sidp jump, and
kept roaring, " Police, police I" at the
top of his voice. Tom now found that
he had been outwitted by this young
boy. He was so hampered by his
loose trousers about his heels that he
could make no run for it, and soon be-
came the prisoner of Sergeant Dris-
col and Ms companion. Well done,
Jamesy I
TO Bl O OJ T UIUMa .
Digitized by CjOOQIC
IMerick Hurler.
115
Translated from Le Konde GathoUqiie.
FREDERICK HURTER.
Frederick Hurtsr, the ilinstrioiu
historian of Pope Jnoocent IIL, died
on the 27th of Angnst, 1865, in Gratz,
Austria, in the sevens-eighth year of
his age. Of all the great Catholic
characters which we have lost during
the past jear, there were undouhtedlj
very few who have shed a greater
brilliancj on our era, and still our loss
has, comparatively, passed unnoticed.
Germany has certainly paid some horn*
age to the memory of that great Chrisr
tian ; but outside that country almost
genesal silence has enshrouded his tomb.
In France, for example, not more
than three or four religious newspa-
pers have devoted to him even a few
lines, and these aU derived from a
common source, and we should not be
surprised if many of our own readers
should now kam for the first time,
from this notice, the death of a man so
justly celebrated.
To what, then, have we to ascribe
this forgetfulness or indifference?
Perfaans a simple comparison of dates
will account for it Hurter died, as
we have stated, in the latter part of
August, and La Moriciere in the early
part of the following month. It is
therefore natural to conjecture that the
memory of the great historian was al«
most fiurgotten, or for the time absorb-
ed, in the midst of the extraordinary
manifestations and triumphal funeral
ceremonies which have honored the re-
mains of the immortal vanquished of
Oastelfidaidou It must be admitted,
however, that such was not just; it
would have been better to sJlow to
each his legitimate share of respect,
and, without derogating from the glory
of Ia Morid^ render also to
Hurter the hqpor to which he was so
justly entitled. Beside, their names
were destined to be associated, for both
have fought under the same flag, al-
though in a different «nanner. Both
have been the champions of the Papal
See, one with his brave sword and the
other with his not less brave pen ; and
both have left magnificent footprints in
the religious annals of the nineteenth
century.
Another explanation of this appar-
ent neglect, more natural and perhaps
more truthful, might be found in the
character of Frederick Hurter itself,
and in that of his last writings. A
long time previous to his death he had
achieved the zenith of his fame ; the
latter part of his long life being de-
voted to learned studies of undoubted
merit and immense advantage, but
which have not had the same general
attraction as his earlier productions,
particularly with the French people.
We freely acknowledge that this fact
does but littie credit to Uie Catholic mind
of France, but it is nevertheless unde-
niable. A kind of comparative obscu-
rity has covered with us the latter por-
tion of Hurter^s life, and this, in our
opinion, is the principal reason that
the news of his deatii has not cre-
ated adeeper sensation in this coun-
try.
In order to repair, as far as it lies
in our power, this iigustice which the
Catholics ^ Germany might well con-
sider unfair or ungrateful, we would
like to render, in these few pages, at
least a feeble homage to the iUustrioos
dead. We desire to gather together
a few of the glorious remembrances
which are associated with his name,
and, above all, to point out that insati-
able love of truth and justice which
Digitized by CjOOQIC
116
Frederick Hurter.
was the distinguishiog feature of his
character and which seems to have per-
vaded his whole being under all cir-
cumstances and at all times.
Frederick Emmanuel Hurter was
bom of Protestant parents on the
19th of May, 1787, in Schaffhausen,
Switzerland. His father was prefect
of Lugano; his mother remarkable
for her inteUect as well as for her de-
cision of character, having sprung
from the noble family of the Zieglers.
When scarcely six years old, the child
was deeply moved at hearing an ac-
count of the execution of Louis the Six-
teenth, and before he had attained the
age of twelve years he had conceived
such a distaste for the excesses of the
revolutionary spirit then prevailing
that it seems never to have forsaken
him. At this early age he was an
eager student of the ^ History of the
Seven Years' War," and declared him-
self in favor of Maria Theresa and
against the King of Prussia. Two
years afterward a discussion havina
arisen between himself, his school-
fellows, and his teacher, on the rela-
tive merits of Pompey and Ca»ar, ho
promptly and eneigetically took the
part of the former, believing that in
the character of the latter was to be
seen the personification of the revolu-
tionary spirit These were the first
germs of that admirable sense of right
which distinguished him on all occa-
sions. There could even then be fore-
seen . in that child the future man des-
tined at some day to be the defender of
the most august power in the world.
From lus youth upward, and
doubtless from the same feeling of be-
ing right, he applied himself with
marked attention to ascertain the true
history of that most misrepresented
epoch, the middle ages, its monastic
institutions, and its great pontiffs.
Of the latter St. Gregory VII. seemed
to have most tittracted hun, and his
youthful mind seems to have delight-
ed in comparing him with the great
men of ancient Rome.
Having finished his preliminary
studies in bis native town, Hurter
studied in the different classes of the-
ology at the University of Grottingen,
whence he obtained his diploma, and,
having been first appointed pastor of
an obscure village, was soon removed
to Schaffhausen.
In 1824 he was appointed chan-
cellor of the consistory; but neither
his theological studies nor the duties
of his office as pastor, a calling he had
embraced* through deference for his
father rather than from personal in-
clination, diverted him from the object
of his early predilections. Thus,
while at Gottingen he found leisure to
write a " History of Theodoric, King
of the Ostrogoths." It was his first
essay as historian, being at the time
only twenty years old.
Later he wrote a book on the fol-
lowing subject, proposed by the Na-
tional Institute of France: ''The
Civil State during the Government of
the Goths, and the Fundamental Prin-
ciples of the Legislation of Theodoric
and his Successors.'' But this work
remained among his manuscripts un-
pubbshed. It was at Schaffhausen
that he resumed his favorite studies
on the middle ages, and completed
them. His great attraction was not,
as might be expected, Gregory VII.,
but Innocent UI., probably on account
of a collection of letters written by
that great pontiff, published by Ba-
luze, and which he had formerly
bought at public sale at Gottingen.
He certainly had not then the re*
motest idea that that book would at
some future day form the foundation
of his fame, and the means of a radi-
cal change in his Christian and social
life. He commenced his book on In-
nocent ni. in 1818, but it was not
until 1833 that the first volume ap-
peared. The second was published
the year following. In'^ldSd he be-
came president of the consistory, an
office which placed him at the heiad of
the clergy of his district, and which
he resigned after fulfilling its duties
for six years. He published the third
volume of his " History of Pope In-
nocent'' in the meantime, and in
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Fredaiek BurUr.
117
1842 the fourth and last volame was
given to the press.
This ^^Histoiy^ was not (Hily a
great literary success, it was more.
It produced a decided revolution in
historical science. The effect of it in
Switzerland, Germany, and in fact
the whole of Europe, was immense.
The eztraordinarj part enacted hy
that great Pope was seen for the first
time in its proper light. By the irre-
sistible logic of facts, Hurler demon-
strated how the august institutions of
the papacy accomplished its mission
with a success which, up to his time,
had never been conjectured. Every
one became convinced that it was the
papacy alone that had mastered and
tempered the overwhelming forces of
the half-civilized nations of Europe,
in order to more eternal and spiritual
ends. ^ Since then," says Hurter him-
self, in his preface to Uie third Ger-
man edition of his first volume, page
21, '^a great number of inveterate,
errors were corrected, many tradition-
al prejudices dissipated, many doubts
removed; certain minds drew light
therefrom, others found a guide in it,
and others attained conmcHon from its
pages. Comparing the present with
the paisty people became more circum-
spect in their judgments and less in-
consistent in their conclusions, and
at last an answer was found to the fa-
mous question of the Roman governor,
«*What is truth?' {Quid ut Veritas'^)
^ Truth is what is based on the indis-
putable proofs of history and agrees
with the nature of all tlungs." Sebas-
tian Brunner, a distinguished German
writer, afler reading the ^^ History of
Innocent niV gave the following opin-
ion of its author : ^ I hold Mr. Hur-
ter to be the greatest of historians ; no
one previous to him embraces a whole
century in so admirable a picture.
JBturter is the apostolic historian of
the nineteenth century." This apos-*
tleship of Frederick Hurter was the
more efficient, being exercised by a
Protestant^ and, what was more, by the
president of a consistory. And be-
sidety who would not yield to the testi-
mony of a man whose loy^ty and in-
tegrity were above all suspicion, and
who had made it the rule of his life
to observe the most rigid impartiality
in all his own views ; to seek nothing
but the truth, and to honor virtue and
merit wherever met, without except-
ing those who differed from him, so as
to neglect nothing in the accomplish-
ment of his task in the most perfect
possible manner ? His indeed were ad-
mirable qualities, particularly when
we consider how history was written
in those times by writers looked upon
as models and masters. But let us not
enlarge on this topic ; the ^ History of
Innocent'* is found in every Ubrary ; let
us rather show how that book earned
for its author a reward far greater
than mere worldly reputation.
His literary success, and, what was
more, the undeniable services he had
rendered to the Catholic cause, could
not but excite the jealousy and dislike
of his fellow Protestants. His « Ex-
cursion to Vienna and Presburg,''
which was published soon after he vis-
ited Austria, in 1839, excited their an-
ger to the highest degree. Blinded by
their passions, they resolved to put him
on trial, so as to find him guilty and so
depose him. In his ^ Expose of the
Motives of his Conversion *' he states
that they put him the unfair question,
**Are you a Protestant at heart?"
** This question," he continues, " had no
relation whatever with the alleged facts
bearing on my public office, but only
with my * History of Innocent HI.' and
with a visit to Vienna. I refused to
answer, because they wanted rather to
discover what I disbelieved than what
I believed.'* This refusal excited a
violent storm of indignation agunst
him. After trying many times to
avert it, and after suffering the most
unworthy attacks with patience and
fortitude, he seized his pen and ful-
minated his defense under the follow-
ing title, << President Hurter and his
Pretended Colleagues.**
More painful trials still awaited him.
Two of Ids daughters, one immediately
after the other, became afflicted wi^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
118
FnieriA Ehaier.
a malady which was soon to deprive
him of them, and, while prayers for
their recovery were being offered np
in all the Gathotio convents of Switz-
erland, his puritanical opponents ex-
hibited the most imcharitable joy,
' thrusting the dagger of grief still fur-
ther into a parent's heart. A less
energetic character would doubtless
have succumbed to such cruel wounds,
but Hurter remained true to the nuixun
of the poet :
** JiiBtnm et tenacem propoiiti vlram
Non clvinin ardor, prava jabentiam,
Non TQltiu inatantls tyronni
HenteqiiaUtBoUda. . ."
^ The race of those tyrants is not
yet extinct," he somewhere says. ^ I
find still men who desuce every one to
bow before them, and that everything
they do against those who dare dtscaid
such a miserable servitude should be
commended." * Hurter did better than
to imitate the ancient philosopher ; he
accepted his trials with truly Christian
resignation, perceiving in them the
call of God to newer and higher
iduties. '^I discovered in them," he
I writes, ^ the means of my salvation
and my sanctification. I look upon the
storm which has burst over me as a
signal on the road I have to follow.
At the same time I received the deep
conviction that no peace was to be ex-
pected with such people. My choice
was therefore made. I threw off titles,
offices, and incomes, and went back to
private life because I was disgusted
with a sect which, through rationalism,
upset all Christian dogmas, and, through
pietism, tramples morals under foot." f
What hearty frankness, what qoble feel-
ings, and what a true sense of justice I
Justice he demanded as well for
others a^ for himself; therefore he did
not fear to defend the Catholic cause
in his books. In his work on the" Con-
vents of Argovia and their Accusers"
(1841), and on the *^ Persecutions of
the Catholic Church in Switzerland"
• Third ed., lit vol. (Pref. P. V,)
t '' Life of Fr. Horter," by A. de Saint Cheron,
p. ISO. Some of the detaUa of Uiis article are
extracted firom this work, aa well af> firom an
article published in *'Le Catholiqae ** of Maj-
«noe, of September, 1866.
(1843), he denounces the tyranny of
his Protestant compatriots in unmeas-
ured terms. For this reason, also, he
went to Paris in 1843 to plead, al-
though in vain, the cause of the Catho-
lics in Switzerland.
Having, as we have seen, resigned
his position, he had ample leisure to
devote himself to the more profound
study of the Catholic doctrine, the
dogmas of which he had already in-
wardly admitted. The " Symbolism "
of Moehler he found of great utility, and
the ^ Exposition of the Holy Mass,"
by Innocent UL, served greatly to
strengthen his religious convictions.
Hurter, however, was not precipi-
tate. He desired that in taking so
important a step conviction should be
preceded by mature deliberation.
About this time he writes : ^ He would
certainly be mistaken who should think
that I entered the itUerior of the Cath-
olic Church because I was solely led
away by its external forms. I was
neither a wanderer nor hair-brained.
Undoubtedly the exterior impressed
me ; but I was not, however, therefore
relieved from examining its fundamen-
tal principles with due care, or &om stu-
dying the interior with proper caution.
I entered it first through curi<Mity, a
mere visitor, as.it were, and I exam-
ined everjTthing that I saw like one
who, wanting to purchase a house, first
looks closely at every part of it before
closing the bargun. In that way I
think I acquired, on many points, truer
and more complete ideas than the fre-
quenters of the house, and those who
have spent their lives in it I have
too long postponed my free decision
not to have earned the right to be able
to decide whether the house suits me
or not, or if any changes be required.**
It is interesting to see, in his " Ex-
position of Motives,*' the narration of
all the doubts under which he labored
previous to making a final decision ;
how his mind gradually approached to
a knowledge of the truth as he pro-
gressed in his investigation; how a
tiiousand external circumstances, de-
signed by Providence, powerfully con-
[^gitized by CjOOQ IC
Frederick Surter.
119
tributed to shake his wiD, and finally
how his converaion was less his own
work than the effect of that divine favor
solicited bj Catholic charity, of which
he speaks so feelingly in his ^^ Geburt
nnd Wiedergebart''
The straggle was at last over. On
the 16th of June, the feast of St. Fran-
CIS Regis, he formally made his abju-
ration before Cardinid Osdni, formerly
nuncio in Switzerland, at the Roman
college, and five days afterward, on the
feast of St Louis de Gonzaga, he re-
ceived the blessed sacrament in the
presence of an immense congregation of
the faithful The prophetic words of
Gr^ory XVI. were then confirmed:
^ Sfiero che lei sera mio figlio^ (I hope
that one day you will be my son).
The church and her head numbered
one child more. God had thus reward-
ed by his grace the perfect sincerity
which the humble penitent had ever
made the rule of his life. We may also
be allowed to believe that the sweet pro-
tection of the Mother of God had effica-
ciously operated in his favor, for even
d while a Protestant he had many times
> pleaded her cause with his brethren.
The news of his conversiim created
quite different feelings. If the great
Catholic family rejoiced, and with
unanimous voice thanked God for
having favorably heard their prayers,
PiotestantiBm felt wounded to the
very heart The reason is easily un-
derstood. The edifying example of
humility exhibited by a man like
Hurter was necessary to win over a
great number of souls until then ir-
resolute and wavering, as some plan-
ets attract their satellites in space.
As to him, full of gratitude toward
God, his soul replete with light and
peace, his head high and serene, he
went back to his native town to re-
sume his litterary labors in retire-
ment, as well as to undergo a series
of new persecutions, the last consecra-
tion of the Christian. ^ lam not so nar-
row-minded,'' he wrote some time af-
terward, ^ that I did not expect wicked
Judgments, base calumnies, and every
kind of insult Facts have, however,
fiir exceeded my anticipations, and I
must confess that I did not think those
men capable of going so fi&r in their
wickedness." Finally it became im-
possible for Hurter to remain longer
at Schaffhausen, and, beside, a new
and better career was soon opened
for him. He received from Vienna
an invitation to become the histori-
ographer of the empire. H^ accepted
the appointment and entered upon the
fulfilment of its duties. Safe from
the interruptions caused by the trou-
bles of 1848, he soon afler accepted
the position, of privy councillor and
the patent of nobility which were ten-
dered him.
The last portion of his life was de-
voted to the practice of Christian vir-
tues and to the completion of his great
work on Ferdinand II. To this
book he devoted twenty years' ardu-
ous labor, and was fortunate enough
to complete it one year previous to
his death.
In commencing this work Hurter
collected all his powerful faculties, in-
tending to display in its composition
all that remarkable mental energy
with which he had been gified by. na-
ture. With incredible patience he ex-
amined one after another thousands of
documents of all kinds long buried in
the archives of the empire, and most
of which were utterly unknown even
to the learned. He could not under-
stand to be history that which was
not supported by undeniable docu-
ments. Quod lion est in actisj nan est
in mundo^ was his maxim — a maxim,
alas I which is too oflen neglected by
the generality of our modem histori-
ans. Nothing excelled his persever-
ance, I might almost say his rapture,
when he desired to throw light on an
obscure fact, to fill a hiatus, or to
discover any historical truth* Never,
perhaps, were scruples of accuracy,
and at the same time independence
of thought and courage in expression,
carried to greater limits. Let us
add, that when composing the^ History
of Ferdinand U." he was filled with a
strong sympathy for his subject^ and
Digitized by CjOOQIC
120
Fnderidc JEkuier.
in hia admiration for that great man
he coald, like Tacitus, console hioi-
self with the fl|ght of like grieyancesy
and say with the |k>man historian :
JEgo hoe guoque hbaris prcBmium
petamj tUtnea cantpectu mdlorum^ qiuB
natra tot per annos vidU atcuy ton-
OspeTf aum prt$ca ilia tota menie re-
petOf avertam^ cmnie expert earce
qwe scHbeniiU animumy etti fwn
fieetere a verOy solUeitum tamen
efficerepouit.
This work of Hurter's consists of
eleven Tolumes. The first seven
comprise the history of .events from
the reign of Archduke Charles,
father of Ferdinand IL, to the coro-
nation of the latter prince; the re-
maining four heing exclusivelj devot*
ed to the reign of Ferdmand* In
this comprehensive review of the
events of that epoch the illustrious
author has shown, bj the light of true
history, the great emperor and all the
principal personages by whom he was
surrounded, or in any way connected ;
particularly portraying the Archduke
Charles, the Archdu(£ess Maria, that
splendid model of a Christian moth-
er, .Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden,
THly, and Wallenstein. Hurter stu-
died the character of the latter with
particular zeal, first in his sket<fli of the
^ Material to be used for the Histoiy
of Wallenstein" (1855), and then in
the more elaborate monography,
•* The last Four Years of Wallenstein*
(1862), and finally in the '< History of
Ferdinand" itself. He arrives at the
conclusion that the Dukeof Friedland
had really been guOfy of treason, and
that hia tragic end is in no
way to be attributed to Ferdinand.
At the same time he does full justice
to the great qualities of Wallenstein,
acknowledging in him great capacity
ibr organization, wonderful activity,
and almost regal liberalify ; nor does
he hesitate to class him among not
only the greatest men <£ his age, but
(tf all time.
But, as may be well understood, hia
great central figure was Ferdinand,
whom he conaiders a moat admirable
a^d aocompliahed type of all llie vir*
taes surrounding royalty, notwith-
standing his memory has been bnr-
thened with such foul calumnies by
Protestant historians and their copy-
ists. To relieve his name from these
unjust aspersiona was a task worthy i
the genius of the historian of Inno-i
cent HL Having shown in the life
of that pontiff the true embodiment
of the Christian principles of the
supreme priesthood, should he not
also point out a temporal prince
as the personification of genuine Cath-
olic royalty ?
We would desire to reproduce here
the incomparable portrait of Ferdi-
nand as it has been drawn by Hurter
in his last volume, but, unfortunately,
the limits of this article do not per-
mit it. What compensates us, in some
measure, for being able to give only so
feeble an idea of that great work ia,
that we hope soon to see the studies
undertaken to speak of it more fully.
We hope also that a competent trans-
lator will be soon found to give to
France that work which, with the
^ History of Innocent HIV will immor* •
talize the name of Hurter.
Yes, the great historian shall live -
in his writings, in which he has shown
a soul so strong, so firm, so just, so
humble, and yet so proud ; so earnestly
devoted to truth and so deeply ad-
verse to falsehood, meanness, and hy-
pocrisy. He will live in those count-
less works of charity of which he waa
the ever efficient author. He will live in
the remembrance of so many hearts
he haa edified by hia pious example,
strengthened by his advice, and brought
back to the true path by his admoni-
tions. He will live, also, in the per-
petual and grateful regard of a com-
pany, always so dear to him, to which
he has given one of his sons, and
whose motto he waa proud to quote on
the frontispiece of his great work.
Ad mcQorem Deighriam.
We will end this sketch by repeat-
ing the words which an apostolic mis-
sionary, now a cardinal, once applied
to the great historian; they cannot be
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Wards of Wudam*
121
better or more happily chosen to sum ujp
hiB whole life. Twenty years ago, af- .
ter being a witness to hb conversion ,
the Abb^ de Bonnechose, writing from
Borne, says of him : ^* Justum dedtant
JDaminni per vias rectos et ostendit iUt
reffnum Deij et dedit tUi scientiam seme-
tanan ; honestavit ilium %n Ufbortbus et
eompkvit labores miiuT (Sap. x.) Yes,
Hurter^s mind was right, and God led
him by the hand* He has shown him
his kingdom on earth, the church of
Christ, and the chair of Peter, where
his authority sits* enthroned, where he
speaks and governs in the person of
iufl vicar. It was he who endowed
him with a knowledge of the science
*and philosophy of his doctrine and of
the divine mysteries of the faith, and
inspired in him those noble ideas
the end and aim of which ought al-
ways to be the worship and exalta*
tion of the true church, and the defence
of the pontificate when calumniated.
He has blessed the labors which have
been conducted with such success, fill-
ing them with spirit and energy, to
the end that they may bear the fruits
of immortality I ' Honestamt iUum in
labaribus et camplevit ktbores iVius.
J. Mabtinof.
WORDS OF WISDOM.
/
TRAKBLATED FBOH THS CHIKE8E BT DB. BOWBIKO*
To seek relief from doubt in doubt,
From woe in woe, from sin in sin-
Is but to drive a tiger out.
And let a hungry wolf come in.
Who helps a knave in knavery.
But aids an ape to climb a tree!
On an ape's head a crown you fling;
Say — Will that make the ape a king?
Know you why the lark's sweet lay
Man's divinest nature reaches?
He is up at break of day
Learning all that nature teaches.
The record of past history brings
Wisdom of sages, saints, and kings ;
The more we read those reverend pages
The more we honor bygone ages I
Whate'er befit— whate'er befal.
One general law commandeth all:
There's no confusion in the springs
That move all sublunary things.
All harmony is heaven's vast plan— «
All discord is the work of man 1
Digitized by CjOOQIC
128
iretand and the Informtn of 1798.
From The Sixpenny lUgtzine.
IRELAND AND THE INFORMERS OP 1798.
Thebe has latelj issaed from the
press a work under the title which
heads our article, and which is amus-
ing and instructive in the highest de-
gree. Were it not written by a man
whose ability and character are pledges
for his veracity, we should rank it with
Harrison Ainsworth's efforts, and des-
ignate it as an almost impossible ro-
mance. It has, as we think, appeared
at a very opportune and timely junc-
ture, and^ in our opinion, Mr. Fitz-
patrick is entitled to great praise
for the talent, industry, and re*
search evidenced in his volume.
Francis Higgins, the hero of Mr.
Fitzpatrick's remarkable biographical
sketch, and familiarly known by the
title of *' The Sham Squire," was bom
nobody exactly knows where, and
reared nobody knows how. He com-
menced his career, however, in stir-
ring times, and when great events
were in their parturition, during which
the history of Ireland presents a series
of panoramic images — a mixture of
light and shadow— ^instances of devot-
ed fidelity and abounding rascality —
groupings of mistaken enthusiasm,
selfish venality, and the most abhorrent
domestic treason — such as we in vain
look for in the annals of any other
country or any other age. It is sup-
posed that Higgins was bom in a
Dublin cellar, and while yet of tender
years became successively "errand-
boy, shoeblack, and waiter in a pub-
lic-house" — unproving trades for one
of so ripe a spirit, but which he soon
left, directed by a vaulting ambition,
in order to become a writing-derk in
an attorney's office. While in this
position, he commenced practice on
his own account, by rejecting popery
as unfashionable and impolitic, and by
forging a series of legal documents
purporting to show to all ^ inquiring
friends " that he was a man of pro-
perty and a government official.
He had an object in this, as he was by
this time to appear in a new character,
as the lover of Miss Mary Anne Arch-
er, who possessed a tolerable fortune
and a foolish old father. Miss Archer
happened to be a Roman Catholic, and
was strong in her faith ; but this was
only a tnfle to Higgins, who again
forsook the new creed for the old, and
proved thereby, like Richard, ** a thriv-
ing wooer." They were married, and
the Archer pere did at last what he
ought to have done at first, ferreted
out the real antecedents of his precious
son-in-law, and discovered that he had
a very clever fellow to deal with;
while his daughter, finding, after
a short time, that her husband
was " by no means a desirable one,"
fled back to her bamboozled parent,
who straightway indicted the pretender.
Higgins was found guilty and impris-
oned for a year, and it was during
Judge Robinson's charge to the jury
that he fastened the name of the
^ Sham Squire" on the prisoner, a sob-
riqtlet which stuck to him persistently
during the remainder of his life, and
proved a greater infliction to his vani-
ty than an apparently heavier penalty
would have been. This was in 1767.
" Poor Mary Anne " died of a broken
heart, and her parents survived her for
only a short lime ; while the Widower,
in order to make his prison life endur-
able, paid his addresses to the daughter
of the gaoler and eventually married
her, as her father was pretty well to
do in the world, the situation being a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ireland and the Jhformen of 1798.
128
monej-inakiiig one, as the order of that
day was, as proved before die Irish
House of CommoDS, that ^'persons
were iinlawfiillj kepi in prison and
loaded with irons, although not dulj
conunitted by a magistrate, ontil they
had complied with tibe most exorbitant
demands.** When the Sham's term of
a yearns imprisonment ended, he had
life to begin anew, and for some years
we find Imn exercising many vocations,
such as ^setter'' for excise officers, bil-
liard-marker, hosier, etc* For an as-
sault as a ^setter,** he was again tried
and again convicted ; bntnothing daunt-
ed, as his old webs were broken, he pro-
ceeded in the construction of new. In
1775, we not only find hfan " a hosier,"
but president of the Guild of Hosiers ;
and in 1780 his services were engaged
by Mr. David Gibbal, conductor of the
<*Freeman's Journal," then, as now, one
of the most popular and well-conducted
papers in Ireland. But from the pe-
riod of the Sham Squire's connection
with it, it seems to have degenerated,
as in April, 1784, the journals of the
Irish House of Commons show an
^ order^ that ** Francis Higgins, one of
the conductors of the ^Freeman's Jour-
nal,' do attend this house to-morrow
moming." He did so, and es^^ped
with a reproof. Having gained rome
knowledge of law in the solicitor's
office, we now find him anxious to be^
come an attorney, wluch end he ac-
complished bv the aid and influence of
his fiiend and patron John Scott, after-
ward chief-justice, and elevated to
the peerage as Lord Cbnmel, rather
for bus political talents than his profes-
sional ones. From 1784 to 1787 Hig-
gins also acted as deputy coroner for
Dublin. By a series of manoeuvres he
became the sole proprietor of the <^Free-
man's Jounud," and became at once
what is called in Ireland ^^a castle
ha<^.'' Both as attorney and editor,
the Sham Squire was now a man of
importance, and many called in on
him. Shrewd, sharp, and clever, with
a glib tongue and a facile pen, no
business was either too difficult or too
dirty for him. He was made a justice
of the peace by Lord Carhampton,
who, as Colonel Luttrell, was desig-
nated by Grattan as ^a clever bravo^
ready to give an insult, and perhaps
capable of bearing one ; " in fact, the
last allusion was deserved, as Luttrell
had been called ^^ vile and infamous*
by Scott without resenting it. Lord
Carhampton became commander-in-
chief in Ireland, and during the out-
break of '98 was a merciless foe to the
rebels who fell into his hands. Hig-
gins, by this time, had become a great
man, and lived in St. Stephen's Green,
in magnificent style, keeping his coach
and entertaining the nobility. He
was a loyalist of the rosiest hue, and
thought no mission too derogatory
by which he might show his zeiad. He
attended divine service regularly, and
that over, proceeded to " (>ane Lane,"
in order to count over and receive his
share of the gains in a gambling house
of which he was principal proprietor,
and which his influence with the police
magistrates prevented the suppression
of— then to his editorial duties, which
were to uphold the measures of gov-
ernment and its officials, and to lam-
poon, cigole, or threaten all who dared
to oppose them.
It was in the disastrous period of '98,
however, that the Sham Squire's most
sterling qualities came into active requi-
sition, as. evidenced by tho following
extract of a letter written by the Sec-
retary Cooke to Lord ComwaUis, then
lord lieutenant of Ireland. ^Fran-
cis Higgins," he writes, ^ proprietor of
the * Freeman's Journal,' was the per-
son who procured for me all the intel-
ligence respecting Lord Edward Fitz-
gerald, and gdt to set him, and has
given me otiierwise much information
— ^£300;" meaning thereby that his
excellency should sanction that annu-
al amount for " secret service," out of
a sum of £15,000, specially laid aside
for that purpose. Beside this, howev-
er, a lump sum of £1000 was given to
Higgins on the 20th of June, 1798, for
the betrayal of his friend ; and, inde-
pendent of this, a confederate of his
named Francis Hagan, a barrister,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
124
i-^and and the Bifarmers of 1798.
and a doee ally of Lord Sdward, and
who posidvelj ^ Bet " the unfortunate
nobleman at Higgins's instigation, re-
ceived £600 and a pension of £200 per
annum for the worthy deed. Probably
the most startling of all these revela-
tions of domestic treachery was the
conduct of Leonard McNaUy, barrister
at law, and selected '^ for his ability,
truth, xeal, and sterling honesty," as
Curran's assistant m defending the
prisoners implicated in the rebellion.
This fellow seems to have outsoared
even EQggins and Magan in his duplici-
ty, since not alone did he keep govern-
ment duly informed of the movements
of the suspected, but when on their
trial he exhibited the greatest activity
in suggesting points for their defence,
seconding his celebrated leader in his
unwearied endeavors to save them, al-
though he had previously made known
to the law officers what course the ac-
cused men's counsel meant to take for
the day, so that Curran and his legal
friends were puzzled and surprised at
having their best-concocted measures
anticipated and baffled, although not a
man of them ever thought of looking
to ^ honest Mac'' as the cause. For
this and other services McNally re-
ceived some thousands, and was grati-
fied, in addition, with a pension of
£300 per annum. Smgularly enough,
the terrible secrets of Magan and
McNally were well kept until long af-
ter their deaths, and until the publica-
tion of the '^ Comwallis Papers " ena-
bled inquirers to strike on the true
vein. Both these men are said to
^ have been corrupted by the Sham
Squire, who seems to have been the
Mephistopheles of his time; but a still
more notorious ^ informer," because an
open one, was^ Reynolds — ^Tom Rey-
nolds — ^who was promised a pension of
£2000 a year and a seat in parlia-
ment for his services, but did not re-
ceive quite so much. Li 1798, how-
ever, he received £5000 and a pension
of £1000 a year ; and as his demands
were always importunate, it is known
that during the remainder of his life
he extracted £45,740 from his employ-
ers. Reynolds went abroad and died
there, as L:eland would hardly have
been for him either a safe or a pleasant
residence; but Magan and McNally
lived at home for many a goodly year,
and were looked upon as honest men
and sterling patriots to the last Hig-
gins did not long survive his victims ;
he died suddenly, in 1802, worth
£20,000, a greater part of which,
strange to say, he left for charitalile
purposes I
In reviewing thus the history of this
Lrish Jonathan Wild and his detestable
comrogues, our object must, we hope,
be evident Their lives and actions
are iostructive ui many ways, and
never promised to be more so than
now. What happened then may liap-
pen again ; treason will be dog^d by
traitors to the end. Fear and avarice
are omnipotent counsellors, and, when
coupled with talent and ingenuity,
marvellous indeed are the misery they
can cause and the wide-spread devas-
tation that travels in their track. That
a needy and unscrupulous vagabond
like Hi^ins should hunt his dearest
friends to the scaffold is not to be won-
dered at; but that men of position
and education like Reynolds, McNally,
ancUjCagan should join in the chase,
anoWr years after lock honest men
in the face, evinces a hardihood of dis-
position and a callosity of conscience
which, as a lesson, is instructive, and,
as an utter disregard of remorseful
feeling, appears all but impossible.
No doubt such miscreants excuse their
crimes on a plea of loyalty, and
the plea would be all-sufficient had
they not stipulated for the price, and
had they not exulted in receiving it.
There is something especially abhor-
rent to our natures m those wretches
who voluntarily plunge into the ranks
of anarchy and disaffection at one
time, and Uien, when cowardice or cu-
pidity overcomes them, overleap all
the boundaries of honor and faith, and
trade on the blood or suffering of the
unfortunate men who placed their lib-
erties or lives in their safe-keeping.
In the notes which Mr. Fitzpatrick
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ireland and the Itfarmers of 1798.
125
has appended to his biography of the
**Sham Squire** as "addenda** we
hare some well^uthenticated and racj
revelations of many of the singular
Irish characters who flourished during
the last thirty or forty years of the
last century, and in the first few years
of the beginning of this. Ireland ap-
pears to have been the " paradise of
adventurers " in that day, as the times
appear to have been out of joint, and
the habits and general morale of the
opper and middle ranks were to the
last degree loose and irregular. As
the manners and modes of action of a
people at'e in a considerable degree
fiuluoned and influenced by the exam-
ple set them by those who are placed
in authority over them, it is not too
much to assert that a great deal of the
lax morality, unscrupulous spirit, and
general demoralization were produced
by some of the occupants of the vice-
regal throne, and their ^ courts," the
character and course of life of whom
are painted by our author in anything
but a seductive way. Brilliancy,
show, pleasure, wit, and extravagance
were the order of the day ; lords-lieu-
tenant were either dissipated rouesy or
incompetent imbeciles, and in either
case they were sure to be coerced or
cajoled by a mercenary tribe of politi-
cal adventurers, who directed their
actions and influenced their mindsi
We at once see by the wholesale
corruption practised to bring about
the Union, how utterly depraved must
have been the men who openly or
covertly prostituted themselves, when
it was in contemplation; and never
was political profligacy more open
and more daring in its violation of
honor, probity, and principle than in
the abject submission of the Irish par-
liament, and its unhesitating anxiety
I to sell themselves, souls and bodies,
f to those who tempted tiiem, and who
had studied them far too accurately
not to be sure of their prey. Amongst
those who consented to accept the remu-
neration thus profusely bfiered them
the lawyers bore a very prominent
part; in fiu^, government could
hardly have succeeded without their
aid; of these, Fitzgibbon, aflerward
Lord Clare and chancellor, was the
most forward and efficient. There
was never a man better adapted for
the work he had to do. Bold, active,
astute, and unscrupulous, he could be
all things to all men ; those whom he
could not cajole, he frightened ; equal-
ly ready with the pen, the pistol,
and the tongue, he was neither to be
daunted nor sUenced; terrible in his
vengeance, no windings of his vic-
tims could escape him ; and extrava-
gant in his generosity (when the pub--
Hc purse had to bear the blunt), his
jackals and partisans felt that their
reward was sure, and therefore never
hesitated to comply with his most ex-
act demands. Few men had a larger
number of followers, therefore, and no
man ever made a more unscrupulous
use of them. He had nothing of the
recusant about him, however, and first
and last he was consbtent to his party
and to the Protestant creed which he
had adopted in early life, for he had
been bom and partly reared in the
Eoman Catholic faith. Li his per-
sonal demeanor he was a lion-hearted
man; when hissed in the streets by
the populace he calmly produced his
pistols ; and once, on hearing that a
political meeting against the Union
was being held, he rushed into the
middle of the assembled mass, com-
manded the high-sheriff to quit the
chair, and so closed the meeting.
On the bench he was equally fear-
less, and when recommended to be-
ware of treachery, his answer was,
" They dare not ; I have made them
as tame as cats." «K I live," he
said, ^ to see the Union completed, to
my latest hour I shall feel an honora-
ble pride in reflecting on the share I
had in contributing to effect it" He
did live to see it, and to take his seat
in the British parliament; but mat-
ters were altogether altered therew Isl
his maiden effort he was rebuked by
Lord Suffolk, called to order by the
lord chancellor, while the Duke of
Bedford indignantiy snubbed him by
Digitized by CjOOQIC
m
Irdand cmd the Afarmen of 1798.
ezdaiining, ^ We would not besr such
insults from our eqtuUsy and shall we,
mj lords, tolerate them at the hands
of mushroom nobility P' while, to cap
the climaz;, Pitt, after hearing him,
turned to Wilberforce, and said loud
enough to be heard by Lord Clare,
"Good G— d! did you ever, in all
your life, listen to so thorough-paced a
scoundrel as thatT Disappointed
and despairing, he returned to Ire-
land, and died of a broken heart,
while almost the last words he ut-
tered to a friend were, '^Only to
think of iti I that had all Irehmd
at my disposal cannot now pro-
cure the nomination of a single gau-
gerr
John Scott, afterward Lord Chief-
Justice Gonmel, was another promi-
nent actor in those busy times. His
birth was lowly, but his talents were
considerable; he was light and flip-
pant rather than profound, and he fdt
to the last a terrible mortification that
his claims had been postponed to those
of Lord Clare. He had neither the
grasp of mind, nor the unhesitating
manner of the chancellor, however;
he was apt to surround himself with
companions, like the ^ Sham Squire,*^
for instance, who might be pleasant
but were by no means reputable.
Beside, his character for probity was
distrusted ; his first uprise in life was
his wholesale appropriation of the
property of a CathoHc friend which
he held in trust, as Catholics, at that
time, could not retain property in
their hands, and which he refused to
disgorge. He was both venal and
vindictive, and but too often prosti-
tuted his authority in pursuit of his
passions. On one occasion, however,
he was signally discomfited. A man
of the name of Magee, who owned
and edited the^ Evening Post,"had fre-
quently come under the lash, and was
treated with no mercy. Magee's ven-
geance took a curious form. Lord
Qonmel was an ardent' lover of horti-
culture, and had spent many thousand
pounds in making his suburban villa
a ^*modeL" Magee knew this, and
at the chief demesiie was skirted b v
an open common from which a thicic
hedge alone separated it, the journal-
ist proclaimed a rural fete^ on an
enormous scale, to be held on the var
cant ground, and to which the whole
Dublm population, gentle and simple,
were invited. Meats and liquors
were given to an unlimited extent,
and, in the evening, when the
** roughs'' were primed with whiskey,
several pigs (shaved and with their
tails well soaped) were let out as p^rt
of the amusement of the day. By
preconcert, the affrighted animals
were driven against Lord Clonmers
inclosure, which they speedily over-
leaped, followed by the mob. Trees,
shrubs, flowers, vases, and statues
were in a wonderfully short time de-
molished in the ^ fun," while, to make
the matter still more deplorable, the
owner of the property thus wantonly
devoted to revenge stood on the steps
of his own hall«door, and with alter-
nate fits of imprecation and entreaty
besought the spoilers to desist, but in
vain. Toward the close of his life^
Lord Clonmel became a hypochon-
driac, and, supposing himself to be a
tea-pot, hardly ventured to stir abroad
lest he should be broken. On one oc-
casion, his great forensic antagonist^
Curran, was told that Clonmel was
going to die at last, and was asked if
he believed it " I believe," was the
reply, ^ that he is scoundrel enough to
live or die /usf as it meets his conve-
nience.'* Shortly before his death he
said to Lord CLoncuny, ^My dear
Val, I have been a fortunate man, or
what the world calls so ; I am chief-
justice and an earl ; but were I to be-
gin life again, I would rather be a
chimney-sweeper, than consent to be
connected with the Lish govem-
menL"
Another ** celebrity" was John
Tfider, " bully, butcher, and buffoon," '
who was afterward a peer and a
judge. He was a bravo in the house
and a despot on the bench. He jest-
ed with the wretched he condemned^
and seemed never so happy as when
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The Legend of the Lockharte. 127
the Bcafibid was before bis eyes. He remarked cMie barrister to another in
was ignorant but ferocious, and when court
he could not conquer an oppcment he ** Let him get a grip of your throat,
would browbeat him. and you will find the resemblance still
** Give me a long day, my lord," closer," was the reply.
said a culprit^ whom he had just These and a hundred others, their
doomed* equals, instruments, and subordinates,
^ I am sorry to say I can't oblige may be supposed to represent the
joo, my iiicjhd,'' replied Lord Nor- L*ish << turnspit" element ; it must be
bury, smiling ; ^^but I promise yon a acknowledged, however, that in con«
strong rope, which I suppose will an- tradistinction to them, there were
Bwer your purpose as well.'' sounding examples of men of a dif*
When he died, and was about to be ferent and far superior class, such as
lowered into the grave himself, the the Leinsters, Charlemonts, JPlunketts,
tackle was rather short. Currans, Ponsonbys, and so forth,
" Tare-an-agers, boys, don't spare who would have adorned any country,
the rope on his lordship ; don't you and who certainly contributed to re-
know he was always fond of it?" lieve their own from the almost in-
said one of the standers-by. tolerable odium which the wholesale
^ I never saw a human face that so venal profligacy of a large number
closely resembles that of a bull-dog !" had brought upon it.
From Once a Week.
THE LEGEND OF THE LOCKHARTS.
Ema BoBEBT on his death-bed lay, wasted in every limb.
The priests had letl. Black Douglas now alone was watching him;
The earl had wept to hear those words, '< When I am gone to doom,
Take thou my heart and bear it straight unto the Holy Tomb."
n.
Douglas shed bitter tears of grief—he loved the buried man.
He bade farewell to home and wife, to brother and to clan;
And soon tlie Bruce's heart embalm'd, in silver casket lock'd.
Within a galley, white with sails, upon the blue waves rock'd*
in.
In Spain they rested, there the kmg besought the Scottish earl
^To drive the Saracens from Spain, his galley sails to furl;
It was the brave knight's eagerness to queU the Paynim brood.
That made him then forget tiie oath he'd sworn upon the rood.
rv.
That was his sin; good angels frown'd upon him as he went
With vizor down and spear in rest, lips closed, and black brow bent:
Upon the turbans, fierce he spurr'd, the charger he bestrode
Was splash'd with blood,^the robes and flags he trampled on the road.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
128 The Legend of the Loctharts.
V.
The Moors came fast with cymbal clash and tossing javelin,
Ten thoasand horsemen, at the least, on Castille closing in;
Quick as the deer's foot snaps the ice, the Douglas thundered through,
And struck with sword and smote with axe among the heathen crew.
TI.
The horse-tail banners beaten down, the mounted archers fled —
There came full many an Arab curse from faces smear'd with red,
The vizor fell, a Scottish spear had struck him on the breast;
Many a Moslem's frighten'd horse was bleeding head and chest.
vn.
But suddenly the caitiffs tum'd and gathered like a net,
In closed the tossing sabres fast, and they were crimson wet,
Steel jarr'd on steel — ^the hammers smote on helmet and on sword,
But Douglas never ceased to charge upon that heathen horde.
vin.
Till all at once his eager eye discerned amid the fighi
St. Clair of Roslyn, Bruce's friend, a brave and trusty knight.
Beset with Moors who hew'd at him with sabres dripping blood—
Twas in a rice-field where he stood close to an orange wood.
EC*
Then to the rescue of St. Clair Black Douglas spurred amain,.
The Moslems circled him around, and shouting charged again ^
Then took he from his neck the heart, and as the case he threw,
^^Fass first in fight,'' he cried aloud, ''as thou wert wont to do."
They found him ere the sun had set upon that fatal day,
His body was above the case, that closely guarded lay.
His swarthy face was grim in death, his sable hair was stain'd
With the life-blood of a felon Moor, whom he had struck and brain*d*
XI.
Sir Simon Lockhart, knight of Lee, bore home the silver case.
To shrine it in a stately grave and in a holy place,
llie Douglas deep m Spanish ground they left in royal tomb.
To wait in hope and patient trust the trumpet of the doom.
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JRennmscenees of Dr. Spring.
129
[OBIOIKAIi.]
REMINISCENCES OP DE. SPRING*
Few persons who have lived much
in New York during the hist quarter
of a century are not familiar with the
dignified, resolute, yet kindly counte-
nance of the pastor of the Brick
Presbyterian church. Fewer still are
Ignorant of his reputation as a leading
and representative man in his denom-
ination; a keen polemic; a great
promoter of missionary, tract, and
Bible societies ; and, we may add, a
very determined enemy of the Pope
of Rome and all his aiders and abet-
tors. FcMrmore than fifty-five years
he has pxeached to the same congre-
gation which gave him a caU when he
was first licensed as a minister.
During his career thirteen Presidents
of the United States, from Washing-
ton to Lincoh), have died; three
Kings of Engknd have been laid in
their graves ; the horrors of the Reign
of Terror, the execution of Louis
XVI., the rise and fall of the first Napo-
leon, the shifting scenes of the Restor-
ation, the Orleans rule, the second
Kepnblic and the second Empire,
have hurried each other across the
stage of French history. He has
long passed the scriptural term of the
life of man ; and now, at the almost
patriarchal age of eighty-one, he gives
us a collection of reminiscences of
what he has seen and done during
this protracted and eventful career.
It would be natural to suppose that
sacb a book by such a man must be
full of interest* As one of the recog-
nized leaders of a rich and influential
religious denomination ) and one of the
oldest and most respectable citizens of
the first city of America, how many
• " Pereoiul Rcminiflcences of the Life and
Times of Gardiner Spring, Pastor of the Brick
Presbyterian Cbnrch in the Clt j of New York/*
9 vols. ISmo. Mew Tork : Chariea Scribner &
ConpaDy.
VOL. m. 9
historical characters must he have
met ! to how many important events
must he have been a witness! But
any one who takes up these volumes
in the hope of obtaining through them
a cleai*er view of persons and times
gone by, will be disappointed. They
are interesting, it is true, but not, we
will venture to say, in the way their
author meant them to be. They
cause us to wonder that the doctor
should have seen so much and re-
membered so little. Yet as a picture
of the life of a representative Presby-
terian preacher and a complete ex-
posure of the utter emptiness
of the Presbyterian religion, these
garrulous and random ^< Reminis-
cences" are the most entertaining
pages we have read for many a
month. We propose to cull for our
readers a few of the most interesting
Dr. Spring was bom in Newbury-
port, Massachusetts, Feb. 24, 1785.
His father was a minister, of whom
the son says that '^ he would not shave
his face on the Lord's day, nor allow
his wife to sew a button on her son's
vest ; and on one occasion, when his
nephew, the late Adolphus Spring,
Esq., arrived in haste on a Saturday
evening with the message that his
father was on his bed of death, he
would not mount his horse for the
journey of seventy miles until the Sab-
bath sun had gone down." Though
young Gardiner used to wonder, when
a boy, why he was not allowed to par-
ticipate in the customary sports of
children, he seems to have preserved a
wardi affection for both his parents, of
whom he speaks in a loving and rev-
erential tone which we cannot too
carefully respect The thought that
most affiscted him on their death was
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130
Seminiscences of Dr. S^ng.
*• that he had lost their prayers *' Gar^
diner was sent to Yale (5)llege at the
age of fifteen, and during " a remarka-
ble outpouring of the Spirit*' upon
that rather unregenerate institution, in
the year 1803, he became, for a sea-
son, " hopefully pious." He had been
uneasy for some time about the state
of his soul, and one afternoon he re-
solved to pray, several hours, if neces-
sary, until his sins were forgiven.
^ There,** he says, " in the south entry
of the old college, back side, middle
room, tliird story, I wrestled with
God as I had never wrestled before."
The result of this spiritual struggle
we do not profess to understand. He
says that he rose from his knees with-
out any hope that he had found mercy,
yet feeling considerably relieved. For
several weeks he went about, peaceful
and happy, when, unluckily, the
Fourth of July came, with its speeches
and fireworks, and his "religious
hopes and impressions all vanished as
a morning cloud, and as the early dew."
It was five or six years before they
came back again.
When he graduated his father came
to hear liim speak, and at the close of
the exercises gave him his blessing
and told him to shift for himself. So,
there he was, twenty years old, with
four dollars m his pocket and a pro-
fession yet to be acquired. He bor-
rowed two hundred and fifty dollars
from a generous friend, obtained a sit-
uation as precentor in a church, open-
ed a singing school, and applied him-
self zealously to the study of law. Be-
fore long he married a young lady as
poor as himself, and went with her in
1806 to Bermuda, where he taught
school for some time very successfully ;
but rumors of war between this country
and Great Britain drove him back to the
United States, and in his twenty-fourth
year he entered upon the practice of
the law at New Haven.
In the meanwhile those uneasy feel-
ings of the soul, which he seems un-
able to analyze (though we warrant
a good confessor would quickly have
solved his perplexities) had not left
him at peace. He writes to his fisi-
ther from Bermuda upon the state of
his interior man :
" I should wish to go to heaven, because
I should be pleased, with its employment.
Were all mv sins mortified and I rendered
peHiectly holy, I think I should bo happj.
Sometimes I can say, Ix>rd,
I believe ; help thou mine unbelief. ....
I am avaricious ; and in the present state
of my family, xnako money my god. I
strain honesty as far as I can to gain a
little."
This was certainly not a satisfactory
condition of things. The lust for mam-
mon seems strong enough, but the aspi-
rations for heaven might well have been
rather more ardent. He goes to church
and sings and weeps, and the minis-
ter and elders crowd around him to see
what is the matter. He goes to prayer-
meeting at last in New Haven, and
there the conversion — such as it is — is
effected: *<As the exercises closed
and the crowded worshippers rose to
sing the doxology, I felt that I could
Upraise God from whom all blessings
flow.' Praise I praise ! It was delight-
ful to praiso him ! On the 24th of
April following, I united with the visi-
ble church under Mr. Stuart's pastor-
ate, and began to be an active Chris-
tian."
We must say that this seems to be
a very simple and easy process of
getting out of the power of the devil.
Conversion, according to Dr. Spring's
idea, is simply an emotion of the mind,
a spasm of sentiment. It includes
neither satisfaction for the past, nor
the performance of any definite relig-
ious duty in the present or the future.
Any one who can excite himself into
the belief that he is regenerate, or
tickle his mind into the pleasant state
indicated by the man who, when asked,
" How it felt to get religion ? " replied
that ^it was just like having warm
water poured down your back " — ^any
such one, we say, may rest assured of
his eternal safety. Dr. 3pring is no
more exacting with other candidates
for conversion than he was with him-
self. To a sick man who inquires
" what he shall do ?" he answers ;« Be-
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Reminiscences of Dr. Spring.
181
lieTe on the Lord Jeans Christ, and
thou shalt be saved*"
^But will 70a not tell me how I
shall go to him ?"
" Yes, I can tell you ; yon must not
go in your own strength; for your
strength is weakness. You must not
go in your own righteousness, for you
have none. You must feel your need
of Christ, and see that he is just the
Saviour adapted to your wants. You
must adore, and love, and trust him.
• . . Commit to him your entire
salvation, and in all holy ' obedience
live devoted to his service/'* Now in
all this there is just one practical
suggestion, namely, to "live devoted
to God's service" — and that the man
could not follow because he was dy-
ing. Let our readers contrast Dr.
Spring's death-bed ministrations with
what a Catholic priest would have
said and done in similar circumstan-
ces. The priest would have given
definite instruction and divine sacra-
ments ; the preacher has nothing bet-
ter to offer than a few commonplace
generalities from Iiis last Sunday's
sermon.
But we must return to the reverend
doctor's biography. Close upon the
heels of his conversion came the reso-
lution to be a minister. The pecuni-
ary difficulties in the way of this
change of profession were soon obvi-
ated by the generosity of a rich widow
of Salem. There was another obsta-
cle, however, of a more serious na-
ture. This was Mrs. Spring. She
was " not a professed Christian." She
iwas "a worldly woman." She
sought the honors of the world. She
did not want to be a minister's wife.
TTie doctor had a great respect for
lier. He was afraid to tell her of his
resolution. We must let him de-
scribe in his own words how he got
oat of the difficulty :
"I th6n began a coarse of condnct
^wrbich I have ever sinoe pursned, and that
sras, in all cases where my own duty was
plain, and my resolution formed, quietly
to carry my reeolution into effect, and
let the storm afterward. I did 00 in
the present instanoe, thoogh there was no
other storm than a plentiful shower of
tears. I said nothing to my wife; noth-
ing to any one except Mr. Evarts. I sent
my wife on a visit to my only sister, the
wife of the Hon. Bezaleel Taft, at Us-
bridge, the native place of my father,
where I engaged in a few weeks to meet
her, and make a further visit to New-
buryport. She had no suspicion of my
views, and left me with the confident ex-
ation that she would return to New
laven.
"In the meantime, after she left me, I
was busily employed in arranging my af-
fairs for my r^oval to Andover. I an-
nounced my purpose to the -church at the
next prayer-meeting, and received a fresh
impulse from their prayers and benedic-
tions. Mr. Evarts took my office and my
bu^ness, and closed up my unsettled ac-
counts with his accustomed accuracy, and
my ledger now records them. Mr. Smith,
my old teacher, laughed at me; Judge
Daggett was silent. Judge Eossiter said
to me, *Mr. Spring, the pulpit is your
place; you were formed for the pulpit
rather than l^e bar.' My business in
New Haven was closed ; my debts paid ;
my household furniture, small as it was,
was' carefully stowed away; my law
library, worth about four hundred dollars,
was disposed of, and I was on my way to
Uxbridge, Newburyport, Salem,* and An-
dover.
" When I reached Uxbridge, and was
once more in the bosom of my little fami-
ly, I felt that the trial had come. I could
not at once disclose my plans to my ivife,
and was saved that painful interview by
the suspicions of Mr. Taffc, who told her
that ho believed I was going to be a
clergyman I She laughed at him; but
she saw a change in my deportment, and
began to suspect it herself. I told her all.
She went to her chamber and wept
for a long time. But she came down, sub-
dued indeed, but placid as a lamb, and
simply said, 'It is all over now ; I am
ready.' Oh, how kindly has God watched
over me I It seems as though the promise
was fulfilled, 'Betum unto thy country
and to thy kindred, and I will deal weU
with thee.' Some day or two before we
left Uxbridge, Mr. Taft said to me,
' Brother Spring, I have a case before Jus-
tice Adams this morning ; you are still a
lawyer, and I want you to go and argue it
with me.' The thought struck me pleas-
antly, and I resolved to go ; but instead of
assisting him, without his knowledge I
engaged myself to what I thought the
w^er party; and my last effort at the
bar was in battling with my sister's hus-
band, and in the place of my Other's na-
tivity."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
132
BeminiBcences of Dr. Spring.
After eight months devoted to the
study of theology at the ADdover
seminaiy, Mr. Spring was licensed to
preach and received a call from the
Brick church in New York. As a
preliminary to his ordination, it was
necessary for him to preach a trial
sermon before the presbytery, and to
submit to an examination as to his
orthodoxy. In this latter test he did
not give unqualified satisfaction, nev-
ertheless they passed him, and he was
duly ordained to the pastorship. As
a salve, we suppose, for their con-
sciences, the presbytery deputed the
Rev. Dr. Milledollar, one of their
number, to talk with the young minis-
ter, and try to reason him out of cer-
tain heterodox opinions which he en-
tertained upon the subject of human
ability. The result of the interview
was that, in Dr. Milledollar's judg-
ment, ** the best way of curing a man of
such views was to dip his head in cold
water."
It was but a dismal religion of
which he now became the minister.
Tears, gloom, discomfort, and broken-
ness of heart were the characteristics
of the spiritual life, and peace of
mind was an alarming symptom of the
dominion of the deviL " Newark is
again highly favored," writes the min-
ister to his parents: "there are not
less than five hundred persons ven/
solemn,*' "My people appear sol-
emn ; they were so at the lecture on
Thursday evening." " I preached on
Monday to a very solemn audience at
my own house." " The state of things
in the congregation, notwithstanding
the war, is looking up. Our public
meetings and our social gatherings
are more full and more solemn."
He visits Paris, and there passes
an evening with a small party of his
countrymen: "We could not refrain
from weeping during the whole time
we were together." The quantity of
tears shed in the course of the book
is positively appalling. Of course
there is nothing that remotely -resem-
bles the gift of tears with which Al-
mighty God sometimes rewards and
consoles his saints. It is merely a
perpetual gush of mawkish sentimen-
tality, and we defy anybody to read
these " Remmiscences " without having
before him an image of the whole
Brick chui-ch with chronic redness of
the eyes. A member of the congre-
gation went to the doctor once with a
request that he would baptize a child.
He was not .one of the weepers, or, as
Dr. Spring expresses it, " not a relig-
ious man." The opportunity was too
good to be lost. The doctor labored
with him, preached at him, probably
wept at him, tried to impress him
with the solemnity and privilege of
the transaction, did not baptize his
child, but finally prayed with him and
urged him to come again. The re-
sult of the exhortation is a good com-
mentary upon the whole system of
sentimental spasmodic religion : " He
went away," says Dr. Spring, "and
being requested by his wife to have
another interview with me, replied,
*No; you mil not catch me there
again.* " We suppose that the child
was not baptized; but that, according
to Dr. Spring, and in spite of the
Bible, makes very little difference.
It was his rule "to baptize only
those children, oue of whose parents
was a professed Christian" — that is
to say, a member of the church ; and
except in one instance he has never
varied from this strict practice.
" That," he says, " was in the case
of a sick and dying grandchild, whose
father was a man of prayer, but not a
communicant, and I myself professed
to stand in loco parentis, I now look
upon the whole transaction as wrong."
Dr. Spring has done a great deal of
theological fighting in his day ; but his
foes have been chiefly those of his own
hopsehold. Now and then he has car^
ried the war into foreign countries, as
at the time of the famous School Ques-
tion in New York, when ho had a tilt
with Bishop Hughes before the Com-
mon Council, and got decidedly the
worst of it; but for the most part he
has devoted himself to intestine feuds.
The controversy between Hopkinsians
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Semniseenees of Dr. Spring.
133
and Gatvioials in the Presbyterian
denominatioQ ; the disputes in the
American Bible Society ; the schism
in the Young Men's Missionary Socie-
ty of New York ; the effort to create
a division in the American Home
])iCssionary Society ; the controversies
aboat the New Haven school of the-
ology and the exscinding acts of the
Grcneral Assembly ; — these and many
other religious quarrels took up a great
deal of the doctor's time, and he still
writes about them with no little acri-
mony and personal feeling. We sub-
join a few extracts :
** The wrath of the Philadel phia Synod
la pnuaiiig the Lord. We shall have a
battle in the spring, and laj a heavy hand
upon that report. I shall not hesitate to
take my life in my hand if Providence al-
lows me to go to the Assemblv." — VoL %.,
p.70.
" The Rev. Ezra Stiles Ely had pnblish-
ed his celebrated work, entitled / The Con-
trast/ the object of which is to show the
points of difference between the views of
Hopkinsian and Calvinistic theology. It
was addressed to prejudice and ignorance,
and was aimed at the youthful pastor of
the Brick church."— F<rf. u,p. 129.
" I find my heart strangely nupicmu.
Sometunes I am resolved to withdraw
from the Missionary and Education cause,
because I foresee they will be scenes of
contention. But then, again, I know they
are exposed to evils, and the church isex-
poeed to evils, through the mismanage-
ment of these excellent institutions, which
perhaps I may prevent." — Vol »., p. 78.
We doubt whether Dr. Spring's der-
ical brethren like the following pas-
•sage; but anyhow, there is a great
deal of truth in it :
" There have been spurious revivals in
my day, and the means of promoting them
are the index of their character. In such
seasons of excitement, great dependence is
placed on the way and means of getting
them up, and little of the impression [^c]
that not a soul wiU be converted unless it
be acoompUshed by the power of God.
Whatever the words of the leaders may
profess, their conduct proclaims, 'Mine
own arm hath done this 1' There is a fiei-
miliarity, a boldness, an irreverence in their
Srayers, which ill becomes worms of the
ast in approaching him before whom an-
gels veil their fa^s. A pious and poor
woman, in coming out from a rolirious
service thus conducted, once said, ' 1 can-
not think what it is that makes our minis-
ters twear so in their prayers.' They
count their converts, and when they sur-
vey their work, there is a triumph, a self-
roliant exultation over It, which looks like
the triumph of the pagan monarch, when
he exclaimed, ' Is not this great Babylon
which I have built I' And hence it is that
so many of the subjects of such a work,
after the excitement is over, find that their
own hearts have deceived them, that they
aro no longer affected by solemn preach-
ing and solemn prayers^ that their past
emotioru were nothing mare than the opera-
tions of nature, and that teJien these nat-
ural causes have exhausted their power
there is no religion l^:*—- Vol. %., p, 219.
Dn Spring gives a curious illustra-
tion of the length to which excitement
sometimes carries the poor victims of
the revivaliste, in the case of a Mrs.
Piersbn, " around whose lifeless body
her husband assembled a company of
helieverSjYfiih the assurance that if
they prayed in faith, she would bo re-
stored to life. Their feelings were
greatly excited, their impressions of-
their success peculiar and strong.
They prayed and prayed again, and
prayed in faithj but they were disap-
pointed,*' voL i., p. 229.
He is rather free sometimes in his
criticisms upon his brother ministers.
He listens to a sermon from the Rev.
Mr. Finney, a noted revivalist, and
says that there was nothing exception-
able in if except a vulgarity that in-
dicated a want of culture, and a coarse-
ness unbecoming the Christian pulpit."
He hears a Mr. Broadway preach at
sea, and thus records his impressions :
^ I must say he is a John Ball of a
preacher. What a pity that men who
need to be taught what are the first
principles of the oracles of God, should
undertake to teach others!" We
dare say Dr. Spring's judgment of
both these gentlemen was sound ; but
we see no propriety in printing it
He made several voyages to Eu-
rope, and travelled through France,
Germany, and Great Britain. Respect-
ing the state of Protestantism in
France, he makes some significant ad-
missions:
" Protestantism hi France is not what I
have been in the habit of considering it.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
184
Sendniteences of Dr. Spring.
I knew it was in a meftsora oorrapt, but
not to the extent in which I actually find
it. I do not think that the Romaniats, as
a body, hare much confidence in the Ro-
man religion. But the mischief is that
when thinking men throw off the bonds
of Romanism, they relapse into infidelity.
■ True religion in France fiiiie
its most hitter and untnearied enemiee in
Protestants themselves. The Protestants
of this country are high Arians, if not ab-
solute Soclnians. There are now [1835]
three hundred and fifty-eight Protestant
pastors in France, beside their few vacant
churches. But there are comparativdy
few amongthem aU who love and obey the
truthr—Vol, ii.,pp, 260, 361.
The pages devoted to his European
tours are remarkable exemplifications
of the truth of the old adage, that
ecelum, non animum^ mutant qui trans
mare currunt. Wherever he goes, hia
breadth of vision seems bounded by
his own pulpit. The venerable cathe-
drals of Europe, rich with the noblest
memories, and the great historic
places haunted by the grandest asso-
ciations of the past, fill him with no
thoughts more elevated than those
I awakened by the Brick church. He
' sees everything distorted through the
medium of his own inveterate preju-
dices. If he visits a religious shrine,
he can think of nothing but the abom-
inations of the scarlet woman of Bab-
ylon. If he sees a convent, he tells
us a cock-and-bull story about subter-
ranean passages paved with the bones
of infants. If he witnesses some
grand and imposing ceremonial, he
throws up his eyes, rushes out of the
church, and, while he shakes the dust
off his feet, groans over the wicked-
ness of the Romish priests and their
blasphemous mummeries, farcical
shows, and hypocritical disguises.
One Sunday, whUe at Paris, he went
with the well-known missionary. Dr.
Jonas King, and some other American
friends, to visit a hill called Mont
Calvaire, near tne city, to which num-
bers of pilgrims were then resorting.
They filled their pockets with tracts,
which they distributed, right and left»
among the thousands that were going
up and down the mountain. They
even interrapted kneeling worshippers
at their prayera to give them tracts.
These valuable gifls were received
with avidity, for, as the narrator else-
where explains, our respectable par-
sons were mistaken for Catholic mis-
sionaries. A few days afl;erward
they made another excursion of the
same sort to Mont Calvaire. We
give the conclusion of the adventure
in the words of Dr. King, from whose
journal Dr. Spring copies it :
"Mr. and Mrs. Wilder, and Miss Ber-
tau, and Mr. Storrow's children, had gone
to Mount Calvary to distribute tracts and
Testaments. Dr. Spring and myself, hav-
ing filled our pockets, and hate, and hands,
with tracts and Testaments, set off with
the hope to find them. Just as we began
to ascend the mountain, we met them
coming at a distance. On meeting them,they
informed us that they had been stoppea
by the Commissary of the Police, and that
a gendarme, by order of the mls^onaries
(Bom. C. M.), had taken away their tracts
and Testaments, and prohibited them in
the name of the law to distribute any
more on Mount Calvary. Mr. W. advised .
us not to proceed with the intention of
distributing those which we had. We
however, went, giving to every one we
met, till we came in si^t of the gendarmes,
when we ceased giving, but occasionally
let some fall from our pockets, which the
wind, which was very high, scattered in
all directions, and were gathered up by
the crowd. At length we arrived at the
top of the mountain, :took our stand on
the highest elevation near the cross, and
there, in our own language, offered up,
each of us, a prayer to the God of heaven
for direction, and to have mercy on those
tens of thousands that we saw around us,
bowing before graven images. / then feU
in some degree strengthened to go on, and,
taking a tract from my pocket, presented it
to a lady who stood near me, and who ap-
peared to be a lady of some distinction.
She received it with thanks, and I was not
noticed by the gendarmes. Dr. S. let
some fall from his pocket, and we made
our way down to one of the stations.
There he laid some on the charity-box,
while I stood before him, to hide what he
did. We then went to another station,
and I gave ten or twelve to a lady, whom
I charged to distribute them."
The heroism of these Presbyterian
missionaries, who go up and down
hill, dropping divine truth from their
coat-tails, reminds us of a crazy old lady
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Seminiseeneei of Dr. Spring.
185
in New York, whose will was lately
contested before our courts. She had
peculiar ideas of her own on the sub-
ject of pplitics and the war, and used
to inscribe her thoughts on great pa-
per kites, and give them to little bojs
to fly in the Central Park, in the belief
that the words would somehow or an-
other be disseminated through the
dtj. Imagine St. Francis Xavier
setting sail for the Indies with his
bat, and pockets, and hands full of
tracts, scattering them broad-cast
along the inhospitable shores, or trust-
ing them to the breezes, like those
charitable Buddhists Father Hue tells
of, who go up a high mountain on
windy days, and throw into the air
little paper horses, which being blown
away are, as they believe, miraculous-
ly changed into real horses for the
benefit of belated travellers. Sup-
pose Father Matthew, instead of
preaching a cmsade against drunken-
ness, had contented himself with
sneaking into shibeens and tavems,
and, behind the friendly shelter of a
companion's back, had deposited lit-
tle bundles of temperance tracts on
the top of every barrel of whiskey, as
if he expected them to explode like a
torpedo, and .fill the air with virtue.
Or what would Dr. Spring think if
some Sunday, in the midst of his
prayer, two or three Catholic priests
should march into the Brick church
and distribute Challoner's Catechisms
up and down the aisles, making the
" solemn" Presbyterians get up from
their knees to receive them? It
would not be a bit more outrageous
than the doctor's behavior during
the mission on Mont Calvaire.
American travellers in Europe,
especially of the fanatical sort, are
but too apt to disgnflb themselves and
their conntiy by their conduct in
sacred places. Here is another ex-
tract from Dr. Spring's book which
no respectable American can read
without blushing. The incident oc-
curred in the famous cathedral of
Bouen, built by William the Con-
qaeior, and reckoned the finest
specunen of Gothic architecture in
France :
"A little clrcamstance occared here
that was somewhat amosing. [I] Mr.
Van Rensallear, in order to procure some
little relic of the place, instead of gather-
log some flowers, broke off the noM
of one of the marble saints 1 Ho hoped to
escape the detection of the guide, bat
unfortunately, on leaving the cathedral,
we had to pass the mutilated statue, and
were charged with the sacrilege. It was
a lady saint whose sanctity our gallantry
had thus violated, and we had to meet
the most terrific volleys of abuse. A few
glittering coins, however, obtained abso-
lution for lis, but neither entreaty nor
cash could obtain the na§e"
That must have been a funny
scene one Sunday in crossing the
ocean, when the doctor and his wife,
and the rest of the passengers, held
service under difficulties :
" We assembled for praise and prayer.
Susan was quite sea-sick, yet she came on
deck. The day was cold, and she sat with
a hot potato in each hand to keep h>er
ioarm.
This is certainly the oddest prepar-
ation for approaching the throne of
grace that we ever heard of.
Mrs. Spring is a promment figure
all through the book, giving her rever-
end husband advice and comfort, and
helping him in the work of the minis-
try, especially with regard to the
women of the flock. He laments in
his introductory chapter that the death
of his '< beloved Mrs. Spring must
leave a vacuum in these pages which
nothing can fill." In the second
volume he gives a long and detailed
account of her sufierings in child-bed
when she ^ became the mother of a
lovely daughter." When she died
in 1860, he wrote in his diary as fol-
lows:
" I have been her husband and she my
wife for four-and-fifty years ; our attach-
ment has been mutual, and strong and
sweet to the end. I had no friend on
earth in whom I had such reliance ; no
counsellor so wise ; no comforter so pre-
cious. For the last thirty years we have
rarely differed in opinion ; when we did,
I generally found she was right and I was
was wrong ; and when I persevered in my
Digitized by CjOOQIC
186
Beminiscences of Dr. Spring.
Jadgment she knew how to yield her
wi£e8 to mine, and would sometimes say
with & smile, 'God has set the man
above the woman. Yon are kvM, my
husband; but I am the queeni ' In all
my ministry, in sickness and in health, at
home and abroad, by night and by day,
I never knew her own convenience, com-
fort, or pleasure take the place of my
duty to the people of my charg^e. . . . .
I bless God that I had such a wife— that I
had her at all, and that I had her so long.
. . . Mydarlingwife, I give you joy:
but what shall I do without youf*
This last question is soon answered
in an unexpected manner. Only
eight pages further on, Dr, Spring,
aged eighty, records the following
passage:
"AprU 13<A, 1865.— My sweet wife was
too valuable a woman ever to be for-
fotten. The preceding sketch furnishes
ut the outline of her excellences, which
I have presented more at large at the
close of the sermon commemorative of
one who was my firsi love. I never
thought I could love another. But I was
advanced beyond my threescore years and
ten, partially blind, and needed a helper
fittea to my a^e and condition; no one
needs such a hdper more than a man in
my advanced years. I sought, and God
gave me another wife. A few days only
more than a year after the death of Mrs.
Spring, on the 14th of August, 1861, 1 was
married to Abba Giosvenor Williams, the
only Buzviving child of the late Elisha
Williams, Esq., a distingashed member
of the bar. She is the heiress of a large
Property, and retains it in her own hanas.
he is intent on her duty as a wife,
watchful of my wants, takes good care of
me, is an excellent housekeeper, and in-
stead of adding to the expenses of my
household, shares them with her hus-
band."— Vol. ii., pp. 91, »2.
With this extjpact, Dr. Spring maj
be lefl to the charity of our readers.
We have said nothing of the vanity
which allows him freely to quote the
commendations of his friends on his
efforts in the pulpit and his publica-
tions throng the press ; because, in-
consistent as it may be with a very
elevated piety, it is a weakness ihix
might be pardoned in such an old man.
But we cannot help remarking how
on every page he gives evide;nce of the
utter baselessness of the thing he calls
religion ; the unsubstantial, unsatisfy-
ing character of those human emotions
which he perpetually mistakes for the
operations of the Holy Ghost; and
the strangely unreal, unsanctified na-
ture of the fit of mental perturbation
which he denotes conversion and la-
bors so hard to produce. The conclu-
sion to which every unprejudiced pcp-
B(»i must come, on closing Uie volumes,
is that Dr. Spring has lived in vain.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ARiceOany*
137
MISCELLANY.
Ardbiam, Laughing Plant, — ^In Pal-
grare's *^ Central and Eastern Arabia"
Bome particulars are given in regard to
a carious narcotic plant. Its seeds, in
which the active pnnciple seems chiefly
to reside, when pounded and adminis-
tered in a small dose, produce eflects
much like those ascribed' to Sir Hum-
phrey Davy^s laughing gas ; the patient
dances, sings, and performs a thousand
extravagances, till after an hour of
great excitement to himself and amuse-
ment to the bystanders, he falls asleep,
and on awaking has lost all memory of
what he did or said while under the
influence of the drug. To put a pinch
of this powder into the conee of some
tmexpecting individual is not an un-
common joke, nor is it said that it was
ever followed by serious consequences,
though an over quantity might perhaps
be dangerous. The author tried it on
two individuals, but in proportions if
not absolutely homa3opathic, still suffi-
ciently minute to keep on the safe side,
and witnessed its operation, laughable
enough but very harmless. The plant
that hears these berries hardly attains
in Kaseem the height of six inches
above the ground, but in Oman were
seen bushes of it three or four feet in
growth, and widcHspreading. The stems
are woody, and of a yellow tinge when
barked ; the leaf of a dark green color,
and pinnated with about twenty leaflets
on either side; the stalks smooth and
shining; the flowers are yellow, and
grow in tufts, the anthers numerous,
the fruit is a capsule, stufiied with green-
ish padding, m which lie imbedded
two or three black seeds, in size and
shape much like French beans; their
taste sweetish, but with a peculiar
opiate flavor; the smell heavy and
aunost sickly.
The Congdatwn of ArdmaU.-^lt is
generally supposed that certain animals
cannot be frozen without the produc-
tion of fatal results, and that others can
tolerate any degree of congelation.
Both these views have been shown to
be incorrect in a paper read before the
French Academy, by M. Pouchet The
vmter airives at the following conclu-
sions: (1.) The first efibct produced
by the application of cold is contrac-
tion of the capillary blood-vessels.
This may be observed with the micro-
scope. The vessels become so reduced
in calibre that the blood-globules are
unable to enter them. (2.) The second
effect is the alteration in form and
structure of the blood-globules them-
selves. These alterations are of three
kinds : (a) the nucleus bursts from the
surrounding envelope; (h) the nucleus
undergoes alteration of form; (c) the
borders of the globule become crenated,
and assume a deeper color than usaal.
rs.) When an animal is completely
frozen, and when, consequently, its
blood-globules have become disorgan-
ized, it is dead — nothing can then re-
animate it. (4.) When the congelation
is partial, those organs which have
been completely frozen become gangren-
ous and are destroyed. (5.) If the par-
tial congelation takes place to a very
slight extent, there are not many altered
globules sent into the general circula-
tion;^' and hence life is not compro-
mised. (6.) If, on the contrary, it is ex-
tensive, the quantity of altered slob-
ules is so great that the animal perishes.
(7.) On tms account an animal which is
partially frozen may live a long time if
the congelation is maintained, the al-
tered globules not entering into the
general circulation; but, on the con-
trary, it dies if heat be suddenly ap-
plied, owine to the blood becominff
charged with altered globules. (8.)
In all cases of fatal congelation the an-
imal dies from decomposition'br idter-
ation of the blood-fffobules, and not
fh)m stupefaction oi the nervous sya-
Ordfumeo and Targets. — ^The Admiral-
ty having erected a new target, repre-
senting a portion of the side of tjie
HercuM^ experiments were made at
Shoebuiyness which proved that a
thickness of armor casing had been at-
tained which afforded perfect secvirity
against even the largest guns recently
constructed* The target £» a facing of
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
138
MUcdhmy.
9-inch armor-plates, and contains alto-
gether eleven inches thickness of iron.
Against this three 12-ton shunt guns
were fired, at a distance of only 200.
yards, with charges varying from 45 lbs.
to 60 lbs. of powder. One steel shot, of
300 lbs. weight, lOi inches in diameter,
fired with 60 lbs. of powder, at a velocity
of 1,450 feet per second, barely broke
through the armor, without injuring
the backing. Sir William Armstrong
has expressed his conviction, in the
TimeSy that the 600-pounder gun will be
unable to penetrate this target, and
that it will, in fact, require a gun car-
rying 120 lbs. of powder and steel shot
to pierce this massive shield. Mr. W.
C. Unwin has pointed out, in a letter to
the Engineer^ that for similar guns
with shot of similar form, and charges
in a constant ratio to the weight of the
shot, the velocity is nearly constant
Then, assuming the resistance of the
plates to be as the squares of their
thicknesses, it follows that when the di-
ameter of the shot increases, as well as
the thickness of the armor, the max-
imum thickness perforated will (by
theory) vary as the cube root of the
weight of the shot, or, in other words,
as the calibre of the gun; and the
weight of the shot necessary to pene-
trate different thicknesses of armor
will be as the cubes of those thickness-
es. The ratio deduced from the Shoe-
buryness experiments is somewhat less
than this, being as the 2-5 power and
the 5-2 power respectively. Practical
formula deduced from experiments
are given, which agree with Sir Wil-
liam Armstrong's conclusion, and prove
that a gun which can effectively bum
a charge of at least 100 lbs. of powder
will be required to effectually penetrate
the side of the Hercules,
The Mbd'M Egg, — Since our last issue a
splendid specimen of the egg of the Di-
nomis has been exhibited in this coun-
try, put up to auction, and " bought m"
by the proprietors for £125. Somer in-
teresting details concerning the history
of gigantic birds' eggs have been sup-
plied by a contemporary, and we quote
them for our readers: In 1854, M.
Geoffroy de St. HUaire exhibited to the
French Academy some eggs of the
Epyomis, a bird which formerly lived
in Madagascar. The larger of these
was 12*1 inches long, and ll'S inches
wide; the smaller one was slightly
less than this. The Museum d'Histoire
Naturelle at Paris also contains two
^SE^i ^0^^ of which are larger than the
one recently put up for sale, the longer
axis of which measures 10 inches, and
the shorter 7 inches. In the discussion
which followed the reading of M. de St.
Hilaire's paper, M. Valenciennes stated
it was quite impossible to judge of the
size of a bird by the size of its egg, and
gave several instances in point. Mr.
Strickland, in some " Notices of the
Dodo and its Kindred," published in
the " Annals of Natural History " for
November, 1849, says that in the previ-
ous year a Mr. Dumarele, a highly re-
spectable French merchant at Bourbon,
saw at Port Levcn, Madagascar, an
enormous egg^ which held " tXirteen toine
quart bottles of fluid:' The natives
stated that the egg was found in the
jungle, and " observed that such eggs
were o^y, very rarely met with." Mr.
Strickland appears to doubt this, but
there seems no reason to do so. Allow-
ing a pint and a half to each of the so-
called " quarts," the ^gg would hold 19f
pints. Now, the larger egg exhibited
by St. Hilaire held ITfpints, as he him-
self proved. The difference is not so
very great. A word or two about the
nests of such gigantic birds. Captain
Cook found, on an island near the
north-east coast of New Holland, a nest
^^ of a most enormous size. It was built
with sticks upon the ground, and was
no less than six-and-twenty feet in cir-
cumference, and two feet eight inches
high." (Kerr's " Collection of Voyages
and Travels," xiii. 318.) Captain Flin-
ders found two similar nests on the
south coasts of New Holland, in King
George's Bay. In his " Voyage, etc.,"
London, 1818, he says: "They were
built upon the ground, from which they
rose above two feet, and were of vast
circumference and great interior capa-
city; the branches of trees and other
matter of which each nest was compos-
ed being enough to fill a cart" — Th»
Beader,
The Birds of Siberia, — ^In an import-
ant treatise, published under the pa-
tronage of the Imperial Geographical
Sociefy of St. Petersburg, and which is
the second of a series intended to be is-
sued on Siberian zoology, the author,
Herr Radde, not only records the spe-
cies, but gives an account of the penod
of the migration of Siberian birds. He
Digitized by CjOOQIC
MseeUany.
139
ffires 8 list of 868 species, which he re-
fers to the following orders : Rapaces,
86; Scansores, 19; Oscines, 140; Gal-
linacesB, 18 ; Grallatores, 74 ; and Nata-
tores, 81. Concerning the migration of
birds, Herr Radde confirms the result
arriyed at by Von Middendorf in his
learned memoir, " Die Isepiptesen Russ-
lands;'* the most im})ortant of them
being, (1) that the high table-land of
Asia and the borderin^^ ranges of the
Altai, S^jan, and Daoria retard the ar-
riyal of the migratory birds ; (2) east-
ward of the upper Lena, toward the
east coast of Siberia, a considerable re-
tardation of migrants is again notice-
able ; and (8) the times of arrival at
the northern edge of the Mongolian
high steppes arc altogether earlier than
those of the same species on the Amoor.
Fiantt within Hants. — In one of the re-
cent numbers of the " Comptes Rendus,"
N. Tr^cul gives an account of some cu-
rious observations, showing that plants
sometimes are formed within the cells
of existing ones. He considers that
the organic matter of certain vegetable
cells can, when undergoing putrefac-
tion, transform itself into new species,
which differ entirely from the species
in which they are produced. In the
bark of the elder, and in plants of the
potato and stone-crop order, he found
vesicles full of small tetrahedral bodies
containing starchy matter, and he has
seen them gradually transformed into
minute plants by the elongation of one
of their angles.
The Extract of Meat. — ^Baron Liebig,
who has favored us with some admira-
ble samples of this excellent prepara-
tion, has also forwarded to us a letter
in which he Very clearly explains what
is the exact nutritive value of the ez-
traetum earnis: "The meat," says the
baron, " as it comes from the butcher,
contains two different series of com-
pounds. The first consists of the so-
called albuminous principles (albumen,
fibrin) and of glue-forming membrane.
Ot these, fibrin and albumen have a
high nutritive power, although not if
taken by themselves. The second
series consists of <crystallizable sub-
, stances, viz., creatin, creatinin, sarcin,
which are exclusively to be found in
meat; further, of non-crystallizable or-
ganic principles and salts (phosphate
and chloride of potassium), which are
not to be found elsewhere. All of these
together are called the extractives of
meat To the second series of sub-
stances beef^tea owes its flavor and effi-
cacy, the same bein^ the case with the
extractum eamiSy which is, in fact, noth-
ing but solid beef-tea— that is, beef-tea
from which the water has been evapo-
rated. Beside the substances already
mentioned, meat contains, as a non-es-
sential constituent, a varying amount
of fat. Now neither fibrin nor albu-
men is to be found in the extractum
earnis which bears my name, and gela-
tine (glue) and fat are purposely exs-
cinded from it. In the preparation of
the extract the albuminous principles
are left in the residue. This residue,
by the separation of all soluble princi-
ples, which are taken up in the extract,
loses its nutritive power, and cannot be
made an article of trade in any palatable
form. Were it possible to furnish the
market at a reasonable price with a
preparation of meat containing both
the albuminous and extractive princi-
ples, such a preparation would have to
be preferred to the extractum eamiSy for
it would contain all the nutritive con-
stituents of the meat. But there is, I
think, no prospect' of this being real-
ized." These remarks show very clear-
ly the actual value of the extract. It
is, in fact, concentrated beef-tea; but
it is neither the equivalent of flesh on
the one hand, nor an imperfectly nutri-
tive substance on the other. It is, nev-
ertheless, a most valuable preparation,
and now commands an extensive sale
in these countries and abroad ; and it
is, furthermore, the only valuable form
in which the carcases of South Ameri-
can cattle (heretofore thrown away as
valueless) can be utilized.— i^^^puZar
Science Bmnew,
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140
Nsw PuiiUeaiioiu.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
LiFB OF THB MOBT RbYBBEKB JoHN
Hughes, D.D., Fibst Abchbishop of
New Tobk. With Extracts from his
Priyate Correspondence. By John R.
a. Hassard. I^. 519. New York : D.
Appleton & Co. 1866.
Kr. Hassard is one of our most prom-
ising writers. He contributed several
excellent articles to '^ Appletoh's Cyclo-
paedia," edited "The Catholic Wobld"
with judgment and ffood taste for seve-
ral months at its hrst establishment,
and since that time has occupied the po-
sition of editor of the Chicago " Repub-
lican." This is his first literary essay of
serious magnitude, and a more delicate
or difficult task could not well have
been confided to his hands. He has
fulfilled it with care, thoroughness, and
impartiality. The style in which it is
written is remarkably correct and schol-
arly, and exhibits a thorough acquaint-
ance with the English language as well
as a pure and discriminating taste in the
choice of words. It is a kind of style
which attracts no attention to itself or
to the author, but is simply a medium
through which the subject-matter of the
work IS presented to the reader's mind ;
and this, in our yiew^ is no small merit.
The subject-matter itself is prepared
and arranged in a methodical, accurate,
and complete manner, which leaves
nothing in that regard to be desired.
The work belongs to that class of histori-
cal compositions which chronicle par-
ticular events and incidents, relate facts
and occurrences as they happened, and
leave them^ for the most part, to make
their own impression. The author has
endeavored to take photographs of his
illustrious subject, and of the scenes of
his private and public life, but not to
paint a pictirre or his character and his
times. Those who are already &miliar
with the scenes, the persons, and the
circumstances brought into view in con-
nection with the personal history of the
archbishop^ and who were personally
acquainted with himself, could ask for
no more than is furnished in this biog-
raphy. We have thought, however, in
readmg it, that other readers would
miss that filling up and those illumi-
nating touches from the author's pen
which would make the history as vivid
and real to their minds as it is made to
our own by memory. A graphic and
complete view of the history of the
Catholic Church, so far as Archbishop
Hughes was a principal actor in it, and
of the results of his labors in the priest-
hood and episcopate, is necessary to a
just estimate of his ecclesiastical career,
18 still a de$ider(Uum, In saying this,
we do not intend to find fault with
Mr. Hassard for not supplying it. He
has accomplished the task which he
undertook in a competent manner, and
produced a work of sterling merit and
lasting value. We could wish that the
biographies of several other distin-
guished prelates, of the same period,
might be written with the same minute-
ness and fidelity, and, above all others,
those of Bishop England and Archbish-
op Kenrick. Veiy few men could en-
dure the ordeal or passing through the
hands of a biographer so coldly impar-
tial as Mr. Hassard. But those who are
able to pass through it, and who still
appear to be great men, and to have
lived a life of great public service, may
be certain that their genuine, intrinsic
worth will be recognized after their
death, and not be thought to be the
coinage of an interested advocate^ or
the furbished counterfeit whose ghtter
disappears in the crucible. Moreover,
the reader of history will be satisfied
that he gets at the reality of things, and
the writer of history that he has authen-
tic data and materials on which to base
his judgments of men and events. Ko
doubt this species of history would dis-
close many defects and weaknesses,
many human infirmities and errors, in
the individuals who figure in it, and lay
bare much that is unsightly and repul-
sive in the state of thin^ as described.
This is true of all ecclesiastical history.
Truth dissipates many romantic and
poetic illusions of the imagination,
which loves to picture to itself an ideal
state of perfection and ideal heroes far
different from the real world and real
men. Nevertheless, it manifests more
clearly the heroip and divine element
really existing and workin£[ in the
world and in men, and manifesting it-
sdf espdbially in the Catholic Church.
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New PuHUeaUoHi.
141
We believe, therefore, that the divinity
of the Catholic reliorion would only be
more clearly exhibited, the more thor-
oughly its history in the United States
-was brought to light. We believe, also,
that the character and works of its val-
iant and loyal champions will be the
more ixilly vindicated the more dispas-
sionatCily and impartially they are tried
and judged.
A calm consideration of the condition
of Catholicity, thirty-five or forty years
ago in this country, in contrast with its
present state, will enable us to judge of
the work accomplished by the men who
have been the principal agents in bring-
ing about tho change. Let us reflect
for a moment what a difference it would
have made in the history of the Catho-
lic religion here, if some eight or ten of
the principal Catholic champions had
not lived ; and we may then estimate the
power and influence they have exerted.
Leaving aside the numerical and mate-
rial extension of the Catholic Church
under the administration of its prelates
and the clergy of the second order, we
look at the change in ]^ublic sentiment
alone, and the vindication of the Cath-
olic cause by argument at the bar of
common reason, where it has gained a
signal argumentative triumph over
Protestantism and prejudice, through
the ability and courage of its advocates
and the soundness of their cause. The
prilkcipal men among the first champi-
ons of the Catholic faith who began
this warfare were, in the Atlantic states,
Dr. Cheverus, Dr. England, Dr. Hughes,
and Dr. Power. We speak from an in-
timate and perfect knowledge of the
common Protestant sentiment on this
matter, and with a distinct remembrance
of the dread which these last three
names, and the veneration which the
first of them, inspired. Every one who
knows what the almost universal senti-
ment of the Protestant community re-
Bjpecting the Catholic religion and its
mcrarchy was, is well aware that it
was a sentiment of intense abhorrence
mingled with fear. It was looked
upon as a system of preternatural
' wickedness and might, and yet, by
a strange inconsist^cy, as a system
of utter folly and absurdity, which
no reasonable and conscientious man
could intelligently and honestly em-
brace. The priesthood were regard-
ed as a species of human demons, and
those amon^ them who possessed extra-
ordinary ability, were beUeved to have
a diabolical power to make the worse
appear the better reason and tho devil
an angel of light. Those whose sanc-
tity was so evident that it broke down
all prejudice, as Bishop Cheverus, were
supposed not to be initiated into the
mysteries of the Catholic religion, but
to be at heart really Protestants, blinded
to the errors of ^heir system by educa-
tion, and duped by their more cunning
associates, like *^ Father Clement^' in tho
well-known tale of that name. The
Catholic clergy were shunned and ostra-
cised, looked on as outlaws and public
enemies, worthy of no courtesy and no
mercy. Their religion was regarded as
unworthy of a hearing, a thing to be
scouted and denounced, trampled upon
like a noxious serpent and crushed, if
possible. Contempt would be tho proper
word to express the common estimation
of it, if there had not been too much
fear and hatred to make contempt pos-
sible. Its antagonists wished and tried
to despise it and its advocates, but
could not. Every sort of calumny and
vituperation was showered upon them
by the preachers, the lecturers, and the
writers for the press who made Catho-
licity their theme. Some, perhaps many,
honorable exceptions, which were al-
ways multiplying with time, must be
understood, particularly in Boston, Bal-
timore, and Charieston. John Ilughes,
the poor Irish lad, who had knelt be-
hind the hay-rick on his father's farm
to pray to God and the Blessed Virgin
to make him a priest, who had come to
this country wiui no implement to clear
his way to greatness but the pick and
shovel which he manfully grasped, was
one of those who were chosen to lead
the van in the assault againist this ram-
Eart of prejudice. That he vanquished
is proud and scornful antagonists is
an undoubted fact. Beginning his
studies, as a favor reluctantly conceded
to him on account of his importunity,
at a later period than usual, with a
grammar in one hand and a 8{)ade in
the other, he was first a priest, faiUiful
to his duty among many faithless, cour-
ageous and enterprising among many
who were timid, strong among many
weak, staunch and unfiinching in a time
of schism, scandal, and disaster, and
bold enough not only to lay new foun-
dations for the church of Philadelphia,
which others have since built upon,
while the old ones were half crumbled,
and to repress mutiny and disorder in
the ranks of his own people, but to at-
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14S
New PuUieatumi.
tack, fdngle-handed, the enemies who
were exulting over the discord and fee-
bleness which they thought foreboded
the disruption of the Catholic body.
This, too, almost without encourage-
ment, and with no hearty support from
those wlio were older and more thor-
ougMy trained and equipped in the
service than himself. Ho became the
coadjutor and successor of the very man
who had refused his first application to
be allowed to purchase the privilege of
studying under him, by his daily
labor. He died the metropolitan of a
Jrovince embracing all New York, New
ersey, and New England, and including
eight suffragan bishoprics with more
thatf a million of. Catholics ; confessed-
ly the most conspicuous man among his
^How-bishops in the view of Catholics
and Protestants alike, one of the most
trusted and honored of his compeers at
the See of Rome, well known through-
out Catholic Christendom, a confidential
adviser and a powerful supporter of the
United States government, a recognized
illustrious citizen of the American re-
public as well as one of the ornaments
of his native country, with all the signs
and tributes of universal honor and re-
spect at his funeral obsequies which
are accorded to distinguished personal
character or official station. Let the
most severe and impartial critic apply
his mind to separate, in this distm-
guished and useful career, the personal
and individual force impelling the man
through it, from the concurrence of Di-
vine Providence, the aid of favorable
circumstances and high position, the
supernatural power of the character with
which he was marked, and of the sys-
tem which he administered, and the
strength and volume of the current of
events on which he was borne, and, if
we mistake not, he will find something
strong enough to stand all his tests.
An ordinary man might have worked
his way into the priesthood, fulfilled its
duties with zeal and success, attained
the episcopal and metropolitan dignity,
won respect by his administration, and
left a flourishing diocese to his successor.
But an ordinary man could never have
gained the power and influence pos-
sessed by Archbishop Hughes. Our
early and original impressions of his re-
markable power of intellect and will
have been strengthened and fixed by
reading his biography, and the great-
ness of the influence which he exerted
in behalf of the Catholic religion is, to
our mind, established beyond a doubt.
His chivalrous and valiant combat with
John Breckinridge, at Philadelphia, waa
a victory not only decisive but full of
results. We know, from a distinct re-
membrance of the opinions expressed at
the time, that Mr. Breckinridge was
generally thought, by Protestants, to
have been discomfited. We have iieard ^
him speak himself of the aflairwith the
tone of one who had exposed himself
to a dangerous encounter with an enemy
superior to himself, for the public good,
and barely escaped with his life. We
remember taking up the book contain-
ing the controversy, from a sentiment
of curiosity to know what plausible ar-
gument could possibly be offered for the
Catholic religion, and undergoing, in tho
perusal, a revolution of opinion, which
rendered a return to the old state of mind
inherited from a Puritan education im-
possible. This we believe is but an in-
stance exemplifying the general effect
of the controversy upon candid and
thinking minds, not hopelessly enslaved
to prejudice. We remember hearing
him preach in the full vigor of his in-
tellectual and physical manhood, in the
cathedral of New York, soon after his
consecration, and the impression of his
whole attitude, countenance, manner of
delivery, and cast of thought is still
vivid and un^pie. Those who have
seen the archbishop only during the
last fifteen years, have seen a breaking-
down, enfeebled, almost worn-out man,
incapable of steady, vigorous exertion,
and oppressed by a weight of care and
responsibility which was too great for
him. To judge of his ability fairly it
is necessary to have seen and heard him
in his prime, before ill-health had
sapped his vigor. And to appreciate
the best and most genial qualities and
dispositions of the man, it is necessary
to have met him in familiar, unre-
strained intercourse, apart from any of-
ficial relation and away from his dio-
cese—or, at least, in those times when
all official anxieties and cares of gov-
ernment were put aside and his mind
relaxed in purely friendly conversation.
That he was a great man, a true Chris-
tian prelate, and accomplished a great
work in the service of the church, of his
native countrymen, and of the country
of his adoption, is, we believe, the lust
verdict of the most competent judges
and of the public at large upon the facta
of his life. He will not be forgotten,
for hifl life and acta are too closely in-
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New PuiKcatums.
US
terwoven with public history and his
influence has been too marked to make
that possible. We trust that those who
enjoy the blessings of a securely and
peacefully established Catholic Church
will not be disposed to forget the men
who, in more troubled times, have won
by their valor the heritage upon which
we have entered. The record of their
lives and labors is of great value, and
this one, in particular, is worthy of the
perusal of every Catholic and every
American, and has i;i it a kind of ro-
mantic charm and dramatic grouping
which docs not belong to the life of one
who has been more confined to the se-
clusion of study or the ordinary pastoral
routine.
We regret the mention made of Dr.
Forbes's defection, and the publicity
which is again given to painful matters
which had become buried in oblivion.
It appears to us that, as Dr. Forbes has
not publicly assailed either the church
or the late archbishop, it was unneces-
sary to allude to him in any way, and it
would have been more generous to have
suppressed the remarks made in the
archbishop's private correspondence.
The mechanical execution of the work
is in good style, and we recommend it
to our readers as necessary to every
Catholic library.
An American Dictionabt of the
English Language. By Noah Web-
ster, LL.D. Thoroughly Revised and
Greatly Enlarged and Improved, by
Chauncey A. Goodrich, D.D., Late
Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory,
and also Professor of the Pastoral
Charge in Yale College, and Noah
Porter, D.D,, Clark Professor of Moral
Philosophy and Metaphysics in Yale
College. Royal quarto, pp. 1840.
Springfield, Mass. : G. & C. Meiriam.
1866.
There have been published, within the
last twenty-five years, several editions
of " Webster's Dictionary," but the pres-
ent one, the title of which is given
above, seems to be the crowning effort
of dictionary making. It surpasses all
other editions of the same work both
in its typography, its illustrations^-
flome 3,000 in number — and its philo-
logical completeness. ** Webster's Dic-
tionary " has always been of high au-
thority in this country, and is now held
in great repute in England, where it is
accepted by several writers as the best
authority in defining the English lan-
guage. T)ie present edition is a most
beautiful one, and contains all the mod-
em words which custom has engrafted
upon our language. It also contains,
in its pronouncing table of Scripture
proper names, a supplementary list oi
the names found in the Douay Bible,
but not in King Jamcs*s version. In
fact, care has been taken to make this
edition as free as possible from partisan
and theological differences in regard to
the definitions of certain words which
heretofore got a peculiarly Protestant
twitch when being defined. The pub-
lishers deserve great praise for the man-
ner in which they have done their por- .
tion of the work ; it l«) a credit ana an
honor to the American press.
The Criterion ; or. The Test op Talk
ABOUT Familiar Things: A Series
of Essays. By Henry T. Tuckerman.
12mo., pp. 377. New York : Hurd &
Houghton. 1866.
Mr. H. T. Tuckerman is a man of let-
ters, and we thought he would not be
likely to put his name to anything dis-
creditable to an enlightened author ; but,
to judge from many things in the above
production, we think he has missed his
vocation, and would find more appro-
priate employment as a contributor to
the publications of the American Tract
Society, or the magazine put forth,
monthly, by the "Foreign and Christian
Union." Else, why is every pope
"shrewd," every priest an " incarnation
of fiery zeal ?" why " the lonely exist-
ence and the subtle eye of the Catho-
lic?" why "the medical Jesuit, who,
like his religious prototype, operates
through the female branches, and thus
controls the heads of families, regulating
their domestic arrangements, etc. ?" why
"Bloody Mary" and "RomwA/" why
is " superstition the usual trait of Ro-
manists?" and this: "One may pace
the chaste aisles of the Madeleine, and
feel his devotion stirred, perhaps, by
the dark catafalque awaiting the dead
in the centre of the spacious fioor ; and
then what to him is the doctrine of
transubstantiation ?" (!) We are truly
sorry to see these indications of a spirit
with which we think the author will
find very little sympathy outside the
clique of benighted readers of the pub-
lications above (quoted.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
144
Sew PuUiealumi.
Christ tbb Lioht of thb World.
By C. J. Vaaghan, D.D., Vicar of
Doncaster. 18mo., pp. S60. Alexan-
der Strahan, London and New
York. 1865.
This beautiful little volume contains
twelve sermons, or rather religious es-
says, written in a pleasing style, but alto-
gether too lengthy and too exhaustive in
character. We have no doubt but that
the author is a good preacher, and if
these essays were ever preached by him
as sermons, they were listened to with
pleasure. But in their present shape,
enlarged, systematized, and — shall we
say — almost too carefully prepared for
the press, they ore a little tiresome. One
feels in reading them how much the nat-
uralness, as well as the elegance of dic-
tion, is marred by the vague evangelical
Shraaeology, ''coming to Christ," "lay-
ig hold on Christ," etc., which occurs
BO constantly in these pages. The au-
thor, being a Low Evangelical Church-
man, gives us, of course, *' justification
by faith" and the Calvinistic view of
the Fall. Yet, in the latter half of the
volume he seems to speak more like one
who imagines that man has something
to do for his own justification, and
takes a higher and nobler view of hu-
manity. We give the following pas-
sage from the last sermon, entitled
'^ Cast out and found,V as a good spec-
imen of what wc should call practical
E reaching. "When Jesus found him,
e said unto him. Dost thou believe on
the Son of God ? * Thou V The word
is emphatic in the original, * Thou —
belicvest thoul' We are glad to es-
cape into the crowd, and shelter our-
selves behind a church's confession.
But a day is coming, in which nothing
but an individual laith will carry with
it either strength or comfort. It will
be idle to say in a moment of keen
personal distress, such as probably lies
before us in life and certainly in death
and in judgment, * Every one believes —
all around us believe — the world itself
believes in the Son of God -J* there is
no strength and no help there: the
very object of Christ^s finding thee and
speaking to thee is to bring the question
home, * Dost thou believe V A trying,
a fearful moment, when Christ, face to
face with man's soul, proposes that
question I Perhaps that moment has
not yet come to you. You have been
fighting it oft You do not wish to
come to these close quarters with it
The world does not press you with it.
The world is willing enough that you
should answer it in the general ; and
even if you ever say, ' I believe in
Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord,'
it shall be in a chorus of voices, almost
robbing the individual of personality,
and making * I ' sound like ' we.' But
if ever your religion is to be a real
thing, if ever it is to enable you to do
battle with a sin, or to face a mortal
risk, if ever it is to be a religion for
the hour of death, or for the day of
judgment, you must have had that
question put to you by yourself, and
you must have answered it from the
heart in one way. Then you will be a
real Christian, not before I"
The book is elegantly got up in the
style and care for which the publislter
is noted.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
From P. O'Shsa, 27 Barclay street. New Totk i
Nob. 18, 19, and 20 of Darras' History of tho
Charcb.
From P. Do27Anos, Boston: The Peep o* Day ; or,
John Doc, and the Lagt Baron of Gran a. By •
tho 0*Uara Family. 12mo., pp. 201 and 243.
From Hon. Wm. H. Skwabb. Secretary of State,
WaHhlngrton, his speech on tlio "Restorfttlon
of the Union," dellTered in New York, Feb. 22,
1806.
FromP«T«K F. CcinrrKQBAX, Philadelphia: The
Life of Blessed John Berchraans, of the Society
of Jesus. Translated from the French. With
an Appendix, givine an account of the Miracles
after Death ubich nave been approved by the
Holy See. From the Italian oiFather Boreo,
B.J. 1vol. 12mo., pp. 858.
From John Mttrphy & Co., Baltimore : The Apos-
tleship of Prayer. A Holy Leaene of Chrisilun
Hearts united with the Heart of Jesus, to obtain
the Triumph of the Church and tho Salvation
of Souls. Preceded by a Brief of the Sovereign
Pontiff Plus IX., tho approbation of several
Archbishops and Bishops and Superiors of Re-
liKlous CongregatiwPs. By the Rev. H. Ramiero,
of the Society of Jesus. Translated from the
latest French Edition, and Revised by a Father
of the Society. With the approbation of the
Most Rcr. Archbishop Spaldlug. l2mo., pp. 383.
From Kkllt ft Pikt, Baltimore: Life in tho Clois.
ter ; or. Faithful and True. By the author of
** The World and Cloiater." 12mo., pp. 224.
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD
VOL. in., NO. 14— MAY, 1866.
[OBiaixiXi.]
PROBLEMS OP THE AGE.
DVTBODUOTIOSr.
We wish to state distinctly and
openly, at the outset of tbis work, that
the eolation given of the problems
therein discussed is a solution derived
fiom ^e Catholic faith. Its sole ob-
ject will be to make an exposition of
the doctrines of the Catholic faith
bearing on these problems. By an
exposition, is not meant a mere expan*
sion or paraphrase of the articles of
the Creed, but such a statement 'as
shall include an exhibition of their
positive, objective truth, or conformity
to the real order of being and exist-
ence ; and of their reasonableness or
analogy to the special part of that uni-
versal order lying within the reach of
rational knowle^e. In doing this
we choose what appears to us the best
and simplest method. It differs, how-
ever, in certain respects, from the one
most in vogue, and thei«fore requires
a few preliminary words of explana-
tion.
VOL. m. 10
The usual method is, to proceed as
far as possible in the analysis of Hie
religious truths provable by reason, to
introduce afterward the evidences of
revealed religion, and finally to pro-
ceed to an exposition of revealed doc-
trines. We have no wish to decry
the many valuable woi^s constructed
on this plan, but simply to vindicate
the propriety of following another,
which is better suited to our specisd
purpose. We conceive it not to be
necessary to follow the first method in
explaining the faith of a Christian
mind, because the Christian mind it-
self does not actually attain to faith
by this method* We do not pi^)ceed
by a course of reasoning through nat-
ural theology and evidences of revela-
tion to our Christian belief. We be-
gin by submitting to instruction, and
receiving all it imparts at once, with-
out preliminaries. The Christian
child begins by saying <* Credo in
Unum Deum." This is the first arti-
cle of his faith. It is proposed to him,
by an authority which lie reveres as
divine, as the first and principal ar-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
146
Ptoblam of the Age.
tide of a series of revealed truths. If
that act i^ right and rational, it coa
be justified on rational grounds. It
can be shown to be in conformity to
the real order. If it is in conformity
to the real order, it is in conformity also
to the logical order. The exposition
of the refiJ order of things is the ex-
position of truth, and is, therefore,
sound philosophy. A child who has
attained the full use of his reason and
received competent instruction, either
has, or has not, a faith; not merely
objectively certain, but subjectively
also, as certain and as capable of be-
ing rationally accounted for, though
not by his own reflection, as that of
a theologian. If he has this subjective
certitude, a simple explication of the
creditive act in his mind will show
the nature and ground of it in the
clearest manner. If he has not, chil-
dren and simple persons who are
children in science, ». e., the majority
of mankind, are incapable of faith — a
conclusion which oversets theology.
We have now indirectly made
known what our own me&od will be ;
namely, to present the credible object
in contact or relation with the credit^
ive subject, as it really is when the
child makes the first complete act of
faith. Instead of inviting the reader
to begin at the viewing point of a
sceptic or atheist, and reason gradu-
ally up from certain postulates of nat-
ural reason, through natural theology,
to the Catholic faith, we invite him
to begin at once at the viewing point
of a Catholic believer, and endeavor
to get the view which one brought up in
the church takes of divine truth. We
do not mean to ask him to take anything
for granted. We will endeavor to
show the internal coherence of Catholic
doctrine, and its correspondence with
the primitive judgments of reason. We
cannot pretend to exhibit systematic-
ally the evidence sustaining each por-
tion of this vast system. It would
only be doing over again a work al-
ready admirably done. We must
suppose it to be known or within the
reach of the knowledge of our readers,
and in varying degrees admitted bj
different ' classes of them, contenting
ourselves with indicating rather than
completing the line of argument on
special topics.
The Catholic reader will see in this
exposition of the Catholic idea only
that which he abeady believes, stated
perhaps in such a way as to aid his
intellectual conception of it The
Protestant reader, accordingly as he
believes less or more of the Catholic
Creed, will see in it less or more to
accept without ailment, together with
much which he does not accept, but
which is proposed to his consideration
as necessary to complete the Christian
idea. The unbeliever will find an af-
firmation of the necessary truths of
pure reason, together with an attempt
to show the legitimate union between
the primitive ideal formula and the
revealed or Christian f^mnula, binding
them into one synthesis, philosophi-
csJify coherent and complete.
n.
RELATION OF THE CBEDIBLE O6JE0T
TO THE CBEPiriVE SUBJECT.
Let us b^n with a child, or a sim*
pie, uneducated adult, who is in a
state of perpetual childhood as regards
scientific knowledge. Let us take him
as a creditive subject or Christian
believer, with the credible object or
Catholic faith in ccHitact with his rea-
son from its earliest dawn. Before
proceeding formally to analyze his
creditive act, we will illustrate it by a
supposed case.
Let us suppose (hat, when our Lord
Jesus Christ was upon earth, he went
to visit a pagan in order to instruct
him in the truths of religion. We
will suppose him to be intelligent, up-
right, and sincere, with as much know-
ledge of religious truth as was ordina-
rily attainable through the heathen
tradition. Let us suppose him to re>
ceive the instructions of Christ with
faith, to be baptized, and to remain
ever after a firm and undoubdng be-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Problems of the Age.
147
liever in the Christian doctrine. Now
bj what procesd does he attain a ra-
tional certitude of the truth of the rev-
elation made bj the lips of Christ?
In the first place, the human wisdom
and virtue of our Lord are intelligible
to him by the human nature common
to both, and in proportion to his own
personal wisdom and goodness. Hav-
ing in himself, by virtue of his human
nature, the eesential type of human
goodness, he is able to recognize the
excellence of one in whom it Ls carried
to its highest possible perfection. The
human perfection visible in Jesus
Christ predisposes him to believe his
testimony. The testimony that Jesus
Christ bears of himself is that he is
the Son of God. This declaration
includes two propositions. The chief
term of the first proposition is " Grod."
The chief term of the second proposi-
tion is ^ Jesus Christ." The first
term includes all that can be im-
derstood by the light of reason con-
cerning the Creator and his creative
act. The second term includes all
Uiat can be apprehended by the light
of faith concerning the interior rela-
tions of God, the incarnation of the
Son, or Word, the entire supernatural
order included in it, and the entire
doctrine revealed by Christ. The idea
expressed by the first term is already
in the mind of the pagan, as the first
and constitutive principle of his rea-
son. His reflective consciousness of
this idea and his ability to make a
correct and complete explication of its
contents are very imperfect. But
when the distinct affirmation and ex-
plication of the idea of God are made
to him by one who possesses a perfect
knowledge of Grod, ho has an immedi-
ate and certain perception of the truth
of the conception thus acquired by his
intelligence. God has aheady af-
firmed himself to his reason, and
Christ, in affirming God to his intellect,
has only repeated and manifested by
sensible images, and in distinct, unerring
language, this original affirmation.
It is otherwise with the affirmation
which Christ makes respecting the
second term. Grod does not affirm to
his reason by the creative act the in-
ternal relations of Father and Son,
completed by the third, or Holy Spir-
it, and therefore, although it is a nec-
essary truth, and in itself intelligiUe
as such, it is not intelligible as a neces-
sary truth to his intellect. The incar-
nation, redemption, and other myster-
ies affirmed to him by Christ, are not
in themselves necessary truths, but
only necessary on the supposition that
they have been decreed by God. The
certitude of belief in all this second
order of truths rests, therefore, en-
tirely on the veracity of God, authen-
ticating the affirmation of his own di-
vine mission made by Jesus Christ.
We must, therefore, suppose that this
affirmation is made to the mind of the
pagan with such clear and unmistaka-
ble evidence of the fact that the verac-
ity of God is pledged to its truth, that
it would be irrational to doubt it.
Catholic doctrine also requires us to
suppose that Christ imparts to him a
supernatural grace, as the principle of
a divine faith and a divine Hfe based
upon it. The nature and effi3ct of tliis
grace must be lefl for future consider-
ation.
These truths received on the faith
of the testimony of the Son of God by
the pagan are not, however, entirely
uninteUi^ble to his natural reason.
We can suppose our Lord removing
his difficulties and misapprehensions,
showing him that these truths do not ,
contradict reason, but harmonize with
it as far as it goes, and pointing out
to him certain analogies in the natural
order which render them partially
apprehensible by his intellect. Thus,
while his mind cannot penetrate into
the substance of these mysteries, or
grasp the intrinsic reason of them af-
ter the mode of natural knowledge, it
can nevertheless see them indirectlj,
as reflected in the natural order, and
by resemblance, and rests its undoubt-
ing belief of them on the revelation
made by Jesus Christ, attested by the
veracity of Grod.
In this supposed case, the pagan
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148
ProUtim of the Age.
haft tbe Son of God actualty before
liis ejes, and with his own ears can
hear his words. This is the credible
object. He is made inwardly certain
that'he is the Son of God by convinc-
ing evidence and the illustration of
divine grace. This is the creditive
subject, in contact with the credible
object. It exemplifies the process by
which Grod has instructed the human
race from the beginning, a process
carried on in the most perfect and
successful manner in the instance we
arc about to examine of a child brought
up in the Catholic Church.
The mind of the child has no pre-
judices and no imperfect conceptions
derived from a perverted and defect-
ive instruction to be rectified. Its
soul is in the normal and natural con-
dition. The grace of faith is imparted
to it in baptism, so that the rational
faculties unfold under its elevating
and strengthening influence with a
full capacity to elicit the creditive
act as soon as they are brought in
contact with the credible object.
This credible object, in the case of the
child, as in that of the pagan, is
Christ revealing himself and the
Father. He reveals himself, how-
ever, not by his visible form to the
eye, or his audible word to the ear,
but by his mystical body the church,
which is a continuation and amplifica-
tion of his incarnation. The church
is visible and audible to the child as
soon as his faculties begin to open.
At first this is only in an imperfect
way, as Jesus Christ was at first only
known in an imperfect way to the
pagan above described. As he merely
knew Christ at first as a man, and in a
purely human way, so the child re
ccives the instruction of his parents,
teachers, and pastors, in whom the
church is represented, in regard to
the truths of faith, just as he does in
regard to common matters. He be-
gins with a human faith, founded in
the trusting instincts of nature,, which
incline the young to believe and obey
their superiors. As soon as his rea-
son is capable of nnderstanding the in-
struction given him, he is able to
discover the strong probability of its
truth. He sees this dimly at first, but
more and more clearly as his mind
unfolds, and the conception of the
Catholic Church comes before it more
distinctly. Some will admit that even
a probability furnishes a sufficient mo*
tive for eliciting an act of perfect
faith. Tliis is the doctrine of Cardi-
nal de Lugo, and it has been more re-
cently propounded by that extremely
acute and brilliant writer. Dr. John
Henry Newman.* According to their
theory, the undoubting finnness of the
act of faith is caused by an imperate
act of the will determining the intel-
lect to adhere firmly to the doctrine
proposed, as revealed by God. There
are many, however, who will not be
satisfied with this, and we acknow-
ledge that we ore of the number. It
appears to us that the mind must
have indubitable certitude that God
has revealed the truth in order to a
perfect act of faith. Therefore wo
believe that the mind of the child pro-
ceeds from the first apprehension of
the probaUlity that God has revealed
the doctrin^ of faith to a certitude of
tlie fact, and that, until it reaches that
point, its faith is a human faith, or an
inchoate faith, merely. The ground
and nature of that certitude will be
discussed hereafter. In the mean-
time, it is sufficient to remark that the
child or other ignorant person appre-
hends the very same ground of certi-
tude in faith with the mature and ed-
ucated adult, only more implicitly and
obscurely, and with less power to re-
flect on his own acts. Just as the
child has the same certainty of facts
in the natural order with an adult, so
it has the same certainty of fiicts in
the supernatural order. When we have
once established the proper ground of
human faith in testimony in general,
and of the certitude of our rational
judgments, we have no need of a par-
ticular application to the case of
* since the above was written the author has
seen reason to suspect that he misanderetood
Br. Newman. The point wUl be more fulljr dU*
cnssed hereafter.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ProUemi of the Age.
149
duldreiu 1% is plain enough that, so
Boon as their radonal powers are sufi-
cientlj developed, thej most act ac-
cording to this universal law. So in
r^ard to faith. When we have es-
tablished in general its constitutive
principles^ it is plain that the mind of
the child, just as soon as it is capable
of eliciting an act of faith, must do it
according to these principles.
The length of lime, and the num-
ber of preparatory acts requisite, be-
fore the mind of a child is fully capa-
ble of ehcidng a perfect act of &ith,
cannot be accurately determined, and
may vary indefinitely. It may re-
quire years, months, or only a few
weeks, days, or hours. Whenever
it does elicit tliis perfect act, the intel-
ligible basis of the creditive act may
be expressed by the formula, Chruiug
creat eeclesiam,* In the ch;irch,
which is the work of Christ and his
medium or instrument for manifest-
ing himself, the person and the doc-
trine of Chxist are disclosed. In the
first term of the formula, OAm^w, is
included another proposition, viz.,
QirUtus est FiUite JDei.\ Finally, in
the last term of the second proposi-
tion is included a third, Dem est
creator mundi.X The whole may be
combined into one formula, which
is only the first one expUcated, (7Am-
tttSf FUiue Deiy qui est creator mimdij
ereat ecelesiam, § In this formula we
have the synthesis of reason and faith|
of philosophy and theology, of nature
and grace. It is the formula of the
natural and supernatural worlds, or
rather of the natural universe, elevated
into a supernatural order and directed
to a supernatural end. In the order
of instruction, JEJcclesia comes first,
as the medium of teaching correct
conceptions concerning Grod, Christ,
and the relations in which they stand
toward the human race. These con-
ceptions may be communicated in
• Christ creates the Chorch.
t Christ Is the Bon of Qod.
1 God Is the creator of the world.
f Christ, the Son of God, who is the creator of
tbe world, creates the Church.
positive instruction in any order that
is convenient. When ^ej are ar-
ranged in their proper logical relation,
the first in order is Deits creat mun-
dum, including all our rational
knowledge concerning Gk>d. The
second is Okristus est MUus Dei,
which discloses Grod in a relation
above our natural cognition, revealing
himself in his Son, as the supernatu-
ral author and the term of final beat-
itude. Lastly comes Ohristus creat
ecclesiamj in which the church, at
first simply a medium for communi-
cating the conceptions of God and
Christ, is refiexivcly considered and
explained, embracing all the means
and institutions ordained by Chi'ist
for the instruction and sanctification
of the hiunan race, in order to the at-
tainment of its final end. In the
conception of God the Creator, we
have the natural or intelligible order
and the rational basis of revelation.
In the conception of the Son, or
Word, we have the super-intelligible
order in its connection with the mtel-
liglble, in which alone we can appre-
hend it. God reveals himself and his
purposes by his Word, and we be-
lieve on the sole ground of his ve-
racity. The remaining conceptions
are but the complement of the sec-
ond.
All this is expressed in the Apos-
tles' Creed. In the first place, by its
very nature, it is a symbol of instruc-
tion, presupposing a teacher. The
same is expressed in the first word,
" Credo," explicitly declaring the
credence given to a message sent from
God. The fil*s^article is a confession
of God the Father, followed by the
confession of the Son and the Holy
Ghost. After this comes ^^Sanctam
Ecclesiam Catholicam," with the other
articles depending on it, and lastly
the ultimate term of all the relations
of God to man, expressed in the
words " Vitam aBtemam."
Having described the actual atti-
tude of the mind toward the Creed at
the time when its reasoning faculty is
developed, and the method by which in-
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160
(xlastonhwry Abbet/y Past and PresmL
Btraction in reli^ous doctrines is com-
municated to it, we will ,go over
these doctrines in detail, in order to
explain and verify them singly and as
a whole. The doctrine first in order
is that which relates to God, and this
will accordingly be first tareated of, in
the ensuing number.
From The Dublin UnlYeralty Hagaslne
GLASTONBURY ABBEY, PAST AND PRESENT,
THE KIBE OF THE BENEDICTINES.*
As Glastonbury Abbey was ohe
of the chief ornaments of the Bene-
dictine Order ; as that order was one
of the greatest infiuences, next to
Christianity itself, ever brought to
bear upon humanity ; as the founder
of that order and sole compiler of the
rule upon which it was based must
have been .a legislator, a leader, a
great, wise, and good mau, such as the
world seldom sees, one who, unaided,
without example or precedent, com-
piled a code which has ruled millions
of beings and made them a motive-
power in the history of humanity;
as the work done by that order luis
left traces in every country in Europe
— lives and acts now in the litera-
ture, arts, sciences, and social life of
nearly every civilized community— it
becomes imperatively necessary that
we should at this pomt investigate
these . three matters — the man, the
rule, and the work: — the man, St.
Benedict, from whose brain issued
the idea of monastic organization;
the rule by which it was worked,
which contains a system oF legislation
as comprehensive as the gradually
compiled laws of centuries of growth ;
and the work done by those who were
subject to its power, followed out
its spirit, lived under its influence,
and carried it into every coun-
try where the gospel was preached.
• Aatborities. — Acta Sanctoram: Bailer's
LWea of tbo SainU; Gregory's JDlalogueB;
Mabtllon Acta Sanct. ; Ord : Benedlcti ; 2^fgel-
baner'a Hist. HeL Liter. ; Foabrooko and Dug-
dale.
Far away in olden times, at the
close of the fifth century, when the
gorgeous splendor of the Roman
day was waning and the shades of
that long, dark night of tlie middle
ages were closing in upon the earth ;
just at that period when, as if impel-
led by some instinct or led by some
mysterious hand, there came pouring
down from the wilds of Scandinavia
hordes of ferocious barbarians who
threatened, as they rolled on like a
dark flood, to obliterate all traces of
civilization in Europe — when the
martial spirit of the Roman was
rapidly degenerating into tlie venal
valor of the mercenary — when the
western empire had fallen, after
being the tragic theatre of scenes to
which there is no parallel in the his-
tory of mankind-— when men, aghast
at human crime and writhing under
the persecutions of those whom his-
tory has branded as the " Scourge of
God,** sought in vain for some shelter
against their kind — when human
nature, after that struggle between
refined corruption and barbarian ruth-
lessness, lay awaiting the night of
troubles which was to fall upon it as
a long penance for human crime —
just at this critical period in the
world's history appeared the man who
was destined to rescue from the
general destruction of Roman life the
elements of a future civilization; to
provide an asylum to which art might
flee with her choicest treasures, where
sdence might labor in safety, where
Digitized. by CjOOQ IC
GUMfpbwry Albefff Past and Preseni.
151
learning might perpetoate and multi-
plj its storeSy where the oracles of
r^igion might rest secmre, and where
man mi^t retire from the woe
and wickedi^s of a world given ap
to destruction, live oat his life in
qcdety and make his peace with his.
That man was St' Benedict, who
was bom of noble parents abont the
year 480, at Norcia, a town in the
Dachy of Spoleto ; bis father's name
was Eutropios, his grandfather's Jus-
tinian. Although the glory of Rome
was on the dedhie, her schools were
still crowded with young disciples of
all nations, and to Rome the future
'saint was sent to study literature and
scienoe. The poets of this declining
age have left behind tliem a graphic
picture of the profligacy and dissipa-
tion of Roman life---the nobles had
given themselves up to voluptuous
and enervating pleasures, the martial
spirit which had once found vent in
deeds with whose fame the world has
ever since rung, had degenerated
into the softer braveiy which dares
the mQder dangers of a love intrigue,
or into the tipsy valor loudest in the
midnight brawL The sons of those
heroes who in their youth had gone
out into the world, subdued kingdoms,
and had been drawn by captive
' monarchs through the streets of Rome
in triumph, now squandered the
wealth and disgraced the name of
their Others over the dice-box and
the drinking cup. Roman society
was corrupt to its core, the leaders
were sinking into the imbecility of
licentiousness, the people were fol-
lowing their steps with that impet-
uosity so characteristic of a demora-
lized populace, whilst far up in the
rude, bleak North the barbarian, with
the keen instinct of the wild beast,
sat watching from his lonely wilds
the tottering towers of Roman glory
— ^e decaving energies of the emas-
culated giant — until the moment
came when he sallied forth and with
one hardy blow shattered the mighty
fabric and laid the victors of the
world in abject slavery at his feet
Into this society came the youthful
Benedict, with idl the fresh innocence
of rustic purity, and a soul already
yearuing afler the great mysteries of
religion; admitted into the wild
revelry of student life, that prototype
of modem Bohemianism, he was at
once disgusted with the general prof-
ligacy around him. The instincts of
his youthful purity sickened at the
fetid life of Rome, but in his case
time, instead of reconciling hun to
the ways of his feUows, and trans-
forming, as it so oflen does, the
trembling horror of natural innocence
into the wild intrepidity of reckless
license, only strcngtiiened his disgust
for what he saw, and the timid,
thoughtfhl, pensive student shrank
from the noisy revelry, and sought
shelter among his books.
About this time, too, the idea of
penitential seclusion was prevalent
in the West, stimulated by the writ-
ings and opinions of St Augustine .
and St Jerome. It has been suggested
that the doctrine of asceticism was
founded upon the words of Christ,
"If any man will come after
me, let him deny himself and
take up his cross and follow .
me."* St Gregory himself dwells
with peculiar emphasis upon this pas-
sage, which he expounds thus, ^ Let us
listen to what he said in this pas-
gage — ^let him who will follow me deny
himself; in another place it is said
that we should forego our possessions ;
here it is said that wo should deny
ourselves, and perhaps it is not
laborious to a man to relinquish his
possessions, but it is very laborious to
relinquish himself. For it is a light
thing to abandon what one has, but
a much greater thing to abandon
what one Ur^ Fired by the notion
of self-mortification imparte4 ^ these
woids of Christ by their own material
interpretation, these men forsook the ^
world and retired to caves, rocks,
forests, anywhere out of sight of
♦ Matt. xvl. 84.
t St. Qres« Horn, ft) In Evangel.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
152
C^astonhiiy Ahbeyj Pcui and Pre$e(nU
their feUow-raortal^— lived on bitter
herbs and putrid water, ezpoeed
themselTes to the inclemency of the
winter and the burning heats of sum-
mer.
Such was the rise and working of
asceticism, which brought out so
many anchorites and hermits. Few
things in the history of human sufier-
ing can parallel die liyes of these
men.
As regards conventual life, that is,
the assemblage of those who minis-
tered in the church under one roof,
sharing all things in common, that
may 1^ traced back to the apostles
and their disciples, who were con-
strained to live in this way, and,
therefore, we find that wherever they
established a church, there they also
established a sort of college, or
common residence, for the priests of
that church. This is evident from
the epistles of Ignatius, nearly all,
of which condnde with a salutation
addressed to this congregation of
disciples, dwelling t(^ther, and styled
a ^collegium." His epistle to the
Church at Antioch concludes thus,
^I salute the sacred College of
Presbyters** (Saluto Sanctum Pres-
b3rterorum Collegium). The Epistle
ad Philippenses, << Saluto S. Epis*
copum et sacrum Presbyterorum
Collegium** — so also the epistles to
the Philadelphians, the Church at
Smyrna, to the Ephesians, and to the
Trallians.
But when St Benedict was sent as
a lad to Rome, the inclination toward
the severer form of ascetic life, that
of anchorites and hermits, had received
an impulse by the works of the great
fathers of the church, already alluded
to ; and the pensive student, buried in
these moA congenial studies, became
imbued with their spirit, and was soon
fired with a romantic longing for a
hermit life. At the tender age o£ fif-
teen, unable to endure any longer the
dissonance between his flesires and his
surroundings, he fied firom Home, and
took refuge in a wild, cavernous spot
in the neighboring country. As he
left the dfy he was followed by a
faithful nurse, CyrOla by name, who
had brought him up from childhood,
had t^ided him in his sojourn at Rome,
and now, though lamentibg his mental
derangement, as she regsuded.it, re-
solved not to leave her youthful duu^
to himself, but to watch over him and
wait upon him ia his chosen sedusion.
For some time this life went on, St.
Benedict becoming more and more at-
tached to his hermitage, and the nurse,
despairing of any change, begged his
food from day to day, prepared it
for him, and watched over him with
a mother's tenderness. A change
then came over the young enthusiast,
and he began to feel uneasy under
her lovbg care. It was not the true
hermit life, not the realization of that
grand idea of solitude with which his
soul was filled ; and under the impulse
of this new emotion he secretly fled
from the protection of his foster-moth-
er, and, without leaving behind him the
slightest clue to his pursuit, hid himself
among the rocks of Subiaeo, or, as it
was then caUed, Sublaqueum, about
forty miles distant from Rome. At
this spot, which was a range of bleak,
rocky mountains with a river and lake
below in the valley, he fell in with one
Romanus, a monk, who gave him a mon-
astic dress, with a hair shirt, led him
to a part on the mountains where *
there was a deep, narrow cavern, into
which the sun never penetrated, and
here the young anchorite took up his
abode, subsisting upon bread and wa-
ter, or the scanty provisions which
Romanus could spare him from his
own frugal repasts ; these provisions
the monk used to let down to him by
a rope, ringing a bell first to call his
attention. For three years he pursued
this life, unknown to his friends, and
cut off from all communication with
the world; but neither the darkness
of his cavern nor the scantiness of his
fare could preserve him from troubles.
He was assailed by many sore tempta-
tions.
« One day that solitude was disturbed
by the appearance of a man in the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
GlasftmSury AUeyj Past €md Pretent, ^
153
gaib of a priest, who approached his
cave and began to addi^ him; bat
Benedict would hold no conyereation
with the stranger nntil they had prayed
together, after which they discoursed
for a long time npon sacred subjects,
when the priest told him of the cause
<^ his coming. The day happened to
be Easter Sunday, and as the priest
was preparing his dinner, he heard a
yoice saying, ^ You are preparing a
banquet for yourself, whilst my ser-
vant Benedict is starving;'* that he
thereupon set out upon his journey,
found the anchorite's cave, and then
producing the dinner, begged St Bene-
dict to share it with him, after which
they parted. A number of shepherds,
too, saw him near his cave, and as he
was dressed in goat-skins, took him at
first for some strange animal ; but
when they found he was a hermit,
they paid their respects to him hum-
bly, brought him food, and implored
his blessiog in return.
The fame of the recluse of Subiaco
spread itself abroad from that time
through the neighboring country ;
many left the world and followed lus
example; the peasantry brought their
sick to him to be healed, emulated
each other in their contributions to
his personal necessities, and under-
took long journeys^ simply to gaze
npon his countenance and receive his
benediction. Not far from his cave
were gathered together in a sort of
association a number of hermits, and
when the &me of this youthful saint
reached them they sent a deputation
to ask him to come among them and
take up his position as their superior.
It appears that this brotherhood had
become rather lax in discipline, and,
Imowing this, St. Benedict at first re-
fused, but Subsequently, either firom
some presentiment of his future des-
tiny, or actuated simply by the hope
of reforming them, he consented, left
bis lonely cell, and took up his abode
with them as their head.
In a very short time, however, the
hermits began to tire of his discipline
and to envy hinyfor his superior god-
liness. An event then occurred which
forms the second cognizance by which
the figure of St Benedict may be re-
cognized in the fine arts. Endea-
vors had been made to induce him to
relax his discipline, but to no pur-
pose ; therefore they resolved upon
getting rid of him, and on a certain
day, when the saint called out for
some wine to refresh himself after a
long journey, one of the brethren of-
fered him a poisoned goblet St
Benedict took the wine, and, as was
his custom before eating or drinking
anything, blessed it, when the glass
suddenly fell from his hands and
broke in pieces. This incident is im-
mortalized in stained-glass windows,
in paintings, and frescoes, where the
saint is either made to carry a broken
goblet, or it is to*be seen lying at his
feet Disgusted with their obstinacy
he left them, voluntarily returned to
his cavern^ at Subiaco, and dwelt
there alonel But the fates conspired
against his solitude, and a change
came gradually over the scene.
Numbers were drawn toward the
spot by the fame of his sanctity, and
by-and-bye huts sprang up around
him ; the desert was no longer a de-
sert, but a colony waiting only to be
organized to form a strong commun-
ity. Yielding at length to repeated
entreaties, he divided this scattered
settlement into twelve establishments,
with twelve monks and a superior in
each, and the monasteries were soon
after recognized, talked about, and
proved a sufficient attraction to draw
men from all quarters, even from the
riotous gaieties of declining Rome.
We will mention one or two inci-
dents related of St Benedict, which
claim attention, more especially as
being the key to the artistic mysteries
of Benedictine pictures. It was one
of the customs in this early Benedic-
tine community for the brethren not
to leave the church immediately after
the divine offlte was concluded, but
to remain for some time in silent
mental prayer. One of the brethren,
however, took no delight in this holy
Digitized by CjOOQIC
154
GlaxUmbury Abbey ^ Patt and Pment.
exeidse, and to tlie scandal of the
whole comnuimfcy used to walk eooUj
out of the church as soon as the
psalmodj was over. The superior
remonstrated, threatened, hut to no
purpose ; the unruly brother persisted
in his conduct. St. Benedict was
appealed to, and when he heard the
circumstances of the case, said he
would see the brother himself Ac^
cordingly, he attended the church,
and at the conclusion of the divine
office, not only saw the brother walk
out, but saw also what was invisible
to every one elso— a ^ck hoy lead-
ing him by the hand. The saint then
struck at the phantom with his staff,
and from that time the monk was no
longer troubled, but remained after
the service with the rest.
St. Gr^ory also relates an incident
to the effect that one day as a Grothic
mopk was engaged on the border of
the lake cutting down thistles, he let
the iron part of his sickle, which was
loose, fall into the water. St. Maur,
one of Benedict's disciples— of whom
we shall presently speak-*-^happened
to be standing by, and, taking tbe
wooden handle from the man, he held
it to the water, when the iron swam to
it in miraculous obedience.
As we have said, the monasteries
grew daily in number of members
and reputation ; people came from
far and near, some belonging to the
highest classesi and left their children
at the monastery to be trained up
under St. Benedict's protection.
Amongst this number, in the year
522, came two wealthy Roman sena-
tors, Equitius and TertuUus, bring-
ing widi them their sods, Maurus,
then twelve years of age, and Pla-
cidus, only five. They begged ear-
nestly that St. Benedict would take
charge of them, which he did, treated
them as if they had been his own
sons, and ultimately they became
monks under his rule, lived with him
all his life, and after his death became
the first missionaries of his order in
foreign countries, where Placidus won
the crown of martyrdom. Again, St
Benedict nearly feU a victim to jeal-
ousy. A priest named Florentius,
envying hu fame, endeavored to
poison him with a loaf of bread, but
-failedi Benedict once more left his
charge in disgust; but Florentius,
being killed by the sudden fall of a
gallery, Mauros sent a messenger
after him to beg him to return, which
he did, and not only wept over the
fiite of his fallen enemy, Imt imposed
a severe penance upon Maums for
testifying joy at tbe judgment which
had befallen him. The incident of
the poisoned loaf is the third artistic
badge by which St. Benedict is to be
known in art, being generally paiated
as a loaf with a serpent coiled round
it. These artistic attributes form a
veiy important feature in monastic
painting, and in some instances be-
come £e only guide to the recogni-
tion of the subject. St. Benedict is
sometimes represented with all these
accompaniments-*the broken goblet,
the loaf with the serpent, and in the
background the figure rolling in the
briers. St. Bernard, who wrote
much and poweri'uUy against heresy,
is represented with the accompanying
incident in the background of demons
chained to a rock, or being led away
captive, to indicate^ his triumphs over
heretics for the faith. Demons
placed at the feet indicate Satan and
the w<»rld overcome. Great preach-
ers generally cany the crucifix, or, if
a renowned missionary, the standard
and cross. Martyrs carry the palm.
A king who has resigned his dignity
and entered a monastery has a crown .
lying at his feet. A book held in
^ hand represents the gospel, unless
it be accompanied by pen and ink-
horn, when it implies that the subject
was an author, as in the case of An-
sehn, who is represented as holding in
his hands his work on the incarnation,
with the title inscribed, <^ Cur Dens
Homo," or it may relate to an inci-
dent in the life, as die blood-stained
book, which St. Boniface holds, en-
titled <<De B<Hio M(Mrtis," a work he
was devotedly f<»id of, always car-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
GlatUmhury Atbejfj Past and PretenL
155
Tied about with him, and which was
found after his mnrder in the folds of
his dress stained with his blood. But
the highest honor was the stigmata
or wounds of Christ impressed upon
the hands, feet, and side. This kr-
tistic pre-eminence is accorded to St.
Francis, the founder of the order
which bears his name, and to St
Catharine, of Siena. A whole world
of history lies wrapped up in these
artistic symbols, as the j appear in the
marvellous paintings illustratiye of
the hagiology of the monastic orders
which are cherished in half the pic-
ture galleries and sacred edifices of
Europe, and form as it were a living
testimony and a splendid confirma-
tion of ^e written histoiy and tradi-
tions of the church.
Although, at the period when we
left St Benedict reinstialled in his of-
fice as superior, Cluristianity was
rapidly being established in the coun-
try, yet there were still lurking about
in remote districts of Italy &e re-
mains of her ancient paganism. Near
the spot now called Monte Cassino
was a consecrated grove in which
stood a temple dedicated to Apollo.
St Benedict resolved upon clearing
away this relic of heathendom, and,
fired with holy seal, went amongst
the people, preached the gospel of
Christ to them, persuaded them at
length to break the statue of the god
and pull down the altar; he then
bum^ the grove and built two chap-
els there — the one dedicated to St
John the Baptist and the other to St.
Martin. Higher up upon the moun-
tain he laid the foundation of his cele-
brated monastery, which still bears
his name, and here he not only gath-
ered together a powerful brother-
hood, but elaborated that system
which infused new vigor into the mo-
nastic life, cleared it of its impurities,
established it upon a firm and healthy
basis, and elevated it, as regards his
own order, into a mighty power,
which was to exert an influence over
the destinies of humanity inferior only
to that of Christianity itself. St
Benedict, with the keen perception of
genius, saw in the monasticism of his
time, crude as it was, the elements of
a great system. For five centuries it
had existed and vainly endeavored to
develop itself into something like an
institution, but the grand idea had
never yet been struck out — that idea
which was to give it permanence and
strength. Hidierto the monk had re-
tired from the world to work out his
own salvation, caring little about any-
thing else, subsisting on what the de-
votion of the wealthy ofiered him
from motives of charity; then, as
time advanced, they acquired posses-
sions and wealth, which tended only
to make them more idle and selfish.
St Benedict detected in all this the
signs of decay, and resolved on re-
vivifying its languishing existence by
starting a new system, based upon a
rule of life more in aixsordance with
the dictates of reason. He was one
of those who held as a belief that to
live in this world a man must do
something — that life which consumes,
but produces not, is a. morbid life, in
fact, an impossible life, a life that must
decay, and therefore, imbued with the
importance of this fact, he mode labor,
continuous and daily labor, the great
foundation of his rule. His vows
were like those of other institutions —
poverty, chastity, and obedience — ^but
he added labor, and in that addition,
as we shall endeavor presently to
show, lay the whole secret of the won-
drous success of the Benedictine Or-
der. To every applicant for admis-
sion, these conditions were read, and
the following words added, which
were subsequently adopted as a for-
mula : '' This is the law under which
thou art to live and to strive for sal-
vation; if thou canst observe it, enter ;
if not, go in peace, thou art free." No
sooner was his monastery established
than it was filled by men who> attract-
ed by his fame and the charm of the
new mode of life, came and eagerly
implored permission to submit them-
selves to his rule. Maurus and Fla-
cidus, his fiivorite disciples, still re-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
156
CRoiUmlwry Jhby^ Past and PresenL
znained with him, and the tenor of his
life flowed on evenly.
Afler Belisarios, the emperor'a
general, had heen recalled, a number
of men totally incapacitated for their
duties were sent in his place. Totila,
who had recently ascended the Gothic
throne, at once invaded and plundered
Italy ; and in the year 542, when on
his triumphant march, afler defeating
the Byzantine army, he was seized
with a strong desire to pay a visit to
the renown^ Abbot Benedict, wbo
was known amongst them as a great
prophet. He therefore sent word to
Monte Gassino to announce his in-
tended visit, to which St. Benedict re-
plied that he would be happy to re-
ceive him« On receiving the answer
he resolved to employ a stratagem to
test the real prophetic powers of the
abbot, and accordingly, instead of go-
ing himself, he caused the captain of
the guard to dress himself in the im-
perial robes, and, accompanied by
three lords of the court and a numer-
ous retinue, to present himself to the
abbot as the kingly visitor. How-
ever, as soon as they entered into his
presence, the abbot detected the
nuud, and, addressing the counterfeit
king,' bid him put off a dress which
did not belong to him* In the utmost
alarm they all fled back to Totila and
related the result of their interview ;
the unbelieving Goth, now thoroughly
convinced, went in proper person to
Monte Gassino, and, on perceiving the
abbot seated waiting to receive him,
he was overcome with terror, could
go no further, and prostrated himself
to the ground.* St Benedict bid him
rise, but as he seemed unable, assisted
him himself. A long conversation
ensued, during which St. Benedict re-
proved him for his many acts of vio-
lence, and concluded with this pro-
phetic declaration : '' You have done
much eviL and continue to do so ; you
will enter Bome ; you will cross the
sea; you will reign nine years longer,
* " Quern cnm a longe sedentem cerneret, non
aasas accedero sese in terrain dedit."— St. Qreg.
IHal.,Ub.lL,cl4.
but death will overtake you on the
tenth, when you will be arraigned be-
fore a just God to give an account of
your deeds." Totik trembled at this
sentence, besought the prayers of the
abbot, and took his leave. The pre-
diction was marvellously fulfiUed ; in
any case the interview wrought a
change in the manner of this Gothic
warrior little short of miraculous, for
from that time he treated those whom
he had conquered with gentleness.
When he took Bome, as St. Benedict
had predicted he should^ he forbade
all carnage, and insisted on pro£^cting
women from insult ; stranger still, m
the year 552, only a little beyond the
time allotted him by the prediction,
he fell in a battle which he fought
against Narses, the eunuch general of
the Greco-Boman army. St. Bene-
dict's sister, Scholastica, who had be-
come a nun, discovered the where-
abouts of her los^ brother, came to
Monte Gassino, took up her residence
near him, and founded a convent upon
the principles of his rule. She was,
therefore, the first Benedictine nun,
and is often represented in paintings,
prominent in that well-known group
composed of herself, St. Benedict, and
the two disciples, Maurus and Flaci-
dus.
It appears that her brother was in
the habit of paying her a visit every
year, and upon one occasion stayed
until late in the evening, so late that
Scholastica pressecl liim not to leave ;
but he persisting, she offered a pray-
er that heaven might interpose and
prevent his going, when suddenly a
tempest came on so fierce and furious
that he was compelled to remain un-
til it was over, when he returned to
his monastery. Two days after this
occurrence, as he was praying in his
ceU, he beheld the soul of his beloved
sister ascending to heaven in the form
of a dove, and the same day intelli-
gence was brought him of her death.
This vision forms the subject of many
of the pictures in Benedictine nun-
neries. One short montli after the
decease of thi^ affectionate sister, St.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
\ GSoitofiiKfy AVbeyj Peat and Present.
157
Benedict, throogb yisitang and attend-
ing to the sick and poor in his n^h-
borhoody contracted a fever which
prostrated him ; he immediately fore-
told his death, and ordered the tomb
in which his sister lay in the church
I to be opened. On the sixth day of
his illness he asked to be carried to
it, where he remained for some time
in silent, prayerful contemplation ; he
then begged to be removed to the steps
of the high dtar, where, having re-
ceived the holy viaticum, he suddenly
stretQhed out his arms to heaven and
fell back dead. This event took'
place on Saturday, the 21st March,
543, in the 63d year of his age. He
was buried by the side of his sister
Sdiolastica, on the very spot, it is said,
where he threw down the altar of
ApoUo. In the seventh century, how-
ever, some of his remains were dug
up, brought to France, and placed in
the Abbey of Fleury, from which cir-
cumstance it took the name of St^
Benoft, on the Loire. A^r his death
his disciples spread themselves abroad
over the continent and founded mon-
asteries of his name and rule* Plad-
dus became a martyr, and was canon-
ized; Maurus founded a monastery
V in France, was also introduced to
England, and from his cancoiized
name, St. Maurus, springs one of the
oldest English names— St. Maur, Sey-
manr, or Seymour.
Divesting this narrative of its le-
gendary accompaniments, and judg-
ing of St. Benedict, the man, by the
subsequent success of his work, and
the influence of his genius upon the
whole mechanism of European mo-
nasticism, and even upon the destinies
of a later civilization, we are com-
pelled to admit that he must have
been a man whose intellect and char-
acter were far in advance of his age.
By instituting the vow of labor, that
peculiarity in his rule which we shall
presently examine more fully, he
struck at the root of the evils
attending the monastidsm of his
times, an evil which would have
mined it as an institution in the fifth
centuiy had he not interposed, and
an evil which in the sixteenth cen-
tury alone caused its down&ll in
England*
Before proceeding to examine the
rule upon which all the greatness of
the Benedictine order was based, it
will be necessary to mention the two,
earliest mission efforts of the order.
The first was conducted under the
immediate direction of St. Benedict
himself, who in the year 584 sent
Placidus, with two others, Gordian
and Donatus, into Sicily, to erect a
monastery upon land which Tertullus,
the father of Placidus, had given to
St, Benedict* Shortly after the death
of the saint. Innocent, bishop of
Mans, in France, sent Flode^irde,
his archdeacon, and Hardegarde, his
steward, to ask for the assistance of
some monks of St Benedict's monas-
tery, for the purpose of introducing
the order into France. St. Maurus
was selected for the mission, and,
accompanied by Simplicius, Constan-
tinian, Antony, and Fanstus, he set
out from Monte Cassino, and arrived
in France the latter end of the year
543; but to their great constematicm,
upon reaching Orleans, they were
told that the Bishop of Msms was
dead, and another hostile to their
intentions had succeeded him. They
then bent their steps toward Anjou,
where they founded the monastery
of Glanfeuil, from whose cloisters
issued the founders of nearly all the
Benedictine institutions in France.
From these two centres radiated that
mighty influence which we shall now
proceed to examine.
As we have in a former paper
sketched the internal structure of.
the monastery, we will before going
ftirther fill each compartment with
its proper ofiioers, people the whole
monastery with its subjects, and then
examine the law wluch kept them
together.
The abbot was, of course, the head
and ruler of the little kingdom, and
when that officer died the interval
between his death and the installation
Digitized by CjOOQIC
158
Glastonburg Ahbeyj PaH and*PruenU
of his snocessor was beautifiillj called
the ** widowhood of the monastery.*'
The appointment was considered to
rest with the king, though the Bene-
dictine rale enjoined a previous elec-
tion by the monks and then the royal
sanction. This election was conduct-
ed in the chapter-house: the prior
who acted as abbot daring the time
the mitre was vacant summoned the
monks at a certain hour, the license
to elect was then read, the hymn of
the Holy Ghost sung, all who were
present and had no vote were ordered
to leave, the license was repeated —
three scrutators took the votes
separately, and the chanter declared
' the result — ^the monks then lifted up
the elect on their shoulders, and,
chanting the Tt Deum, carried him to
the high altar in the church, where
he lay whilst certain prayers were
said over him ; they then carried hun
to the vacant apartments of the late
abbot, which were thrown open, and
where he remained in strict seclusion
until the formal and magnificent
ceremony of installation was gone
through. In the meantime the as-
pect of the monastery was changed,
the signs of mourning were laid aside,
the bells whicii had been silent were
once more heard, the poor were again
admitted and received relief, and
preparations were at once commenced
for the installation. Outside also
there was a commotion, for the
peasantry, and in fact all the
neighborhood, joined in the rejoicings.
The immense resources of the re-
fectory were taxed to their utmost,
for the installation of the lord abbot
was a feast, and to it were invited all
the nobility and gentry in the neigh-
borhood. On the day of the cere-
mony the gate of the great church
was thrown open to admit all who
were to witness the solemn ceremony,
and, as soon as the bells had ceased,
the procession began to move from
the cloisters, headed by the prior,
who was immediately followed by the
priest of the divine oMcc, clad in
their gorgeous ceremonial robes ; then
followed the monks, in scapulary and
cowled tunic, and last of all the lay
brethren and servants; the newly
elect and two others who were to
officiate in his installation remained
behind, as they were not to appear
until later. The prior then proceed-
ed to say mass, and just before the
gospel was read there was a pause,
during which the organ broke out into
strains of triumphant music, and the
newly chosen abbot with his com- .
panions were seen to enter the church,
and walk slowly up the aisle toward
the altar. As they approached they
were met by the prior (or the bishop,
if the abbey were in the jurisdiction
of one), who then read the solemn *
profession, to which the future abbot
responded; the prior and the elect
then prostrated themselves before the
high altar, in which position they re- .
mained whilst Htanies and prayers
were chanted; ailer the litany the
prior arose, stood on the highest
step of the altar, and whilst all were
kneeling in silence pronounced the ^
words of the benediction; then all
arose, and tl^ abbot received from
the hands of the prior the rule of the '
order and the pastoral stafi^ a hymn
was sung, and, after the gospel, the ^
abbot communicated, and retired with
his two attendants, to appear again in
the formal ceremony of introduction.
During his absence the procession
was re-formed by the chanter, and, at
a given signal, proceeded down the
choir to meet the new abbot, who re-
appeared at the opposite end^ bare-
footed, in token of humility, and clad
no longer in the simple habit of a
monk, but with the abbot's rich dal-
matic, the ring on his finger, and a
glittering mitre of silver, ornamented
with gold, on his brow. As soon as
he had entered he knelt for a few
moments in prayer upon a carpet,
spread on the upper step of the choir ;
when he arose he was formally intro-
duced as the lord high abbot, led
to his stall, and seated there with the
pastoral staff in his hand. The
monks then advanced, aocording to
^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Gkui&nhiinf Mbey^ PaU and Pruent
159
Bexaonijf and. kneeling before him,
gave him the kiaa of peace, first apcm
the handy and afterward, when rising,
npOQ the month. When this cere-
monj was over, amid the Btrains of
the organ and the npUfted voices of
the choir, the newly proclaimed aroee,
marohed through the choir in full
robes, and, carrying the pastoral staff,
entered the vestiary, and then pro-
ceeded to divest hunself of the em«
blems of his office. The service was
condnded, the abbot returned to his
apartmenis, the monks to the clois-
ters, the goests to prepare for the
feast, and the widowhood of the
abbey was over. The sway of the
abbot was unlimited — they were all
sworn to obey him implicitly, and he
had it in his power to punish dclin-
queuts with penances, excommunica-
tion, imprisonment, and in extreme
cases with corpond punishment — ^he
ranked as a peer, was styled ^^My
Lord Abbot," and in the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries kept an equal
state and lived as well as Uie king on
the tiuone: some of them had the
power of conferring the honor of
langhthood, and the mcmarch himself
could not enter the monastery without
permission. The next man in office
to the abbot was the prior,* who, in
the absence of his superior, was in-
vested with full powers ; but on other
occasions his jurisdiction was limited
— in some monasteries he was assisted
by sub-priors, in proportion to the size
of the institution and number of its
inmates. After the prior in rank
came the precentor or chanter, an of-
fice only given to a monk who had
been brought up in the monastery
from a cbiM. He had the supervision
of the choral service, the writing out
the tables of divine service for the
monks, the correction of mistakes in
chanting, which he led off from his
place in the centre of the choir; he-
distribnted the robes at festivals, and
arranged processions. The cellarer
was intrusted with the food, drink, etc.,
* Heads of priories were priors also, bnt they
were eqnallj snliject to their respectire abbeys.
of the monastery, also with the mazers
or drinking cups of the monks, and all
other vessels used in the cellar, kitchen,
and refectory ; he had to attend at the
refectory table, and collect the spoons
afler dinner. The treasurer had charge
of the documents, deeds, and moneys
belonging to the monastery; he re-
ceived the rents, paid all the wages
and expenses, and kept the accounts.
The sacristan's duties were connected
with the church ; he had to attend to
the altar, to carry a lantern before the
priest, as he went from the altar to
the lectum, to cause the bell to ha
rung ; he took charge of all the sacred
vessels in use, prepared the host, the
wine, and the altar bread. The almo-
ner's duty was to provide the monks
with mats or hassocks for their feet in
the church, also mattmg in the chap-
ter-house, cbisters, and dormitory
stairs ; he was to attend to the poor,
and distribute alms amongst them, and
in the winter warm clothes and shoes.
After the monks had retired from the
refectory, it was his duty to go round
and collect any drink Icfl in the ma-
ssers to be given away to the poor.
The kitchener was filled by a different
monk eveiy week in turn, and he had
to arrange what food was to be cooked,
go round to the infirmary, visit the
sick and provide for them, and super-
intend the labors of his nssistxuits.
The infirmarer had care of the sick ;
it was his office to administer to their
wants, to give them their meals, to
sprinkle holy water on their beds every
night after the service of complin.
A person was generally appointed to
this duty who, in case of emergency,
was competent to receive the confes-
sion of a sick man. The porter was
generally a grave monk of mature
age ; he had an assistant to keep the
gate when he delivered messages, or
was compelled to leave his poet The
chamberlain's business was to look
after the beds, bedding, and shaving
room, to attend to the dormitory win-
dows, and to have the (Cambers swept,
and the straw of the beds changed
once every year, and under his super-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
160
CHattonbwy Mbeyj Patt and AvmiI.
vision was the tailorj, where clothes,
etc., were^made and repairecL There
were other offices connected with the
monasterj, but these were the princi«
pal, and next to these came the monks
who formed the convent with the la j
brethren and novices* If a child were
dedicated to God bj being sent to a
monastery, his parents were required
to swear that he would receive no por-
tion of fortune, directl j or indirect j ;
if a mature man presented himself, he
was required to abandon all his pos«
sessions, either to his ftunily or to the
monastery itself, and then to enter as
a novitiate. In order to make this as
trying as possible, the Benedictine rule
enjoined that no attention should be at
first paid to an applicant, that the door
should not be even opened to him for
four or five days, to test his persever-
ance. If he continued to knock, then
he was to be admitted to the guests'
house, and after more delay to the
novitiate, where he was submitted to
instruction and examination* Two
months were allowed for this test, and
if satisfactory, the applicant had the
rule read to him, which reading was
condnded with the words used by St.
Benedict himself, and already quoted :
^This is the law under which thou
art to live, and to strive for salvaticm.
If thou canst observe it, enter ; if not,
go in peace, thou art free.*' The no-
vitiate lasted one year, and during
this time the rule was read and the
question put thrice. If at the end of
that time the novice remained firm, he
was introduced to the community in
the church, made a declaration of his
vows in writing, placed it on the altar,
threw himself at the feet of the breth-
ren, and from that moment was a
monk. The rule which swayed this
mass of life, wherever it existed, in a
Benedictine monastery, and indirectly
the monasteries of other orders, which
are only modifications of the Benedict-
ine system, was sketched out by that
solitary hermit of Subiaco. It con-
sists of seventy-three chapters, which
contain a code of laws regulating the
duties between the abbot and his
xnonks, the mode^ conducting the di-
vine services, the administration of
penalties and discipline, the duties of
monks to each other, and the internal
economy of the monasteiy, the duties
of the institution toward the world
outside, the distribution of charity, the
kindly reception of strangers, the laws
to regulate the actions of those who
were compelled to be absent or to
travel; in fine, everything which coifld
pertain to the administration of an in-
stitution composed of an infinite va-
riety of characters subjected to one
absolute ruler. It has elicited the ad-
miration of the learned and good of
all subsequent ages. It b^ns with
the simple sentence: *' Listen, O .son,
to the precepts of the master! Do
not fear to receive the counsel of a
good father, and to fulfil it fully, that
thy laborious obedience may lead thee
back to him from whom disobedience
and weakness have alienated thee.
To thee, whoever thou art, who re-
nouncest thine own will to fight under
the true King, the Lord Jesus Christ,
and takest in hand the valiant and
glorious weapons of obedience, are
my words at this moment addressed.''
The first wonls, <^Ausculta, O fili I" are
often to be seen inscribed on a book
placed in the hands of St. Benedict, in
paintings and stained glass. The pre-
amble contains the injunction of the
two leading principles of the rule ; all
the rest is detail, marvellously thor-
ough and comprehensive. These two
grand principles were obedience and
Uibor — the former became absorbed in
the latter, for he speaks of that also
as a species of labor — ^ Obedientiss la-
borem ;" but the latter was the genius^
the master-spirit of the whole code.
There was to be labor, not only of con-
templation, in the shape of prayer,
worship, and self-<liscipluie, to nurture
the soul, but labor of action, vigorous,
healthy, bodily labor, with the pen in
the scriptorium, with the spade in the
fields, with the hatdict in the forest,
or with the trowel on the walls. Labor
of some sort there must be daily, but
no idleness : that was branded as ''the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
€3aal!0ffiJbmy Atbejff Pcut and Prment.
161
enemj of the sool"— ^Otioeitas inmii-
ca est animiB.'' It was eigoioed with
all the earnestness of one tharooghlj
imbued with the spirit of the great
Master, who said, ^ Work whilst it is
yet daj, for the night comethy when
DO man shall work f who woidd not
allow the man he had restored to come
and remain with him— that is, to lead
the life of religious contemplation, but
told him to ''go home to thy friends,
and tell them how great things the
Lord hath done fhr thee, and hath had
compassion on thee P That is the life
of religioas activity. The error of the
early monastieism was the making it
solely a life of contemplati<m« Be-
ligious contemplation and religious
actiyi^ must go together. In the
contemplation the Cboistian acquires
strength, in the activity he uses that
strength for others; in the activity
be is made to feel his weakness
and driven to seek for aid in contem-
plation and prayer.
But, beside being based upon di-
vine authority and example, this in-
jnnction of labor was formed upon a
clear insight into and full appreda*
tion of one of the most subtle elements
of our constitution. It is this, that
Without labor no man can live ; exist
he may, but not live. This xa
one of the great mysteries of life —
its greatest mystery ; and its most em*
pfaiUic lesson, which, if men would
only learn, it would be one great step
toward happiness, or at least toward
that highest measure of ht^piness at-
tainable below. If we can only real-
ize this iSEUst in the profundity of its
truth, we shall have at once the key
to half the miseries and anomalies
which beset humanity. Passed upon
man, in ih% first instance, by the Al-
migh^ as a curse, yet it carried in it
the germ of a blessing; pronounced
upon him as a sentence of punish-
ment, yet there lurked in the chastise-
ment the Father^s love. Turn where
we may, to the pages of bygone histo-
ry or to the unwritten page of every-
day life, fixHU the gildedsaloons of the
noble to the hut of the. peasant, we
vou m. 11
shall find this mysterious law working
out its results with the unerring pre-
cision of a fundamental principle of
nature. Where men obey that in-
junction of labor, no matter what theur
station, there is in the act the element
of happness, and wherever men
avoid that injunction there is always
the shadow <^ the unftilfilled cnrsedark-
ening their path. This is the great
due to the balance of compensation
between the rich and the poor. The
rich man has no urgent need to labor ;
his wealth provides him with the
means of escape fhxn the injunction,
and there is to be found in that man's
life, unless he, in some way, with his •
head or with his hands, woiks out his
measure of the universal task, a disso-
nance and a discord, a something
which, in spite of all his wealth and
all his luxury, c(»Tupts and poisons
his whole existence. It is a truth
which cannot be ignored— -no man
who has studied life closely has fiuled
to notice it, and no merely rich man
lives who has not felt it and would
not confess to its truth, if the question
were pressed upon him. But in the
case of the man who works, there is
in his daily life the element of happi-
ness, cares ^a^ before him, and alltiie
little caprices and kmgings of the im-
ag:mation-*-those gad-flies which tor-
ment the idle— are to him unknown.
He fulfils the measure of life; and
whatever his condition, even if desti-
tute in worldly wealth, we may be as-
sured that the poor man has great
compensations, and if he sat down
With the rich man to count up griev-
ances would check off a less number
than his wealthier brother. What-
ever his position, man should labor
diligentiy; if poor he should labor
and he may become rich, and if rich
he should labor still, that all the evils
attendant upon riches may disappear.
Pure health steals over the body, the
mind becomes dear, and the little
miseries of life, the petty grievances,
the fiuitastic wants, the morbid jeal-
ousies, the wasting weariness, and the
terriUe sense of vacuity whk^ haunt
Digitized^by CjOOQ IC
162
GZauttmStfrsf ASbe^y Past and Preteni.
the lite of one-balf of the rich in the
I world, all flee before the talisman of
' active labor ; nor should we be dis-
* oouraged bj failure, for it is better to
fail in action than to do nothing.
Af^er all, what is commonly call^
failure we shall find to be not alto-
gether such if we examine more
closely. We set out upon some ac-
tion or engagement, and after infinite
toil we miss the object of that akion
or cngagemenH, and they say we have
failed; but there is consolation in this
incontroreitible fact, that although we
may have missed the particular ob-
ject toward which our efforts have
been directed, yet we have not alto-
gether failed. There are many colla-
teral advantages attendant upon ex-
ertion which may even be of greater
importance than the attainment of the
immediate ohject of that exertion, so
that it is quite possible to fail wholly
in achieving a certain object and yet
make a glorious success. Half the
achievements of life are built up on
failures, and the greater the achieve-
ment, the greater evidence it is of per-
sistent combat with failure. The stu-
dent devotes his days and nights to
some intellectual investigation, and
though he may utterly fail in attain-
ing to the actual object of that search,
yet he may be drawn into some nar-
row diverging path in the wilderness
of thought which may lead him gradu-
ally away from his beaten track on to
the broad open light of discovery.
The navigator goes out on the broad
ocean in search of unknown tracts of
land, and though he may return, after
long and fruiUess wanderings, yet in
the voyages he has made he has ac-
quired experience, and may, perchance,
have learned some fact or thing which
will prove the means of saving htm in
the hour of danger. Those great lu-
minaries of the intellectual firmament
— *men who devoted their whole lives
to investigate, search, study, and
think for the elevation and good of
their fellows — hav6 only succe^ed af-
ter a long discipline of failmre, but by
that discipline their powers* have been
developed, their capacity of thought
expanded, and the experience gradu-
ally acquired which at length brought
success. T%ere is, then, no total fail-
ure to honest exertion, for he who
diligently labors must in some way
reap. It is a lesson often reiterated
in apostolic teaching that *^ whom the
Lord loveth he chasteneth ;* and the
truth of that lesson may be more fully
appreciated by a closer contemplation
of life, more especially this phenome-
non of life in which we see the Fa-
ther's love following close upon the
heels of his chastisement. The man
who woi^s lives, but he who works
not lives but a dying and a hopeless
life.
That vow of labor infused new vi-
tality into the monks, and instead of
living as they had hitherto done upon
the charity of the public, they soon
began not only to support themselves,
but to take the poor of their neighbor-
hood under their own especial protec-
tion. Whenever the Benedictines re-
solved on building a monastery, they
chose the most barren, deserted spot
they could find, often a piece of land
long regarded as useless, and therefore
frequently given without a price, then
they set to work, cleared a space for
their buildings, laid their foundations
deep in the earth, and by gradual but
unceasing toil, often with their own
hands, alternating their labor with
their prayers, they reared up those
stately abbeys which still defy the rav-
ages of age. In process of time the
desert spot upon which they had set-
tled underwent a complete transforma-
tion — a little world populous with busy
life sprang up m its midst, and far
and near in its vicinity the briers
were cleared away — ^thc hard soil
broken up— gardens and fields laid
out, and soon the land, cast aside by
its owners as useless, bore upon its
fertile bosom fiowers, fruit, com, in
all the rich exuberance of heaven's
blessing upon man's toil — aplenty and
peace smiled upon the whole scene-—
its haUs were vocal with the voice of
praise and the incense of charity arose
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Glastonhwry Ahbey, Past and PresenL
163
xto heaven from its altars. They came
apcm the scene poor and friendless —
they made themselves rich enough to
become the guardians of the poor and
friendless; and the whole secret of
their success, the magic by which they
worked these miracles, was none other
than that golden rule of labor .institut-
ed by the penetrating intellect of their
great founder; simple and only se-
cret of all success in this world, now
and ever — ^work — absolute necessity
to real life, and, united with faith, one
of the elements of salvation.
Before we advance to the consider-
ation of the achievements of the Bene-
dictine order, we wish to call atten-
tion to a circumstance which has sel-
dom, if ever, been dwelt upon by his-
torians, and which will assist us in es-
timating the influence of monachism
upon the embryo civilization of
£urope.
It is a remarkable fact that two
great and renowned phases of life ex-
isted in Uie world parallel to each
other, and went out by natural decay
just at the same period : chivalry and
monasticism. The latter was of elder
birth, but as in the reign of Henry
VJLII. England saw the last of mo-
nasticism, so amid some laughter,
mingled with a little forced serious-
ness, did she see the man who was
overturning that old system vainly
endeavoring to revive the worn-out
parapherufdia of chivalry. The jousts
and tournaments of Henry's time
were the sudden flashing up of that
once brilliant life, before its utter
extinction. Both had been great
things in the world — ^both had done
great things, and both have left traces
of their influence upon modem society
and modem refinement which have
not yet been obliterated, and perhaps
never will be. It may then be in-
teresting and instmctive if we were
to endeavor to compare the value
of each by the work it did in the
world. The origin of monasticism
we have already traced; that of
chivaliy requires a few comments.
Those who go to novels and romances
for theur history, have a notion that
chivalry existed only in the thirteenth)
fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, the
periods chosen for the incidents of those
very highly colored romances which
belong to that order of writing.
There is also a notion that it sprang
out of the Ousades, which, instead
of being its origin, were rather the
result of the system itself. The
real origin of chivalry may be fairly
traced to that period when the
great empire of the West was broken
up and subdivided by the barbarians
of the North. Upon the ruins of
that empire chivalry arose naturally.
The feudal system was introduced,
each petty state had a certain
number of vassals, commanded by
different chiefs, on whose estates
they lived, and to whom they swore
fealty in return for their subsistence ;
these again looked up to the king as
head.
By-and-bye, as the new form of life
fell into working order, it became
evident that these chiefs, with their
vassals, were a power in diemselves,
and by combination might interfere
with, if not overthrow, the authority of
the king himself. Their continued
quarrels amongst themselves were the
only protection ihQ king had against
them, buX gradually that ceased^ and
a time came when there was no occu-
pation for the superfluous valor of the
country; retauiers lay about castle-
yards in all the mischief of idleness,
dranken and clamorous; the kings
not yet firmly seated on their thrones
looked about for some current into
which they mi^t divert this danger-
ous spirit The condition of things in
the states themselves was bad enough;
the laws were feebly administered;
it was vain for injured innocence to
appeal against the violence of power ;
the swoid was the only lawgiver, and
strength the only opinion. Women
were violated with impunity, houses
burned, herds stolen, and even blood
shed without any possibility of re-
dress for the injured. This state of
things was the foundation of chivalry.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
164
CRatlofAwy AVhy, Pcui and I^remit
Listinctivelj led, or iiiBidiotuilj di-
rected to it, strong men began to take
upon themselves the honor of redress-
hig grievances, the ii\}ared woman
found an armed liberator springing
up in her defence, captives were res-
cued by superior force, injuries
avenged, and the whole system— bj
the encouragement of the petty kings
who saw in this rising feeling a vent
for the idle valor they so much dread-
ed — soon consolidated itself, was em-
bellished and made attractive by the
charm of gallantry, and the rewards
accorded to the successful by the fair
ladies who graced the courts. Things
went on well, and that dangerous
spirit which threatened to* overturn
royalty now became its greatest orna-
ment. In process of time it again
outgrew its work, and with all the ad-
vantages of organization and flatteries
of success, it once more became the
tenor of the crowned heads of Europe.
At this crisis, however, an event oc-
curred which, in all probability, though
it drained Europe of half her man-
hood, sav^d her from centuries of
bloodshed and anarchy ; that event
was the banishment of the Christians
and the taking of Jerusalem by the
Saracens. Here was a grand field
for the display of chivalry. Priestly
influence was brought to bear upon
the impetuous spirits of these cheva-
liers, religious rervor was accused,
and the element of religious enthu-
siasm infused into the whole organiza-
ti(m ; fair ladies bound the cross upon
the breasts of their champions, and
bid them go and fight under the ban-
ners of the Mother of God. The
whole continent fired up under the
preaching of Peter the Hermit; all
the rampant floating chivalry of
Europe was aroused, flocked to the
standards of the church, and banded
themselves together in &vor of thia
Holy War ; whilst die Goth, the Van-
dal, and the Lombard, sitting on their
tottering thrones, encouraged by
every means in theur power t&s diver-
sion of the prowess they had so muc&
dreaded, and b^gan to see in the
troubles of Eastern Christiamty a fit-
ting point upon which to conoaitrala
the fighting material of Europe oat of
their way until their own positioo was
more thoroughly consolidated* The
Crusades, however, came to an end in
time, and Europe was once more de-
luged with bands of warriors who
came trooping home from Eastern
climes changed with new ideas, new
traditions, and filled with martial ar-
dor. But now the Goth, the Van-
dal, and the Lombard had made their
position secure, and the knights and
chieftains fell back natura&y upon
their old pursuit of chivalry, took up
arms once more in defence of the
weak and injured against the strong
and oppressive. T&U valor whi<£
had fought foot to foot witii the
swarthy Saracen, had braved the pes-
tilence of Eastern climes and the hor-
rors of Eastern dungeons, soon enlisted
itself in the more peaceable lists of
the joust and tournament, and went
forth under the inspiration of a mis-
tress's love-knot to do tiiat work
which we material moderns contuga
to the office of a ma^strate and the
arena of a quarter sessions.
It was in this later age of chivalry,
when the religious element had
blended with it, and it was dignified
with the traditions of religious cham-
pionship, that the deeds were sup-
posed to be done which form the
subject of those wonderful romances ;
—that was more properly the perfec-
tion of the institution ; its or^n lay,
as we have seen, much further back.
As regards the difference between
the work and influence of chivalry
and monastidsm, it is the same whici
always must exist between the physi-
cal and the moral— the one was a
material and the other was a spiritual
force. The orders of chivalry includ-
ed all the phpical strength of the
country, its active material ; but the
monasteiy included all its spiritual
power and thinking material. Chiv-
alry was the instrument by which
mighty deeds were done, but the intel-
lect which guided, directed, and in
Digitized by CjOOQIC
GUutmJbwry Atbeyf Pott and PnsmU.
1G5
fact used that inBtrament was de-
yeloped and matured in the seclnflioa
of the cloister. Bj the adoption of a
stringent code of honor as regards the
plighted word, and a gallant consider-
ation toward the vanquished and
weak, chival^ did much toward the
refinement of social intercommnnicar
tion and assuaging the atrocities of
warfare. Bj the adoption, also, of a
gentle bearing and respectfol demean*
or toward the opposite sex, it elevated
woman from the obscuri^ in which
she lay, and placed her in a position
where she could exercise her soften-
ing influence upon the rude customs
of a half-fonned society ; but we
must not forget that the gallantry of
chivalry was, after all, but a glossing
over with the splendors of heroism
the excrescences of a gross licentious-
ness — a licentiousness which mounted
to its crisis in the polished gallantry
of the court of Louis XIV. Monas-
ticism did more for woman than chi-
valry. It was all very well for preux
ehevaUers to go out and fight for the
honor of a woman's name whom they
had never sean; but we find that
when they were brought into contact
with woman they behaved with like
ruthless violence to her whatever her
station may have been — ^no matter
whether she was the pretty daughter
of the herdsman, or the wife of some
neighboring baron, she was seized
by violence, carried off to some re-
mote fortress, violated and abandoned.
Monasticism did something better *
it provided her when she was no
longer safe, either in the house of her
£M;her or her husband, with an im-
pregnable shelter against the licen-
tious pursuit of these prevLx chevaliers;
it gave her a position in the church
equal to their own; she might be-
come the prioress or the lady abbess
of her convent ; she was no longer
ihe sport and victim of chivalrous
licentiousness, but a pare and spotless
handmaiden of the Most High — ^a
fcUow-servant in the church, where
she was honored with equal position
and rewarded with equal dignitie
a far better thing this than chivahry,
wlilch broke skulls in honor of her
namcr whilst it openly violated the
sanctity of her person. It may be
summed up in a sentence. Monasti-
cism worked long and silently at the^
foundation and superstructure of so-
ciety, whilst chivalry labored at ita
decoration.
When we mention the fact that the
history of the mere literary achieve-
ments of the Benedictine order fills
four large quarto volumes, printed in
double columns, it will be readily
understood how impossible it is to
give anything like an idea of its gene-
ral work in &e world in the space of
a short sommaxy. That book, written
by Zeigelbaner, and called ^ HiBtoria
Rei Literariad Ordinis Sancti Bene-
dicti," contains a short biography of
every monk belonging to that order
who had distinguished himself in the
realms of literature, science, and art.
Then comes Don Johannes Mabillon
with his ponderous work, ^Acta
Sanctorum Ordinis Sancti Benedicti.*'
These two authorities gave a minute
history of that marvellous institution,
of whose glories we can only offer a
faint outline.
The Benedictines, after the death
of their founder, steadily prospered,
and as they prospered, sent out mis-
sionaries to preach the truth amongst
the nations then plunged in the dqpths
of paganism. It has been estimated
that they were the means of couvertmg
upwards of thirty countries and pro-
vinces to the Christian faith. They
were the first to overturn the altars
of the heathen deities in the north of
Europe; they carried the cross into
Gaul, into Saxony and Belgium ; they
placed that cross between the abject
misery of serfdom and the cruelty of
feudal violation; between the beasts
of burden and the beasts of prey —
they proclaimed the common^kinship
of humanity in Christ the Elder
Brother.
Strange to say, some of its most
distinguished missionaries were na-
tives of our own country. It was a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
166
GlcLgUmhury Abbey, Past and Present.
Scottish monk, St. Ribanus, who first
preached the gospel in Franconia — ^it
was an English monk, St Wilfred,
who did the same in Friesland au4
Holland in the year 683, but with
little snccess-^it was an Englishman,
St Swibert, who carried the cross to
Saxony, and it was from the lips of
another Englishman, St IJifred, that
Sweden first heard the gospel — ^it
was an Englishman and a Devonshire
man, St Boni&ce, who laid aside his
mitre, put on his monk's dress, con«
▼erted Germany to the tnilh, and
then fell a victim to the fury of the
heathen Frieslanders, who slaughtered
him in cold blood. Four Benedictine
monks carried the light of truth into
Denmark, Sweden, and Gothland,
sent there in the ninth century by the
Emperor Ludovicus Pius. Gascony,
Hungary, Lithuania, Russia, Pomer-
ania, are all emblazoned on their
banners as victories won by them in
the fight of faith ; and it was to the
devotion of five martyr monks,
who fell in the work, tliat Poland
traces the foundation of her church.
It is a remarkable fact in the his-
tory of Christianity, that in its earliest
stage — ^the first phase of its existence
— its tendency was to elevate peas-
ants to the dignity of apostles, but in
its second stage it reversed its opera-
tions and brought kings from their
thronesto the seclusion of the cloister —
humbled the great ones of the earth to
the dust of penitential humility. Up to
the fourth century Christianity was
a terrible struggle against principali-
ties and powers: then a time came
when principalities and powers hum-
bled themselves at the foot of that
cross whose followers they had so
cruelly persecuted. The innumerable
martyrdoms of the first four centu-
ries of its career were followed
by a long succession of' royal hu-
miliations, for, during the sixth,
seventh, eighth, and ninth cen-
turies, in addition to what took
place as regards other orders, no less
than ten emperors and twenty kings
resigned their crowns and became
monks of the Benedictine order alone.
Amongst this band of great ones the
most conspicuous are the Emperors
Anastasius, Theodosius, Michael,
Theophilus, and Ludovicus Pius.
Amongst the kings are Sigismund of
Burgundy, Cassimir of Poland, Bamba
of Spain, Childeric and Theodoric of
France, Sigisbert of Northumberland,
Ina of the West Saxons, Ycremunde
of Castille, Pepin of Italy, and Pipin
of Acquitaine. Adding to (hese
their subsequent acquisitions, the
Benedictines claim up to the 14th.
century the honor of enrolling
amongst their number twenty^ em-
perors and forty-seven kings : twenty
sons of emperors and forty-eight sons
of kings — amongst whom ^ were
Drogus, Pipin, and Hugh, sons of
Charlemagne ; LoUiair and Carlomen,
sons of Charles ; and Fredericq, son
of Louis in. of France. As nuns of
their order they have had no less
than ten empresses and fifty queens,
including the Empresses Zoa Euphro-
syne, St Cunegunda, Agnes, Augusta,
and Constantina; the Queens Batllda
of France, Elfreda of Northumber-
land, Sexburga of Kent, Ethelberga
of the West Saxons, Ethelreda of
Mercia, Ferasia of Toledo, Maud of
England. In the year 1290 the
Empress Elizabeth took the veil with
her daughters Agnes, queen of Ilnn-
gary, and the Countess Cueba; also
Anne, queen of PoJand, and Cecily,
her daughter. In the wake of these
crowned heads follow more than pne
hundred princesses, daughters of kings
and emperors. Five Benedictine
nuns have attained literary dis-
tinction — Rosinda, St Elizabeth, St.
Hildegardis, whose works were ap-
proved of by the XJoundl of Treves,
St Hiltrudis, and St MetildxL
For the space of 239 years 1 month
and 26 days the Benedidines governed
the church in the shape of 48 popes
chosen from their order, most promi-
nent among whom was Gregory the
Great, through whose means the rule
was introduced into England. Four of
these pontifis came from the original
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Cfkulonbury Mbeyj Past and Present
167
mooastaiy of Monte CassinOy and
thx6e of them quitted the throne and
resomed the monastic life-^Constan-
tine JI^ Ghmtopher L, and Gregory
Xn. Two 4mndred cardinalB had
been monks in their cloisters — they
inodncod 7,000 archbishops, 15,000
bishqMy fifteen of whom took off
their mitres, resumed their monks'
frocky and died in seckision; 15,000
abbots; 4,000 saints. Iliey established
in different countries altogether
87,000 monasteries, which sent out
into the world upwaids of 15,700
monks, alLof whom attained distinc-
Qoo as aumors of books or scientifie
inventors. Babanus established the
first school in Germany. Alcuin
founded the University of Paris,
where 30,000 sbidents were educated
at one time, anfl whence issued, lo the
honor of £ngland, St Thomas k
Bedcety Robert of Melun, Robert
White, made cardinal by Celestme
JLf Nicholas Broakspear, the only'
Englishman ever made Pope, who
flll^ the chair under the title of
Adrian IV., and John of Salisbury,
whose writings give us the best de-
scription of the learning both of the
university and the times. Theodore
and Adrian, two Benedictine monks,
revived the University of Oxford,
which Bede, another of the order,
considerably advanced. It was in
the obscurity of a Benedictine mon«
astery that the musical scale or gamut
— ^the very alphabet of the greatest
refinement of modem life — was in-
vented, and Guide d^Arezzo, who
vrrested this secret from the i*ealms
of sound, was the first to found a
school of music Sylvester invented
the organ, and Dionysius Exignus
perfected the ecclesiastical computa*
tJdU
England in the early periods of her
history contributed upwards of a
hundnad sons to this band of immor-
tals, the most distinguished of whom
we will just enumerate-^t. Cuthbert,
bishop of Lindis&me, whose life Bede
has written, and whose '^Ordina-
tiones" and "< De Vita Monastica"
hfiive reached to our times. St» Bene-
dict Biscop, the founder of the mxmas'
teries of St. Peter and St. Paul, at
Wearmouth and Jarrow, a nobleman
by birth, and a man of extraordinary
learning and ability, to whom England
owe4 the training of the father of her
occlesiasticai history, the Venerable
Bede. St. Aldhelm, nephew of King
Ina, St. Wilfrid, St Brithwald, a
^nonk of Glastonbury, elevated to the
dignity of Archbishop of Canterbury,
which he held over thirty-seven
years. His works which have come
down to us are a ^ Life of St. Egwin,
bishop of Worcester," and the " Ori-
gin of the Monastery of Evesham.^
Tatwin, who succeeded him in the
archbishopric Bede the Venerable,
who was skilled in all the learning of
the times, and; in addition to Latin
and Greek, was versed in Hebrew;
he wrote an immense number of
works, many of which are lost, but
the best known are the greater por-
tion of the " Saxon Chronicle," which
was continued after his death as a
national record; and his ^Ecclesias-
tical History," which gives to England
a more compendious and valuable
account of her early church than has
fallen to the lot of any other nation.
He was also one of the earliest trans-
lators of the Scriptures, and oven on
his death-bed dictated to a scribe
almost np to the final moment ; when
the last struggle came upon Mm he
had reached as far as the words, ^' But
what are they among so many," in
the sixth chapter of St. John's Gospel,
and the ninth verse. St. Boniface, al-
ready alluded to as the apostle of
Germany, was a native of Devonshire.
He was made Archbishop of Mentz, but
being possessed with an earnest longing
to ccmvert the heathen Frieslanders,
he retired from his archbishopric,
and putting on his monk's dress took
with him no other treasui^ than a
book he was veiy fond of reading,
called "De Bono Mortis," went
amongst these peo{^e, who cruelly
beat him to death in the year 755 ;
and the book stained with his blood
Digitized by CjOOQIC
168
Gla^aniury Aib^, Poit and Pn$mt.
waf dLerisbod as a saered rdic long
aft^« AlcoiDy whcmi we have already
mentioned as the founder of the
Unirersitj of Paris, was a Yorkshire-
man, and was eda<!ated ander Bede.
He lived to become the friend of
Charlemagne, and next to his venera-
ble master was the greatest scholar
and divine in Europe ; he died about
the year 790. John Asser, a native
of Pembrokeshire, is another of these
worthies. It is supposed that Alfred
endowed Oxford with professors, and
settled stipends upon them, under his
influence, he being invited to the
court of that monarch for his great
learning* He wrote a '^ Commen-
tary^ upon Boethius de Consolatione
PhiloBophise, the ''Life of King
Alfred," and the << Annals of Great
Britain." St. Dunstan, a monk of Glas-
tonbury, the best known of all these
great Englishmen, died Archbishop
of Canterbury ; but as we shall have
much to say of him hereafter we pass
on to St. Ethelwdld, his pupil, also a
monk at Glastonbory, distinguished
for his learning and piety, for which
he was made abbot of the Monastery
of Abingdon, where he died in the
year 984. Ingulphus, a native of
London, was nmde Abbot of Croy-
land, in Lincolnshire, in the year
1075. A hbtory of the abbey over
which he presided has been attri-
buted to him, but ifs authenticity has
been gravely disputed. Alfric, a noted
grammarian. Florence, of Worcester,
was another great annaHst, who in his
^'Chronicon ex Chronici" brings the
history down to the year 1119, that
in which he died ; his book is chiefly
valuable as a key to the <' Saxon Chro-
nicle." William, the- renowned monk
of Mabnesbuiy, the most elegant of
all the monastic Latinists, was bom
about the time of the Norman Con-
quest. His history consists of two
parts, the '' Gesta Begum Anglorum,"
in Ave books, induing the period
between the arrival of the Saxons
and the year 1120. The '<Historia
Novella," in three books, brings it
down to the year 1142. He ranks
next to Bede as an historic wik»,
most of the oth^s being mere com-
pilers and selectors fi(t>m extant chro-
nicles. He also wrote a work on the
history of the English bishops, called
«De Gestis Pooddficum Anglorum,"
in which he speaks out fSsarlessly anid
without sparing: also a treatise on
the anttqui^ of Glastonbury Abbey,
^ De Antiquitate Glastoniensis Eccle-
siffi;" his style is most interesting,
and he is supposed to have written
impartially, separating the improba-
ble from the real, and gives us
what can readily be apmje^ated b&
a fair and real picture of me state of
things, more especially of tise influ-
ence and policy of the Norman court,
and the opening of the straggle be-
tween the two races. Eadmer was
another oon(emp(»raneous celebrity
with William of Malmesbury ; he was
the author of a history of his own
times, called '^Historia Novorum
sive Sui Secula," which is spoken of <
very highly by William of Malmes-
bury; it contains the reigns of Wil^^
liam the Conqueror and Bufus, and
a portion of that of Henry L, em-
bracing a period extending from 1066
to 1122. Matthew Paris, another
historian who lived about the year
1259, closes our selection from
the long list of British worthies who
were members of the Benedictine
order.
When we reflect that all the other
monastic systems, not only of the
past, but even of the present day,
are but modificaticms of this same
rule, and that it emanated from the
brain, and is the embodiment of the
genius of the solitary hermit of Monte
Cassino, we are lost in astonishment
at the magnitude of the results * which
have sprung from so simple an or^n.
That St. Benedict had any presenti-
ment of the future glory of his order,
there is no sign in his rule or his life.
He was a great and good man, and
he produced that comprehensive rule
simply for the guidance of his
own immediate followers, without a
thought beyond. But it was blessed,
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GtaMio9ilkury Aibey^ PaH and Present
169
tM gtew and pro^ered migbtilj in
the worid. He has been called
the MoBCB of a fiivored people;
and the oompftrismi is not inap^
for he kd hifl order on up to
the yery borders of the promised
coaatryf and a^er his death, which,
like Uttt of Moses, took place within
sight of their goal, they fought their
way throng the hostile wilds of
barbarisBdy ontil those men who
had conqnered the ancient dvili^a-
tioBS of Europe laj at their feet,
booad in the fettera of spiritual snb-
jeetioa to the eross of Christ. The
wild races of Bcandinayia came pour*
mg down upon southern Europe in
one vast march of extermination,
slaying and destroying as they ad-
Trailed, sending berore them the ter-
ror of that doom which might be seen
in the desolation which lay behind
them ; but they fell, vanquished by
the power of the army of Qod, who
sallied forth in turn to reconquer the
world, and fighting not with the
weapons of fire and sword, but, like
Christian soldiers, girt about with
truth, and having on the breastplate
of righteousness, they snbdaed these
wild races, who had crushed the con-
querors of the earth, and rested not
tmtil they had stonned the strong-
hold, and planted the cross trium-
phantly upon the citadel of an andent
paganism. Time rolled on, and the
gloom of a long age of daiimess foil
upon a world whose glory lay buried
under Roman ruins. Science had
gone, literature had vanished, art
had flown, and men groped about in
vain in that dense darluiess for one
ray of hope to cheer them in their
sorrow. The castle of the powerful bar-
on rose gloomily above them, and with
spacious moat, dense walls, and bat-
tlemented towers, frowned ominously
upon the world which lay aliject at
its feet. In slavery men were bom,
and in slavery they hved. They
pandered to the licentiousness and
violence of him who held their lives in
bis hands, and fed them only to fight
and &11 at his bidding. But tar away
from the castle there arose another
building, massive, solid, and strong,
not frowning with battlemented tow-
ers, nor isolated by broad moats ; but
with open gates, and a hearty wel-
come to aU comers, stood the monas-
tery, where lay the hope of humanity,
as in a safe asylum. Behind its
walls was the church, and clustered
around it the dwelling-places of those
who had left the world, and devoted
their lives to the service of that
church, and the salvation of their
souls. Far and near in its vicmity
the land bore witness to assiduous
culture and diligent care, bearing on
its fertile bosom the harvest hope of
those who had labored, which the heav-
ens watered, the sun smiled upon, and
the winds played over, until the heart
of man rejoiced, and all nature was
big with the promise of increase.
This was the refuge to which religion
and art had fied. In the quiet seclu-
sion of its cloisters science labored at
its problems and perpetuated its re-
sults, uncheered by applause and
stimulated only by the pure love of
the pursuit Art toiled in the church,
and whole generations of busy fingers
worked patiently at the decoration of
the temple of the Most High. The
pale, thoughtful monk, upon whose
brow genius had set her mark, wan-
dered into the calm retirement of the
library, threw back his cowl« buried
himself in the study of philosophy,
history, or divinity, and transferred
his thoughts to vellum, which was to
moulder and waste in darkness and
obscurity, like himself in his lonely
monk's grave, and be read only when
the spot where he labored should be
a heap of ruins, and his very name a
controversy amongst scholars.
We should never lose sight of this
truth, that in this building, when the
world was given up to violence and
darkness, was garnered up the hope of
humanity ; and these men who dwelt
there in contemplation and obscurity
were its faithful guardians ^— and this
was more particularly the case with
that great order whose foundation we
Digitized by CjOOQIC
170
Sainti of the Deterk
have been examining. The Benedict
tines were the depositaries of learning
and the arts ; thej gathered books to-
gether, and reproduced them in the si-
lence of their cells, and thej preserved
in this way not only the volumes of
sacred writ, but many of the works
of classic lore. They started Grothic
architecture — that matchless union of
nature with art — they alone had the
secrets of chemistry and medical sci-
ence ; they invented many colors ;
they were the first architects, artists,
glass-fitainers, carvers, and mosaic
workers in mediseval times. They
were the original illuminators of
manuscripts, and the first transcribers
of books ; in fine, they were the writ-
ers, thinkers, and workers of a dark
age, who wrote for no applause,
thought with no encouragement, and
worked for no reward. Their power,
too, waxed mighty; kings tremMhd
before their demmciations of granny,
and in the hour of danger fled to
their altars for safety ; and it was an
English king who made a pilgrimage
to their shrines, and^ prostrate at the
feet of five Benedictine monks, bared
his back, and submitted himself to
be scourged as a penance to hb
crimes.
Nearly fonrteen hondred jean
have rolled by since the great man
who founded this noble order died;
and be who in afler years compiled
the ^' Saxon Chraoiole'' has reoordt*
ed it In a simple, sentence, whieh,
amongst the many reoords of that
document, we may at least belieye,
and with which we will conclude the
chapter— "^ This year St. Benedict
the Abbot, father of all monks, went
to heaven.*'
From The Month.
SAINTS OF THE DESERT,
BT THB REV. J. H. NBWMAK, D.D.
1. Some old men came to Abbot
Antony, who, to ixy their spirits, pro-
posed to them a difficult passage of
Scripture.
As each in turn did bis best to ex-
plain it, Antony said : " You have not
liitiL"
Till Abbot Joseph said : ^ I give it
up.**
Then cried Antony : " He has hit
it ; for he owns he does not know it.**
2. When the Abbot Arseniuswas
at the point of death, his brethren
noted that he wept. They said then :
^^ Is it so ? art thou too afraid, O fa-
ther?"
He answered : ^ It is so ; and the fear
that is now upon me has been with
me ever since I became a monk."
And so he went to sleep.
8. Abbot Pastor said: " We cannot
keep out bad thoughts, as we cannot
stop the wind rushing through the
door ; but we can resist them when
they come.*'
4 Abbot Besarion said, when he
was dying : ^ A monk ought to be all
eye, as the cherubim and seraphim."
5. They asked Abbot Macarios bow
they ought to pray.
The old man made answer: ^No
need to be voluble in prayer; but
stretch forth thy hands frequently, and
say, ^ Lord, as thou wilt, and as thou
knowest, have mercy on me.' And if
war is coming on, say, ' Help!' And
he who himself knoweth what is ex-
pedient for thee, will show thee men^."
^ 6. On a festival, when the monks
were at table, one cried out to the serv-
ers, ^ /eat nothing dressed, so bring
me some salt."
Blessed Theodore made reply : « My
brother, better were it to have even
secretly eaten flesh in thy cell than
thus loudly to have refused it"
7. An old man said : ^ A monk's
cell is that golden Babylonian furnace
in which tba Three Children found
the Son of God."
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Chris^ne: A Trovhadow's Sang. 171
[OBUOKAX..]
CHRISTINE :
A TROUBADOUR'S SONG,
IW FITB CANTOB.
BY GBOBGB H. HILB8.*
(cx>irTxxinm«)
THB THISD SONG.
Fronting the vine-clad Hermitage, —
Itfi hoary turrets mossed with age,
Its walls with flowers and grass o'ergrown, —
A mined Castle, throned so high
Its battlements invade the sW,
Looks down upon the rusliing Khone.
From its tall summits you may see
The sunward slopes of Cote liotie
With its red harvest's revelry ;
While eastward, midway to the Alpine snows,
Soar the sad cloisters of the Grande Chartreuse.
And here, 'tis said, to hide his shame,
The thrice accursed Pilate came ;
And here the very rock is shown.
Where, racked and riven vnth remorse,
Mad with the memory of the Cross,
He sprang and perished in the Khone.
Tis said that certain of his race
Made this tall peak their dwelling place.
And built them there this castle Keep
To mark the spot of Pilate's leap.
^ * Entered according to Act of Coogress, in the year 1886, by Lawrence Kehoe, In the Clerk *a
Oflloe of the Diatrict Court of the Unlted^Utes for the Soathern District of New York.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
172 ChriiHne: A TVouicufotir't Song.
Full many the tale of terror told
At eve, with changing cheek,
By maiden fair and stnpling bold*
Of these dark keepers of the height
And, most of all, of the Wizard Knight,
The Knight of Pilate's Peak.
His was a name of terror known
And feared through all Provence;
Men breathed it in an undertone.
With quailing eye askance,
Till the good JJauphin of Vienne,
And Miolan's ancient Lord,
One midnight stormed the robber den
And gave them to the sword ;
All save the Wizard Knight, who rose
In a flame-wreath from his dazzled foes ;
All save a child, with golden hair.
Whom the Lord of Miolan deigrifed to spare
In ruth to womanhood,
And she, alas, is the maiden fair
Who wept in the walnut wood.
But who is he, with step of fate,
Groes gloomily through the castle gate
In me morning's virgin prime? •
,Why scattereth he with frenzied hand
The fierce flame of that burning brand,
Chaunting an ancient rhyme?
The eagle, scared from her blazing nest,
Whirls with a scream round his sable crest*
What muttereth he with demon smile.
Shaking his mailed hand the while
Toward the Chateau of La Sone,
Where champing steed and bannered tent
Gave token of goodly tournament,
And the Golden Dolphin shone?
" Woe to the last of the Dauphin's line,
When the eagle shrieks and the red lights sliine
Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak !
Bum, beacon, bum !" — and as he spoke
From the ruined towers curled the i3illared smoke,
As the light flame leapt from the ancient oak
And answered the eagle's shriek.
Man and horse down the hillside sprang
And a voice through the startled forest rang —
*' I ride, I ride to win m v bride..
Ho, EblisI to thy servants side;
Thou hast sworn no foe
Shall lay me low
Till the dead in arms against me ride."
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CMfHne: A Ihntbadaw's Sang. '173
n.
DeUcioudy, deliciously
Cometh the dancing dawn,
Christine, Christine comes with it>
Leading in the mom.
Beantiful pair I
So cometh tne fawn
Before the deer.
Christine is in her bower
Beside the swift Is^re
Weaving a white flower
With her dark brown hair.
Never, O never,
Wandering river.
Though flowing for ever,
E'er shalt thon mirror
Maiden so fair I
Hail to thee, hail to thee,
Beautiful one;
Maiden to match thee,
On earth there is none.
And there is none to teU
How beautiful thou art :
Though oft the first Eudel
Has made the Princes start,
When he has strung his harp and sung
The Lily of Provence,
Tfll the high halls have rung
With clj^ of lifted lance
Vowed to the young
Christine of France.
Ah, true that he micht paint
The blooming of thv cmeek.
The blue vein's tenner streak
On marble temple faint ;
Lips in whose repose
Euby weddeth rose.
Lips that parted show
Ambushed pearl below:
Or he may catch the subtle glow
Of smiles as rare as sweet,
May whisper of the drifted snow
Where tliroat and bosom meet.
And of the dark brown braids that flow
So grandly to thy feet. ,
Ah, true that he may sing
Thy wondrous mien.
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174 Ckri$Hne: A Trauhadow'^ Song*
Stateljr as befits a queen,
^ Yet light and lithe and all awing
As beeometh Queen of air
Who glideth unstepping everywhere.
And he might number e'en
The charms that haunt the drapery —
Charms tliat, ever changing, cluster
Kound thy milk-white mantle's lustre, —
Maiden mantle that is part of thee.
Maiden mantle that doth circle thee
With the snows of virgin grace ;
Halo-like around tliee wreathing,
Spirit-like about thee breathing
The glory of thy face.
But these dark eyes, Christine I
Peace, poet, peace,
Cease, minstrel, cease!
But these dear eyes, Christine?
Mute, O mute
Be voice and lute!
O dear dark eyes that seem to dwell
With holiest things invisible,
Who may read your oracle ?
Earnest eyes tliat seem to rove
Empyrean heights above,
Yet aglow witli aumaii love.
Who may speak your spell?
Dear dark eyes tliat beam and bless,
In whose luminous caress
Nature wearetli bridal dress, —
Eyes of voiceless Prophetess,
Your meanings ^^-lio may tell I
O there is none!
Peace, poet, peace.
Cease, minstrel, cease,
For th^-e is nonel
eyes of fire witliout desire,
O stars that lead the sun I
But minstrel cease,
Peace, poet, peace.
Tame Troubadour be still;
Voice and lute
Alike be mute,
It passeth all your skill I
Sooth thou art fair,
O ladye dear.
Yet one may see
The shadow of the east in thee ;
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Origtine: A Ihmbadour^t Song. 175
Tinting to a riper flush
The faint vermilion of thy blush ;
Deepening in thy dark brown hair
Till sunshine sleeps in starlight there.
For she had scarce seen summers ten,
When erst the Hermit's call >,
Sent all true Knights from bower and hall
Against the Saracen.
Young, motherless, and passing fair,
The JBauphin durst not leave her there,
Within his castle lone,
To kinsman's cold or casual care,
Not such as were his own:
And so the sweet Provencal maid
Shared with her sire the lii'st Crusade.
And you may hear her oft,
In accents strangely soft.
Still singing of the rose's bloom
In Sharon, — of the long sunset ^
That gilds lamenting Olivet,
Of eglantines that grace the gloom
Of sad Gethsemane ;
And of a young Knight ever seen
In evening walks along the green
That fringes feeble Siloe.
Toung, beautiful, and passing fair —
The ancient Dauphin's only heir,
The fairest flower of France,^—
Ejiights by sea and Knights by land
Came to claim the fair white hand,
With sigh and suppliant lance ;
And many a shield
Displayed afleld
The Lily of Provence.
Ladye love of prince and bard
Tet to one young Savoyard
Swerveless faith she gave —
To the youn^ knight ever seen
When moonlight wandered o'er the green
That gleams o'er Siloe's wave.
And he, blest boy, where lingers he?
For the Dauphin hath given slow consent
That, aft»r a joyous tournament,
The stately spousals shall be.
Christine is in her bower
That blooms by the swift Isdre,
Twining a white flower
With her dark brown hair.
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176 Okriilifu: A Traubadaur'i Sang.
The Bkies of Provence
Are bright with her glance,
And nature's matin or^an floods
The world with music from the myriad throats
Of the winged Troubadours, whose jojous notes
Brighten the rolling requiem of the woods.
With melody, flowers, and light
Hath the maiden come to play,
As fragile, fair, and bright
And lovelier than they?
O no, she has come to her bower
That blooms by the dark Isdre
For tlie bridegroom who named the first hour
Of day-dawn to meet her there :
But tlie bridal mom on the hills is bom
And the bridegroom is not here*
Hie thee hither, Savoyard,
On such an errand youth rides liard.
Never knight so dutiful
Maiden fafled so beautiful :
And she in such sweet need,
And he so bold and true! —
She will watch by the long green avenue
Till it quakes to the tramp of his steed ;
Till it echoes the neigh of the gallant Grey
Spurred to the top of his speed.
In the dark, green, lonely avenue
The LadyeTier love-watch keepeth,
Listening so close that she can hear
The very dripping of the dew
Stirred by the worm as it creepeth;
« Straining her ear
For her lover's coming
Till his steed seems near
In the bee's far humming.
She stands in the silent avenue.
Her back to a cypress tree;
O Savoyard once bold and true,
Late bridegroom, where canst thou be ?
Harkt o'er the bridge that spans the river
There cometh a (Mattering tread,
Never was shaft from mortal quiver
Ever so swiftly sped.
Onward the sound,
Bound after, bound,
Leapeth along the tremulous ground.
From the nodding forest darting.
Leaves, like water, round them parting.
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CkrMne: A Ihmhadaia'f Song. 177
Up the long green avenne,
. Horse and norseman buret in view.
Marry, what ails the brideffrobm gay
That he strideth a coal black steed,
Why Cometh he not on the gallant Grey
That never yet failed him at need t
Gone is the white plume, that clouded liis crest,
And the love-scarf that lightly lay over his breast;
Dark is his shield as the raven's wing
To the funeral banquet hurrying.
Came ever knight in such sad array
On the merry mom of his bridal day?
The Ladye trembles, and well she may;
Saints, you would think him a fiend astxay.
A plunge, a pause, and, fast beside her.
Stand the sable horse and rider.
Alas. Christine, this shape of wrath
In Iralestine once crossed thy path ;
His arm around thy waist, I trow,
To bear thee to his saddle-bow.
But thy Savoyard was there.
In time to save, tho' not to smite,
For the demon fled into the night
From Miolan's matchless heir.
Alas, Christine, that lance lies low —
lies low on oaken bier 1
Low bent the "Wizard, till his plume
O'ershadowed her like falling doom :
She feels the cold casque touch her ear,
She hears the whisper, hollow, clear, —
"From Acre's strand, from Holy Land,
O'er mountain crag, through desert sand,
By land, by sea, I come tor thee.
Aid mine ere sunset shalt thou be 1
Dost know me, rirl ?"
The visor raises —
God, 'tis the Knight of Pilate's Peak I
As if in wUdered dream she gazes.
Gazing as one who strives to shriek.
She cannot fly, or speak, or stir,
For that face of horror glares, at her
Like a phantom fresh from hell.
She gave no answer, she made no moan;
Mute as a statue overthrown.
Her fair face cold as carved stone,
Swooning the maiden fell.
The sun has climbed the golden hills
And danceth down with the mountain rills.
VOL. IIL 12
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J78 Chrittim: A Thmbadouf^s Song.
Over the meadow the swift beams rmi
lifting the flowers, one by one,
Sipping their chalices dry as they pass,
And kissing the beads from the bending grass.
' The Dauphin's chateau, grand and grey,
Glows merrily in the risen day;
His castle that seemeth ancient as earth,
Lights up like an old man in his mirtli.
Through the forest old, the sunbeams bold
Their glittering revel keep.
Till, in arrowy gold, on the chequered wold
In glancing lines they sleep.
And one sweet beam hath found its way
To the violet bank where the Ladye lay.
O radiant touch 1 Derchance so shone
The hand that woke the widow's son.
She sighs, she stirs; the death-swoon breaks;
Life slowly fires those pallid lips ;
And feebly, painfully, she wakes,
StruggliUj^ through that dark eclipse.
Breathing fresh of Alpine snows,
Breathing sweets of summer rose.
Murmuring songs of soft repose,
The soutli wind on her bosom blows:
But she heeds it not, she hears it not ;
Fast she sits with steady stare.
The dew-drops heavy on her hair,
Her fingers clasped in dumb despair,
Frozen to the spot:
While o'er her fierce and fixed as fate,
The fiend on his spectral war-horse sate.
A horrible smile through tlie visor broke,
And, quoth he,
"I but watched till my Ladye woke.
Gtet thee a flagon of Shiraz wine, '
For the lips must bo red that answer mine 1"
Cleaving tne woods, like the wind he went.
His face o'er his shoulder ba(5kward bent,
Crying thrice — "We shall meet at the Tournament P
Clasping the cypress overhead,
Christine rose from her fragrant bed.
And a prayer to Mother Mary sped.
Hold not those gleaming skies for her
The same unfailing Comforter?
And those two white winged cherubim,
She once had seen, when Christmas hymn
Chimed with the midnight mass,
Scattering light through the chapel dim,
Alive m me stained glass —
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Christine: A IVoubadour'i SoHff. 179
What fiend could liarm a hair of her.
While those archiiig -wings took care of her t
And our Ladye, Maid divine,
Mother round whose marble shrine
She wreathed the rose of Palestine
So many sinless years,
Will not heaven's maiden-mother Qneen
jRegard her daughter's tears!
Yes! — ^through the forest stepping slow,
Tranquil mistress of her woe,
Goeth the calm Christine;
And but for yonder spot of snow
Upon each temple, none may know
How stem a storm hath been.
For never dawned a brighter day,
And the Ladye smileth on her way,
Greeting the blue-eyed mom at play
With earth in her spangled green.
A single cloud
Stole uke a shroud
Forth from the fading mists that hid
The crest of each Alpine pyramid ;
TJnmovingly it lingers over
The mountain castle of her lover ;
While over Pilate's Peak \
Hangs the ^rey pall of the sullen smoke,
Leaps tlie lithe flame of the ancient oak
And the eagle soars with a shriek.
Full well she Jmew the curse was near.
But that heart of hers hkd done with fear.
By St. Antoine, not steadier stands ,,
Mont Blanc's white head in winter's whirl
Than that calm, fearless, smiling girl
With her bare brow upturned and m:mly folded hands.
Back to her bower so fair
Christine her way, is wending;
Over the dark Isere
^Silently she's bending,
Thus communing with me stream.
As one who whispers in a dream:
"Waters that at sunset ran ^
Eound the Mount of Miolan ;
Stream, that binds my love to me,
Whisper where that lover be;
Wavelets mine, what evil things
Mingle with j<iur murmurings;
Tell me, ere ye glide away.
Wherefore doth the bridegroom stay?
Hath the fiend of Pilate's Peak
Met him, stayed him, slain him — speak 1
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J
180 (iniHn$: A IVmtbadour^s Sonf.
Speak the worst a Bride may know,
(xod hath anned my soul for woe;
Touching heaven, the virgin snow
Is firmer than the rock l^low.
Lies my love npon his bier,
Answer, answer, dark Isere 1
Hark, to the low voice of the river
Singing * Thy love is lost for ever P
Weep with all thy ic^ fountains,
"Weep, ye cold, uncanng mountains,
I have not a tear I
Stream, that parts my love firom me,
Bear this briaal rose with thee;
Bear it to the happy hearted,
Christine and all tne flowers have parted P
They are coming from the castle,
A bevy of bright-eyed girls.
Some with their long loc& braided,
Some with loose golden curls.
Merrily 'mid the meadows
They win tlieir wilful wav;
Winding through sun and daadow,
EivuletB at play.
Brows with white rosebuds blowing,
Necks with white pearl entwined.
Gowns whose white folds imprison
Wafts of the wandering wind.
The boughs of the charmed woodland
Sing to the vision sweet.
The daisies that crouch in the clover
Nod to their twinkling feet.
They see Christine by the river,
Aiid, deeming the bridegroom near,
They wave her a dewy rose-wreath
Fresh plucked for her dark brown hair.
Hand in nand tripping to meet her,
Birdlike they carol their jov.
Wedding soft JProvenfal numbers
To a aulcet old strain of Savoy.
THE 6BBETINO.
Sister, standing at Love's golden gate.
Life's second door —
Fleet the maidentime is flying.
Friendship fast in love is dying,
Bridal fate doth separate
Friends evermore.
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OhritHfu: A 7VemkK&nfr^« Song. 181
Pilgrim seeking wilb tliy sandalled feet
The land of bliaB ;
Sire and sister tearless leaving,
To tliy beckoning palmer cleaving —
Truant sweet, once more repeat »
Onr parting kiss.
Wanderer fiUin^ for enchanted isle
Thy dimpbng sail;
Whither drifted, all uncaring.
So with faithful helmsman faring,
Stay and smile with us, awhile,
Before the gale.
Playmate, hark I for all that once was ours
Soon rings the knell:
Glade and thicket, glen and heather,
Whisper sacredly together;
Queen of ours, the very flowers
Sigh forth farewell.
Christine looked up, and smiling stood
Among the choral sisterhood:
But some who sprang to greet her, stayed
Tiptoe, with the speech unsaid ;
And, each the other, none knew why.
Questioned with quick, wondering eye.
One by one, their smiles have flown.
No lip is laughing but her own ;
And hers, the frozen smile that wears
The glittering of unshed tears.
" Ye nave sung for me, I will sing for ye,
My sisters fond and fair."
And she bent her head till the chaplet fell
Adown in the deep Isere.
THE BEPLT.
Bring me no rose-wreath now :
But come when sunset's first tears fall.
When night-birds from the mountain call-
Then bind my brow,
Itoses and lilies white —
But tarry tiU the glow-worms trail
Their gold-work o'er the, spangled veil
Of falling night
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182 ChrMne: A Trottbadout^i Song.
Twine not your garland fair
Till I have fallen fast asleep ;
. Then to my silent pillow creep
And leave it there —
There in the chapel yardl —
Come with twilight's earliest hush,
Just as day's last purple flush
Forsakes the sward.
Stop where the white cross stands.
You'll nnd me in my wedding suit,
Lying motionless and mute,
With folded hands.
Tenderly to my side:
The bridegrocMn's form you may not see
In the dim eve, but he will be
Fast by his bride.
Soft with yoiur chaplct move.
And lightly lay it on my head:
Be sure you wake not with rude tread
My jealous love.
Kiss me, then quick away;
And leave us, in unwatched repose,
With the lily and the rose
Waiting for day!
But hark ! the cry of the clamorous horn
Breaks the bright stillness of the mom.
From moated wall, from festal hall
The banners beckon, tlie bugles call,
Already flames, in the lists unrolled
O'er the Daupliin's tent, tlie Dolphin gold.
A hundred knights in ai*nior glancing.
Hurry afield with pennons dancing,
Each with a vow to splinter a lance
For Christine, the Lily of Provence.
"Haste I" cried Christine;
" Sisters, we tarry late.
Let not the toiimey wait
For its Queen!"
And, toward the castle gate,
They take their silent way along the green.
TO BX ooimswD.
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J<afi%fa'9 Pragnr.
183
From The Literary Workman.
JENIFER'S PRAYER.
BX OLXVEB CRANB.
IK THREE PARTS.
PART n.
Mart Lorimer returned in safety
to Beremonth under Horace Erskine's
care, weloomed as may be supposed
by the adopted father and her mother.
Not that ^Mother Mary,'' as Lady
Greystock in the old Claudia Brewer
days used to call her, could ever wel-
come Horace. She had never liked
him; she had always felt that there
was some unknown wrong about his
seeking and his leaving Claudia ; she
had been glad that a long absence
abroad had kept him from them while
her darling Maiy had been growingup ;
and it was with a spasm of fear that
she heard of his spending that au-
tumn at her sister^s. And yet she had
consented to his bringing Mary home.
Yes, she had consented, for Mr. B^w-
er in his overflowing hospitality had
asked him to come to them — ^had re-
gretted that they had seen so little of
him of late years — and had himself
suggested that he should come when
Mary retomed.
Nine years does a great deal; it
maj even pay people's debts some-
times. But it had not paid Horace
Erskine's debts: on the contrary, it
had added to them with all the bewil-
dering peculiarities that belong to cal-
culations of interests and compound
interests. He had got to waiting for
another man's death. How many have
had to become in heart death-dealers
in this way ! It was known that he
would be his uncle's heir, and his uncle
added to what he supposed Horace
possessed a good sum yearly ; ma)dng
the man rich as he thought, and caus-
ing occasionally a slight passing i-e-
gret that Horace was so saving. " He
might do 60 much more if he liked on
his good income," the elder Mr. Ers-
kine would say. But he did not know
of the many sums for ever paying to
keep things quiet till death, the great
paymaster, should walk in and demand
stem rights of himself, the elder, and
pass on the gold that we all must
leave behind to the nephew, the young-
er one.
But in the nine years that had pass-
ed since the coward took his revenge
on a brave woman by doing that which
killed her husband, great things had
happened to pretty Minnie Lorimer.
The "county people" had been after
her — ^those same old families who had
flouted her mother, and prophesied
eternal poverty to her poor pet baby —
fatherless, too ! a fact tibat finished the
story of their faults with a note of
peculiar infamy.
That a man of good fiunily should
marry without money, become the fa-
ther of a lovely child, and die — ^that
the mother should go back to that old
poverty-stricken home where that stifF-
looking maid-servant looked so steadi-
ly into the faces of all who stood and
asked admittance — that they should
pretend to be happy! — altogether, it
was really too bad.
Why did not Mrs. Lorimer, widow,
go out as a governess ? Who was to
bring up that unfortunate chUd on a
paltry one hundred a year ? Of course
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134
Jmifet^M I^tiyer.
she begged for help. Of coarse thej
were supported by Mr. Erakine's chari-
ty. A pretty humiliation of Lorimer^s
fftends and relations !
Altogether, the whole of the great
Lansdowne Lorimer connection had
pronouncod that to have that young
widow and her daughter belonging to
them was a trial very hard to bear.
They had not done talking when Maiy
made that quiet walk to church — do
one but he> mother and Jenifer being
in the secret — ^and reappeared in the
county after a few months' absence as
mistress of Beremouth. Mr. Brewer
had counted his money, and had told
the world what it amounted to. And
this time he never apologized, he only
confessed himself a person scarcely de-
serving of respect, because he had
done 60 little good with the mammon
of unrighteousness* But Mary now
would tell him how to manage^ He
did perhaps take a little to the humble
line. He hoped the world would for-
get and forgive his former shortcom-
ings ; such conduct would assuredly
not now be persevered in; and that
resolution was fiilfilled without any
doubt. The splendors of Beremouth
were something to talk about, and the
range of duties involved in a large
hospitality were admirably performed.
Old Lady Caroline, whose piano-
forte survived in Mrs. Morier^s house
at Marston, considered the matter
without using quite as many words as
her neighbors. ^ That man will be
giving money te Lorimer's child."
She was quite right He had already
invested five thousand pounds for
Minnie. Lady Caroline(what an odd
pride hers was I) went to Beremouth, .
and got upon business matter with
« Mother liiiUry.''
She would give that child five thou-
sand pounds in her will if Mr. Brewer
would not give her anything. Alas 1
it was already given. Mr. Brewer
used to count among his faults that,
with him, it was too much a word and
a blow, especially when a good action
was in question, and this curious unusual
fkult he had decidedly committed in
the case of Minnie Lorimer. The
money was hers safe enough, invested
in the hands of trustees. ^Safe
enough," said Mr. Brewer exuhingly ;
and then, looking with a saddened aJr
on Lady Caroline, he added, gravely,
that it couldn't be helped I ^The
man's a saint or a fool, I can't tell
which," was Lady Caroline's very 'cute
remark. ^ The most unselfish idiot that
ever lived. Does Mary like him, or
laugh at him, I wonder ?"
But Lady Caroline cultivated Mr.
Brewer's acquaintance. Not in an
evil way, but because she had been
brought up to use the world, and to
slave all mankind who would oonsent
to such persecution. Not wickedly, I
repeat, but with a fi]^ed intention ^
cultivated Mr. Brewer, and she got
money out of him.
Mr. Brewer still made experiments
with ten pounds. He helped Lady
Caroline in her many charities, as long
as her charities were confined to food
and clothing, so much a week to the
poor, and getting good nursing for the
sick. But once Lady Carolme used
that charity purse for porpoees of
^ souping '*•— it has become an English
word, so I do not stop to explain i(r—
and then Mr. Brewer scolded her.
Nobody had ever disputed any point
with Lady Caroline. But Mr. Brew-
er explained, with a most unexpected
lucidity, how it would be right for him
to make her a Catholic, and jet wrong
for her to try her notions of conver-
sion on him.
Lady Caroline kept up the quarrel
for two years. She upbraided him
for his negleci, on his own prindplea,
of Claudia. She abused him for the
different conduct pursued about his
son. Mr. Brewer confessed his faults
and stood by his riehts at the same
time. Two whole years Lady Caro-
line quarrelled, and Mr. Brewer never
left the field. And afterward, some
time after, when Lady Caroline waa
in her last illness, she said : ^ I believe
that man Brewer may be right after
alL" When she was dead young Maiy
Lorimer had double the sum that had
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J
Jemfet^i Prager.
185
been adginalfy offered, and Freddy
her laigest diamond ring.
Bot anotiher thing had to come oat
of all this. Mrs. Brewer became a
Catholic ; and that fact had made her
recall her daughter to her side— *that
jbct had made Horaoe Erskine saj, at
the inn at HoU, that he dreaded for
the girl he, spoke to the influence of
the home and the people she was go-
ing to— -that fact had brought that
passion of tears to Mary Larimer's
ejes, and had made her feel so an-
grily that he had taken an advantage
of her.
Here, then, we are back again to
the time at which we began the
story. Mary got home and was wel-
comed.
The day after their arriTal, if we
leare Beremonth and its people, and
go into Marston to Mrs. Morier, << old
Mrs. Morier" they called her now,
we shall see Jenifer walk into the
pleasant upstairs drawing»room, where
the china glittered on comer-shelves,
and large jars stood under the long
inlaid taJbl^ and say to her mistress :
^ Eleanor is come, if you please,
ma'am."
Mrs. Morier looked up from her
knitting. She had been sitting by
the window, and the beautiful old
lady looked like a picture, as Jenifer
fmsn declared, as she turned the face
shadowed by fine lace toward her ser-
vant with a sweet, gentle air, and
smiling said, ^ And so you want to go
to Clayton — and Eleanor is to stay
till you come back V ^ Yes, nla'am
—it's the anniversary." " Go, then,"
said the gentle lady. *' And you must
not leave me out of your prayers, my
good Jenifer ; for yon may be sure
that I respect and value them." ^Tll
be back in good time," said Jenifer;
and the door closed, and Mrs. Morier
continued her knitting.
Soon she saw from the window
that incomparable Jenifer. Her brown
light stuff gown, the black velvet
trimming looking what Jenifer called
rick upon the same. Buttons as big
as pomies all the way down the front
-*the good black shawl with the
handsome border that had been Mr.
Brewer's own present to her on the
occasion of bis wedding ; the fine
straw bonnet and spotless white rib-
bon—the crowning glory of the black
lace veil— oh, Jenifer was somehodjfy
I can tell you, at Marston ; and Jeni-
fer looked it
It was with nothing short of a lov-
ing smile that Mrs. Morier watched
her servant Servant indeed, but
true, tried, and trusty fiiend also;
and when the woman was out of
sight, and Mrs. Morier turned her
thoughts to Jenifer's prayer, and what
little she knew of it, she sighed — ^the
sigh came from deep down, and the
sigh was lengthened, and her whole
thoughts seemed to rest upon it — ^it
was breathed out, at last, and when it
died away Mrs. Morier sat doing
nothing in peacefol contemplation till
the door opened, and she whom we
have heard called Eleanor came in
with inquiries as to the proper time
for tea.
I think that this Eleanor was per-
haps about eight-and-twenty years of
age. She was strikingly beautifuL
Perhaps few people have ever seen
anything more faultlessly handsome
than this young woman's form and
face. She looked youngelir than she
was. The perfectly smooth brow
and the extraordinary fair complexion
made her look young. No one would
have thought, when looking at Elea-
nor, that she had ever worked. . If the
finest and loveliest gentlewoman in the
world had chosen to put on a lilac cot-
ton gown, and a white checked mus-
lin apron, and bring up Mrs. Morier's
early tea, she would perhaps have
looked a Uttle like Eleanor ; provided
her new employment had not endowed
her with a m<Hnentary awkwardness.
But adnuration, when looking at this
woman, was a little checked by a sort
of atmosphere of pain— or perhaps it
was only patience— -that surrounded
the beautiful face, and showed in
every gesture and movement, and
rested on the whole bemg, as it were.
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186
Jenifar's Proj/er.
* Eleanor suffered. And it was the
pain of the mind and heart, not of the
bodj — ^no one who had sufficient sen-
sihilitj to see what I have described
could ever doubt that the inner wo-
man, not the outer fieshlj form of
beauty, suffered ; and tliat the woe,
whatever it was, had written patience
on that too placid brow.
^ And are thejr all well at Dr. Ran-
kin's?^ "Very weU, ma'am, I be-
lieve. I saw Ladj Grejstock in her
own rooms an hour before I came
away. I said that I was coming
here, and she said " — Eleanor smiled
— " Lady Greystock said, ma'am, ' My
duty to grandmamma Morier-— mind
you give the message right* "
"Ah," said Mrs. Morier, "Lady
* Greystock is wonderfully well."
"There is nothing the matter with
her, ma'am." " Except that she
never goes to Beremouth." What
made the faint carnation mount to
Eleanor's face ? — what made the wo-
men pause to collect herself before
she spoke? — "Oh, ma'am, she is right
not to try herself. She'll go there
one day." " I suppose you like being
at Dr. Eankin's ?" " Very much.
My place of wardrobe-woman is not
haird, but it is responsible. It suits
me well. And Mrs. Rankin is very
good to me. And I am near Lady
Greystock." " How fond you are of
her I" "There is not anything I
would not do for her," said the woman
with animation. " I hope, indeed Dr.
Rankin tells me to believe, that I
have had a great deal to do with
Lady Greys^pck's cure. She has
treated me like a sister; and I can
never feel for any one what I feel for
her." "Lady Greystock always
speaks of you in a truly affectionate
way. She says you have known bet-
ter days." ^ Different ^y^\ I don't
say letter, I have nothing to wish
for. Ever sincfe the time that Lady
Greystock determined on staying at
Blagden, I have been quite happyl"
" You came just as she came." " Only
two months after." "And did you
like her from the first ? " "Oh, Mrs.
Morier, you know she was very ill
when she came. I never thought of
love, but of every care and every at-
tention that one woman could show to
another. Had it been life for life, I
am sure she might have had my life
—that was all that I then thought.
But when she recovered and loved
me for what I had done for her, then
it was love for love. Lady Grey-
stock gave me a new life, and I will
serve her as long as I may for grati-
tude, and as a thanke^ving."
When Eleanor was gone, her pleas-
ant manner, her beauty, the music of
her voice, and the indescribable grace
that belonged to her remained with
Mrs. Morier as a pleasant mem-
ory, and dwelling on it, she lingered
over her early tea, and ate of hashed
mutton, making meditation on how
Eleanor had got to be Jenifer's great
friend ; and whether their both being
Catholics was enough to account for iL
This while Jeni^r walked on to-
ward Clayton. She stood at last on
the top of a wide table-land, and
looked from the short grass wher^
the wild thyme grew like green veK
vet, and the chamomile gave forth fra-
grance as you trod it under foot, down
a rugged precipice into the little sea-
port that sheltered in the cove below.
The roofs of the strange, dirty, tum-
ble-down houses were picked tliickly
below her. The nature oi the pre-
cipitous cliff was to lie in terraces,
and here and there goats and donkeys
among the branching fern gave a
picturesque variety to the scene, and
made the practical Jenifer say to her-
self that Clayton Cove was not " that
altogether abominable" when seen to
the best advantage on the afternoon of
a rich autumn day. A zigzag path,
rather difficult to get upon on account
of the steepness of the broken edge
and the rolling stones, led from Jeni-
fer's feet down to the terraces ; short
cuts of steps and sliding stones led
ftom terrace to terrace, and these
paths ended, as it appeared to the
eye, in a chimney-top that sent up a
volume of white smoke, and a pleas-
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Jenifei^s Prayer.
187
ant scent of wood and bnnimg turf.
Bj the side of the house that owned
the chimnej, which was whitewashed
carefxillj, and had white blinds inside
^e green painted wood-work of small
sash windows, appeared another roof,
long, high, narrow, *with a cross on
the eastern gable, and that was the
Catholic chape]r--the house Father
Daniels lived in ; and after a moment's
pause down the path went Jenifer
with all the speed that a proper re-
spect for her personal safety permit-
ted. When the woman got to the
last terrace, she opened a wicket
gate, and was in a sunny garden, still
among slox>e3 and terraces, and load-
ed with flowers. Common flowers
no doubt, but who ever saw Father
Daniels's Canterbury bells and forgot
them? There, safe in the bottom
walk, wide, and paved with pebbles
from the beach, Jenifer turned not to
the right where the trellised back-door
invited, but to the left, where the
west door of the chapel stood open^ —
and she walked in. There was no
one there. She knelt down. After
a while she rose, and kneeling before
the image of our Lady, said soflly :
** Mother, she had no mother ! Elev-
en years this day since that marriage
by God's priest, and at his holy
altar— eleven years this day since
that marriage which the laws of the
men of this country deny and deride.
Mother, she had no mother! Oh,
mighty Mother! forget neither of
them. Remember her for her trouble,
and him for his sin." Not for ven-
geance but for salvation, she might
liave added; but Jenifer had never
been accustomed to explain her
prayers. Then she knelt before the
adorable Presence on the altar, and
her prayer was very brief — " My life,
and all that is in it I " — ^was it a vain
repetition that she said it again and
again ? Again and again, as she
looked back and thought of what it
had been ; as she thought of that
which it was ; and knew of the fu-
ture that, blessed by our Lady's pray-
ers, she should take it, whatever it
might be, as the will of God. And
so she said it ; by so doing offering
herself. One great thing had colored
all her life ; had, to her, been life —
her life ; she, with thsit great shadow
on the past, with the weight of the
cross on the present, with the fear of
unknown ill on the fature, gadiered
together all prayer, all hope, all fear,
and gave it to God in those words of
offering that were, on her lips, an
earnest prayer ; the prayer of sub-
mission, of offering, of faith — ^ My
life, and all that is in' it"
Jenifer could teU out her wishes
to the Mother of God, and had told
them, in the words she had used,
but it was this woman's way to have
no wishes when she knelt before
God himself. "My life, and all
that is in it;" that was Jenifer^s
prayer.
After a tune she left the chapel,
putting pieces of money, many, into
the church box, and went into the
house. She knew Mrs. Moore, the
priest's housekeeper, very well. She
was shown into Father Daniels's sit-
ting-room. He was a venerable
man of fall seventy years of age, and
as she entered he put down the tools
with which he was carving the orna-
ments of a wooden altar, and said,
" You arc later than your note pro-
mised. I have therefore been work-
ing by daylight, which I don't often
do." She looked at the work. It
seemed to her to be very beautiftiL
"It is fine teak-wood," said Father
Daniels ; " part of a wreck. They
brought it to me for the church.
We hope to get up a little mariner's
chapel on the south side of the
church before long, and I am getting
ready the altar as far as I can T\dth
my own hands. * Maiy, star of the
sea' — ^that wiU be our dedication.
The faith spreads here. Mistress
Jenifer; and I hope we are a little
better than we used to be." And
Father Daniels crossed himself and
thanked God for his grace that
had blessed that wild little spot,
and made many Christians there.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
198
Jemfet'i Pm/er.
J^ifer smiledy as the holj man spoke
ID a plajful tone, and she said, ^It
is the anniversarj, father." ^Of
Eleanor's marriage. Yes. I re-
membered her at mass. Has she
heard anything of himP' ^Yes,
father ; she has heard his real name,
she thinks. She has always sos-
pectedy fixNn the time that she first
began to suspect evil, that she had
never known him by his real name— -
she never believed his name to be
Henry Evelyn, as he said when he
married her.**
'< And what is his real name 7"
" Horace Erskine," said Jenifer.
<<Whatr exclaimed Father Dan-
iels, with an unusual tone of alarm
in his voice. '^The man who was
talked of for Lady Greystock before
she married-— the nephew of Mrs.
Brewer's sister's husband!'* "Yes,
sir." "Is she sure?' "No. She
has not seen him. But she has
traced him,, she thinks. Corny
Nugent, who is her second cousin,
and knew them both when the mar-
riage took place, went as a servant to
the elder Mr. Erskine, and knew
Henry Evelyn, as they coUed him
in Ireland, when he came back from
abroad. He tho^ighi he knew him*
Then Horace Erskine, finding he
was an Irishman, would joke him
about his religion, and how he was
the only Catholic in the house, and
how he was obliged to walk five miles
to mass. Time was when Mr. Ers-
kine, the unde, would not have kept
a Catholic servant. But since Mr.
and Mrs. Brewer married, he has
been less bigoted. He took Corny
Nugent in London. It was just a
one season's engagement. But when
they were to return to Scotland they
proposed to keep him on, and he
stayed. After a litde Horace Ers-
kine asked him about Ireland; and
even if he knew such and such
plooes ; and then he came by degrees
to the very place — ^the very people —
to his own knowledge of them.
Corny gave crafty answers. But he
disliked the sight of the man, and
the positions he put him into.
So he left. He left three months
aga And he found out Eleanor's
direction, and told her that surely —
surely and certainly— her husband,
Henry Evelyn, was no other than
his late master^ nephew, who had
been trying to marry more than <Hie,
only always some unlooked-for and
unaccountable thing had happened
to prevent it. Our Lady be praised,
for her prayers have kept off that
last woe — ^I make no doubt — thank
God!"
"How many years is it since
they married ?" " Eleven, to-day. I
keep the anniyerBary. He is older
than he looks. He is tbirty4wo,
this year, if he did not lie about his
age, as well as ever}^thing else. He
told Father Power he was of age.
He said, too— Grod foigive him — that
he was a Catholic"
"But when I followed Father Pow-
er at Rathcoyle," said the priest,
"there was no register of the mar-
riage. I was sent for on the after-
noon of the marriage day. I found
Father Power in a dying state. He
was an old man, and had long been
infinn. The mamage was not en-
tered. It was known to fiave taken
place. Your niece and her husband
were gone. I walked out that even-
ing to your brother's farm. He
knew nothing of the marriage. He
had received a note to say that
Eleanor was gone with her husband,
and that they would hear from them
when they got to England. Why
Father Power, who was a saintly
man, married them, I do not know.
It was unlawful for him to marry a
Catholic and a Protestant. If your
sister went through no other mar-
riage, she has no ^claim on her Prot-
estant husband. If she could prove
that he passed himself off as a
Catholic, she might have some
ground against him — but, can she?"
" No, sir ; on the^ contrary, she
knew that she was marrying a Prot-
estant; she had hopes of convert-
ing him; she learnt from him*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
JWfXfirt JrTCt^Bt*
189
self, afterward, fbat he had deceived
the priest She had said to him
that she would many him if Father
Power consented. He came back
and said that the consent had been
given. He promised to marry her
in Dublin conformably to the license
he had got there-^or there he had
lived the proper time for getting
one, so he declared. Bat I have
ceased to believe anything he said.
Then my brother wrote the girl a
dreadful letter to the direction in
Liverpool that she had sent to him.
Then, after some months, she wrote
to me at Marston. She was deserted,
and left in the Isle of Man. She
supported herself there for more than
a year. I told Mr. Brewer that I
knew a sad story of the daughter of a
friend, and one of her letters, saying
her last gold was changed into silvery
and that she was too ill and worn oat
to win more, was so dreadful, that
I feared for her mind. So Mr.
Brewer went to Dr. Bankin, and got
her taken in as a patient, at fi^t,
and when she got well she was kept
on as wardrobe*woman. She had
got a tender heart; when she heard
of Lady Greystock^s trial, she took
to her. Dr. Bankin says he could
never have cured Lady Greystock so
perfectly nor so quickly, bat for
Eleanor."
*< That is curious,'' said Father Dan-
iels, musingly. ^ Have you been in
Lreland since the girl left it with her
husband P*
^ I never was there in my life. My
mother was Irish, and she lived as a
servant in England. She married an
Englishman, imd she had two daugh-
ters, my sister — ^Eleanor^s mother-*
and myself. My mother went back
to Ireland a year after her husband's
death, on a visit, and she left my sis-
ter and me with my father's family.
She married in Ireland almost directly,
and married well, a man with a good
property, a farmer. She died, and
left one son. My sister and I were
four and five years older than this
half-brother of ours. Then time wore
on and my sister EUen went to Ire-
land, and she married there, and the
fever came to the place where they
lived, and carried them both ofl^ and
she left me a legacy— my niece Elean-
or—oh, sir I with such a holy letter of
recoQunendation from her death-bed.
Poor sister I Poor, holy soul I Our
half-brother asked to have Eleanor to
stay with him when she knew enough
to be useful on the farm. He was a
good Christian, and I let him take the
girL She was very pretty, people
said, and I wished her to marry soon.
Then there came— sent, he said, by a
great rich English nobleman — a man
who called himself a gardener, or some-
thing of that sort. He lodged close
by ; he made fiiends with my brother.
He was often off after rare bog-plants,
and seemed to lead a busy if an easy
life. He would go to mass with them.
But they knew he was a Protestant.
Eleanor knew that her uncle would
not consent to her marrying a Protest-
ant. But, poor child, she gave her
heart away to the gentleman in disguise.
He had had friends there — a fishing
party. Sir, he never intended honor-
ably ; but they were married by the
priest, and he got over the holy man,
whom everybody loved and honored,
with his falseness, as he had got over
the true-hearted and trusting woman
whom he had planned to desert"
« Well," said Father Daniels, « you
know I succeeded this priest for a
short time at Bathcoyle. He died on
that wedding day. I never understood
how it all happened* I left a record
to save Eleanor^s honor ; but she has
no legal claim on her husband— 4t
ought not to have been done." Jen-
ifer shrank beneath the plainness of
Oiat truth— ^ My Ufe, and all thai %$
in itf** her heart said, sinkings as it
were, at the sorrow that had come on
the girl whom her sister had left to her
witli her dying breath. >
^ She ought not to have trusted a
man who was a Pxotestant, and not
willing to marry her in ih^ only way
that is 1^1 by the Irish marriage-
law." ^lifyUfejandaaihatUinit.'*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
190
Jenifn^s Pra^.
So hopelessly feD on her heart every
word that the priest spoke, that, but
for that offering of all things to God,
poor Jenifer could scarcely have borne
her trial.
" And if this Henry Evelyn should
turn out to be Horace Erskine, why,
he will marry some unhappy woman
some time, of course, and the law of
the land will give him one wife, and
by the law of Grod another woman
will claim him« Oh, if people would
but obey holy church, and not try to
live under laws of theirown inventing."
^My Hfoj and all that is in it F* Again,
only that could have made Jenifer bear
the trials that were presented to her.
''And if gossip spoke truth he was
very near marrying Lady Greystock
once— -Mr. Brewer, himself, thought
it was going to be.^ One more great
act of submission — ^^ My life, and all
that ii in it /"—came forth from Jen-
ifer's heart. She loved Mr. Brewer,
with a faithful sort of worship— if such
a trial as that had come on him through
her trouble ! — that was over ; that liad
been turned aside; but the thought
gave rise to a question, even as she
thanked God for the averted woe.
'' Is it Eleanor^s duty to find out if
Henry Evelyn and Horace Erskine
are one?" "Yes," said the priest
" Yes ; it is. It is everybody's duty
to prevent mischief. It is her duty, as
fitf as lies in her power, to prevent sin."
" And if it proves true — that which
Corny Nugent says, what then ?"
^ Be content for the present. It is
a very difiQcult case to act in."
Poor Jenifer felt the priest to be sad-
ly wanting in sympathy — she turned
again to him who knows all and feels
aQ, and she offered up the disappoint-
ment that would grow up in her heart
— « My Uf€j and all that is in it /"
She turned to go ; and then Father
Daniels spoke so kindly, so solemnly,
with such a depth of sympathy in the
tono of his voice— ^ God bless you,
my child ;" and the sign of the cross
seemed to bless her sensibly. " Thank
you, father!" And, without lifting
her eyeS| she left the room and the
house; and still saymg that prayer
that had grown to be her strength and
her help, she went up the steep rugged
path to the spreading down ; and then
she turned round and looked on the
great sea heaving, lazily under the
sunset rays, that painted it in the far
distance with gold and red, and a sil-
very light, till it touched the ruby-col-
ored sky, and received each separate
ray of glory on its breast just where
eaxth and heaven seemed to meet-
just where you could fancy another
world looking into the depths of the
great sea that flowed up into its gates.
It seemed to do Jenifer good. The
whole scene was so glorious, and the
glory was so far-spreading— all the
world seemed to rest around her bathed
in warm light and basking in the smile
of heaven. She stood still and said
again, in a sweet soft voice : ^ My life,
and aU that is in it/"
Her great dread that day when Mr.
Brewer had told her to put him and
his into her prayer, had been lest the
punishment of sin should come on the
man who had deserted her dear girl,
and lest that sin's effect in a heart-
broken disease should fall on the giri
herself.
When Mr. Brewer said, " Put me
and mine into that prayer, Jenifer,"
the thought had risen diat she would
tell him of Eleanor. She had told
him, and he had helped her. But she
had never thou^t that, by acting on
the impulse, the two women whose
hearts Horace Erskine had crushed,
as a wilful child breaks his playthings
when he has got tired or out of tern*
per, had been brought together under
one roof, and made to love each other.
Yet soit had been. The woman who
could do nothing but pray had-prsLjed ;
and a thing had be^ done whidi no
human contrivance could have effected.
And as Jenifer stood gazing on the
heavens that grew brighter and bright-
er, and on the- water that reflected
every glory, and seemed to bask with
a living motion in the great magnifi*
cence that was poured upon it, she rec-
ollected how great a pain had been
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Jmifef^i Prater.
191
spa]!edher;8he thought how terrible
it would have been if Oaadia Brewer
had married Horace Erskine — Hor-
ace Brskine, the husband of the de-
serted Eleauor ; and she gave thanks
toGod.
Now she drew her shawl tighter
round her, and walked briskly on. She
got across the down, and over a stone
atUe in the fence that was its boundary
from the road. She turned toward
Marston, and walked fast-At was al-
most getting cold afler that glorious
sunset, and she increased her pace
and went on rapidly. She soon saw a
carriage in the road before her, driv-
ing slowly, and meeting her. When
it came near enough to recognize her,
the lady who drove let her ponies go,
and then pulled up at Jenifer's side.
" Now, Mispress Jenifer," said Lady
Greystock, looking bright and beauti-
ful in the black hat, and long stream-
ing black feather, that people wore^ m
those days, ^ here am I to drive you
home. I knew where you 'were^goiug*
Eleanor tells me her secrets. Do you
know that ? Tiiis is an anniversary ;
and you give gifts and say prayers.
Are you comfortable ? I am going to
drive fast to please the ponies ; &ey
like it, you know." And very true
did Lady Greystock*B words seem;
for tlJe little creatures given their
heads went off at a pace that had in
it every evidence of perfect good wilL
^ I came to drive you back, and to pick
up Eleanor, and drive her to Blagden
after I had delivered you up safely to
grandmamma Morier. Mother Mary
came to see me this afternoon. You
had better go and see Minnie soon.
Jenifer" — Jenifer looked up surprised
at a strange tone in Lady Greystock's
voice-— ^Jenifer," speaking very low,
*^ if you can pray for my father and
his wife, and all he loves, pray now.
It would be hard for a man to be
trapped by the greatness of his own
^M^ heart"
^ Is there anything wrong, my dear?"
Jenifer spoke softly, and just as she
had been used to speak to the Claudia
Brewer of old days.
^ I can't say more," Lady Grey-
stock replied ; ^ here we are at Mar-
ston." Then she talked of common
things; and told James, the man-ser-
vant, to driye the horses up and down
the street while she bade Mrs. Morier
^ Good night." And they went into
the house, and half an hour after Lady
Greystock and Eleanor had got into
the pony carriage, and were driving
away. The quiet street was empty
once more. The little excitement
made by Lady Greystock and her
ponies subsided. Good-byes were
spoken, and the quiet of night settled
down on the streets and houses of
Marston.
Jenifer had wondered over Lady
Greystock's words; and comforted
herself, and stilled her fears, and set
her guesses all at rest by thosefew long-
used powerful words — ^My lifejand
oB that IS in itT She offered life,
and gave up its work and its trials to
God; and Jenifer, too, was at rest then.
But at Clayton things were not quite
in the same peaceful state as in that lit-
tle old-fashioned inland town. Clayton
was very busy ; and among the busy
ones, though busy in his own way, was
father Daniels.
That morning a messenger had
brought him a packet from Mrs. Brew-
er ; for ** Mother Mary " since becom-
ing a Catholic had wanted advice, and
wanted strength, and she had sought
and found what she wanted, and now
she had sent to the same source for
further help. As soon as Jenifer was
gone, Father Daniels put away his
teak-wood and his carving tools, and
packed up his drawings and his pen-
cils. He was a man of great neat-
ness, and his accuracy in idl business,
and his fiuthful recoUection of every
living soul's wants, as far as they had
ever been made known to him, were
charming points of his character —
points, that is, natural gifts, that the
great charity which bdooged to his
priesthood adorned and m^e merito-
rious. While he ^ tidied away his
things," as his housekeeper.Mrs. Moore
used to say, bethought and he prayed
Digitized by CjOOQIC
192
Jtfl^jtTM rfO^Wm
— his mind foresaw great possible woe;
he knew, with the knowledge that is
made up of faith and experience nnitod,
that some things seem plainly to know
no other master than prayer. Peo-
ple are prayed out of troubles that no
other power can touch. Every now
and then this fact seems to be imprint-
ed in legible characters on some par-
ticular woe, actual or threatened ; and
though Father Daniels, like a holy
priest, prayed always and habitually,
he yet felt, as we have said, with respect
to the peculiar entanglements that the
letter from Mrs. Brewer in the morn-
ing and the revelation made by Jeni-
fer in the afternoon seemed to threat-
en. So, when he again sat down, it
was with Mrs. Brewer's letter before
him on the table, and a lamp lighted,
and ^ the magnifiers,'' to quote Mrs.
Moore again, put on to make the de-
ciphering of Mrs. Erskine's handwrit-
ing as easy as possible. Mrs. Brew-
er's was larger, blacker, plainer — and
her note was short. It only said:
^' Read my sister's letter, which I have
just received. It seems so hard to
give up the child ; it would be much
harder to see her less happy than she
has always been at home. I don't
like Horace Erskine. It is as if I
was kept from liking him. I really
have no reason for my prejudice
against him. Gome and see me if yon
can, and send or bring back the letter."
Having put this aside. Father Daniels
opened Mrs. Erskine's letter. It must
be given just as it was written to the
reader:
^Dbab£8T Mabt:
^You must guess how dreadful
your becoming a Catholic is to us.
I cannot conceive why, when yon had
been happy so long-Mhese thirteen
years — ^you should do this unaccount-
able thing now. There must have
been some strange influence exercised
over you by Mr. Brewer. I feared
how it might be when, nine years ago,
yoar boy was bom, and you gave him
up so weakly. However, I think you
will see plainly that you have quite
forfeited a mother's rights over Mary.
She is seventeen, and will not have a
happy home with you now. Poor
child, she would turn Catholic to please
you, and for peace sake, perhaps. But
you cannot fm<A such a misery for her.
She will, I snppose, soon be the only
Protestant in your house. I can't
help blaming old Lady Caroline, even
after her death; for she certainly
brought the spirit of controversy into
Beremou^, and stirred up Mr. Brew-
er to think of his rights. • Now, I write
to propose what is simply an act of
justice on your part, though really, I
must say, an act of great grace on the
part of my husband. Horace is in
love with Mary. As to the fancy he
was supposed to have for Claudia, I
hnoiw that thai was only a &ncy. He
was taken with her wiuul, spoUt-child
ways — ^you certainly did not train her
properly — and he wanted her money.
Of course as you had been married
four years without children, he did not
suspect anytliing about Freddy. It
was an entanglement well got rid of ;
and Claudia wanted no comforting,
that was plain enough. But it is dif-
ferent now. Horace %% in love wm.
And if Mary is not made a Catholic
by Mr.'Brewer and you and old Jen-
ifer, she will say, ' Tes,' like a good
child. We are extremdy fond of her.
And Mr. Erskine generously offers to
make a very handsome setUement on
her. I consider a marriage, and a
very speedy one, with Horace the best
thing; now that you have, by your
own act, made her home so homeless
to her. I am sure you ought to be
very thankful for so obviously good an
arrangement of difficulties. Let me
hear from you as soon as Horace ar-
rives. He is going to speak io you
directly.
^ Your affecdonate sister,
<< Lucia. Erskhce.
« P.S.— As Mr. Brewer has always
said that, Mary being his adopted
child, he should pay her on her
marriage the full interest of the
money which will be hers at twenty-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jenifer' $ J^rcq/er.
198
one, of coarse Homee expects that,
aa we do. Ladj Choline's ten
thousand, Mr. Brewer's fire thou-
sand, and the holidred a year for
which her father insnred his life,
and which I 6nd that 70a give to
her, will, with Horace's means,
make a good income; and to this
Mr. Erslund will, as Maij is mj
niece, add yery liberallj. I cannot
suppose that 70a can think of ob-
jecting. L. E."
Father Daniels read this letter
over veiy care{ttll7. Then he placed
it, with Mrs. Brewer's note, in his
podset-book, and immediatel7 put*
ting on his hat, and taking his stick,
he walked into the kitchen.
« Where's 70ur husband P' to Mrs.
Moore.
^ Mark is onl7 just outside, sir."
<'I shaU be back soon. Tell him
to saddle the cob/' One of Mr.
Brewer's experiments had been to
give Father Daniels a horse, and to
endow the horse with fifty pounds
a 7ear, for tax, keep, house-rent,
ph7sic, saddles, shoes, cbthing, and
general attendance. It was, we ma7
say as we pass on, an experiment
which answered to perfection* The
cob's turnpikes alone remained as a
grievance in Mr. Brewer's mind. He
rather cherished the grievance.
Somehow it did him good. It cer*
tainly deprived him of all feeling of
merit. All thought of his own
generosity was extinguished beneath
the weight of a truth that could not
be denied — ^^that cob is a never-
ending expense to Father Daniels 1"
However, this time, without a thought
of the never-ending turnpike's tax,
the cob was ordered; being late,
much to Mr. and Mrs. Moore's sur-
prise; and Father Daniels walked
briskly out of the garden, down the vil-
lagy seapcHTt, past the coal-wharves,
where everything looked black and
dismal, and so pursued his way on
the top of the low edge of the difi^ to a
few tuly-lodking ho^es half a mile
from Clayton, which w^re raOed in
you m. 18
from the turfy cliff-side, and had
painted on their ends, ^ Good bath-
ing here." The houses were in a
row. He knocked at the centre oie,
and it was opened by a man of
generally a seafaring cast. ^Mr.
Dawson in ?" " Yes, your reverence.
His reverence, Father Dawson, is in
the parlor;" and into the parlor
walked Father Daniels. It was a
short visit made to ascertain if his
invalid friend could say mass for
him the next morning at a later hour
than usual — the hour for 4he parish
mass, in fact; and to tell him why.
They were dear friends and mutual
advisers. They now talked over
Mrs. Erskine's letter.
^ There can be no reason in the
world why Miss Lorimer should not
marry Horace Erskine if she likes
him, provided he is not Henry
Evelyn. He stands charged with
being Henry Evelyn, and of being
the doer of Henry Evelyn's deeds.
You must tell Mrs. Brewer. It is
better never to tell suspicions, if you
can, instead, tell facts. In so seri-
ous a matter you may be obliged to
tell suspicions, just to keep mischief
away at the beginning. Eleanor
must see the man. As to claiming
him, that^s useless. She acted the
unwise woman's part, and she most
bear the unwise woman's recom«
pense. Hell find somebody to
marry him, no doubt ; but no woman
ought to do it; no marriage of his
can be right in Grod's sight So
the course in the present instance is
plain enough." Yes, it was plain
enough; so Father Daniels walked
back to Clayton and mounted
the cob, and rode away through
tthe soft sweet night air, and got
to Beremouth just f^r ten o'clock.
^ I am come to say mass for you
to-morrow," he said to Mr. Brewer,
who met him in the halL *^No, I
won't go into the drawing-room. I
won't see any one to-night. I am
going straight to the chapel."
''King for night prayers then
in five minutes, mH you ?" said Mr.
Digitized by CjQOQIC
194
Jemfn^s Prayer.
Brevirer. And Father Daniels, saj-
log "Yes," walked on through the
hall, and up the great stair-case to
his own room and the chapel, which,
were side bj side. In fire minutes
the chapel bell was rung bj the
priest* Mrs. Brewer look^ toward
her daughter. ^'IVfarj must do as
she likes;" said Mr. Brewer, in his
open honest way driving his wife
before him out of the room. There
stood Horace Erskine. It was as if
all in a moment the time for the
great choice had come. They were
at the door — the girl stood still.
They were gone, they, were crossing
the hali ; she could hear Mr. Brewer's
shoes on the carpet — not too late for
her to follow. Her light step will
catch theirs — ^they may go a little
further still before the very last
moment comes. Her mother or
Horace ? How dearly she loved her
mother, how her child's heart went
after her, all trust and love — and
Horace, did she love him? — love
him well enough to stay iJiere — there
and then, at a moment that would
weigh so very heavily in the scale of
good and evil, right or wrong? If
he had not been there she might
have stayed, if she stayed liow that
he was there, should she not stay
with him-^more, leave her mother
and stay with him? Thought is
quick. She stood by the table; she
looked toward the door, she listened
—Horace held out his hand—" With
me, Mary — ^with meT And she
was gone. Gone even while he
spoke, across the hall, up t]ie stairs
and at that chapel door just as this
last of the servants, without knowing,
closed it on her. Then Mary wont
to her own room just at the head of •
the great stair-case, and opened the
doorsoflly, and knelt down, keeping
it open, letting the stair-case lamp
stray into the darkness just enough
to show her where she was. There
she knelt till the night prayers were
over, and when Mr. Brewer passed
her door, she came out, a little glad
to show them that she bad not been
staying doirn stairs with Horace.
He smiled, and put his hand inside
her arm and stopped her from going
down. "My dear child,'* he said,
"I have had the great blessing of
my life given to me in the conversion
of your mother. If God's great
grace, for the sake of his own blessed
mother, should fall on you, you will
not quench it, my darling. Mean-
while, I shall never have a better
time than this time to say, that I
feel more than ever a father to you.
That if you will go on treating me with
the childlike candor and trust that
I have loved to see in you, you will
make me happier than you can ever
guess at, dear child." ,And then he
kissed her, and Minnie eased her
heart by a few sobs and tears, and her
head rested on his shoulder, and she
thanked him for his love. Then Fa-
ther Daniels came out of the chapel,
and advanced to whei*e they stood.
Mary had long known the holy man.
He saw how it was in an instant.
""Welcome home, Mary; you see I
oome soon. And now — when I am
saying mass to-morrow, stay quietly
in your own room, and pray to be
taught to love God. Give yourself
to him. Don't trouble about ques*
tions. His you are. Rest on the
thought — and we will wait on what
may come of it. I shall remember
you at mass to-morrow. Good-night.
God bless you."
"I can't come down again. My
eyes are red," said Mary, to Mr.
Brewer, when they were again alone.
And he laughed at her. "I'll send
mamma up," he said. And Mary
went into her room. But she had
taken no part agtufist her mother;
so her heart said, and congratulated
itself. .She had not lefl her, and
stayed with Horace. She had had
those few words with her step-father.
That was over, and very happily too.
She had seen Father Daniels again.
It was getting speedily like the old
things^ and the old times, before
the long visit to Scotland, where
Horace Erskme was the sun of her
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jemfif'i Ihixy^r.
195
new world Somebow she felt that
he was losing power every momeDt-*-
alao she felt, a little resentfully^ that
there had b^n things said or thought,
or insinuated, about the dear home
she was loving so well, which were
unjust, untrae, unkind ; nay, more,
cruel, shameful t-^ond so wrong to
unite her to such ideas; to make
her a party to such thoughts. In the
midst of her resentment, her mother
came in. ^Nobody ever was so
charming looking,'' was the first
thought. "How young she looks —
how mach younger and handsomer
than Aunt Erskine. What a warm
loiing atmosphere thb house always
had, and hat^ The last word with
the emphasis of a perfect conviction.
•*And so you have made your eyes
red on papa's coat — and I had to
wipe the tears off witii my pocket-
handkerchief. Oh, you darling, I
am sure Horace Erskine thought
we had beaten youP Then kisses,
and laughter; not quite without a
tear or two on both, sides, how-
ever. ''Now, my darling, Horace
has told us his love story — and
BO he is very fond of you ?" " Mam-
ma, mamma, I love you better
than all the earth." Kisses, laughter,
and just one or two tears, all over
again.
« My darling child, you have been
some months away from us— do you
think you can quite tell your own
mind on a question which is life«long
in its results ? I mean, that the
tiling that is pleasant in one place
may not be so altogether delightful
in another. I should like you to
decide so great a question While in
the full enjoyment of your own rights
here. This is your home. This is
what you wiU have to exchange for
something el^^hen you marry. You
are very young to marry — ^uot eight-
een, remember. Whenever you de-
cide that question, I should like you
to decide it on your own ground, and
by your own mother's side."
<* I wonder whether you know how
wise you are?" was the question
that came in answer. ^ Do you know,
mother, that I cried like a baby at
HuU, because I felt all you have
said, and even a little more, and
thought he was unkind to press me.
You know Aunt Erskine had told me ;
and Horace, too, in a way — and he
said at Hull he dreaded the influence
of this place, and — and — " "But
there is nothing for you to dread.
This home is yours ; and its influence
is good ; and all the love you com-
mand here is your safety." Mrs.
Brewer spoke boldly, and quite with
the spirit of heroism. She was stand-
ing up for her rights. But Mr. Brewer
stood at the door. " The lover wants
to smoke in the park in the moon-
light Some information just to di-
rect his thoughts, you litde witch,"
for his step-child had tried to stop his
mouth wiUi a kiss —
" Papa, I am so happy. I won't, '
because I can't, plan to leave every-
thing I love best in the world just as
I come back to it." " But you must
give Erskine some kind of an an-
swer. The poor fellow is really
very much in earnest. Come and
see him." " No, I won't," said Mary,
very much as the wilful Claudia
might have uttered the words. But
Mary was thinking that there was a ,
great contrast between the genial
benevolence she had come to, and the
indescribable samething which was not
benevolence in which she had lived
ever since her mother had become a
Catholic. Mr. Brewer almost start-
ed. "I mean, papa, that I roust live
here unmolested at least one month
before I can find out whether I am
not always going to love you best of
all mankind. Don't you think you
could send Horace off to Scotland
again immediately?" "Bless the
child I Think of the letters that have \
passed — ^you read them, or knew ^f
them?" ''Knew of them," said.
Mary, nodding her head oonfldential-
ly, and looking extremely naughty.
'<Well; and I asked him here!"
"Yes; I know that." "And you
now tell me to send him away 1 My
Digitized by CjOOQIC
196
JtWy^rs Prater*
dear ! ^ exclaimed Mr. Bre wer, look-
ing appealinglj at his wife. ^ Deai^
esty you must tell Mr. Ersldiie that
Marj reallj would like to be left
quiet for awhile. Say bo now ; and
to-morrow joa can soggest hia go-
ing soon, and returning in a few
weeks." ^ And to-morrow I can have
a cold and lie in bed. Can't IP*
said Mary. Bat now they ceased
talking^ and heard Horace Erskine
go out of the door to the portico.
*' There ! he's gone. And I am sure
I can smell a cigar-*and I could hate
smoking, couldn't IF' Mother and
father now scolded the saucy child,
and condemned her to solitude and
sleep. And when they were gone
the girl put her head out of the open
window, and gased across the spread-
ing park, so peaceful in its far-stretch-
ing fiat, just roughened in places by
the fern that had begun to get brown
under the hot sun ; and then she list-
ened to the sound of the wind that
came up in earnest wluspers from the
woody comers, and the far*off forests
of oak. The sound rose and fell like
waves, and the silenoe between those
low outpourings of mysterious sound
was loaded with solemnity.
Do the whispering woods praise
him; and are their prayel^ in the
tali trees ? She was full of fencies
that night. But the words Father
Daniels had said to her seemed to
her to come again on the night-breeze,
and then she was quiet and still.
And yet— and yet — ^though she tried
to forget, and tried to keep her mind
at peace, the spirit within would rise
fr(»i its rest, and say that she had
left an atmosphere of eril speaking
and uncharitableness ; that malice
and harsh judgment had been hard
at work, and all to poison home^ and
to wm her from it.
And while she was trying to still
these troublmgs of the mind, Mr.
Brewer, by her mother's side, was
reading for the first time Mrs. £rs-
kine's letter, which Father Daniels
had returned. ^ My dear, my dear,"
said Mr. Brewer, ^' a veiy improper
letter. I think Mary is a yery ex-
traordinary girl not to have been
prejudioed against me. I shall al-
ways feel grateful to her. And as
to this letter, which I call a very
painftd letter, don't you flunk we had
better bum it?" Aiid so, by the as*
sistance of a lighted taper, Mr. Brew-
er cleared that evil thmg out of his
path for ever.
<^ Eleanor," said Lady Greystock,
^how lovely this evening is. The
moon is full, and how glorious I
Shall we drive by a roundabout way
to Blagden? James," speaking to
the man who occupied the seat be-
hind, ^^ how far is it out of our way if
we go through the drive in Bere-
mouth Park, and come out by the
West Lodge into the Blagden turn*
pike road^ ^<It will be two miles
further, my lady. But the road is
very good, and &e carriage wijl ran
very light over the gravelled road in
the park." " Then we'll go." So on
getting to the bottom of the street in
which Mrs. Morier lived. Lady Grey
stock took the road to Beremouth;
and the ponies seemed to enjoy the
change, and the whole world, except
those three who were passing so
pleasantly through a portion of it,
seemed to sleep beneath the face of
that great moon, wearing, as all full
moons do, a sweet grave look of
watching on its face.
^ Isn't it glorious ? Im't it grand,
this great expanse and this perfect
cahn ? Ah, Uiere goes a bat ; and a
droning beetle on the wing just makes
one know what silence we are pass-
ing through. How pure the air
feels. Oh, what blessuigs we have in
life — how many more than we know
of. I think of that in the still even-
ings often. Do you, £l^mor?"
<<Tes, Lady Grej^ck." But
Eleanor spoke in a very calm, busi-
ness-like, convinced sort of manner ;
not the least infected by the tears of
tenderness and the poetical feeling
that Lady Greystock had betrayed.
^ Yes, Lady Qreystodc And when
in great moments "-^^ Great mo-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jmifef^M Prayer.
197
meats! I like thaty** said Claudia—
"^ben I hare' those thoaghts I think
of you.- «Ofmer "Yes. And I
am profoundly strack by the goodness
of God, who endowed the great in-
terest of my life with so powerful an
/ittracdon for me. I must have either
liked or disliked you. I am so glad
to lore you."*
^ Eleanor, I wish you would tell me
the story of your ufe." They had
passed through the lodge gates now,
and were driyuig through Beremouth
Park. " You were not always what
you are now.**
" You will know it one day," said
Eleaner, sofUy. "Oh, see how the
moon comes out from behind that great
fleecy doud ; just in time to light us
as we pass through the shadows which
these grand oaks cast What lines of
silver light lie on the road before us.
It is a treat to be out in such a place
cm such a night as this. Stay, stay,
Lady G^rey stocL What is that ?"
lAdy Greystock pulled up suddenly,
and standing full in the moonlight, on
the turf at the side of the carriage,
was a taU, strong-built man. He took
off his cap with a respectfol air, and
said, " I beg pardon. I did not intend
to stop you. But if you will allow
melwill ask your servant a question."
He addrrased Lady Greystock, and
did not seem to look at Eleanor,
thoughshe was nearest to him. Elean-
or had suddenly pulled a veil over her
face ; but Lady Greystock had taken
hers &om her hat, and her uncovered
fiioe was turned toward the man with
the moonlight full upon it He said
to the servant, " Can you tell me where
a person called Eleanor Evelyn is to
be found ? Mrs. Evelyn she is probably
called. I want to know where she
is." Before James, who had long
known the person by his mistress's
side as Mrs. Evelyn, could speak, or
recover from his very natural surprise,
Eleauor herself spoke. " Yes," she
said, " Mrs. Evelyn lives not far from
Marston. I should advise you to call
on Mrs. Jenifer Stanton, who lives at
Marston with Mrs. Morier. She will
tell yon about her." "She who lives
with Madab Morier, of course ?* said
theman. "Yes ; the same." " Good
night"
" Good night," said Lady Greystock
in answer, and obeying Eleanor's
whispered "Drive on," she let. the
ponies, Icmging for their stable, break
into their own rapid pace, and, soon
out of the shadows, they were in the
light— the broad, calm, silent light--'
once more.
TO BBoonnraxp.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
198
A Pretended Dervieh %n IktriesUm,
TranalAted from- Le 06riespondAntf
A* PRETENDED DERVISH IN TURKESTAN.*
BT iHILE JONYEAinC
A BBILLIANT unagiDation, a spark-
ling and ready wit, ah indomitable ener-
gy, the liappy gill of seeing and painting
man and things in a lively manner,
sach are the qualities which we remark
at first in the new explorer of central
Asia. But he is not only a bold
traveller, a delightful story-teller, full
of spirit and originality, we must
recogaize also in him a learned orient-
alist, an emment ethnologist and lin-
guist
Bom in 1832, in a small Hungarian
town, he began at an early age to
study with passion the different dia-
lects of Europe and Asia, endeavor-
ing to discover the relations between
the idioms of the East and T7est.
Observing the strong affinity which
exists between the Hungarian and
the Turco-Tartaric dialects, and re-
solved to return to the cradle of the
Altaic tongues, he went to Constanti-
nople and frequented the schools and
libraries with an assiduity which in a
few years made of him a true effendi.
But the nearer he approached the
desired end, the greater was his thirst
for knowledge. Turkey began to ap-
pear to his eyes only the vestibule of
the Orient ; he resolved to go on, and
to seek even in the depths of Asia
the origioal roots of the idioms and
races of Europ&t In vain his friends
represented to bun the fatigaes and
perils of such a tour. Infirm as he
was (a wound had made him lame),
could he endure a long march over
those plains of sand where he would
• "Herman VamWry's Travels In Central
Asia." Original German edition. Leipzic:
Brockhan8,1885. Paris: Xavler. French TranB-
lation by M. Forenes. Parle : Hachette.
t The llngnlstlo and ethnographical studies
form a separate volume, which the author pro-
liposes to publish very soon.
be obliged to fight against the terror
of tempest, the tortures of thirst-
where, in fine, he might encounter
death imder a thousand forms ? and
then, how was he to force his way
among those savage and fanatic tribes,
who are afraid of travellers^ and who
a few years before had destroyed
Moorcraft, Conolly, and Stoddart?
Nothing could shake the resolution of
Vamb^ry ; he felt strong enough to
brave suffering, and as to the dangers
which threatened him from man, his
bold and inventive spirit would fur-
nish him the means to avert them in
calling to his assistance their very
superstitions. Was he not as well
versed in the knowledge of the Koran
and the customs of Islam as the most
devout disciple of the Prophet? He
would disguise himself in the costume
of a pilgrim dervish, and so would
go through Asia, distributing every-
where benedictions, but making se-
cretly his scientific studies and re-
marks. His foreign physiognomy
might, it is true, raise against him
some obstacles. But he counted on
his happy star, and, above aU, on his
presence of mind, to succeed at last*
These difficulties were renewed often
in the course of his adventurous tour ;
more than once the suspicious look of
some powerful tyrant was fixed upon
him as if to say : " Your features be-
tray you; you are a European!"
The extraordinary coolness, the inge-
nious expedients to which Yamb^ry
had recourse in these emergencies,
give to the story of his travels an in-
terest which novelists and ^dramatists
might envy. To this powerful charm,
the work of which we give a rapid
sketch unites the merit of containing
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervish in lUrleetan.
199
the most valuable notes on tho social
and political relations, the manners
and character, of the races which in-
habit Central Asia.
It was earlj in Jnlj, 1862, that
Yamb^iy, leaving Tabriz, began his
long and perilous journey. • Persia,
at £bis period of the jear, does not of-
fer the enchanting spectacle which
the enthusiastic descriptions of poets
lead us to imagine. This boasted
country displays only fo the eye a
heaven of fire, burning and desert
plains, through the midst of which
sometimes advances slowly a caravan
covered with dust, exhausted by fa-
tigue and heat. After a monotonous
and painful march of fifleen days, our
traveller sees at last rising from the
horizon the outlines of a number of
domes, half lost in a bluish fog. This
is Teheran, the celestial city, the seat
of sovereignty, as the natives pompous-
ly caU it.
It was not easy to penetrate into
this noble city; a compact crowd
filled the streets, asses, camels, mules
laden with straw, barley, and other
marketable articles jostled each other
in the strangest confusion. ^'Take
care! Take care!'* vociferated the
pasaers-by ; each one pressed, pushed,
and blows of sticks and even of sa-
bres were distributed with surprising
liberality. Yambdry succeeded in
getting safe and sound out of this
tumult; he repaired to the summer
residence of the Turkish ambassador,
where all the efiendis were assem-
bled under a magnificent silken tent.
Haydar EfTendi, who represented the
Bultaa at the court of the Shah, had
known the Hungarian traveller in
Constantinople; he received him most
cordially, and very soon the guests,
gather^ round a splendid banquet,
began to call up souvenirs of Stam-
boul, of the Bosphorus, and their de-
lightful landscapes, so different from
the arid plains of Persia.
The contrast of character is not
less noticeable between the two na-
tions who divide tho supremacy of
the Mohammedan world. The Otto-
nan, in consequence of his close
relations with the West, is more and
more penetrated by European man-
ners and civilization, and gains by
this contact an incontestable superior-
ity. The Persian preserves more
the primitive type of the Orientals,
his mind is more poetic, his intelli-
gence more prompt, his courtesy
more refined ; but proud t>f an an-
tiquity which loses itself in the night
of time, he is deeply hostile to our
sciences and arts, of which he does
not comprehend the importance.
Some choice spirits, indeed, have en-
deavored to rejuvenate the worm-eaten
institutions of Persia, and to lead
their country in the way of progress.
The pressing solicitations of the minis- ^
ter Ferrukh Khan engaged, some
years ago, several nations of Europe,
Belgium, Prussia, Italy, to send am-
bassadors in the hope of forming po-
litical and commercial relations with
Iran ; but their efforts were checked,
Persia not being ripe for this re-
generation.
Thanks to the generous hospitality
of Haydar Effendi, Vambery was
rested from his fatigues. Impatient
to continue his journey, he wished to
take immediately the road to Herat ;
his friends dissuaded him from it,
because the hostilities just declared
between the sultan of this province
and the sovereign of the Afghtms
rendered communications impossible.
The northern route was quite as im-
practicable ; it would have been neces-
sary to cross during the winter months
the vast deserts of central Asia. The
traveller was forced to await a more
favorable season. To remove gradu-
ally the obstacles which prevented the
realization of his plan, he began im*^
mediately to draw around him the der-
vishes who every year pass through
Teheran on their way to Turkey.
These pilgrims or ha^jis never fail to
address themselves to the Ottoman
embassy, for they are all Sunnites and/
Digitized by CjOOQIC
800
A Pr^UndAd Denitk in TSuinUm.
recognize the emperor of ConstanCi-
iiopleas their spiritoal head; Persia,
OQ the contrarj, belongs to the sect of
the ShitteSy who maj be called the
Protestants of Islam, with so profoond
a horror have thej inspired the £EUth-
ful believers of Ehiva^ Bokhara, Sa-
maicande, etc Vamb^iy, who pro-
posed to visit all these fanatic states,
had then adopted the character of a
pious and zealous Sunnite. Yerj soon
it was noised abroad among the pil-
grims that Beschid Efiendi {nom de
ffuerre of our traveller) treated the
dervishes as blathers, and that he was
no doubt himself a dervish in dis-
guise*
In the morning of the 20th of March,
1862, four ha4)is presented themselves
before him whom thej regarded as
the devoted protector of Uieir sect.
Thej came to complain of Persian
officials who, on their return from
Mecca, had imposed upon them an
abusive tax long since aboMshed. ^We
do not demand the money of his ex-
cellency the ambassador," said he
who appeared to be the chief; ''the
only <^ject of our prayers is, that in
future the Sunnites may be able to
visit the holy places without being
forced to endure the exacticms of the
infidel Shiites." Surprised at the dis-
interestedness of this language. Yam-
b^ry considered more attentively the
austere countenances of his guests.
In spite of tJieir miserable clothing,
a native nobility discovered itself in
them ; their words were frank, their
looks Intelligent. The little caravan
of which they made a part, composed
in all of twenty-four persons, was re-
turning to Bokhara. The resolution ,
of the European was immediately
taken ; he said to the pilgrims that
for a long time he had had an extreme
desire to visit Turkestan, this hearth
of Islamite piety, this holy land which
contained the tombs of so many saints.
^ Obedient to this sentiment,*' said he,
''I have quitted Turkey; for many
months I have awaited in Persia a
favorable opportunity, and I thank
God that Ilutve at last found oompan-
ions with whom I may be able to om-
tinue my journey and accomplish my
le Tartars were at first much
astonished. How could an efiendi,
accustomed to a life of luxury, resolve
to encounter so many dangers, to en-
dure so many trials? The ardent
faith of the pretended Sunnite was
hardly efficient to explain this prod-
>g7» 80 the dervishes felt themselves
bound to enlighten him on the sad con-
sequences to which this excess of zeal
might expose him. « We shall travel,"
they said, ''for whole weeks without
encountering a single dwelling, without
finding the least rivulet where we can
quench our thirst. More than that,
we shall run the risk of perishing by
the robbers who infest the desert, or
of bemg swallowed up alive by tem-
pests of sand. Beflect again, seig-
neur efiendi, we would not t)e the
cause of your death.** These worda
were not without thdr efiect, but, after
ccMuing so far, Vambery was not easily
discouraged. "I know,** said he to
the pilgrims, "that this world is an
inn where we sojourn for some days,
and from which we soon depart to
give place to new travellers. I pity
those restless spirits who^ not content
with having thought of the present,
embrace in their solicitude a long fu*
ture. Take me with you, my friends ;
I am weary of this kingdom of error,
iEuid I long to leave it."
Perceiving in him so firm a resolve,
the chiefs of the caravan received the
pretended Beschid as a travelling
oompanion. A firatemal embrace rati-
fied this engagement, and the Euro*
pean felt not without some repugnance
the contact of these ragged garments
which long use had impregnated with
a thousand ofl^nsive odors.
Following the advice of one of the
dervishes, BDs^J^ Bilal, who entertained
a particcdar friendship for him, the
traveller cut his hair, adopted the Bok-
hariot oostnme, and the better to play
the part of a pilgrim, an enemy of all
worldly superfluity, he left behind his
bedding, his linen, everything, in
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pntmded DervUh in TSxrhetKau
201
short, whichia the eyes <rf the Tartan
bad the least appearance of refine-
ment or Inxuiy. Some days after, he
rejoined his companions in the cara-
Tansery where the hadjis had prom-
ised to meet him. There Yambery
ascertained, to his great sarprise, that
the miserable gannents wluch had dis-
gneted him so much were the state
robes of the dervishes; their travelling
dress was composed of numerous rags,
arranged in tl^ most picturesque man-
ner and fastened at the waist by a
fragment of rope. Hadji Bilal, rais-
ing his anns in the air, pronounced
the prayer of departure, to which idl
the assistants responded by the sacra-
mental amen^ placing the hand upon
the beard.
Yambery quitted Teheran not with-
out sadness and mis^ying. In this
city, placed on the frontiers of civiliza-
tion, he had found devoted friends;
now, in the company of strangers, he
was about to face at once the perils
of the desert and those, more to be
feared, which threatened him from the
cruelty of the inhabitants of the cities.
He was roused from these reflections
by joyous ballads sung by many of
the pOgrims, others related the adven-
tures of their wandering life or boasted
of the charms of their native country,
the fertile gardens of Mergolan and
Khokanfl. Sometimes their patriotic
and religious enthusiasm led them to
intone verses from the Koran, in
which Yambery never failed to join
with a zeal which did honor to the
strength of his lungs. He had then
the satisfaction of observing the der^
Tishes look at one another and say, in
an undertone, that Hadji Rescind was
a true believer, who, without doubt,
thanks to the good examples before
his eyes, would soon walk in the stqps
of the saints.
At the end of fiY^ days the pil-
grims readied the mountain of Mazen-
dran, the western slope of which ex-
tends its base to the Caspian sea.
Heri» the sterility of the country yields
to HkB freshest, the richest vegetation ;
splendid forests, prairies covered with
thick grass, extend themselves every-
where before the charmed eye of the
traveller, and from time to time the
murmur of a waterfall delights his ear.
The sight of this smiUng country drove
away all the sad presentiments which
had possessed the soul of Yambery ;
mounted upon a gently-treading mule,
he arrives full of confidence at Elara-
tipe, where he is to embark upon the
Cacpian sea. There an Afghan of
high birth, whom the pretended Bes-
chid had met upon his journey, and
who knew the ccmsideration which he
enjoyed at the Ottoman embassy,
offered him the hospitality of his house.
The news of the arrival of pilgrims
had collected a great number of vi£\i-
toTs ; squatted along the walls of the
houses, they fixed upon Yambery looks
of mingled distrust and curiosity.
^ He is not a dervish," said some, << you
can see that by his features and com-
plexion." « The hadjis," replied oth-
ers, ^ pretend that he is a near relation
of tiie Turkish ambassador." All
then, shaking their heads with a mys-
terious air, said in an undertone, ^ Only
Allah can know what this foreigner is
afler." During this time, Yambery
pretended to be plunged in a profound
meditation ; in whic^ as a Protestant,
he committed a grave imprudence, for
the Orientals, Hars and hypocrites
themselves, cannot believe in frank-
ness, and always infer the contrary of
whatever is told them. These suspi-
cions, moreover, had nearly frustrated
at the outset the bold designs of the
European. The captain of the Af-
ghan ship, employed in provisioning
tne Rnsaian garrison, had consented
for a small sum to take all the hadjis
in his ship across the arm of the sea
which divides Karatfepe from Ashoura-
da. But learning the reports which
were in circulation regarding our trav-
eller, he refused to permit him to em-
bark; ^^his attachment for the Bus-
sians not allowing him," he said, ^ to
fistcilitate the secret designs of an em-
issary of Turkey." In vain Ha^ji
Bilal, Ha4ji SalOi, and others of the
caravan ei^eavored to change his res-
>
Digitized by CjOOQIC
202
A Pretended Dervish tn Tutiestctn.
olution. AH was useless, and Yarn-
berj was doubting whether he should
not be forced to retrace his steps,
when his companions generously de-
clared that they would not proceed
without him.
Toward evening, the dervishes
learned that a Turcoman named Ta-
kaub proposed ftx)m a religious motive,
aod without desiring any recompense,
to take them in his boat. The motive
of this unexpected kindness was very
soon discovered. Yakaub, having
drawn Vamb^ry apart, confessed to
him in an embarrassed tone, which
contrasted singularly with his wild and
energetic physiognomy, that he nour-
ished a profound and hopeless passion
for a young girl of his tribe ; il Jew, a
renowned magician who resided at
Karatbpe, had promised to prepare an
infallible talisman if the unhappy
lover were able to procure for him
thirty drops of essence of rose direct
from* Mjecca. **You hadjis," added
the Tartar, casting down his eyes,
"never quit the holy places without
bringing away some perfume ; and as
you are the youngest of the caravan,
I hope that you will comprehend my
vexation better than the others, and
that you will help me." The compan-
ions of Yambery had in fact several
bottles of the essence, of which they
gave a part to the INirkoman, and this
precious gift threw the son of the des-
ert into a genuine ecstasy.
The voyagers passed two days on
a kiseboi/y a boat provided with a mast
and two unequal sails, which the Tar-
tars use for the transport of cargoes.
It was almostnight when Yakaub cast
anchor before Ashourada, the most
southerly of the Russian possessions in
Asia. The czar maintains constantly
on this coast steamers charged with
repressing the depredations of the
Turkomen, which formerly inspired
terror throughout the province. All
natives before approaching the port of
Ashourada must be provided with a
regular passport, and must submit to
the inspection of the Russian functiona-
ries. This visit caused Yamb&ry some
alarm; would not the sight of his fea-
tures, a little too European, provoke
from the Russian agent an indiscreet
exclamation of surprise? and would
not his incognito be betrayed ? Hap-
pily, on the day of their arrival Easter
was celebrated in the Greek Church,
and, on account of this solemnity, the
examination was a mere formality.
The pilgrims continued their voyage,
and landed the next day at Gomush-
tepe, a distance of only three leagues
from Ashourada.
H.
The hadjis were received by a
chief named Khandjan, to whom
they had letters of recommendation.
The noble Turkoman was a man of
about forty years ; his fine figure,
his di-ess of an austere simplicity, the
long beard which fell upon his breast^
gav^ him a dignified and imposiog air.
He advanced toward his guests, em-
braced them several times, and led
the way to his tent The news of
the arrival of dervishes had already
spread among the inhabitants; men,
women, and diildren threw themselves
before the pilgrims, disputing with
one another the honor of touching
their garments, believing that they
thus obtained a share in the merits of
these saintly personages. |»" These
first scenes of Asiatic life,'' says
Yambdry, "astonished me so much
that I was constantly doubting wheth-
er I should first examine the singular
construction of their tents of felt,
or adnure the beauty of the women,
enveloped in their long silken tunics,
or jridd to the desire manifested
by the arms and hands extended to-
ward me. Strange spectacle! Young
and old, without distinction of sex or
rank, pressed eagerly round these
hadji^ covered yet with the holy dust
of Mecca. Fancy my amazement
when I saw women of great beauty,
and even young girls, rush through
the crowd to embrace me. These dem-
onstrations of sympathy and respect^
however, became fatiguing when we
Digitized
b'y Google
A IVetended Dermk in Tarhestan.
203
arriyed at the teat of the chief itihan
(priest), where our little caravan as-
semble Then began a singular
contest. Each one solicited as a
precious boon the right of receiving
under his tent the poor strangers. I
had heard of the boasted hospilalitf
of the nbmad tribes of Asia, but I nev-
er could have imagined the extent of it.
Khandjaii put an end to the dispute
bj^himself distributing among the in-
habitants his coveted guests. He re-
served on]}' Hadji Bilal and myself,
who were considered the chiefs of
the caravan, and we followed him to
his ooa (tent).**
A comfortable supper, of boiled fish
and curdled milk, awaited the two pil-
grims. The touching kindness with
which he had been received, the com-
fort by which he was surrounded,
filled Vamb^ry with a joy which ac-
corded ill with the gravity of his
assumed character of dervish* His
friend Iladji Bilal felt bound to ad-
vise him upon this subject "You
have remarked already," said he,
^ that my companions and I distribute
fat^ia (blessings) to every one. You
must follow our example. I know it
is not the custom in Roum (Turkey),
but the Turkomen expect it ancT
desire it. You will excite great sur-
prise if, giving yourself out for a der-
vish, you do not take completely the
character of one. You know the for-
mula of this blessing; you must, then,
put on a serious face and bestow your
oenedictions. You can add to them
nefes (holy breathings) when you are
called to the sick; but do not forget to
extend at the same time your hand,
for every one knows that the der-
vishes subsist by the piety of the
faithful, and they never leave a
tent without receiving some little
present."
The Hungarlaa traveller profited so
well by the advice of Iladji Bilal
that, five days after his arrival at
Gomosht&pe, a crowd of beyevers
and sick people besieged him from the
moment that he rose, soliciting, one his
blessing, another his sacred breathing.
a tliird the talisman that was to cure
him* Thanks to the complaisance
and marvellous tact which character-
ized him, Vamb^ry henceforth identi-
fied himself completely with the ven-
erable personage of Qadji Eeschid,
and never during a period of two years
escaped him the smallest gesture or
word which could possibly betray
him. His reputation for sanctity in-
creased every day, i(nd procured for
him numerous offerings, which he
received with a truly Mussulman
gravity. This increasing confidence
permitted the European to form with
the Turkomen frequent intunacies, of
which he profited to study the social
relations of these tribes, to discover
the innumerable ramifications of
wbft;h they are composed, and to
form an exact idea of the bonds
which unite *element8 in appearance
so heterogeneous and confused* But
he was obliged to exercise great pru-
dence 5 a dervish, wholly preoccupied
with heavenly things, never ought to
ask the smallest question in regard to
afi&irs purely worldly. Fortunately,
the Tartars, so terrible and so impetu-
ous, when they have completed their
forays, pass the remainder of their
time in absolute idleness, and then
they amuse themselves with intermin-
able political and moral discussions.
Vamb6ry, dropping his beads with
an exterior of pious reveiy, lent an
attentive e&r to all these conver-
sations, of which he never lost the
slightest detaiL
One thing which surprised him
among the Turkomen was to see that
if all are too proud to obey, no
one seems ambitious to command.
" We are a people without a head,"
they say; "and we wish no head*
Every one is king in our country,"
Yet, notwithstanding the absence of
aU restraint, of all authority, these
savage robbers, the terror of their
neighbors, Uve together amicably, and
we find among them fewer robberies
and murders, and more morality than
among the msgority of the Ajsiatic
people. This is explained by the ac-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
204
A PreUnded Dervish in I\irtestctn.
tion of an all-powerful law, which
exercises over the inhabitants of
the desert more empire than re-
ligion itself; we speak of the
Dehf that is to say, the custom, the
traditions. An invisible sovereign,
obeyed everywhere, it sanctions rd>-
beiy and slavery, and all the prescrip-
tions of Islam fall to the ground b^
foreiL ^^ How," asked Vambery one day
of a Tartar famous for his robberies
and his great piety, ^how can you
sell your Sunnite brother, when the
Prophet has said expressly: Every
Mussulman is free P* ^ Bahl " he re-
plied, ^ the Koran, this book of God,
is more precious than a man, and yet
you buy and sell it; Joseph, the
son of Jacob, was a prophet, and yet
they sold him, and was he ever 'the
worse for it ?" The influence of Deb
extends throughout central Asia;
in converting themselves to the wor-
ship of Mohammed, the nomad tribes
have taken only the exterior form;
they adored formerly the sun, the fire,
and other natural phenomena — they
personify them to-day under the name
of Allah.
Many ancient and singular customs
are found eveiywhere in central Asia ;
marriage is accompanied by charac-
teristic rites. The young girl, in her
rich bridal costume, bravely bestrides
a furious courser, whom she urges to
his utmost speed ; with one hand she
, holds the rein, with the other she
presses to her bosom a lamb just kill-
ed, which the bridegroom, mounted
also on a fast horse, endeavors to
take from her. All the young people
of the tribe take a part in the eager
pursuit, and the sandy desert then be-*
comes the theatre of this &nta3tic
contest.
The ceroQonies prescribed for fu-
nerals are not less singular. When a
member of a Turkoman &unily dies,
the mourners come every day for an
entire year, at the hour when the
deceased expired, to utter sobs and
cries, in whidi the relations are bound
to join. This custom seems to prove
that the Tartars, superior in this re-
spect to civilized people, consecrate to
their dead a remembrance more pro-
found and more durable ; but, in fact,
one must abate a little of this praise ;
the tears and prolonged mourning
are only a matter of form, and Yam-
h&ry oflen could hardly suppress a
smile when he saw the head of the
fitmily tranquilly smoking his pipe or
enjoying Ibis repast, interrupting him-
self now and then to join the noisy
lamentations of the choir. It is the same
with the ladies ; they cry, they weep
in the most lugubrious fashion, with-
out ceasing to turn the wheel or rock-
the cradle. But what then ? is not hu-
man nature the. same everywhere,
and do the Turkoman ladies differ so
much from our inconsolable widows, to
whom, as La flontaine says with good-
natured malice, ^ mourning very soon
becomes an ornament."
Vamb6ry, venerated as one of the
elect of the prophet, oflen passed his
evenings among these Tartar families.
Then, surrounded by a large au*
dience, the troubadour, accompanying ,
himself upon the guitar, chanted the
poetry of Koroghi, of Aman Mollah,
or more frequency of Makbdumkuli, the
Ossian of the desert, whom his com-
patriots regard as a demigod. This
holy personage, who had never stud*
ied in the colleges of Bokhara, re-
ceived the gift of all science by a
divine inspiration. He was one day
transported in a dream to Mecca, in
presence of th^ Prophet and of the
first caliphs. Seized with respect
and fear at the sight of this august
assembly, he prostrated himself, and,
throwing around him a timid look,
perceived Omar, the patron of the
Turkomen, who, with a benevolent air,
signed him to approach. He received
then the benediction of the Prophet, a
light blow on the forehead, which
awakened him. From this moment a
celestial poesy flowed fix>m his lips ;
he composed heroic hymns which the
Tartars regard to-day as the most
beautSul productions of the human
mind.
About this time, a mollah having
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Prdeni^ DervUh in Turkukm.
SOS
andertakea a trip to Atabeg and the
Groklen^ our traveller seked the occa-
Bion to examine the Greek rains which
perpetuate among these savage peo-
ple the remembrance of the conquests
of Alexander. He recognised the
wall built by the Macedonian hero to
oppose a barrier to the menacing
stream of the desert tribes. The
legend of the Torkomen shows how
the oriental imagination clothes the
events of historj with poetic and
religious fiction. Alexander, they
saj, was a profoundly religious Mus-
sulman; and as the saints exercise
an power over the invisible world, he
commanded the spirits of darkness,
and it was by his order that the genii
built the sacred walL
Notwithstanding the generous hos-
pitality of Khandjan, Yamb^ry be-
gan to get tired of his residence at
Gomusht^pe. The continual raids of
the Tttriu>men peopled their tents with
a crowd of Persian slaves, whose tor-
tures revolted any one who had a
spark of humanity. These unhappy
beings, surprised for the most part in
a nocturnal attadc, were dragged from
their families, and loaded with heavy
chains which betrayed the slightest
movement and hindered every attempt
at flight. Khandjan himself possess-
ed two young Iranians of eighteen
and twenty years, and, singularly
enonghf this man, so good and so
hospitable, overwhelmed these young
men with injuries and insults on the
slightest pretext. Our traveller could
not, without betraying himself, mani-
fest the least compassion for these poor
slaves. Notwitiistai||ing, the pity
which they sometimes surprised in his
looks induced them to address him.
They begged him to write to their re-
latives, imploring them to seU cattle,
gardens, and dwellings in order to re-
kase them from this frightful captiv-
ity ; for the Turkomen oflen maltreat
their prisoners merely in the hope of
obtaining a great ransom for them.
Yambery.then learned with joy
that the kimn of Khira, for whom the
physicians had prescribed the use of
buffalo's milk, had sent his chief of
caravans to Gomushtfepe to buy two
pair of these animals, in order to hav6
them acclimated in his own country.
To join an officer who knew the invis-
ible paths of the desert better than
the most experienced guides, was an
unexpected good fortune for the pil-
grims, and Vamb^ry urged Hadji
Bilal to improve so good an opportu-
nity ; but Hadji Bilal was surprised
at the impatience of his friend, and re-
marked that it was extremely childish.
^It is of no use to be in a hurry,"
said be ; " you will remain on the banks
of the Goighen until destiny shall
decree that you quench your thirst
at another river, and it is impossible
to tell when the will of Allah will be
manifested.** This answer was not
particularly satisfactory to Vamb^ry ;
but he could not attempt the desert
alone; he was forced then to submit
to the oriental slowness of his com-
panions.
The little caravan was to return to
Etrek, the capital of a tribe of war-
riors, to wait until the chief of cara-
vans should join it. One of the most
renowned chiefs of this tribe came
just at this time to Gomusht^pe. His
name was Ku1khan-/e-i^V (chief).
His sombre and wild physiognomy,
little calculated to inspire confidence,
never brightened at the sight of the
pious pilgrims ; nevertheless, out of re-
gard for Khandjan, he consented to
take the hadjis under his protection,
recommending to them to be ready to
start with hun in two days, for he
awaited in order to return to his tent
at Etrek only the arrival of his son, who
had gone on a raid. Kulkhan spoke
of this expedition with the paternal
pride which makes the heart of a
European beat in learning that his
son has covered himself with glory on
the field of battle. Some hours later,
the young man, followed by seven
Turkomen, appeared on the banks of
the Gorghen. A great crowd had
gathered, and admiration was painted
upon every face when the proud
cavaliers threw themselves with their
Digitized by CjOOQIC
206
A Pretended DervUh in TarkesUm.
prej, ten magoifioent horses, into
the midst of the river, which they
crossed swimming. They landed im-
mediately, and even Yamh^ry, in
spite of the contempt with which
these acts of pillage inspired him,
could not take his eyes from these
hold waniors, who, in their short
riding-habit, the chest covered with
their abundant curling hair, gaily laid
down their anna.
About noon the next day the trav-
eller' quitted Gbmusht^pe, and was es-
corted for a considerable distance by
Khandjan, who wished to fulfil
punctually all the duties of hospitality.
It was not without heartfelt regret
that he parted from this devoted host,
from whom he had received so many
marks of interest. The pilgrims
travelled toward the north-east;
their road, which led them from the
coast, was bordered by many mounds
raised by the Turkomen in memory of
their illustrious dead. When a war-
rior dies, every man of his tribe is
bound to throw at least seven shovels-
ful of earth upon his grave. So
these mausoleums often appear like
little hills. This custom must be
very ancient among the Asiatics;
the Huns brought it into Europe, and
we find traces of it to-day in Hun-
gary. Half a league from Gromush-
&pe the little caravan reached magnifi-
cent prairies, the herbage of which,
knee-liigh, exhaled a delicious fra-
grance. But these blessings of na-
ture are thrown away upon the Tui*^
komen, who, wholly occupied in
robbery and pillage, never dream of
enriching themselves by peaceful, pas-
toral occupations. "Alas I'* thought
our European, "what charming vil-
lages might shelter themselves in this
fertile and beautiful country. When
will the busy hum of life replace the
silence of death which broods over
these regions?"
Approaching Etrek, the landscape
suddenly changes* This lonely ver-
dure is exchanged for the salt lands
of the desert, whose rank odor and
repulsive appearance seem to warn
the traveller of the sufferings which
await him in these immense solitudes.
LiUle by little Vambery felt the
ground become soft under foot; his
camel slipped, buried himself at each
step, and gave such evident signs of
intending to throw him in the mud,
that he thought it prudent to dismount
without widting for a more pressing^
invitation. After tramping an hour
and a half in the mire the pilgrims
reached Kara Sengher (black wall),
where rose the tent of their host,
Kulkhan-le-Pir. The district of
Etrek is, to the populations of
Mazendran and Taberistan, a by-
word of terror and malediction.
"May yoti be carried to Etrek,"
is the most terrible imprecation whidi
fury can extort from a Persian. One
cannot pass before tlie tents of the Tur-
komen of Etrek without seeing the
unhappy Iranian slaves, wasted by
fatigue and privations, and bent un-
der the weight of their chains. But
the nomad tribes of Tartary offer a
singular mixture of vice and virtue,
of justice and lawlessness, of benevo-
lence and cruelty. Vambery, in his
character of dervish, made frequent
visits among the Tartars. He always
returned loaded with presents and
penetrated with gratitude for their
charitable hospitality. To this senti-
ment succeeded a profound horror at
the barbarous treatment inflicted upon
their slaves. At Gomushtepe such a
spectacle had already revolted him;
and yet this city, compared to Etrek,
might be considered the Ultima Tkuh
of humanity and civilization.
One day, rettyoing to his dwcUmg,
Vambdry met one of the slaves of
Eulkhan, who, in a piteous tone,
begged him to give him to drink.
This unfortunate being had labored
ever ^ince morning in a field of mel-
ons, exposed to the heat of a burning
sun, without any other food than salt
fish, and without a drop of water to
quench his thirst The sight of thisy
poor sufferer, and of the iears which
ran down over his thick black beard,
made Yamb^ry forget the danger
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervish in Hirkeetan.
207
to whicb an impradent compassion
might expose himself. He gave
his bottle to the slave, who drank
eagerlj and fled, not without hav-
ing passionatelj thanked his beno-
£Baior»
Another time the European and
' Hadji Bilal called on a rich Tartar,
who, learning that Vamb^rj was a dis-
ciple of the Grand Tark, cried, with
great glee, " I will show you a speo-
tade which will delight jou ; we know
how well the Bossians and the Turks
i^ree, and I will show joa one o£
your enemies in chains." He then
called a poor Muscovite slave, whose
pallid features and expression of pro-
found sadness touched Yamb^^ to
the hearL ^' Go and kiss the feet of
this effendi," said the Turkoman to the
prisoner. The poor fellow was about
to obey, but our traveller stopped him
by a gesture, saying that he had that
morning begun a great purification
and that he did not wish to bo defiled
by the touch of an infidel.
At last a messenger came to inform
the pilgrims that the chief of caravans
was about to leave, and that he would
meet them at noon the next day on the
shore opposite Etrek. The hadjis
therefore began their journey, escorted
by Kulkhan4e-Plr, who, thanks to the
introduction of ^iian^jan, neglected
nothing for the security of his guests.
Now, as these districts are infested
by brigands and very dangerous for.
caravans, the protection of this ^ay-
beard was very useful to the travellers.
Knlkhan was, in fact, the spiritual
guide and grand high-priest of these
fierce roll)€^ ; he united to a character
naturally ferocious a consummate hy-
pocrisy which made him a curious
type <n the desert chiefs. One ought
to have heard this renowned bandit,
who had ruined so many families, ex-
plaining to his assembled disciples
the rites prescribed for purifications,
and telling them how a good Mussul-
man ought to cat his moustache, etc.
A sort of pious ecstasy, a perfect se-
renity, the fruit of a good conscience,
was visible meanwhile upon the coun-
tenances t>f these men, as if they al-
ready enjoyed a foretaste of the de-
light of Mohammed's paradise.
The chief of caravans now joined
the pilgrims. Vambery desired very
much to win the good graces of so
important a man, and was, therefore,
much alarmed when he saw that this
dignitary, who had received the other
pU^ims with marks of great respect,
treated him with great coldness. Had-
ji Bilal eagerly undertook the defence
of his friend. " All this," he cried
angrily, *< is no doubt the work of that
miserable Mehemmed, who, even while
we were in Etrek, tried to make us
believe that our Hadji Rcschid, so
holy and so learned in the Koran,
was a European in disguise! The
Lord, pardon my sinsT This was
the favorite exclamation of the good
dervish in his moments of greatest
agitation. ^^Be patient," he added,
addressing his companion,* ''once ar-
rived at Khiva, I will set this opium-
eater right." Mehemmed was an
Afghan merchant, bom at Kandahar,
who had frequently met Europeans.
He thought he discovered in Vambery
a secret agent travelling, no doubt,
with great treasure, and he hoped, by
frightening him, to extort from him
considerable sums ; but the European
was too cunning to be taken in this trap,
and he found a secure protection in
his reputation for sanctity and in the
generous friendship of Hadji BilaL
This incident had no inmiediate con-
sequences. The chief of caravans, who
was now chief of the united caravans,
ordered each pilgrim carefully to fill
his bottle, for they would travel now
many days without meeting any spring.
Vambery followed the example of his
companions, but Vith a negligent ear
which Hadji Salih thought himself
bound to reprove. " You do not know
yet," said he, ^ that in the desert each
drop of water becomes a di-op of life.
The thirsty traveller watches over his
bottle as a miser over his treasure ;
it is as precious to him as his eye-sight"
They travelled the whole day over
a sandy soil, at times slightly undulat-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pntmded Dmritk in TMutlUm.
iog) bot where itwBS impoMiUe to
discoTer the least trace of a path*
The son alone indicated thdr ooarse,
and during the night the ibervcm6a«A«
(chief of caravang) guided himself
by the polar star, oaliedbj the Torko-
men the iron pin, because it is motion-
less. Gradually the sand gave place
to a hard and flinty soil, on which
through the silent night resounded the
foot-fflil of the camels. At day-break
the caravan stopped to take some
hours of rest, and presentiy Yambory
perceived the kervanbasni engaged
eagerly in conversation with Hadji
BiLeJ and Ha^ji Salih, the subject of
which their looks, constantly directed
toward him, sufficiently indicated.
He pretended not to observe it, and
occupied himself with renewed earn-
estness in turning over the pages of
the Koran* Some moments after his
firiends came to him, and said ''his
foreign features excited the distrust of
the kervanbashi, for this man had al-
ready incurred the anger of the king
because he had some years before
. conducted to Khiva a European,
whom this single joniney had enabled
to put down on paper with diabolical
art all the peculiarities of the country,
and he never should be able to save
his head if he committed another such
blunder. It is with great difficulty,**
sdded the dervishes, ^that we have
persuaded him to take yon with us,
and he has made it a condition, first,
that you shall consent to be searched,
and secondly, that you will swear, by
the tomb of the Prophet, that you wUl
not carry about you secretly a wooden
peuj as these detestable Europeans
always do.''
These words, we may imagine, were
not very agreeable to Yambory, but
he had too much self-control to permit
his agitation to be seen« Fretenduig
to be very angry, he turned toward
Ha^i Salih, and, loud enough to be
heard by the chief of caravans, re-
plied, " Ha^, you have seen me in
Teheran, and you know who I am ;
say to the kervanbashi that an honest
man ought not to listen jto the gossip
of an infidel." This pretended indig-
nation produced the desired eflfect ; no
one afterward expressed a doubt in
regard to the pilgrim. Yambery could
not resolve to keep his promise, and,
whatever it might have cost him to
deceive his friends, he continued to.
make in secret some rapid notes.
^ Let one imagine,'' says he, to excose
himsetf, " the latter disappointment of
a traveller who arriving at last, after
long efibrts and great peril, before a
spring for which he has eagerly sighed,
Ibds himself forbidden to moisten his
parched lips."
The caravan advanced slowly
through the desert ; in compassion for
the camels, who sufiered much from
the sand, upon which they could hardly
walk, the pilgrims dismounted when
theroadbecameverybad. Theseforced
marches were a severe trial to Yam-
bery on account of his lameness ; but
he endeavored to forget, his fatigue
and to take a part in the noisy conrer-
sations of his companions. The nephew
of the kervanbashi, a Turkoman of
Khiva, entertained a particular a£Eeo-
tion for him ; full of respect for his
character as dervish, and won by the
benevolence of his looks, he took great
..pleasure in talking to him of his tentj
the only manner in which the prescrip-
tions of the Prophet pennitted him to
speak of the young wife whom he had
left at home. Separated for a whole
year from the object of his tenderness,
Khali Mallah appealed to the sdence
of the pretended haclji to pierce die
veil which absence had placed between
hiiflselfandhisfiumly. Yamb&y grave-
ly took the Koran, pronoun^ some
cabalistic words, closed his eyes, and
opened the book precisely at a passage
in which women are spoken of. He
interpreted the sacred text so as to
draw from it an orade sufficiently
vague, at whidi the young Tartar was
tiansported witii Jot.
On the 27th of May the travellers
reached the table-lands of Korenta^,
a chain of mountains surrounded by
vast valleys, toihe west of whidi ex-
tend ruins probably of Greek or^in.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended DerviA in Ikrkestcau
209
The nomads who inhabit this district
came in crowds to visit the caravan,
and for some hoars the encampment
had the appearance of a bazaar. The
merchants and drovers who acoompa-
niedthe kervanbashi concluded import-
ant baigains with the natives, mostly
on credit ; bat Vamb^ry was sarpris*
ed to see the debtor, instead of giving
the note as a guarantee to the credi-
tor, tranqnillj pat it in his own pock-
et. Our Eaiopean could not refrain
from speaking of this, and he received
from one of the merchants this answer
of a patriarchal simplicity: ^What
should I do with the paper ? it would
not do me any good ; but the debtor
requires it in order to remind him of
the amoont of the debt and of the
time when it is to be paid."
Two days after a dark blue cloud
appeared in the horizon toward the
nordi ; this was Pedt-Balkan, the
elevation, the picturesque landscapes,
and the rich mineral resources of
which aro celebrated in all Turkoman
poetry. The travellers passed along
the chain of mountains, perceiving
hero and thero green and fertile prai-
ries, and yet the profound solitude of
these beautiful vallcjrs fiUed the soul
with a vague sadness. Beyond com-
mences the Great Desert, whero the
traveller marches for many weeks
willioat finding a drop of water to
quench his thirst, or a tree to shelter
bim from the rays of the sun. In
winter the cold is intense, in summer
the heat ; but the two seasons present
an equal danger, and frequent tem-
pests swallow up whole caravans un-
der diifb of snow or whirlwinds of
sand.
** In proportion,'' says Vambery,
^ as the outi^nes of Balkan disappear
from the horizon, the limitless desert
shows itself, terrible and majestic.
I had often thought that imagination
and enthusiasm enter largely into the
profound impression produced by the
sight of these immense solitudes. I
delved myself. In my own belov-
ed country I have often seen vast
plaina of sand; in Persia I have
VOL. in. 14
I
crossed the salt desert; but how differ-
ent wero my feelings to-day! It is
not imagination, it is naturo herself
who lights the sacred torch of inspira-
tion. The interminable hills of sand,
the utter absence of life, the frightful
cahn of death, the purple tints of the
sun at his rising and setting, all warn
us that we are in the Great Desert,
all fill our souls with an inezpreseible
emotion."
After travelling many days, the
provision of water beginning to be
exhausted, Vambery knew for the
first time the horrible torturos of
thirst. " Alas I" he thought, '< saving
and blessed water, the most precious
of all the elements, how little have I
known your value I what would I not
give at this moment for a few drops
of your divine substance T The un-
fortunate traveller had lost his appe-
tite, ho experienced an excessive
prostration, a devouring fire consum-
ed his veins, he sank upon the ground
in a state of complete exhaustion.
Suddenly he heard resound the magic
words, " Water I water T* He looked
up and saw the kervanbashi distribute
to each of his companions two glasses
of the procioos liquid. The good
Turkoman had the habit whenever
he crossed the desert of hiding a
certain quantity of water, which he
distributed to the members of his car-
avan when their sufferings became in-
tolerable. This unexpected succor
revived the strength of Vamb&y, and.
he acknowledged the justice of the
Tartar proverb : " The drop of water
given in the desert to the traveller
dying of thirst, effiices a hundred,
years of sin.''
The next day numerous tracks of
gazelles and wild asses announced ta
the travellers that springs were to be.
found in the neighborhood ; thither
they hastened to fiU their bottles, and,,
relieved now from all anxiety lest,
water should fail them before their
arrival at Khiva, they gave themselves.
up to transports of joyful enthusi-
asm. Toward evening they reached,
the table-land of Kafiankir, an Island
Digitized by CjOOQIC
210
A PreUnaed Dervish in Turkestan.
of verdure in the midst of a sea of
sand. Its fertile soil, covered with
luxuriant yegetatioOf gives asylum to
a great number of animals ; two deep
trenches surround this oasis, which
Uie Tuikomen say are ancient branch-
es of the Oxus. The caravan, instead
of going directly to Khiva, made a
circuit to avoid a tribe of marauders ;
the first of June it arrived within
sightof the great Tartarcity, which, with
its domes, its minarets, its smiling gar-
dens, the luxuriant . vegetalioli which
surrounds it, appeared to the travel-
lers, worn by the monotony of the de«
sert^ an epitome of the delights of
nature and of civilization.
in.
On entering the dty their admira-
tion was somewhat lessened. Khiva
is composed of three or four thousand
bouses, constructed of earth, scattered
about in all directions and surrounded
by a wall, also of ckiy, ten feet
bigh. But at every step the pious
Khivites offered them bread and dried
fruits, begging their blessing. For a
Jong time Khiva luid not received
within its walls so great a number of
Mdjis; every face expressed aston-
ishment and admiration, and on all
sides resounded acclamations of wel-
come. Entering into the bazaar, Hadji
Bilal intoned a sacred canticle, in
which his companions joined ; the
Toice of Yambery predominated ; and
Jiis emotion was very great when he
;8aw the surrounding crowd rush to-
ward him, to kiss his hands, his feet
covered with dust, and even the rage
(which composed his dress. •
According to the usage of the
country, the travellers returned im-
mediately to the caravan whicb
served as custom-house. The princi-
pal mehrum (royal chamberlain) fiil-
£lled the functions of director ; hardly
bad he addressed the usual questions
io the kervanbashi when the miserable
Afghan before spoken of, furious at
having been thwarted in bis avari-
cious designs, advancing, cried in a
tone of raillery : " We have brought
to Khiva three interesting quadrupeds,
and a biped -who is not less bo.**
The first part of the expression, of
course, alluded to the buffaloes which
had been brought from Gomusht^pe ;
the second was pointed at Yambery.
Instantly all eyes were fixed upon
him, and ho could distinguish among
the murmurs of the crowd the words :
<' Spy, European, Russian." Imagine
his agitation I The khan of Khiva, a
cruel fanatic, had the reputation of re-
ducing to slavery or destroying by
hoirible tortures all suspected stran-
gers. In this emergency Yamfc^ry
was not intimidated; often he had
considered the possible consequences
oi* his bold enterprise, and looked
death in the face.
The mehrum, lifting his brows, con-
sidered the foreign countenance of the
unknown, and rudely ordered him to
approach. Yambery was about to
reply when Hai^i Bilal, who did not
know what was going on, eagerly
entered to introduce his friend to the
£[hivite officer; the exterior of the
Turkoman dervish inspired so much
confidence that suspicions were in-
stantly changed into respectful ex-
cuses.
This peril avoided, Yambery could
not deny that his European features
raised in his way every moment new
difficulties ; he must have a powerful
protector always ready to defend him. -
He presently remembered that an im-
portant man, named Shukrullali Bay,
who had been for ten years ambassat*
dor to the sultan from the khan of
Khiva, must know Constantinople and
every official of that city. Yambury
thought be should find in this digni-
tary the support which he desii^ed,
and he repaired the same day to the
medusse (coUege) of Mohammed
Emin Khan, where he resided. In-
formed that an effendi, recently ar-
rived from Stamboul, wished to see
liim, the ex-minister immediately ap-
peared. His surprise, already very
great, was not diminiBhed when he
saw enter a mendicant covered with
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervish in ISirkeilan*
211
rags and frightfully disfigared; bat
after exchanging a few words with
his strange visitor, his distrust van-
ished; he addressed him qoestion
afler qaestion regarding his friends
whom he had left at Constantinople^
. and, from the mere pleasure of hear-
ing him speak of them, he forgot to
raise a doubt regarding the supposed
quality of the traveller. '<In the
name of God, mj^dear effendi," said
he at last, ^ how could jou quit such
a paradise as Stamboul to come into
our frightful country ?" The pretend-
ed R^chid sighed deeply. "Ah,
pir r* he replied, putting a hand upon
his eyes in sign of obedience. Shuk-
rtillah was too good a Mussulman not
to understand these words; he was
persuaded that his guest belonged to
some order of dervishes, and had been
charged by his pir (spiritual chief)
with some mission which a disciple
was bound to accomplish even at the
peril of his life. Without asking any
farther explanations, he merely in-
quired the name of the order to which
Yamb^rjr was attached. Vambery
mentioned the Nakish bendi,* implying
that Bokhara was the end of his pil-
grimage, and he retired, leaving the
Khi\ite minister marvelling at his
learning, his wit, his sanctity, and his
extensive acquaintance.
The khan, hearing of the arrival of
a Turk, the first who had ever come
from Constantinople to Khiva, sent
in all haste a yasoid (officer of the
court) to give the European a small
present and inform him that the haz-
ret (sovereign) wonld give him audi-
ence the same evening, for he greatly
detmd to receive the blessing of a
derviah bom in the holy land. Our
voyager, therefore, accompanied by
ShukruUah Bay, who made it a point
to present him, repaired to the palace
of the formidable monarch. We will
leave Vamb^ry to relate hioiselF this
coriooB interview t
<^It was the hour of public
audience, and the principal entrance
and halls of the palace were filled
with petitioners of every rank, sex,
and age. The crowd respectfuUy
made way at our approach, and my
ear was agreeably tickled when I
heard the women say to each other:
*Se^ the holy dervish from Con-
stantinople; he comes to bless our
khan, and may Allah hear his
prayer !' ShukruUah Bay had taken
care to make it known that I was
very intimate with the highest digni-
taries in Stamboul, and that nothing
should be omitted to render my recep-
tion most solemn. After waiting a
few moments, two yasouls came to
take me by the arm, and, with the
most profound demonstrations of re-
spect, conducted me in the presence of
Seid Mehemmed Khan.
'^The prince was seated upon a
sort of platform, his left arm resting
upon a velvet cushion, his right hand
holding a golden sceptre. According
to the prescribed ceremonial, I raised
my two hands, a gesture which was
immediately imitated by the khan
and others present; then I recited a
verse from the Koran, followed by a
prayer much used beginning with the
words: ^ AUahuma Rathina* I con-
cluded with an amenj which I pro-
nounced with a resounding voice,
holding my beard with both hands.
^Kabotd holgayP (may thy prayer
be heard), responded in unison all
the assistants. Then I approached
the sovereign and exchanged with
him the mousafehay* after which 1
retired a few steps. The khan ad-
dressed me several questicMis regarding
the object of my journey, and my im-
pressions in crossing the Great Desert.
^ < My sufferings have been great,'
I replied, ^ but my reward is greater
yet, since I am permitted to behold
the splendor of your glorious m^^ty.
I return thanks to Allah for this fa-
vor, and I see in it a good omen for
the rest of my pilgrimage.'
* A odebnited order which originated in
Bofchani, where Its prlneipftl eeUhlUiuBent ftUl
•xieta.
* Salute preserihed by the Koran, darins
which the right and left hand of each party are
placed fatly one opon the other.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
212
A Pretended Dervish in Turh^tan,
**The king, evidently flattered,
asked bow long I proposed to
remain at Khiva, and if I were pro-
vided with the necessary funds for
porsning my journey.
" < My intention,' I replied, « is to
visit before my departure the tombs
of the saints who repose in the vicin-
ity of Khiva. As to the means of
pursuing my journey, I give myself
no anxiety. We dervishes occupy
ourselves very little with sucb trifles.
The sacred breathing which I have
received from the chief of my order
suffices, moreover, to sustain me four
or five days without any other nour-
ishment; therefore the only prayer
which I address to heaven is that
your majesty may live a hundred and
twenty years.*
'^My words had gained the good
graces of the khan ; he offered me twen-
ty ducats, and promised to make me a
present of an ass. I declined the
first of these presents, because pover-
ty is the necessary attribute of a
dervish; but I accepted the animal
with gratitude, not without piously re-
marking that the precept of the Pro-
phet requires that a white ass should
be used for pilgrimages. The king
assured me tluit I should have one of
tliis color, and he put an end to the
interview, beting me to accept at
least during my short residence in his
capital two tenghe (1 franc 50 cen-
times) a day for my maintenance.
"I retired joyfully, receivii^ at
every step the respectful homage of the
crowd, and regained my own dwelling.
Once alone, I uttered a sigh of satis-
tactibn, thinking of the dimger which
I had incurred, and the happy man-
ner in which I had escaped it. This
dissolute khan, savage and bmtal
tyrant, had treated me with unex-
ampled kindness ; I was now free
from all fear, and at liberty to go
where I liked. During the entire
evening, the audience of the khan
was present to my mind ; I saw
again the Asiatic despot, with his pal-
lid countenance, his eyes deeply sunk
in the orbits, his beiu:d sprinkled
with white, his white lips and trem-
bling voice. So, I thought. Providence
has pennitted that fanaticism itself
should serve as a bit to this sus-
picious and cruel tyrant."
It was soon understood in Khiva
that the dervish of Ck>Dstantinople
was in great favor with the khan,
therefore the notables of the city
delayed not to overwhehn him with
visits and invitations; the aidemas
especially, anxious to enbghten them-
selves with his light, asked him a
thousand questions regarding various
religious observances. Vamb^ry, re-
pressing his impatience, was obliged
to spend whole hours instructing these
fervent disciples on the manner of
washing the feet, the hands, the face;
explaining to them how, not to vio-
late any precept, the true believers
ought to sit down, to rise, to walk,
sleep, etc. The pretended pilgrim,
who was supposed to be a native of
Stamboul, venerated seat of religion,
passed for an infidlible orade, for the
sultan of Constantinople and the
grandees of his court are regarded at
Khiva as the most accomplished ob-
servers of the law. They there repre-
sent the Turkish emperor as cei^ in
a turban at least fifty or sixty yards
long, wrapped in a long trailing robe,
and wearing a beard which falls to
the girdle. To inform the Khivites
that this prince dresses like a Euro-
pean, and has his clothes cut by Dus-
autoy, would only excite their pious
indignation ; any one who would at-
tempt to disabuse them on these
points #ould pass for an impostor,
and would only risk his own life.
Vamb^ry was obliged to answer ihe
most ridiculous questions : one wish-
ed to know if in the whole world
there was any city to be compared to
Khiva ; another, if the meals of the
grand sultan were sent to him eveiy
day from Mecca, and if it only took
one minute for them to come from the
Kaaba to the palace at Constantino-
ple. What would these pious en-
thusiasts say if they could Imow with
what honor Ohaieau-Lqfitte and Cka^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Prtiended Dervish %n Turkestan.
213
teau-Margeaiux figure upon the ta-
ble of the actual guooessor of the
Prophet?
The convent which gave asylum
to the pilgrims served also as a pub-
lic square ; it ccmtained a mosque, the
court of which, ornamented with a
piece of water surrounded with beau-
tiful trees, was the favorite lounge of
all the idle people in town. The wom-
en came there to fill the heavy jugs
which they afterward carried to their
dwellings. More than one of these
recalled to the European the daughters
of his dear Hungary ; he took great
pleasure in watching them, and never
refused them his blessing, his powder
of lite, or even his sacred breathing,
which had the power of curing all
infirmities* On these occasions, the
aick person squatted upon the thresh-
old of the door, the pretended dervish,
moving his lips as if in prayer, ex-
tended a hand over the patient^ then
Le breathed three times upon her and
uttered a profound sigh. Yerj often
the innocent creatures fancied that
they had experienced immediate relief,
8o ^eat is the power of the imagination I
xHiring the time that Vambery was
at Khiva, a fair had assembled there
from twenty leagues round all the rich
natives. Most of these came to the
markets not so much to buy and sell
as to gratify that lov^ of display so
inveterate among the Orientals ; their
purchases were often limited to a few
needles or simikur trifles ; but it was an
excellent occasion to parade their beau-
tiftil horses, to display their richest
dothesand their finest weapons* Khi-
va, moreover, is the centre of an active
conoLmerce; beside the fruits, which
enjoy great renown, and are exported
to Persia, Turkey, Russia, and China,
the stalls of the fair contain excellent
manufactured articles. Beside the
urgendi tchapaniy a kind of dressing
robe made of wooUen or silken stufis
of two colors, are displayed the linens
of Tash-hauz, the bronzes of Khiva,
muslins, calicoes, cloth, sugar, iron sent
by Russia to be exchanged for cot*
ton, silk, and furs, which the caravans
deliver in the spring at the markets
cf Orenbouig, and in the autumn at
those of Astnikan* The transactions
with Bokhara are equally important:
they export thither robes and linens,
and receive in exchange tea, spices,
paper, and fancy articles.
Vambery, divided between the
friendship of Hadji Bilal and bis
daily increasing intimacy with Shuk-
rullah Bay, led a very agreeable life
at Khiva. Unhappily this calm was
troubled by the secret intrigues of the
mehter (minister of the interior), who
was a personal enemy of the Khivite
ambassador. He persuaded the khan
that our traveller was a secret agent
of the sultan of Bokhara, and Seid Me-
hemmed resolved to haveasecond inter-
view with the would-be dervish, and sub-
mit him to a strict examination. Vam-
bery, exhausted by the extreme heat,
was taking a siesta in his cell when he
was warned by a messenger to report
himself to the sovereign. Surprised
at this unexpected order, he departed
with some anxiety. In order to reach
the palace he was obliged to cross the
grand square, where were assembled
all die prisoners taken in a recent
war against the neighboring tribe of
the Tchandors, and the sight of these
unfortunate beings impressed him
most painfully. The khan in com-
pany with the mehter awaited his ar-
rival ; he overwhelmed him with art-
ful questions, and said that, knowing
how thoroughly versed he was in the
worldly sciences, he should like very
much to see him write some lines after
the manner of StambouL The neces-
sary materials having been brought,
Vambery wrote the following epistle,
when, under pompous flowers of rhet-
oric, he slipped in a bit of raillery
pointed at the mehter, who was ex-
tremely vain of his own beautiful
writing :
" Most majestic, powerful, terrible,
and formidable monarch and sovereign :
'' Inundated with the royal favor, the
poorest and most humble of your ser-
vants has, until this day, consecrated
little time to the study of penmanship.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
214
A PreUnded DarvUh in TurkssUtn.
for he remembdrs the Arab prorerb :
^ Those who have a bcaaiifal hand*
writing have ordinanlj very little
wit/ Bat ho knows also the Persian
adage: 'Every defect which pleases
a king becomes a virtac.' This is
why he ventures respectfally to pre-
sent these lines.'*
The khan, charmed with the pom*
pons eloquence of our traveller, made
him sit beside him, offered him tea
and bread, and had with him a long
political conversation, the subject of
which had been agreed upon before-
hand. In his quality of dervish, the
adroit European maintained an aus-
tere silence. Seid Mehemmed drew
from him with great difficulty some
sententious phrases, which offered not
the slightest pretext to the malicious
' designs of the mehter.
(M leaving the roval audience, a
yasoul conducted vamb6ry to the
treasurer to receive his daily allow-
ance. He was obliged to cross a vast
court, where a horrible spectacle
' awaited him. Three hundred Tchan-
dors, covered with rags and wastt^d
by hunger till they looked like living
skeletons, were cxpe(;ting the sentence
which was to decide their fate. The
younger ones, chained one to another
by iron coUars, were to bo sold as
slaves or given as presents to the fa-
vorites of the king. More cruel pun-
ishments were reserved for those
whose age caused them to be consid-
ered as chiefs. While some of them
were conducted to the block upon
which already many heads had fallen,
eight of these unhappy old men were
thrown upon the ground while the ex-
ecutioner tore out their eyes. It is
impossible to enter upon the frightful
details of these barbarous punishments.
Arrivmg at the office of the treasurer,
Yamb6ry found him singularly occu-
pied in sorting silken vestments of
dazzling colors, covered with large
golden embroidery. These were the
khilaty or robes of honor, which were
to be sent to the camp to recompense
the services at the warriors; they
were designated OS robes of four, twelve,
twenty, or forty heads. This singular
mode of distinguishing them, which
the designs upon the tissue in no way
explained, having excited the curiosity
of Vambary, he inquired the reason.
"What!** was the reply, "have you
never seen similar ones in Turkey?
In that case, come to-morrow to assist
at the distribution of these glorious
emblems. The most beautiful of these
vestments are intended for those sol-
diers who have brought forty enemies'
heads, the most simple for those who
have furnished only four." In spite of
the horror which Uiis custom inspired,
the European could not without ex-
citing suspicion refuse the invitation
thus extended to him. Accordingly,
the next morning he saw arrive in
the principal square of Khiva a hund-
red cavaliers covered with dust ; each
one of them led at least one prisoner
fastened to the pommel of the saddle,
or to the tail of his horse ; women and
children bound in the same manner
making a part of the booty. Beside,
all the soldiers carried behind them
large bags filled with heads cut off
from the vanquished. They delivered
the captives to the officer in chai^,
and then emptied their bags, rolling
out the contents upon the ground with
as much indifference as if they had
been potatoes. These noble warriors
received in exchange an attestation of
their great exploits, and this hiUet
would give them a right ofiev a few
days to a pecuniary recompense.
These barbarous customs are not pe-
culiar to Khiva ; they are found in all
central Asia. Tradition, law« and re-
ligion agree in sanctioning them.
During the first years of his reign,
the kiian of Khiva, wishing to dis-
play his zeal for the Mussulman faith,
proceeded with the ntmost rigor not
only aqainst the heretic Tchandors,
but also against his own subjects who
were found guilty of the least infrac-
tion of the commandments of the
Prophet. The oulemas endeavored
to moderate the too ardent piety of the
king; but, notwithstanding their in-
ter\'ention, not a day passes without
jized by Google
A I^etended Derviih in Ilirhutan.
215
some person admitted to audience
of the khan being dragged from the
palace, after hearing the words, equiv-
alent to his death-warrant: ^^ AUb
barin r (take him away).
Notwithstanding the cruelties bj
which Khiva is disgraced, it was in
this city that Yambibry passed, tmder
the costume of a dervish, the most
agreeable days of his journey. When-
ever he appeared in public places he
was snrronnded by a crowd of the faith-
ful, who heaped presents uppn him.
Thus, though he never accepted con-
siderable sums, and though he shared
the offerings of the pious believers
with his brethren the hddjis, his sit-
uation was much improved; he was
provided with a well-lined purse,
and a vigorous ass ; in short, he was
perfectly equipped for his journey.
His companions were very anxious to
arrive at Bokhara, fearing that the
heat might render it impracticable to
cross the desert, and they urged Vam-
bery to terminate his preparations for
departure. Before quitting Khiva
our European wished to bid adieu to
the excellent protector to whose
hospitable reception he owed so much.
** I was deeply moved," he says, " to
bear the arguments which the good
ShukruUah Bay employed to dissuade
me from my enterprise. He painted
Bokhara under the most gloomy
colora^ the distrustful and hypocrili-
cal emir, hostile to all strangers, and
who had even treacherously put to
death a Turk sent to him by Beschid
Pacha. The anxiety of tiiis worthy
old man, so convinced at first of the
reality of my sacred character, sur-
prised me extremely. I began to
think that he had penetrated the se-
cret of my disguise, and perhaps
divined who I was. Accustomed to '
European ideas, Shukrullah Bay un-
derstood our ardor for scientific re-
searches, for in his youth he had
passed many years in St» Petersburg,
and often also, during his residence in
Constantinople, he had formed affec-
tionate intimades with Europeans.
Was it on this account that he had
manifested so warm a friendship for
me? In parting from him I saw a
tear glisten in his eye ; who can tell
what sentiment caused it to flow V
Vamb6ry gave the khan a last
benediction. The prince recommended
to him on his return from Samarcande
to pass through his capital, for he
wished to send with the pilgrim a
representative, charged to receive at
Constantinople the investiture which
the masters, of Khiva wisV \o obtain
from every new sultan..- This was
by no means the plan of our traveller.
** KUmety' he replied, with his habitu-
al presence of iftind; a word alto-
gether in the. spirit of his character,
and which sign&es that one commits
a grave sin when one counts upon the
future.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
216 McOer Divinm Gratim.
From Anbrej l)e Yere*i Mir Otrolf.
MATER DIVINJE GRATIjE.
Tedb gifts a motber showen eadi day
Upon her softly-clamorous brood:
The gifts they value but for play, —
The graver gifts of clothes and food^—
Whence come they but from him who sows
With harder hand, and reaps, the soil ;
The merit of his laboring brows,
The guerdon of his man^y toil ?
From him the grace : through her it stands
Adjusted, meted, and applied ;
And ever, passing through her hands,
Enriched it seems, and beautified.
Love's mirror doubles love's caress :
Love's echo to love's voice is true >—
Their sire the children love not less
Because they clasp a mother too.
As children whoi, with heavy tread.
Men sad of face, unseen before,
Have borne away their mother dead—
So stand the nations thine no more.
From room to room those children roam,
Heartpstricken by the unwonted black :
Their house no longer seems their home :
They search ; yet know not what they lack.
Years pass : self-will and passion strike
Their roots more deeply day by day ;
Old servants weep ; and " how unlike "
Is all the tender neighbors say.
And yet at moments, like a dream,
A mother's image o'er them flits :
Like hers their eyes a moment beam ;
The voice grows soft ; die brow unknits.
Such, Mary, are the realms once thine,
That know no more thy golden reign.
Bold forth from heaven Uiy Babe divine I
O make thine orphans thine again !
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PicsmpUeti en the Mremctm.
217
From Th« Uontlu
PAMPHLETS ON THE EIRENICON.
The appearance of a work such as
the ^ Eirenicon/' from the pen of one
in BO conspicaons a position as Dr.
Pasejy was sure to attract general
attention, and to call forth a great
nnmber of comments and answers
more or less faYorable to it or severe
upon it. It gives an occasion for, and
indeed invites, the frankest discussion
of a very wide range of most import-
anf questions ; and in doing so it has
rendered a great service to the cause
of truth. Many of these questions
are of that kind which those whom
the ^ Eireniocm ** itself may he sup-
posed more particularly to represent
have been in the habit of avoiding, at
all events ifk public, although their
own ^lesiastical position depended
entirely upon them. It is a very
great gain that these -should now be
opened for discussion, at the invita-
tion of one who has long passed as a
leader among Anglicans. Moreover,
a book which handles so many sub-
jects and contains so man^ assertions
has naturally raised questions as to
itself which require consideration. It
is a comparatively easy matter to
look on it as a simple overture for
peace, or to speculate on the possibili-
ty of that ^ union by means of ex-
planations ** which Dr. Pusey tells us
is his dearest wish. Even here we
are directly met by the necessity of
further investigations. Dr. Pusey
puts a certain face on the Thirty-nine
Articles, and on Catholic doctrines
and statements with regard to the
questions to which those Articles re-
for. Is he right in his representation
either of the definitions of his own
communion or of the support which
those definitions may receive irom
authorities external to it ? Is it true
that the ''Catholic" interpretation is
the legitiipate sense of the Articles ?
Is it true that that interpretation is
supported by Roman and Greek au-
thorities ? Is there no statement, for
instance, in the Council of Trent about
justification to which any in the An-
glican communion can object? It
vmust be quite obvious that a great
number of sanguine assertions such
as these require examination m de-
taO ; and surely no one can complain
if they are not admitted on Dr. Fu*
sey^s word. Then again, unfortunate-
ly, he was not content with paintmg
his own communion in his own colors ;
he must needs give a description of
the Catholic system also. He has
told us— and we are both willing and
bound to believe him — that he has
not drawn this sketch in a hostile
spirit ; perhaps^ he will some day
acknowledge — which is much more to
the point — ^that he has drawn it in
great and lamentable ignorance, the
consciousness of which ought to have
deterred him from attempting it. Sure-
ly there are some enterprises which
are usually undertaken by none but
the dullest or the most presumptuous
of men. Such an enterprise is that of
giving an account of a practical sys-
tem which influences and forms the
hearts and minds of thousands^f our
fellow-creatures, when we have our-
selves lived all our days as entire
strangers to it. If it be something
simply in the natural order, such as
the polity or the customs of a foreign
nation, wo do not feel so much sur-
prise at the blunders made by the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
218
Pamphlets on the Eirtnieon.
writer who undertakes to describe
them, as at his temeritj in making
the attempt. This is, of coarse, en-
hanced greatly in proportion as we
ascend into the higher spheres of the
spiritual and supernatural life. It is
strange enough to see anj sensible
man writing as if he could fairly
characterize the devotional sentiments
and religious thoughts of men of a
difTorent i>clief ; but it becomes some*
thing more than strange when this
venturesome critic proceeds not only
to characterize, but to condemn and to
denounce in the strongest language
that whish he might in all reason and
modesty have supposed himself, at
least, not quite able fully to compre-
hend ; and this at the very time that
he is proposing peace.
"Wo are not, hovvever, here concern-
ed With this more painful view of
the subject. We are only pointing
out that the elaborate chapter of
accusation against the Catholic Churcli
which Dr. Pusey has drawn up could
not fail to be received with great in-
dignation on the part of Catholics, and
that the overtures which accompany it
cannot be fairly dealt with until it
has been thoroughly sifted by criti-
cism as well as by controversy. How
can we explain a "system" which
we deny to exist? Of course, no
Catholic will acknowledge Dr. Pu-
sey's representation as anything but
a monstrous caricature. Of course,
also, the chief heads of accusation
can be easily dealt with one by one,
and positive statements given as to
what is really taught, thought, and
felt by Catholics with regard to them.
But this leaves the book untouched.
How came these charges to be made?
What grounds has Dr. Pusey for
asserting that to be true which we all
know to be so false ? Does he quote
rightlyr' Has he understood the books
he cites, where he has read them?
And has he read them through ? Are
the authors whom he gives as fair
specimens of Catholic teaching ac-
knowledged as writers of credit, or
are some of them even on«the Index ?
Has he ever understood the Catholic
doctrines on which he is severe, such
as the immaculate conception and the
papal infallibility, or th^ meaning of
the Catholic authorities whom he
seems to set in some sort of opposi-
tion to others, such as Botsuet and
the bishops, whose answers he quotes
from the *< Pareri ?' It is true tliat
questions like this are to some extent
personal; but Dr. Pusey makes it
necessary to ask them, and he is the
one person in the world who ought to
wish that they should be thoroughly
handled. We cannot believe that he
approves of the tactics of some An-
glican critics, who speak as if the ark
of their sanctuary were rudely touch-
ed when it is said that he can be mis-
taken or ignorant about ax\ything.
He has never shown any lack of con-
troversial courage. Up to the pres- .
cut time we are not aware of a single
publication of any note from the
Catholic side of the question which
has not exposed some one or two
distinct and important errors of fact,
quotation, historical statement, or
some grave misconception of doctrine
on his part ; and this, it is to be ob-
served, has hitherto only been done
incidentally by writers who have not
addressed themselves to the systematic
exaniination of the " Eirenicon " as a
work of learning.
Lastly, this miscellaneous work has
occasioned a call which, also, we are
glad to feel sure, will be adequately
answered ; a call for calm and learned
statements from Catholic theologians
on some of the chief controversial
questions touched on by Dr. Pusey.
What is the real unity of the church ?
What is the true doctrine of her in-
fallibility and of that of the Roman
PontifT? and how are the commonly
alleged (though so often refuted)
objections — as, for instance, that
about what Dr. Pusey calls ^ for-
mal heresy of Liberius— to bo met?
What is really meant by the immacu-
late conception, and what was in truth
thehistoryofthelatedefinition? These,
and a few more important matters —
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PampKkts on ike Eiremcon.
219
sach as the doctrine of transnbstantia*
tioDy and the hbtoiical troth as to the
cases of Meletius and the African
churches— will be treated at length
in the forAcoming volome of essayp
announced under the title of ^ Peace
thioagh the Trath.** The case of the
Anglican otdmations has been mci«*
dentally raised by Dr. Pasej; but
it will be natural for Catholic critics
to wait for a Tolume on the subject
which has been announced bj Mr. F.
6. Lee. As far as the alleged sane-
ti<m of those ordinations by Cardinal
Pole is concerned, Dr. Pusey does
not seem inclined to raise tiie question
again.
We have thus a tolerably large
promise %f work for theological writ-
ers and readers; and it cannot but
be looked on as n good sign that so
strong an impulse to controversial ac-
tivity should have been given by one
who has not hitherto been fond of in-
viting attention to the difficulties of
his own position. It is but natund
that the more solid and erudite works
called forth by the ^ Eirenicon" shou^
be the last to appear; and any one
who has read but a few pages of that
work will understand the difficulty
which its writer has imposed on any
cooscientioos critic by a frequently
loose way of quoting, and an occa-
sional habit of giving no authority at
all for statements that certainly re-
qoire more proof than a bare asser-
'tion. But we have already the
beginning of a most valuable collec-
tion of publications by men of the
highest position, dealing either with
d^ached portions of Dr. Puse/s
work or in a summary way with its
general plan; and some service has
been done by letters in the papei^^
anch as those of Canon Estcourt and
Mr. Rhodes. Father GaUwey's "" Ser-
mon" has been widely circulated;
Canon Oakeley has given us an in-
teresting pamphlet on the *< Leading
Topics of the Eirenicon;" Dr. New-
man has written a letter to its author,
and is understood to be preparing a
second ; and his grace the Archbishop
of Westminster has dealt with sever-
al of Dr. Puse/s assertions in his
^ Pastoral Letter on the Beunion of
Christendom." We prqx>se now to
deal shortly with some of these pub-
lications, which, though they belong
to the earlier and more incidental
stage of the controversy, are of the
highest value in themselves and on
account of the position of their
authors.*
We must first, however, speak of a
work put forth by Dr. Pusey as a
sequel or a companion to the ^ Eiren-
icon." This is a republication (with
leave of the author) of the celebrated
Tract 90, preceded by an historical
preface from Dr Pusey's own pen,
and followed by a letter of Mr. Ecble
on '^ Catholic Subscription to the Arti-
cles," which was widely circulated,
though not published, in 1861. Of
the tract itself we need not^ of course,
speak. Dr. Puse/s preface, how-
ever, is open to one or two obvious
remarks. It is remarkable for the
manner in which he identifies him-
self with the Mr. Newman of the day,
though it appears that the proof of the
tract in question was submitted to Mr.
Eeble, and its publication urged by
him, while Dr. Pusey himself was
only made aware of it3 existence by
the clamor with which it was re-
ceived. Then, again, the remarkable
difference of view between Dr. Pusey
and Mr. Newman as to the ^ Catho-
lic" interpretation of the Articles
forces itself again upon our notice.
From the tract itself aU through, and
its explanations by its author at the
time and since, it is perfectly clear
that nothing more was meant by it
than to clum such latitude of inter*
pretation of the Thirty-nine Articles
as would admit the '^ Catholic" sense
on equal terms, as it were, with the
anti-Catholic; and the same^view is
urged by Mr. Keble in his letter.
The writer of the tract supposes that
the Anglican formularies were drawn
• Wo have fonnd it impossiblo to deal with eo
important and aatborltatlve a dociimcnt as his
Gnoe*8 '" Letter " In our present paper.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
220
PampUeti on the Eiremecn.
up with designed ambiguitj, in order
to catch Catholic subBcriptions. He
compares the tactics adopted hj the
framers of the Articles to those which
were followed by M. Thiers: "A
French minister, desiroos of war,
nevertheless, as a matter of policy,
draws up his state papers in such
moderate language that his successor,
who is for peace, can act up to them
without compromising his own prind*
pies. • • • The Protestant confession
was drawn up with the purpose of
including CaUioltcs; and Catholics
now will not be excluded. What was
an economy in the reformers is a pro-
tection to us** (Tract 90, conclusion).
This is a plain common-sense view of
the matter, and is abundantly sup-
ported by history. But it obviously
leaves a stain on the Anglican estab-
lishment, which will appear of vital
or of triOmg importance according to
the different views under which that
community is regarded. If it is
looked upon as a political and national
organisation, it was no doubt a stroke
of prudence so to frame the formula-
ries us to include both sides. If it is
considered as a church of Christ, it
can hardly be anything but discredit-
able that it should thus compromise
divine truth. But Dr. Fu8e;^s view
of the ^Catholic interpretation," as
expressed both in his present preface
and in the ^Eirenicon," claims for
it the exclusive title of the natural
and legitimate sense. It may seem
almost incredible that any one should
maintain this; but so it is. Dr.
Pusey thus speaks of the << Protestant^'
interpretations: ''We had all been
educated in a traditional system,
which had practically imported into
the Articles a good many principles
which were not contained in them nor
suggested by them; yet which were
habitually identified with them. • . • •
We proposed no system to ourselves,
but laid aside piece by piece the
system of ultra-Protestant interpreta- '
tioQ, which had incrusted round the
Articles. This doubtless appeared in
our writings from time to time; but
the expositions to which we were ac-
customed, and which were to our
minds the genuine expositions of the
Articles, had never before been
brought into one focus, as* they were
in Tract 90. • . Newman explained
that it wbs written solely against this
system of interpretation, which brought
meanings into the Articles, not out of
them, and also why he wrote it at
all" (Pref., v.-viL) Yet the words of
Mr. Newman's explanation, which
are quoted immediately after this last
passage, distinctly contradict the inter-
pretation of the tract put forward by
Dr. Pusey. Mr. Newman says that
the Anglican Church, as well as the
Boman, in his opinion, has a " tradi-
tionary system beyond and flbside the
letter of its formularies. • . • . And
this traditionary system not only
inculcates what I cannot conceive
(receive?), but would exclude any
difference of belief from itself. To
this exclusive modem system 1 desire
to oppose myself; and it is as doing
this, doubtless, that I am incurring
t|ie censure of the four gentlemen who
have come before the public / want
certain points to be left open which
they wotdd dose In thus'
nuuntaining that we have open ques-
tions, or, as I have expressed it in
the tract, 'ambiguous formularies,'
I observe, first, that I am introducing
no novelty." He then gives an in*
stance which shows that the principle
is admitted. Again, he says: ''The
tract is grounded on the belief that
the Articles need not be so closed as
the received methods of teaching
closes them, and oi^ht not to be for
the sake of many persons" (Letter to
Dr. Jelf, quoted by Dr. Pusey, p-
vii.)
It is obvious that the interpretati<»8
contained in the tract, however adr
missible on the hypothesis of their au-
tiior, become little less than extrava-
gant when they ate considered in the
light in which Dr. Pusey now puts
them forward; and it is but fair to
Dr. Newman and others to point out
the change. Moreover, it is not im-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PampUeU an ^ JEirmican.
221
p()68ible tbat this repnblicadon of the
tract) together with the avowals made
in the ^ £irexiicoii ** as to the interpre-
tation of the Articles, maj be consid-
ered as a kind of challenge thrown
oot on the part ■ of Dr. Fusej and
his followers to the authorities of the
establishment and the parties with-
in it that are roost opposed to ^ Cath-
olic" opinions* It may be consid-
ered fairly enough that if this '< claim
to hold aU Boman doctrine'' — as far
as those well-used words apply to it —
is allowed to pass unnoticed, the posi-
tion of the " Anglo-Catholic " clergy
in the establishment will be made as
secure as silent toleration on the part
of authorities can make it* Be it so
by ail means ; but let it be tmderstood
that the claim now made is quite dif-
ferent from that made by Mr. New-
man in 1841 ; and that if it enjoys
immunity from censure, on account of
the far greater latitude now allowed
in the establishment to extreme opin-
ions of every color except one, it has
still to free itself from the charge of
being one of the most grotesque con-
tortions of language that has eve):
been seriously advocated as permissi-
ble by reasonable men. One of the
Articles, for instance— 4o take the
case adduced by Canon Oakeley —
says that *' transubstantiation (or the
change of the substance of the bread
and wine) in the Supper of the Lord
cannot be proved by Holy Writ ; but
is repugnant to the plain wor4s of
* GnMm OAkeley, in the pamphlet of which we
shall presenthr e^ak, saya of ur, Pasey^a inter-
pretation: **Dr. rasey*B arowal, moreoTer, not
merely inyolyea the acceptance of that interpre-
tation of the Thirty-nine Articles for which Mr.
Newman was censured by nearly every bishop of
the establishment, but goea beyond that inter-
pretation in a Catholic direction, inasmudi as it
comprehends the doctrine of transnbstantiation,
which Mr. Kewman, I believe, never thonehtto
be indnded within the terms of the Arucles.
It also goes beyond Mr. Newman^s argnment in
his tract, in that it tuppout th$ CatkoUc sense of
the Artidee to be thdr odvioua and only true
sense. Instead of being merely one of the senses
which are compatible with honest subscription.
And here I mast say, in nassing, that I think
I>r. Foaey somewhat unmir on Mr. Ward in
attribming to him the nnpopnlarity of Tract 90,
since, in extending the interpretation of tbe
tract to onr doctrine of the blessed encharist.
Dr. Posey la in ilsct adopting Mr. Ward*s con-
atrnctlonoftheArtlcle8.andnotMr.Kewman*B "
<p.«>.
Scripture, overthroweth the nature of
a sacrament, and hath given occasion
to many superstitions." On the other
hand, let us place the Tridentine Can-
pn : ^ If any one saith that in the sa-
cred and holy sacrament of the eu-
charist the substance of the bread and
wine remams conjointly with the body
and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ,
and denieth that wonderful and singu-
lar conversion of the whole substance
of the bread into the body, and of the
whole substance of the wine into the
blood — the species only of the bread
and wine remaining— which convei>
sion the Catholic Church most aptly
calls transubstantiation, let him be
anathema." (Sess. xiii.) Not only
does Dr. Fusey assert that there is a
sense in which the two statements are
compatible, but he maintains that such
an interpretation is the one single ob-
vious grammatical and Intimate in-
terpretation of the words of the Angli-
can Article. We can only imagine
one process of reasoning by which
this conclusion can be maintained ;
and we have little doubt that if Dr.
Pusey's argument were drawn out it
would ccHne to this. The Articles
must mean '^Catholic" doctrine,
whether they seem to do so or not,
because the Anglican Church is a
true and orthodox portion of the Cath-
olic Church. And a part of the proof
that she is such a portion consists in
the fact that her formularies signify
Catholic doctrine!
The other noticeable feature in Dr.
Pusey's preface is an attempt to throw
the blame of the undoubted unpopular-
ity of Tract 90 upon Mr. Ward rather
than on the tract itself. Mr. Ward
was probably at one time the best-
abused person of all the followers of
the tractarian movement ; and if pow-
erful reasoning, keen logic, unflinch-
ing openness, and courageous honesty
are enough to make a person merit
wholesale ^abuse, Mr. Ward certainly
deserved it. But to attribute the un-
popularity of No. 90 to him is simply
to forget dates and distort facts. In
1841, when the clamor against No.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
222
Pomy>hhU .am ih$ Eiremeon.
90 was at its height, Mr. Ward, though
well known in Oxford for his decided
opinions and tboroagh honestj in
avowing them, and though highly in-
fluential (as he coald not fail to he)
over those who came within his reach,
was hardlj known in the country at
large. Dr. Pnsej's mistake has been
pointed out by Canon Oakeley in the
appendix to his pamphlet, of whidi
we shall speak presently. He ob-
serves that the word " non^atural "
—of which he gives a very plain and
simple explanation, which quite vindi-
cates it from the interpretation com-
monly put upon it — ^was not used till
the appearance i3^ '' The Ideal of a
Christian Church" in 1844.
Canon Oakeley's pamphlet, like
everything that he writes, is graceful
and courteous, lucid and cogent ; and
it ought to have all the greater weight
with Dr. Pnsey from the evident dis-
inclination of the author to think or
speak with severity. In fact, Dr. Pusey
has already* had occasion to correct an
over-sanguine conclusion as to his own
position which had been formed by
Canon Oakeley in consequence of cer-
tain explanations which he addressed
to a Catholic paper. We think that
the fullest credit should be given to Dr.
Pusey for these explanations ; but they
must not be allowed to counterbalance
assertions which he has never with-
drawn, and seems never to have meant
to withdraw. He has only negatively
declared something about the intentioa
he had in making them. He says
they were not meant to hurt Catholics ;
be does not say that they were not
meant to frighten Anglicans. We re-
fer, of course, to the large number of
pages which he has devoted to attacks
on what he chooses to consider as the
practical system of Catholicism, chiefly
with regard to the cultut of our Bless-
ed Lady, and which no Catholic can
read witiiout intense indignation. He
has heaped up a number of extracts
from books of very little authority,
and put forward as characteristics of
• In hU Mcond letter to the *' Weekly Begit-
ter."
the Catholic system the pious contem-
plations of individuals, as well as tenets
which have been actually condemned*
The charge is ni*ged with all the reck-
lessness ^ an ^vocate, with eager
rhetoric rather than calm ailment,
with all the looseness of insinuation
and inaccuracy of quotation which
mark the productions of a heated par-
tisan.* No part of his book shows
more earnestness than this. Such be-
ing the case, it seems to us very strange
that any one should expect Catholics to
be satisfied with a simple assurance
from Dr. Pusey that '^ nothing was
ftirther from my wish than to write
anything which should be painful to
those in your communion."t We
suppose that if some one were to
write a pamphlet of a hundred pages
full of tixe hardest and most vulgar
insinuations against something that
Dr. Pusey holds dear and saci^, his
opinion of it would hardly be changed
l^ the assurance, unaccompanied by
a single retraction, ^ I never meant to
hurt your feelings.'^ He would nat-
urally ask in what sort of atmosphere
such a person had lived, to be able to
think that such things could be said
without being '< painful." He disclaims
• A writer In the current number of "Mac-
mlUan's Mieieesine" (Feb., 1S66) obwsrves : '' We
could scarcely transcribe all that is here set
forth without offending the religious Uste of
our readers, and appearing to gloat over the
degradation of a church which, amidst all its
aberrations and after all ita crimes, is a part of
Christendom. We may reasonably hope, also,
that there is something to be said upon the
other side : for, without casting any saspicion
upon Dr. Pnsey's honesty, we must remember
that he is personally under a strong temptation
to scare the wavering members of his puarty
from defection to the Church of Rome" (p. STH.
This is the opinion of an intensely anti-CathoUo
writer ; and it would be easy to quote scores of
similar criticisms. A letter from Oxford, in the
^'London Review" of February a, sa vs : '»It seems
a gentle irony, certainly, to call a book an
* Eirenicon ' wnich most mercilessly exposes
the errors, perversions, and tendencies of those
whom it proposes to conciliate. A great portion
of the book might have been written by the
most distinguished Papophobe— we will not say
Dr. Gumming, for the style does not remind na
of hispublications." Thewriterin " Macniillan"
adds an observation on another point which is
well worthy of Dr. Pussy's oonsi^ratlon : "Dr.
Pusey*s awtumcnt, both against Mariolatry and
Papal infanibllity, appeaU t^ pHndpU$ wenti^
aUfrcUioMUistie, which are capable, as we con-
ceive, of beli^tnrned with fatal effect against
^^rof ^y to^the "Weekly Bqrfter/'NoT.
SB, 1865.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Pan^hlets on the JBirenieon^
223
all desire to ^ prescribe to Italians and
Spaniards what they shall hold, or
how thej shall express their pious
opinions.*' But he is not speaking of
Spaniards or Italians only in many of
the most offensive passages of his
work. He says, for instance, that it
<* is a practical question, affecting our
whole eternity : What shall I do to
be saved? The practical answer to
the Roman Catholic seems to me to
be, Go to Mary, and you will be saved ;
in our dear Lord's own words it is,
Ck>me unto me ; in our own belief it
is, Gro to Jesus, and you will be saved **
(p. 182). Can anything be more
shocking than the contrast insinuated
here? Or, again, when he says in
another place, ^ One sees not where
there shall be any pause or bound,
short of that bold conception, 'that
every prayer, both of individuals and
of the church, should be addressed to
St Maiy?' " Dr. Pusey must be per-
fectly aware of the effect of words
like these from him upon the mass of
his readers. * It is certainly no suffi*
dent withdrawal of them to write a
letter to a Catholic newspaper, of lim-
ited circulation, saying that he " never
thought of imputing to any of the
writers whom he quoted that they
took from our Lord any of the love
which they gave to his mother."
Whatever he may think about the
writers themselves, he certainly asserts
in the face of the world that they
teach others to do this. He asserts
ihat there is a " system " in the Cath-
olic Church, of which this is the'effect,.
If he " had no thought of criticising
holy men who held it,'* he still will
not take Catholic explanations of their
words, which show that they did not
hold' it; and his own words imply, or
at all events admit of, a reservation,
that such is the tendency of the sys-
tem, from which certain individuals
escape in consequence of their holi-
ness. Now, it is this assertion about
the system of the church which of-
fends ' Catholics. They care little
about their own " feelings ;" they re-
sent false charges against the church
all the more when they proceed«irom
one who professes to be nearer to
them than others, and to be a lover of
peace, and who might easily have sat-
isfied himself that his accusations were
groundless. People have not com-
plained of Dr. Pusey's intention in
saying these things, but of his baring
said them. They willingly accept his
statement as to his intention ; but mis-
representations retain their mischiev-
ous character till they have been for-
mally withdrawn, whatever may have
been the temper in which they have
been put forward.
It is, moreover, obvious that this,
which to ordinary eyes is the promi-
nent feature in Dr. Pusey's volume,
must be taken into account in all con-
clusions concerning the present state
of mind among Anglicans that are
founded upon the reception which the
*' Eirenicon "has met with among them.
We think that there are but few
among them, as there are certainly
very few among Catholics, who at-
tach much practical importance to the
▼ague and dreamy ideas about corpo^
rate union by means of mutual ex-
planations which are put forward in
other parts of (he work. It is per-
fectly clear that Dr. Pusey's account
of the Articles would be repudiated at
once by all the Anglican authorities ;
and equally clear that the points to
which he stiU objects, such as the
papal infallibility and the dogma of
the immaculate conception, are among
those which can never be conceded on
the side of the church. The pro-
posals for union are not, therefore,
generally looked upon as mattera for
practical consideration ; though, as
Dr. Newman has remarked, they
may hereafber lead to results of the
highest importance. What has struck
the Anglican public in the book is its
attack on Catholicism, which has, no
doubt, surprised Protestants as much
as Catholics by its violence. We say,
therefore, that to consider Dr. Pu-
se/s unrebuked declaration about the
possibility of union as a great sign of
progress among Anglicans, without
Digitized by CjOOQIC
224
PamphktB en ike Eirenieen*
taking into consideration the other
features of the work which he has put
forth, is to ignore the most essential
circumstances of the case. Canon
Oakelej compares the outcry with
which similar declarations were once
received on Mr. Ward's part and his
own with the indifference and absence
of opposition now evinced toward Dr.
Pusej. It is true that the cases are
in some respects parallel ; but there
IS this vital difference, that neither
Mr. Ward nor Canon Oakelej ac-
companied their declarations as to
Roman doctrine with virulent abuse
of Roman practice ; and we may feel
pretty certain that the '^ Ideal of a
Christian Church" would never have
been made the groimd of an academi-
cal condenmation of its author if it
had contained the hundred pages on
the cuituB of the Blessed Virgin on
which Dr. Piisey has expended so
much care, and which he has adorned
with so much apparent erudition.
Englishmen judge roughly, and in
the main fairly; and ^ey will look
on the proposals for tmion as an
amiable eccentricity in a writer who
has pandered so lovingly to their
favorite prejudices.
Canon Oakeley has drawn out very
clearly another very important quali-
fication, which must modify our feel-
ings of joy at the apparent progess of
Anglicans in general toward greater
tolerance of Catholic opinions among
themselves. He has shown that this
seemingly good sign is in reality only
an indication of increasing indiffer-
ence to doctrine of every kind. It is
the reflection on the hroad mirror of
public opinion of the uniformly lati-
tudinarian tendency of the authorities
of the establishment, as evinced in the
succession of judicial decisions of
which we have all heard so much. It
is not wonderful that Puseyism
should share in this universal indul-
gence. We have also to thank Canon
Oakeley for a calm and forcible vin-
dication of the Catholic devodon to
our Blessed Lady, which has been
made the subject of so violent an
attack by Dr. Pusey — perhaps more
in the form of an apology than was
necessary — and for some very sensi-
ble remarks on the dream of ^ corpo-
rate union."
There is one writer in England
whose words on this subject will be
listened to with almost equal interest
by Catholics and Protestants. The
conflict passes into a new phase with
the appearance of Dr. Newman upon
the scene. It is << the great Achilles
moving to the war." The gleam of
well-worn armor flashes on the eye,
and the attention of both armies is
riveted on him as he liils his
spear. He cannot mutter his favorite
motto :
for it is but lately that he struck down
and kicked off the field a swaggering
bully from the opposite ranks hardly
worthy of his steel. It is difibrent
now. He will begin in Homerie
fashion with a complimentary ha-
rangue to the champion on the other
side ; but then will come the time for
blows — ^blows of immense force, dealt
out with a gentle affectionateness which
enhances their effect tenfold. Dr. New-
man begins by a generous tribute to
Dr. Pusey himself, and to those
whom he may be supposed to influ-
ence. No one can speak more
strongly on the paramount rights of
conscience, which is not to be stifled
for the sake of making a path easy or
removing a wearisome difficulty. Dr.
Pusey is allowed to have every right
to mention the conditions on which he
proposes union, though Dr. Newman
does not agree with them, and thinks
that he would himself not hold to
them ; he has also the right to state
what it is that he objects to, as requir-
ing explanation, in the Catholic sys-
tem. But then the tone changes, and
business begins* Dr. Newman tells
his old friend in the plainest way that
^ there is much both in the matter and
manner of his volume calculated to
wound those who love him well, bat
truth more;^ and he points out the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Pamphleis an the Ebremeon.
825
glaring incoQsistencj of ^ professing
to be composing an Irenicon while
treating Catholics as foes f and char-
acterizesy in his happy waj, the pro«
ceeding of Dr. Pusej as ^'discharg-
ing an olive branch as from a cata-
polt.'* The hundred pages on the
subject of the Blessed Virgin which
are contained in the *^ Eirenicon " are
so palpably ^one-sided" that no one
can ventare to deny it. Few have
characterized them in stronger terms
than Dr. Newman* ^ What could an
Exeter Hall orator, what could a
Scotch commentator on the Apoca-
lypse, do more for his own side of the
controversy by the picture he drew of
us?* Further on he pointedly re-
mmds Dr. Pusey that he all the time
knew better. A&et a proof from the
fathers as to the doctrine in question,
he says, ^ Ton know what the fathers
assert ; but if so, have you not, my
dear friend, been unjust to yourself
in your recent volume, and made far
too much of the differences which
exist between Anglican^ and us on
diis particular point ? It is the office
of an Irenicon to smooth difficulties "
(p. 83) ; and again, ^ As you revere
the fathers, so you revere the Greek ^
Church ; and here again we have a
witness in our behalf of which you
must be aware as fuUy as we are, and
of which you must really mean to
give us the benefit" (p. 95) ; and
again, ^Then I think you have not
always made your quotations with
tliat consideration and kindness which
18 your rule" (p. 111). The calm
gentleness of the language will cer-
tainly not conceal from Dr. Pusey the
gravity and severity of the rebuke
thus administered. Moreover, Dr.
Newman has complaints of his own to
urge. With the most questionable
taste Dr. Pusey has actmdly brought
<< to life one of" Dr. Newman's " own
strong sayings, in 1841, abput idola-
try;" he has at least been under-
stood to father np<Mi hun the well-
known saying, that ^the establish-
ment is the great bulwark against in-
fidelity in &8 land;" he has used
TOXt. zn. 16
some words from Dr. Newman's notes
to St. Athanasius in a collection of
passages from the fkthers, the appar-
ent purpose of which is to defend
some Anglican doctrine about the
sufficiency of Holy Scripture against
a supposed Catholic contradiction. Dr.
Newman also most clearly distinguish-
es his own intention in publishing
Tract 90 from that of Dr. Pusey in
its recent republication.
The introduction to the letter be-
fore us concludes with a passage of sin-
gular interest, in which Dr. Newman
vindicates the right of a convert to
speak fr'eely about the system of
the church to which he has submitted.
We must confess that we hardly un-
derstood the passages in Dr. Pusey's
work, to which reference is hero
made, as denying the right of free
comment to a convert, in the sense
in which Dr. Newman affirms it.
Dr. Pusey has a standard and meas-
ure of his own (external to the Angli-
can establishment), by which he criti-
cises, approves, or condemns this or
that featore in it; and he distinctly
contemplates at least the possibility
of his being driven to quit it by its
formal adoption of heresy. Certainly,
to submit to the Catholic Church, and
yet retain the right of measuring her
in such a way by an external standard,
would be a contradiction in terms.
But this does not touch the right of a
convert either to choose freely, accord*-
ing to his own tastes and leanings,
among those varieties of devotion and
practice which the church expressly
leaves to his choice, or to express
his opinion on such subjects (so that
it be done with charity), or on any
other matters which fall within the
wide and recognized range of open
questions. If V^t. Pusey meant to
deny this right, he will be convinced
by tiie frank use made of it by Dr.
Newman in the passage before us.
No one, certainly, will assail him as
unorthodox; yet he takes his stand
openly on one particular side with re-
gard to some of the moot questions of
the day, as to which certainly a larga
Digitized by CjOOQIC
226
Pan^tdeU on the IKrenieon.
nmnber of Engliflli Oadiolics will be
as readj to eaj that thej do not alto-
gether agree with him as to acknowl-
edge that he has a perfect right tb the
opinions which he expresses. Per-
haps we should rather saj that thej
will profess their admiration for the
authors whom he so far at least disa-
vows as to question their right to be
treated in controversy as the le^ti-
mate and exclusive representatives of
English Catholicism ; for we need not
nnderstand Dr. Newman's words about
the late Father Faber and the editor
of the " Dublin Review " as meaning
more than this; and his point, as
against Dr. Pusey, is fully secured by
the indisputable fact that those dis-
tinguished men have never considered
themselves, or let others consider
them, as such representatives.
The greater part, however, of Dr.
Newman's present letter is given to
an exquisite defence of Catholic doc-
trine and devotion as regards our
Blessed Lady. Its power and beauty
Are so great as to -fill us with inex-
pressible sadness at the thought that
Dr. Newman has written compara^
tively so little on similar subjects
since he has been a Catholic. This
flhort and very condensed sketch on
one particular point has given him an
opportunity of exercising, on however
limited a scale, those powers as to
which he is simply unrivalled. There
is the keen penetration of the sense
<of Scripture, and of the relation be-
tween different and distinct parts of
the Holy Volume. After putting for-
-ward the patristic view of our Blessed
Lady as the second Eve, Dn Newman
!has occasion to defend that interpreta-
tion of the vision of the woman in the
Apocalypse which understands it of
% ber. This lias given him occasion to
explain how it is that this'intcrpreta^
tion may be the true one, although
there is no great amount of positive tes-
.^mony for it in the fSetthers, and to refute
from the geneml principles of scrip-
tural language that which looks upon
the image as simply a personificatbu
of the chnrcL This passage la areal
and great gain in scriptural interpre-
tation. Then, again, here is the mas-
terly and discriminating erudition, not
dealing with the fothers as an ill-ar-
ranged and incoherent mass of author-
ities, but giving to each witness his
due place and weight, pointing out
^hat parts of the church and what
apostolical tradition he represents, and
blending the different sufihtges into
one harmonious statement. History
is brought in to trace the gradual de-
velopment of devotion on points as to
which doctrine, on the other hand,
was always uniibrm ; and to give a nat-
ural and simple explanation of the
chronological cotler in which the heart,
as it were, of the church seems to have
mastered the different portions of the
wonderful deposit which the apostles
sowed in her mind. The effect of
Dr* Newman's explanation of the
comparatively later growth of certain
devotions, which in themselves might
have been expected to precede oAers,
is not only to remove the apparent
difficulty, but to make every other
view appear more difficult than that
which he ^ves. Equally beautiful
and convincing is his explanation in
,the appendix of the historical account
which may be given of the strange
sayings of certain fathers as to our
Blessed Lady having possibly fallen
into faults of infirmity. Some most
accurate and delicate tests for the dis-
cernment of a real tradition are here
given, bA well as reasons for the ap-
parent absence of such a tradition in
a special case. Dr. Newman is one
of the few writers who show us, first,
that they thoroughly understand a dif-
ficulty or an objection ; then, that they
can xnake it even stronger ; and then,
that they can not only say something
against it, or crush it, but even unravel
it, and show that it was to be expected.
In every one of these respects Dr.
Pusey is his exact contrary. Then
again, Dr. Newman brings together a
series of passages from the Others
of the "undivided church" — ^to use
die now term invented, we believe,, by
Mr. Keble-H>f which, of conrso, Dr.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
J^timpUett on th$ JSirmicon.
227
Pnaey was aware, bot of which he
has said nothing in his ^ Eirenicon."
These testify amply not only to the
doctrine but to the devotion of the
foorth and fifth centuries as to our
Blessed Lady. He is, of course, spar-
ii^ of quotations in a work like the
present ; bat he crowns his argument
from authority by a number of pas-
sages not from popular books of devo-
tion among the Greeks, but from their
liturgies and authoritative formularies
—on which Dr. Pusey would have
founded a strong ailment to the
effect that our Lady is elevated to the
place of our Lord, if he had been able
to find them in circulation among
Catholics. In fact, a number of formal
Greek devotions end with the words,
^through the Theotocos," instead of
^ per Dominum nostrum Jesum Chris-
tum." The contrast between the co-
gency and appositeness of every word
of Dr. Newman's few quotations (al-
most universally given at length), and
the utter iUusiveness and bewildering
misapplication of the clouds upon
clouds of citations paraded in Dr.
Pusey's volume, is wonderfully strik-
ing. Nor, again, is the difference less
great between the two when a person-
al remark has to be made. Dr. New-
man has no hard words for any one.
He does not shrink from pointing out
faults, as we have already said. He
tells Dr. Pusey plainly enough that
he does not think that he even under^
stands what the immaculate concep-
tion means; and when he speaks of
Anglicans being ignorant of the Cath-
olic doctrine of original sin, he seems
carefully to omit exempting Dr. Pusey
from the general statement. He says
again pointedly, ^ He who charges us
with making HLbltj a divinity is there-
by denying the divinity of Jesus.
&ich a man doe$ not know what divine
iiy if." He complains of the unfair-
ness—of which, we are sorry to si^,
Dr. Pusey seems habitually guilty—
of taking a strong and apparently ob-
jecdonable passage from an author
who, either in the immediate context
or elsewhere, has qualified it by other
statements, which any one but a par^
tizan writer would feel bound to take
into consideration and to place by its
side, without giving the reader any in-
timation that such qualifications exist
**When, then, my dear Pusey, you
read anything extravagant in praise
of our Lady, is it not charitable to
ask, even while you condemn it in
itself, Did the author write nothing
else ?" (p. 101). He refuses to receive
Dr. Pusey's collection of strong pas-
sives as a fair representation of the
minds of the authors from whom they
are quoted. He speaks of their ^ lit-
eral and absolute sense, as any Protes-
tant would naturally take them, and
as the writers doubtless did not use
tbem''(p. 118). And again: ^1 know
nothing of the originate, and cannot
believe that they have meant what
you say" (p. 120). But with all this
strong and decisive language, which
we may be sure is the very gentlest
that he can use, and implies an esti-
mate of the ^ Eirenicon " by no mea&s
in accordance with that of its admirers,
he is so uniformly calm and affection-
ate in manner that we cannot but hope
that Dr. Pusey and others who think
with him will be won over to think
more seriously of the extreme gravity
(rf* their step in casting forth upon the.
world of English readers so extremely
intemperate an accusation against the
Catholic Church as that which they
have put in circulation. Nor can we
abandon the hope that they will
listen to Dr. Newman's clear and
unanswerable statement of the doc-
trine of the fathers as to our Blessed
Lady, and see how truly he has pointed
to the flaws and defects in their own
thoughts with regard to her. They will
certainly be hardly able to deny that
they have misunderstood not only
the immaculate conception, against
which they have talked so loudly, but
even, it may be, original sin itself;
nor do we think that it can be ques-
tioned that he has put his finger upon
the fundamental error — ^not to say
heresy-— to which all their low concep-
tioas as to the Blessed Mother of God
Digitized by CjOOQIC
828
Pamphbts on the Etrenieoiu
are to be assigned as their ultimate
cause. Dr. Pusey, as Dr. Newman
remarks, seems to have no idea tliat
• our Blessed Lady had any other part
or position in the incarnation than as
its phygicalinitrwHewt — much the same
part, as it were, that Juda or David
may have had. The Others, on the
contrary, from the very first, speak of
her ^as an intelligent^ responsible
cause of our Lord's taking flesh ;**
^ her faith and obedience being acces-
sories to the incamadon. and gaining
it as her reward * (p. 38). Dr. New-
man insists on this vital and all-im-
portant difference more than once, and
seems to consider it the explanation of
the strange blindness of these students
of antiquity. If they can once gain
a new and more Catholic idea as to
that which is the foundation alike of
our Blessed Lady's greatness and the
devotion of the church to her — and
certainly they must be very blind or
very obstinate not to see the reasons
for such an idea in Dr. Newman's
pages — then the "Eirenicon* will
have produced incidentally a far great*
er blessing to themselves and others
than if its strange interpretation of
the Anglican Articles had been al-
lowed as legitimate in England, and
. there had been half a score of Du
Pins in France ready to enter into
negotiations with the Archbishop of
Canterbury cm the basis of its prop-
ositions. These good men have in
feet been living and teaching and
studying the fathers with one of the
great seminal iacts, so to speak, of
Christianity absent from their minds
or entirely undeveloped in them. " It
was^the creation of a new idea and a
new sympathy, a new faith and wor-
ship, when the holy apostles an-
nounced that 6od had b^me incar-
nate ; and a supreme love and devotion
to him became possible, which seemed
hopeless before that revelation. Bat
beside thUf a second range of thoughts
was opened en mankind^ unknown be*
fore^ and unlike any other^ as soon as
it was understood that that ineamate
Ood had a mother. The second idea
is perfectly distinct from the former-^
the one does not intefrere with the
other" We conceive that these words
will fall strangely on the ears of Dr.
Pusey, though they might not perhaps
do so on* those of the author of the
" Christian Year "and the " Lyra Inno-
centium ;" and if they do so, after the
incontestable proof which Dr. New-
man has adduced from the early fa-
thers of their view of the position of
our Blessed Lady in the economy of
the incarnation, it will only remain
for Dr. Pusey either to coniute that
proof or to acknowledge that he has
been reasoning on that great mystery
without the guidance of the church,
deaf to the teaching of the fathers,
and that he has incurred the usual
fate of men who so reason. May the
prayers of the Blessed Mother, against
whose honor he has raised his voice
so harshly, save him from dosing his
eyes still more firmly !
It appears to be one of the character-
istics of Dr. Newman to look at par-
ticular questions and phases of opin-
ion with regard to a wider and more
comprehensive range of thought than
other men. Possibly his retired po*
sition favors this habit of mind ; but
it is, of course, fiir more naturally to
be attributed to a loftier intellectual
stature and a wider knowledge of
history than others possess. Such a
man is eminently fitted for a contro-
versy like the present, in which the
word peace has been blurted forth in
so uncouth a manner, while yet it is
not the less the expression of the real
and powerful longings of a thousand
hearts. It is a most unpromising
overture, but it is an overture never*
theless. Dr. Newman is not only
fitted to deal with it on account of his
tender and lai^e sympathies, and of
the affectionate solicitude with wluch
he has always treated his former
friends ; he is able also not indeed to
go to the very verge of Catholic
doctrine for their sakes, or to encour-
age delusive hopes of a compromise
which would patch up rather than
nnitey but to speak with calm accura-
Digitized by CjOOQ IC '
PamphhtM on th$ Eitenieon.
229
^i looking <Hi hiA own times as a
philosophic^ historian of the church
may look at them bj-and-bye, and
point oat what may be acodentalt
transient, local, in the features of the
religion of the present day. No one
can be less inclined to exaggerate,
for instance, the differences between
£nglish and Italian devotion ; and
we have seldom felt ourselves in a.
more Italian atmosphere, out of Italy,
than in the oratory at Edgfoaston.
But he is not afraid of giving full
weight to national differences of char-
acter, nor of avowing himself a hearty
Englishman. In the same way, with-
out going into the question of fact as
to idleged extravagances — ^which, af-
ter all, is of no real cogency in the
argumentr— he is ready to atknit that
there may be such, and puts forward a
simple common-sense argument to
show that such may be expected in
the living working of energetic ideas
generally, and especially of such ideas
in matters of religicm, which acts on
the aflfectaons. This is the true philo-
sophical answer ; and it by no means
excludes other answers that might be
given to particular charges, which
might be proved to be false in fact, or
to apply to matters so grave as that
the church would never be allowed to
permit the alleged corruption.
Dr. Newman never shrinks from
allowing the full force of any princi-
ple that he has laid down. Thus, he
has distinguished between &ith as to
our Blessed Lady's position in the
kingdom of her Son and the devotion
to her founded upon that faith. The
&ith may have been from the begin-
ning, and actually was so, as he proves
from the early fathers ; but the full
devotion may not aU at once have
been developed ; or again, it may
havo been chedced in particular coun-
tries at a particular time, and so
make no show in the writings of some
firthers of that age, in consequence of
the baneful influence of a prevalent
heresy which cut at the faith itself.
This, which is really almost self-evi-
dent, enables him not only to explain
the passages in St Chrysostom and
St Basil which are sometimes ob-
jected to, but to grant that there are
no certain traces of devotion^ strictly
so called, to our Blessed Lady in the
writings of others beside these. There
need not be, according to his princi-
ples. It must be remembered that
all these statements admit of great de-
velopment and explanation ; they
are germs of thought, and are
only put forward most concisely in
Dr. Newman's present letter. It is
more to our present purpose to ob-
serve how ready he is to look through
the cloud of charges, great and smtdl,
which Dr. Pusey has blown in the
face of Catholics, and to discern in
the book of his old friend a new and
important turning-point in the Angli-
can controversy. He thinks that the
indignation of Catholics has led them
in consequence to misconceive^ Dr.
Pusey, BO as not, it would seem, to
give him credit for really pacific in-
tentions. We think that no one has de-
nied — what, indeed, it does not be-
come a critic to question— the reality
of a purpose distinctly avowed ; bqt,
at the same time we must repeat that
it has never been denied by Dr. Pu-
sey, nor do we think it ever can be
denied, that the book was written
with a clear and distinct intention so
to represent Catholicism as to deter
people trom submitting to it except
on certain terms pointed out by the
author. Possibly Dr. Newman only
means that Catholics have been- more
alienated by Dr. Puse/s most unhand-
some attack than attracted by his
professions of friendship; and cer-
tainly never was a friendly expostu-
lation, never was an earnest rcqut^t
for explanation on certain points
which appear to be difficulties in the
way of a much-desired uni<Mi, propos-
ed in a way less calculated to concili*
ate. Dr. Newman, therefore, neither
wonders nor complains at the strong
feeling with which the "^ Eirenicon ''
has basn rec^ved ; but he looks be-
yond the present moment, and, recall-
ing the former phases of opinioii as to
Digitized by V^OOQlC
J
280
PcKmphleU on Ae Eirmiam.
Catholicisin which have prevailed
among Anglicans, he seea in Dr. Pu-
sej's proceeding nothing less than the
putdng ^ the whole argument be-
tween 70a and us on a new footing "
—a footing which may really and
profitably be used by those who de*
sire peace. No English Catholio but
will most heartily rejoice in this
statement of Dr. Newman ; and sure-
ly one of our first feelings mast be that
ii thankfuhiess that he is among us
at a time like this, and that circum-
stances wiU give him a more patient
hearing and a more ready acceptance,
on the part of those whose souls may
be staked (m the issae of this contro-
versy, than he might otherwise meet
with. From him, at least, Anglicans
will hear no extreme or novel doc-
trine ; him, at least, they will never
accuse of not loving everything that
is English. He, if any one, may
convince them that no true child of
the " undivided church " would be
found at the present day outside the
'communion of the Holy See ; that the
church is the same now as she ever
was, and as she ever will be; that she
can never compromise with her ene-
mies, though she yearns with unutter-
able love to take back every wander-
er to her heart
Experience has happily shown that
the great Shepherd of sods leads men
on in a way they neither discern nor
desire, when they have once set them-
selves to wish and pray for greater
light; and that prophecies of ill and
suspicions of sinister purposes, which
have not lacked ample foundation,
have yet been often defeated in the
indulgent dispensations of grace. Nor,
indeed, at the presetit time, are all
the eigns of the sky evil. In its most
disagreeable and inexcusable features
the ** Eirenicon" is not, we are con-
vinced, a fair representation of the
mind of a great number who might
commonly be supposed to sympathize
with its author. He has put himself
for the moment at their head; and
they are, of course, slow to repudiate
his assistance ; but we do not believe
that the earnest men who publish so
many Catholic devotions, and who,
however mistakenly, attempt to re-
produce in their own churches the ex-
ternal honors paid by Catholics to him
whom they abo think that they have
with them, would willmgly make
themselves responsible for the hund-
red pages with which Dr. Newman's
present pamphlet is engaged. The
advance toward Catholicism among
the Anglicans has, in fact, left Dr.
Pusey some way behind other and
younger men. Even as to himself, he is
hardly further away than others have
been who are now within the church.
Only it must not be foigotten that
the largest and most charitable
thoughts as to the meaning and inten-
tions of individuals, and the most
hopeful anticipations as to the ulti-
mate result of their movements, do
not exhaust the duties imposed upou
^ Catholic writers at the present mo-
' ment Let us see ever so much of
good in demonstrations such as this,
and believe that there is a still greater
amount of good which we do not see.
We may forbear to press men
harshly, to point out baldly the incon-
sistencies of their position ; we may
put up with the rudeness of the lan-
guage in which they propose peace.
They may be haughty and ungener-
ous now; but this is not much to
bear for the sake of that unity which
those who know it lore better than
those who are strangers to it. Let
us be ready, as far as persons are
concerned, to be tender in exposing
faults even wanton, and misconcep-
tions which, as we think, common in-
dustry and fairness might have obvi-
ated. For Dr. Pusey himself we can
wish no severer punishment than that
he should be able some day to look
upon his own work with the eyes of
a Catholic He has himself shown
us, by the use which he lias made of
old expressions of Dr. Newman and
others, who have long since repudi-
ated them, that the retractation of
charges against the Catholic Church
by theur authors does not prevent
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PamphkU an the Mrmncan.
231
others from repeating them. We are
sorry to saj — ^what we still believe will
be acknowledged as true by all who
have been at the pains — ^pains no^
taken by some who have written on
this subject-^-of not merely consider-
ing the animus and motives of Dr. Pu-
sejy but of examining his book in de-
tail, and taking its measure aa a work
of erudition and controversy — that,
unattractive in style, rambHng, in-
coherent, vague, and intentionally
^loose'' as it is, it haa one great
qnali^, however unintentional — that
of being a perfect storehoi^e of mis-
representation. We speakr simply as
critics, and we disclaim all attempts to
account for the phenomenon. It con-
tains ao almost unparalleled number of
misstatements of every kind and de-
gree* Its author^s reputation will
give weight and currency to these«
Though never perhaps likely to be a
popular book, it will still take its
place in Protestant libraries, and will
be much used in future controversies.
No one can tell how often we shall
have certain extraordinary statements
about the sanctifica&on of the Blessed
Virgin, her active and passive con-
ception, the protest of the Greek
Church against the doctrine, Bellar-
mine's assertion about geneial coun-
cils, transubstantiatioo, extreme unc-
tion, and the like, brought up against
us; and the erroneous conclusions
founded upon them cannot be neglect-
ed by the defenders of Catholic truth.
It is, therefore, essential not that Dr.
Pusey should be attacked in an un-
kindly spirit, but that his book should
be handled critically, and, as far as
may be, whatever it contains of mis-
. statement, misquotation, unfair insinu-
tioQ and conclusion catalogued and
exposed. It must be remembered
that there is a great demand for the
materials of anti-Catholic controversy.
Dr. Pusey does not subscribe to the
societies which mostly hold their
meetings in Exeter Hall in the month
of May ; but he might well be made
a liie-govemor of all of them in con-
sideration of this book. It will be
used by the zealots who try to win
the poor peasants of Connaught to
apostasy by means of food and cloth-
ing, and by the more decorous
"Anglo-Continentals,'' who are just
now rubbing their hands at the pros-
pects of infidelity in Italy. Alas!
it not only teems with snares for the
learned and conscientious, but it is
full of small insinuations for the ig-
nobler herd of paid agents and lectur-
ers — ^"what the poorer people be-
lieve in Rome," what Catholic
churches are called in south India,
wlat Cardinal Wiseman is reported
to have said of Archbishop Affire,
^ who died in recovering his people at
the barricades." These things may
be passed by as simply faults of taste ;
but the pretensions of the book to
learning, and its historical and doctrin-
al statements, cannot be admitted
without sifting. Dr. Pusey has im-
posed an unwelcome task on Catho-
lic critics. At tho very time that
they would be conciliating his follow-
ers, they are forced to attack him. It
has seemed to us indeed that ordinary
care in examining authorities, an
attention to the common-sense rule
that strangers cannot understand a
system from without, th^ use of the
many means at his disposal of ascer-
taining the Catholic meaning of
Catholic language, more self-restraint
in assertion, in urging ailments that
appeared telling and conclusions that
were welcome to himself, and
somewhat less of confidence in his
own attainments as a theologian,
would have spared those who wish
him well this painful undertaking at
a time when they would gladly say no*
word that may sound harsh to his
ears. But, after all, truth is more
precious than peace, and peace can.
only be had through the truth ; and
we can cordially return to Dr. Pusey
the assurance which he liimsett*^
has proffered to Catholics, that
those engaged in the ungrateful task
of subjecting his volume to the an-
alysis of criticism have no intention
whatever of wounding his feelings.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
232
Owvmtiu of Animal lAfe.
[OBMOriL.]
» CURIOSITIES OF ANIMAL LIFE.
There is an old aphorism which
says that ^all life comes from an
egg " — omne vivum ex avo ; but this,
like a good manj other old aphorisms, is
only a convenient and attractive way
of stating a falsehood. It is very
trae tliat almost all animals, from
man down to the moUusk, pass
through the egg stag^ at an early
period of their existence ; but we
purpose to show our readers in this
article that there are others which
appear to be sometimes exempted
from the common lot of their kind,
and which indeed come into the world
in such curious fashions that we may
almost say of them, in the words of
Topsey, that they " never were bom ;
*spect they growecL"
To begin with, what is an egg?
According to the popular idea, it is
an oval-shaped body, consisting of a
hard, thin shell indosing a whitish
substance called the albumen, ^vithin
which is a yellowish matter called the
yolk ; it is the embryo form of the
young of birds and some other ani-
mals, which finally emerge from the
shell after the egg has been acted
upon for some time by the heat of the
parent's body. Now this definition
may do well enough as a loose de-
scription of the more familiar varie-
ties of eggs, but it will not do for alL
It will perhaps surprise the unscien-
tific reader to be told that every ani-
mal whatever produces eggs. A
" mare's nest " is ^e popular expres-
sion of a myth, an absurdity; but
mare*$ eggs are no myths ; they are
just as real as hen's eggs ; only we
never see them, because they are
.hatched in the parent's body before
the young colt is brought forth* The
same is true of the eggs of aU the
other quadrupeds and of viviparous
animals in^eneraL
An egg,*herefore, like the seed of
a plant, is the germ from which the
embryo is developed. It may have
a shell, or it may not; it may be
comparatively large, like birds' eggs,
or it may be so small as to be with
difficulty discerned by the naked eye.
When it is first formed it is simply an
aggregation of fluid matter, very mi-
nute in size, and exceedingly simple
in structure. By degrees this fluid is
transformed into the small particles
or granules which form the yolk;
the yolk shapes itself into a multitude
of cells — ^little microscopic bodies con-
sisting of an external membrane, or
cell-wall, and of an inner nucleus,
which may be either solid or fluid ;
and in due process of time a number
of cells combine and form a living be-
ing. The albumen, or ^' white," is,
like the shell, an accessory. It pel^
forms important functions in the de-
velopment of the young from the
germ, but we will not stop to explain
Uiem here ; the true egg is the yolk.
In the lowest forms of animal life the
egg is a mere cell, with a light spot in
one part of it, and the creature which
is developed from it is almost as sim-
ple in structure as the egg itself.
The ordinary mode of reproduction,
as we have already said, is by the for*
mation of an egg in the body of the
parent, from whidi the young may be
hatched either before or after they
are brought into the world. But
there are certam of the lower orders of
animals which sometimes multiply and
Digitized by CjOOQIC
OurumHeB of Animal Life.
288
perpetnate thdr kind in other wajs
also. Professor Henry James Clark,
of Harvurd UniTersitj, has lately
published an interesting treatise * on
animal derelopment, in which he gives
some curious instances of the phenom-
ena to which we refer. We have
drawn a good deal of what we have
jost said about the structure of eggs
from his valuable work, and we pur-
pose now to follow him in his remarks
upon the processes of reproduction by
what is called budding and division*
Let us look first at that exceeding-
ly beautiful and wonderful animal
commonly called the sea anemone, on
account of the delicate fringed flow-
er so much loved by poets. You
may often find it on our coasts con-
tracted into a lump of gelatinous sub-
stance looking like whitish-brown jel-
ly ; t watch it for a while, and you
will see the body rise slightly, while a
delicate crown a£ tentacles, or feelers,
steals out at the top. The jelly-like
mass continues to increase in height,
and the wreath of tentacles gradually
expands. Soon you will perceive that
this graceful fringe surrounds a wide
opening ; this is the animal's mouth.
When expanded to its full size the
anemone is about three or four inches
in height. The body consists of a
cylindrical gelatinous bag, the bottom
of which is fiat and slightly spreading
at the margin. The upper edge of
this bag is turned in, so as to form a
sack within a sack ; this is the stom-
ach. The whole summit of the body
is crowned by the soft plumy fringes
which give it such a remarkable re-
sembhmce to a flower. At the base it
has a set of powerful muscles, by which
it attaches itself to rocks and shells so
firmly that it can hardly be removed
without injury. Another set of mus-
ses enables it to contract itself almost
instantaneously into a shapeless lump.
• **MlBd in Nature; or. The Ortgtn of Life
and the Mode of Ilevelopmcnt of Animals."
bvo. New York: D. Appieton A Co.
t ** Bea-sldo bmdiee in Natarel Ilietory." By
KllzMheih and Alexander Ajnaais. Boston:
TlckDor* Yields. 18il6.
It is extremely sensitive, not only
shrinking from the slightest touch,
but even drawing in its tentacles if so
much as a dark cloud passes over it.
Anemones may be found, say the au-
thors of '< Sea-side Studies," '' in any
small pools about the rocks which are
flooded by the tide at high water.
Their favorite haunts, however, where
they occur in greatest quantity, are
more difficult to reach ; but the curi-
ous in such matters will be well
rewarded, even at the risk of wet feet
and a slippery scramble over rocks
covered with damp sea-weed, by a
glimpse into their more crowded
abodes. Such a grotto is to be found
on the rocks of East Point at Nahant.
It can only be reached at low tide,
and then one is obliged to creep on
hands and knees to its entrance in
order to see through its entire length ;
but its whole interior is studded with
these animals, and as they are of va-
rious hues, pink, brown, orange, pur-
ple, or pure white, the effect is like
that of brightly-colored mosaics set in
the roof and walla. When the sun
strikes through from the opposite ex-
tremity of this grotto, which is open at
both ends, lighting up its living mo-
saic-work, and showing the play of the
soft fringes whenever the animals are
open, it would be difficult to find any
artificial grotto to compare with it in
beauty. There is another of the
same kind on Saunders's ledge, form-
ed by a large boulder resting on two
rocky ledges, leaving a little cave be-
neath, lined in the same way with
variously-colored sea anemones, so
closely studded over its walls that the
surface of the rock is completely hid-
den. They are, however, to be found
in larger or smaller clusters, or scat-
tered singly, in any rocky fissures
overhung by sea-weed and accessible
to the tide at high water.''
Mr. Gosse, in his << History of
British Sea Anemones and Corals,"
mentions the existence of a singular
connection between a certain variety
of these animals and a species of her-
mit ciab^ that lives in the deserted
Digitized by CjOOQIC
234
Chmontits of Animal Life*
shell of a moIliiBk. An anemone is
alwajB found attached to the shell
which the crab inhabits^ and is so
placed that its fringed month comes
just below the mouth of the crab.
Whatever food comes within reach of
either animal can, therefore, be shared
in common. The crab is so far from
objecting to this ccsnmunity of goods
that he seems unhappy without his
companion. Though he is a hermit,
he is not exempt from the common
lot of housekeepers ; he submits eveiy
now and then to the trouble of momn^-
Ir. Gosse observed one in the
act of changing houses. No sooner
had he taken possession of the new
. shell than he began removing the
anemone from the old one, running
his claw under it to sepaittte it from
the shell, and then brin^g it to the
new house, where, having placed it in
its customary position, he held it
down until it had attached itself, and
now and then pressed it closer, or
gave it a pat to hasten the process.
In another instance, observed bj Mr.
Holdsworth, the crab^ after vainly try-
ing for more than an hour to remove
his companion anemone, deserted his
new quarters and went back to the
old, rather than submit to a separ^
ation.
The anemone, for all that it is so
delicate and graceful in appearance,
is a gluttonous little beast, eats raw
meat in the aquarium, and when upon
its native coast sucks mussels and
cockles out of their shells. Queer
compound of plant and animal in ap-
pearance, its natural kingdom seems
still more doubtful than ever if we
watch it while it is undergoiug certain
processes of reproduction. It does
indeed generally produce its young
by maternal gestation; eggs are
formed in the cavity that surrounds
its stomach, and at the proper time
the young swim out of the parent's
mouth. But it has other modes of
propagation, one of which is almost
exactly like the process of raising
plants from suckers. Very of^ you
may see, growing out of the lower part
of the body of* the anemone, and as a
general thing near the edge of the
basal disc by which it attaches itself
to the shell or rock, little rounded
protuberances, like biids; well, they
are buds — ^the buds of young anemo-
nes. In a short time six small tentacles
make their appearance on the top of
each bud. A minute oblong aperture
opens in the midst of them. A digest-
ive cavity is formed. • The curious
internal structure of the animal
(which we have not space here to de-
scribe) is gradually developed. The
bud becomes elongated and enlarged
every way. The tentacles multi-
ply ; the small aperture grows into a
mouth; and finally the young anem-
one drops off from its parent and
floats away to shifl for itself. Pro-
fessor Clark has seen as many as
twenty thus detach themselves in the
course of a single month. This is the
process of generation by budding or
gemmation, of which we spoke on a
previous page.
But we have not yet exhausted the
list of wonders displayed by this ex-
traordinary plant-animal. We have
seen that it has at leasttwo ways of being
bom ; what will our readers say when
we assure them that it has not only
two hut four f The remaining two
both come under the head of what is
called voluntary idf-division. One
of them is strikingly like the propaga-
tion of plants by cuttings. Little
pieces break off from the anemone at
the base and float away. For a
long time they give no sign of life ;
but when they have recovered, so to
speak, from the shock of separation,
they begin to shoot out their tentacles
and grow up into perfect individuals.
The fourth method of generation is
still more wonderful. Now and then
you find an anemone whose upper
disc is contracted in a peculiar man*
ner at opposite sides. The con-
traction increases until the disc loses
its circular form and presents the
shape of* the figure 8. The two
halves of the 8 next separate, andjoa
Digitized by CjOOQIC
OuriosiHes of Ammai lAfe.
2a5
bare an anemone with two mouths,
each sorronnded by its own set of ten-
tacles. Then the processes of con-
atrictaon and separation continne .all
down the bodj of the animal iromi
summit to hase, and the result is two
perfect anemones, each complete in
its oi^anizalion. It is well that the
lower orders of creatures ha^e none
of the laws of inheritance and primo-
geniture that bother mankind, or such
irregular methods of coming into the
woiid might breed a great deal of
trouble among them. Here, for in-
stance, jou have two anemones, which
we wiU call A and B, formed by the
splitting asunder of a single individ-
nal; what relation are they to each
other? Are they brother and sister
or parent and child ? And if the latter,
bow is any one to decide which is the
parent? Then suppose A raises off-
spring in the usual way from eggs,
what relation are these young to B ?
Are tiiey sisters, or nieces, or grand-
childrea ?
Let us now look at another animal,
the stentor, or trumpet-animalcule.
This is a minute infusorian, Tery com-
mon in ponds and ditches, where it
forms colonies on the stems of water-
weeds or submerged sticks and stones*
ScHne of the varieties have a deep
blue color, and a settlement of them
looks very much like a patch of blue
mould. The stentor is shaped like a
little tube, about one-sixteenth of an
inch in length, spread out at the upper
end like a trumpet, and tapering at
tbe lower almost to a point When
it has fixed upon a place of abode, it
oonstiiK^ a domicile, consisting of a
gelatinous sheath, perhaps half as high
as itself. It lives inside this sheath,
with its smaller extremity attached to
the bottom of it, and its wide, funnel-
shaped end projecting above the top.
When disturbed it retreats into the
house and %hrinks into a globular
mass. The disc of the trumpet end
18 not perfectly regular ; on one side
the edge turns inward so as to form a
notch, and curls up<xi itself in a spiral
form. Within this spiral is the mouth,
and a long funnel-shaped diroat reach-
es from it to the digestive cavity. Op-
posite the mouth there is a globular
cavity, from which a tube extends to
the lower extremity of the body. The
cavity seems to perform the ftmctions
of a heart, and the tube takes the place
of veins and arteries* Chice in tliree-
quarters of a minute this heart-like
oigan contracts and forces the fluid
which it contains into the tube; the
latter in its turn, after expanding very
sensibly to receive the fiow, contracts
and returns it to the heart.
The stentor propagates by budding,
like the anemone. The first change
that takes place is a division of tins
contractile vesicle into two distinct
organs at about mid-height of the body,
the lower portion developing a globu-
lar cavity like the u|^er one. Soon
after this a shallow pit opens in the
side of the stentor, in a line with the
new vesicle. This pit is the future
mouth. A throat or oesophagus is
next fashioned ; and all being ready
for the accommodation of the new
animal the process of division begins,
and goes on so rapidly that it is all
done in about two hours.
A still more curious animal, in some
respects, than either of those we have
just mentioned is the hydra, one of
the simplest of the zoophytes. To
all intents and purposes it is nothing
but a narrow sack, about half an inch
in length, open at one end, where the
mouth is situated, and attaching itself
by the other to pond-lilies, duck-weeds,
or stones on the margins of lakes.
Around the mouth it has from five to
eight slender tentacles, which are used
as feelers and for the purpose of seizing
the food. What it does with its food
after it has swallowed it i<i, strange as
the statement may sound, a question
to which naturalists have not yet
found a satisfactory answer; for the
hydra has no digestive oi^gans, and its
stomach is merely a poudi formed by
the folding in of the outer skin. It
has no ghinds, no mucous membrane,
no appliances of any sort for the* per-
formance of the chemical process
Digitized by CjOOQIC
23G
Ourionties of Jninud Life.
which we call digestion. You may
turn a hydra inside out and it will
get along just as well as it did before,
and swaSow its prej with just as good
an appetite. The French naturalist
Trembley was the first to notice this
remariiable fact. With the blunt end
of a small needle he pushed the bot^
torn of the sack through the bod j and
out at the mouth, just as you would
invert a stocking. He found that the
animal righted itself as soon as it was
left alone ; so he repeated the opera-
tion, and this time made use of per-
suasion, in the fonn of a bristle run
crosswise through the body, to induce
the victim to remain inside out In
the course of a few days its interior
and exterior departments were thor-
oughly reorganized, and it ate as if
nothing had happened. Trembley
next undertook to engraft one individ-
ual upon another ! For this purpose
he crammed the tail of one deep down
into the cavity of another, and, in order
to hold them in their position, stuck a
bristle through both. What was his
surprise to find them, some hours
afterward, still spitted upon the bris-
tle, but hanging side by side instead of
one within the other I How they had
got into such a position he could not
imagine. He arranged another pair,
and on watching them the mystery
was solved. The inner one first drew
up its tail and pushed it out through
the hole in the outer one's side where
the bristle entered. Then it pulled
its head out after the tail, and sliding
along the spit completely freed itself
from its companion. This it repeat-^
cd as often as the experiment was
tried in that way. It then occurred
to M. Trembley that if the inner
hydra were turned inside out, so as to
bring the stomachs of the two animals
in contact, union would take place
more readily ; and so it proved. The
little creatures seemed much pleased
wiUi the arrangement, and made no
attempt to escape. In a short time
they were united as one body, and en-
joyed their food in common.
It was perhaps only natural to ex-
pect that animals which care so little
about their individuality that two spec-
imens can be turned into one, would
be equally ready to multiply tliem-
selves by the simple process of being
cut to pieces. In other words, yoa
may make one hydra out of two, or
two out of one, just as you please.
M. Trembley divided them in every
conceivable manner. He cut them
in two, and, instead of dying, one half
shot out a new head and the otlier
developed a new tail He sliced them
into thin rings, and each slice swam
away, got itself a set of tentacles,
and grew into a perfectly formed in-
dividual. He split them into thin
lon^tudinal strips, and each strip re-
produced what was wanting to give it
a complete body. Some he split only
part way down from the mouth, and
the result was a hydra, like the fabled
monster, with many heads. The fa-
mous cat with nine lives is nothing
to these little zoophytes. They seem
sublimely indifferent not only to the
most feaiful wounds, but even to dis-
ease and, we ore tempted to add, de-
composition itself. A part of the body
decays, and the hydra simply drops it
off, like a worn-out garment, and lives
on as if it had lost nothing.
If it can do all this, we need not
wonder that it can reproduce its kind
by budding. Indeed, after we have
seen a living creature split itself up
into a dozen distinct individuals any
other process of generation must seem
tame by comparison. At certain sea-
sons of the year very few hydras can be
found which have not one, two, or three
young ones growing out of their bodies.
The budding begins in the form of a
simple bulging from the side of the
parent, something like a wart. This
is gradually elongated, and after a time
tentacles sprout from the free end, and
a mouth is formed. The young is
now in a condition fo seek its own
prey. Its independence is finally ac-
complished by a constriction of the
base of the new body at the point
where it is attached to the old stock,
until finally it cuts itself off. Before
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ounotiiies of Animal Lift,
287
this separadoa takes place, however, it
baa ofbsn began to reproduce its own
jonng, and 00 we sometimes see a
large colony of hydras all connected
t<^ether, like mmnte branching water-
weed.
After an, yon may say, it is not so
very wonderfiil that a simple animal
like the hydra, which has no intestines,
and scarcely any special organs what-
ever, should be able to reproduce its
lost parts, orio multiply itself by the
simple processes of growth and sub-
sequent division. Well, then, let us
take a more complex creature, and we
have a remarkable example at hand
in a certain marme worm called myr^
tanidafasciata. It is an inch or two
in length, tapering off gradually from
the h^d. The body is marked with
numerous rings or joints, attached to
which are oar-like appendages, serv-
ing not <mly as instruments of propul-
sion but also as gills, or breathing or-
gans. An intestine extends from the
head in a direct course to the posterior.
Blood-vessels are arranged about it
like a net-woik, and connect with sun-
ilar vessels in the gills. It has an or^
gan which serves the purpose of a
heart, a nervous cord swollen at every
joint into knots or ganghons, and, in
the head, one principal ganglion,
which may be considered as the brain.
Its reproductive organs are situated
only in the posterior rings, and are
located there in reference to the pecul-
iar mode of generation which we are
aboat to describe. The young worm
begins to grow immediately m front
of the parent's tail, that is to say, be-
tween the last joint or ring and the
next before the last, and is formed by
the successive growth of new rings.
Before it is old enough to be cast off
another appears between its anterior
end and the next joint of the old stock ;
and so on until we have six worms at
once, all strung tc^ther behind the
parent, and hanging, so to speak, from
one another's tails. They drop off
separately, in the order of their age.
Now in this case, you will observe,
there must be a division of several or-
gans — the intestine, the blood-vessels,
and the nervous cord ; and each of the
six young mustde velop a heart, a brain,
and a pair of eyes. An odd result of
their method of growth (the 6rst one
being formed, you will remember, not
behind the parent but between her last
two rings) is that the eldest offspring
appropriates the tail of his mother,
while his five brothers and sisters
have to find tails of their own. We
are here tempted to indulge in a curi-
ous speculation: this first bom pro-
duces its young in the same way itself
was produced, and passes on its inher-
ited tail to the next generation. The
eldest bom of that generation be-
queaths it to the next, and so on. What
becomes of that ancestral tail in the
course of years ? Does it at last wear
out and drop off? Does the worm
that bears it die af^er a time without
leaving any children ? Or is it possi-
ble that the process of entail has been
going on without interruption ever
since the year one of the world, and
that there may be a mifnanida faseiata
now living with a tail as old as crea-
tion? Not very probable, certainly ;
but if any solution has been offered of
the great tail problem, we do not hap-
pen to have heard of it.
Professor Clark also tried various
experiments upon the common fiat
worm, or planariOf which may be
found so readily in our ponds, creep-
ing over stones and aquatic plants,
and is so easily recognizeid by its opa-
que white color, and the liver-colored
ramifications of its intestme. He cut
the creature va two, and immediately
after the operation the halves crawled
awa^ as if nothing had happened ; the
anterior part preceding an ideal tail,
and the posterior one following an
equally imaginary head and brain.
He watched the pieces from day to
day, and found that each reproduced
its missing half by a slow process of
budding and growth. This pkmaria
may be cut into several pieces, and
each will reproduce what is requisite
to complete the mangled organism.
If the tail of a lixard be broken off, a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
238
OmoMei ofJnimal Lifi.
new one will grow ; and crabs, lob-
sters, spiders, etc., are known to re-
place Uieir amputated limbs. The
instances we now and then meet with
of what are called monst ers t wo-
headed dogs, calves with six legs, and,
more rarelj, even double-headed hu-
man beings, are examples of the phe-
nomenon of budding— -which is very
common, by the way, among fishes ;
and there is an animalcule called the
amaba which shows a more remarka-
ble tenacity of Kfe than any of the
other creatures we have mentioned,
since you may divide and subdivide it
until it is physically impossible to re-
duce it to particles any smaller,
and yet each piece will live.
The discovery that animals may
originate in so many ways indepen-
dent of maternal gestation naturally
suggests the inquiry whether further
researches may not develop still
other methods of reproduction, in
which the new-bom creature shall
have no connection whatever with any
previously existing individuaL Thus
we are brought Imck to the question
which was thought to have been set-
tled long ago, whether generation ever
takes place spontaneously, as Aris-
totle and the old physicists supposed
it did* Later naturalists, following the
Italian, Bedi, utterly rejected the sup-
position ; but within the present centu-
ry it has found many reputable support
tei*8, and Professor Clark is one of them*
When organic matter decays, numbers
of infusonctf or microscopic plants
and animals, arise in it. Where do
they come from? Do the disorgan-
ized particles, set free by the process
of decomposition, combine into' new
form?, wluch are then endowed with
life by the direct action of Almighty
power; or is the decaying substance
merely the nest in which minute egg^
or seeds, borne thither upon the air,
or dropped by insects, find conditions
suitable for their development in the
ordinary natural way ? The question
IB not easily answered. Idkaj of
these genns are so excessively minute
as to defy detection. Some of Ad ra-
fusoria are no laiger than the tweoty-
fonr-thonsandth of an inch in diame-
ter, and it is estimated that a drop of
water might contain five hundred mil-
lions of them. It is obvious that the
germs of such little creatures must be
invisible even with the best micro-
scope. The problem can only be
solved by plaehig a portion of the
decomposing matter under such condi-
tions that any germs it may contain
shaU infallibly be killed and that none
can possibly reaeh it; then, if infuso-
ria appear, we shall know that they
have been generated spontaneously.
Hie groat difficulty is in securing
these conditions. For the develop-
ment of the living forms we require
both water and air. How are we to
be certain that there are no living
germs in the organic matter before we
begin the experiment? that there .are
none in the water? that none are
brought by the air? The actaoa of
heat has been relied upon for the de-
struction of germs in the organic mat-
ter and the water, and it has been
sought to purify the air from them by
passing it through sulphuric add;
but experience has shown that sul-
phuric add does not kill the germs;
so of course experiments performed in
that way prove nothing. Professor
Clark quotes a series of very delicate
experiments tried by Professor JdBT-
rl^ Wyman, of Harvard University,
which seem to us to come nearer to
proving spontaneous generation than
any others with which we are ac-
quainted. He proceeded in three
different methods, as foiiows :
1. The organic matter, oonsistiag
of a solution of beef or muttoa jniee
(or, in a few instances, vegetable mat-
ter), was placed in a flask fitted with
a cork through which passed a glass
tube. The ooik was pu^edde^Iy into
the mouth of the flask^ and the apmce
above it was filled with an adhesive
cement, composed of resm, wax, and
varnish. The tcd>e was drawn to a
narrow neck a little way above the
cork, and bent at right angles, azid
Digitized by dOOQlC
CuriomiUi of Animal lAfe.
289
the end of it inserted in an iron tube,
where it was secured bj a cement of
plaster of Paris. The rest of the
iron tube was filled with wires, leav-
ing 0QI7 very narrow passages be-
tween them. The solution in the
flask was then boiled — in some cases
aa long as two hours — ^in order to
kill any germs which might be en-
closed, ai^ to expel the air. The
iron tube and wires at the same time
were heated to redness. When the
boiling had continued long enough
the heat was withdrawn from beneath
the flask, and the steam was allowed
slowly to condense. As it did so, air
flowed in between the red-hot wires,
which had been kept at a temperature
high enough, it was supposed, to de-
stroy any germs in the air that pass-
ed through them. The flask was
then hermetically sealed by fusing
the glass tube with the blow-pipe.
When opened, several days afterward,
it was found to contain animal life.
2. A similar solution was placed in
a flask the neck of which, instead of
being supplied with a cork and tube,
was drawn out and bent at right an-
gles, and then fitted to the iron tube
containing wires. The experiment
was performed as by method Na 1,
and with the same result.
3. That there might be no suspi-
cion of imperfectly sealed joints, a so-
lution was put into a flask with a nar-
row neck, and the neck itself was
then closed by fusing the glass. The
whole flask was then immersed in
boiling water. At the expiration of
a few days living infusoria were
found in two instances out of four.
Now these experiments undoubted-
ly prove that generation sometimes
occurs spontaneously, provided it be
true, as Professor Clark assumes,
that there was no imperfection in the
closing of the flasks (which we see no
reason to doubt), and that the infuso-
rial germs are destroyed by boiHng. We
conress that it is hard to believe they
could have survived such a heat as
was applied to them in these cases ;
but is it certain that they could not ?
A writer in an £nglish review a few
years ago, whom we betieve to have
been Mr. G. H. Lewes, announced that
he had boiled certain germs cm howr and
tkree-^fuarterSj and yet they remained
perfectly unaltered. At most, there-
fore, we can regard ^>ontaneous
generation as a proMde phenomenon.
Whether spcmtaneous generation,
if it occurs at all, occurs by the for-
mation of an egg from which the ani-
malcule is hatched, or by the imme-
diate formation of the adult, Profes-
sor Clark does not attempt to say;
but the French nfaturalist M. Pouchet,
who is one of the foremost advocates
of the theory, holds that an egg is
produced first If this is true we
shall have a striking correlative to
the proposition with which we began
this paper : not only can living crea-
tures be developed where no egg lias
been deposited, but eggs can be pro-
duced where there is no animal to lay
them. Omne omtm « vivo will be no
mcnre true than Onm$ vivum ex avo.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
840 I\Mr md IticL
From Ohftmbtm*! JoonuL
POOR AND RICH.
Ih a shattered old garret scarce roofed from the skj,
Near a window that shakes as the wind hurries bj,
T'irithout curtaiQ to hinder the gold^ son's shine,
Which reminds me of riches that never were mine— >
I recline on a diair that is broken and old.
And enwrap my chilled limbs — ^now so aged and cold—
^Neath a shabbj old coat, with the buttons all torn.
While I think of my youth that Time's footprints have worn.
And remember the comrades who've one and all fled,
And the dreams and the hopes that are dead with the dead.
.But the cracked plastei^ walls are emblazoned and bright
With the dear blessed beams of the daj*s welcome light.
My old coat's a king's robe, my old chair is a throne,
And my thoughts are my courtiers that no king could own ;
For the troths that they tell, as they whisper to me,
Are the echoes of pleasures that once used to be,
The glad throbbings of hearts that have now ceased to fedy
And the treasures of passions which Time cannot steal ;
So, although I know well that my life is near spent,
Though rJl die without sorrow, I live with omtenL
Though my children's soft voices no music now lend ;
Without infe's sweet embraces, or glance of a friend ;
Yet my soul sees them still, as it peoples the air
With tiie spirits who crowd round my broken old chair.
If no wealth I have hoarded to trouble mine ease,
I admit that I doted on gems rich as these;
And when death snatched the casket that held each fair prix^
It flew to ray heart where it happily lies ;
So, 'tis there that the utt'rings of love now are said
By those dear ones, whom all but myself fancy dead.
So, though fetid the air of my poor room may be.
It still has all the odors of Eden for me.
For my Eve wanders here, and my cherubs hero sing, ,
As though tempting my spirit like theirs to take wing. '
Though my pillow be hard, where so well could I rest
As on that on which Amv's fair head has been pressed ?
So let riches and honor reed Mammon's vain heart,
From my shattered old lodging TU not wish to part;
And no coat shall I need save the one I've long worn.
Till the last thread be snapped, and the last rent be tonu
Digitized by CjOOQIC
JM-SaUow Eve; or. The Test of FiOuritg.
S41
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE ; OR, THE TEST OF FUTDETET.
BT BOBEBT 0UBTI8.
[OOKCLUSIOH.]
CHAFTEBXZX.
While the above exploits were be-
ing perfonned by Jamesj Doyle and
the police, a sad scene indeed was be«
ing enacted at the bridge. Winnj
Cavana, whose bonds had been loosed,
had rosbed to wbere Emon lay with
hia head in his father's lap, while the
two police^ien, Cotter and Donovan,
moved up with their prisoner. They
not only handcnffed him, but had tied
his legs t<^ether,.dndlhrew him on the
side of the road, ^ to wait their conve-
mBDOG^'* while thej rendered 'any as-
sistance they oonld to the wounded
The father had saoceeded in stanch-
ing the blood, which at first had poured
freely from the wound. With the as«
Bjstance of one of the police, whUe the
other was tying the prisoner, he had
drawn his son up into a sitting posture
and leaned him against the bank at
the side <^ the road, and got his arm
round him to sustain him. He was
not shot dead ; but was evidently very
badly wounded. He was now,however,
recovering strength and consciousness,
as the bl<x)d ceased to flow.
^ Open your eyes, Emon dear, if
yon are not dead^ and look at your
owp Winny,* she said; "your mad
Winny Cavana, Yfho brought you
here to be murdered! Open your
eyes, Emon, if you are not dead I I
don't ask you to speak."
Emon not only opened his eyes, but
turned his face and looked upon her.
Oh, the ghastly smile he tried to hide !
** Don't speak, Emon ; but tell me
Willi your eyes that you are not dying.
£hs no, Emon— Emon-a-knock I de-
void. UL 16
mon as he is, he could not murder you.
Heaven' would not permit so much
wickedness !"
Emon looked at her again. A faint
but beautiiiil smile — ^beautiful now,Tor
the color had returned to his cheeks
— ^beamed upon his lijd as he shook
his head.
"Yes, yes, he has murdered him,"
sobbed the distracted father; "and I
pity you, Winny Cavana, f^ I hbpe
you will pity his poor modier; to say
nothing of myself."
" No, no, do not say so ! He will
not die, he shaU not die !" And «he
pressed her burning Ups to his marble
forehead. It was smooth as alabaster,
cold as ice.
"Win — ^ny Car— va-^na, good-by,"
he faintly breathed in her ear. " My
days, my hours, my very moments are
numbered. I feel dealK trembling in
, every vein, in every nerve. I could —
could — ^have — ^lived for you — ^Winny ;
but even — to— die for you — is— abless-
ing, because — successfuL One last
request — Winny, my best beloved, is
—all — ^I have — ^to ask; spare me — ^a
spot in Bathcash — chapel-yard, in the
space allotted to— the— Cavanas. I
feel some wonderful strength given me
just now. It is a special mercy that I
may speak with you before I go. But,
Winny, my own precious, dearest love,
do not deceive yourself. If I reach
home to receive my mother^s blessing
before I die, it is the most—" and he
leaned his head against his father^s
breast.
" No more delay !" cried Winny en-
ergetically, "Time is too precious to
be lost ; bring the cart here, and let us
take him home at once, and send for
Digitized by CjOOQIC
24^
^HaBow Eve; otj The Test of Fwhuity.
the doctor. Oh, poBpeman, one of 70a
is enough to remaio with the prisoner
here ; do, like a good man, leave joor
gun and belts here, and run off across
the fields as fast as jou can, and bring
Dr. Sweendy to Rathcash house."
^^ To ShanviUa," faintlj murmured
the wounded man ; ^ and bring father
Farrell."
" Yes, yes, to ShanviUa, to be sure,**
repeated Winnj ; ''mj selfish heart had
forgotten his poor mother.''
£mon opened his eyes at the word
mother, and smiled. It was a smile of
thanks ; and he closed them again.
The policeman had obeyed her re*
quest in a moment; and, stripped of
ail incumbrances, he was clearing the
hedges, ditches, and drains towaid Dr.
Sweeney's.
They then placed Lennon, as gently
as if he were made of wax, into the
cart, his head lying in Winny's lap,
and his hand clasped in hers, while
the distracted father led the horse
more like an automaton than a human
being. They proceeded at a very gen-
tle pace, for tiie cart had no springs,
and Winny knew that a jolt might be
fatal if the blood burst forth afresh.
The policeman followed with his
prisoner at some distance ; and ere long,
for the dawn had become clear, he saw
his comrades coming on behind him, a
long way o£ But there was evidently
a man beside themselves and Jamesy
Doyle. He sat down by the side of
the road until they came up.
How matters stood was then ex-
plained to Sei^eant DriscoU aside.
Cotter tol(l him he had no hopes that
ever Lennon would reach home alive ;
that Donovan had gone off across the
country for the doctor and the priest,
and his caralnne and belts were on
the cart. *
** We will take that prisoner from
you, Cotter/' said DriscoU, i* and do you
get on to the cart as fast as you can ;
you m|iy be of use. I don't like to
bring this villain Murdock in sight of
them ; you need not say we have got
him at alL We will go on straight
to the barrack by the lower road, and
let you go up to Lennoo's with the
cart. But see here. Cotter—do not
speak to the wounded man at all, and
don't let anybody else speak to him
either. We don't want a word from
him ; sure we all saw it as plain as
possible."
Cotter then hastened on, and soon
overtook the cart He merely said, in
explanation of being by himself, that
his comrades had come up, and that he
had given his prisoner to them and
hastened on to see if he could be of
any use.
Winny soon suggested a use for the
kind-hearted man — ^to help poor Pat
Lennon into the cart, and to lead the
horse. This was done without stirring
hand or foot of the poor sufferer ; and
the father lay at Emon's other side
scarcely less like death than he was
himself.
When they came to the end of the
road which turned to Rathcash and
Shanvilla, Winny, as was natural,
could have wished to go to Rathcash*
She knew not how her poor father had
been left, or what might be his fate.
She could not put any confidence in
die assurance of such ruffians, that a
hair of his head should not be hurt ;
and did not one of the villains remain
in the house? Yes, Winny, one of
them did remain in the house, but he
did no harm to your father.
With all her affection and anxiety
on her father's account, Winny could
not choose but to go on to Shanvilla.
The less moving poor Emon got the
better, and to get from under his head
now and settle him afresh would be
cruel, and might be fatal. Wmny,
therefore, sat silent as Cotter turned
the horse^s head toward Shanvilla,
where, ere another half-hour had added
to the increasing light, they had ar-
rived-
Winny Cavana, who knew what a
scene must ensue when they came to
the door, had sent on Cotter to the
house; the father again taking his
place at the horse's head. He was to
tell Mrs. I^ennon that an accident had
happened— *no, no, not Aat; but that
Digitized by VjOOQIC
JBrHalhw Eve;, or, The l\st of FwturU^
«4S
Xmon had "been Iitirt; and that they
trere bringing him home quietly for
jpttjof exciting him.
V^Hrprecautions were of no use.
Mrd. I^nnon had waited but for the
wt)rd •* hurt,** which she understood at
onpeas importing something serious.
St^ rushed from the house like a mad
woikNm, and stood upon the rostd gaz-
ing ut> and down. Fortunately Winny
had the forethought to stop the cai*t
oat of sight of the house to give Cotter
time to execute his mission, and calm
Mrs. Lennon as much as possible* It
was a lucky thought, and Cotter, who
was a very intelligent man, was equal
to the emergency.
As Mrs. Lennon looked round her
in doubt, Cotter cried out, '^ Oh, don't
go that road, Mrs. Lennon, for Grod's
sake r and he pointed in the direction
in which the cart was not. It was
enough; the ruse had succeeded; and
Mis. Lennon started off at full speed,
clapping her hands and crying out:
** Oh I Emon, Emon, have they killed
yon at last? have they killed you?
Oh ! Emon, Emon, my boy, my boy l"
And she clapped her hands, and ran
the faster. She was soon out of sight
and hearing. .
**Now is your time,** said Cotter,
running back to the cart ; << she is gone
off in another direction, and we'll have
him on his bed before she comes back."
They then brought the cart to the
door, and in the most gentle and scien-
tific manner lifted poor Emon into the
house and laid him on his bed.
" Grod bless you, Winny !" he said,
stretching out his hand. ^ Don't, like
a good girl, stop here now. Return
to your poor father, who must be dis-
tracted about you. I'm better and
stronger, thank Grod, and will be able
to see you again before I — ^"
** Whist, whist, Emon mavoumeen,
don't talk that way ; you are better,
blessed be Grod! I must, indeed, go
home, Emon, as you say, for my heart
is torn about my poor father. Gk)d
bless you, Emon, my own Emon!"
And she stooped down and kissed his
pale lips.
Cotter and sfa^iHien left the house
and made all the dpeed they could to*
ward Eathcaslk ' 'Oiey had not gone
very far wffen Cottcnr^wd Mrs. Len-
non coming back along flie road, and
they saw her turn in tomaVd her own
house.
Bully-dhu having satisfied himself
that nothing further was to be appre-
hended from the senseless form of a
man upcm the kitchen floor, and finding
it impossible to burst open the door
where his master was confined, thought
the next best thing that he could do
was to bemoan the state of affairs out-
side the house, in hope of drawing
some help to the spot. According-
ly he took his post immediately at
the house-door, still determined to be
on the safe side, for fear the man was
scheming.- Here he set up a long
dismal and melancholy howl.
" My father is dead," said Winny ;
" there is the Banshee."
'^ Not at all, Miss Winny ; that is a
dog."
'<It is all the same; l^ully-dhu
would not cry that way for nothing ;
there is somebody dead, I'm sure."
"It is because he faiew you were
gone, Miss Winny, and he did not
know where to look for you; that's
all, you may depend."
" Thank you, Cotter ; the dog might
indeed do that same. God grant it is
nothing worse T'
By this time they were at the door,
and Cotter followed BuUy-dhu into
the house. Winny, without looking
right or lef^, rushed to her father's
room. She found it locked, but,
quickly turning the key, she burst in.
It was now broad daylight, and she
saw at a glance her &ther stretched
upon the bed, still bound hand and
foot. She flew to the table, and tak-
ing his razor cut the cords. The
poor old man was quite exhausted
from suspense, excitement, and the
fruitless physioil effi>rts he had been
making to free himself.
"Thank God, father!" she ex-
claimed; ^I hope you are not
hurt."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
244
M-ffallauf Ems or. The TeU of FiOmri^.
I ^ Noy dear. Givome a sup of oiDk,
or I will choke." •
Poor Winnj, in the ignoianoe of
her past habits^ called oat to Biddy to
bring her some.
Biddy answered with a smothered
cry from the inner room. Cotter
flew to the door and unlocked it. In
another moment he had set her free
from hex cords, and she darted across
the kitchen to minister to the old
man's wants at Winny's direction.
Poor Bully-dhn then pointed out
to Cotter the share he had taken in
the nighf s work, and it might almost
be said quietly ^gave himself up"
At least he showed no disposition to
eseape. He lay down at the dead
man's head, sweeping the floor with
an odd wag of his bushy tail, rather
proud than frightened at what he had
done. That it was his work, Cotter
could not for a moment doubt. The
man's throat had by this time turned
almost black, and there were the
marks of the dog's teeth sunk deep at
each side of the windpipe, where
the choking grip of death had pre-
vailed.
Cotter then brought a quilt from
the room where he had released
Biddy Murtagh, and spread it over
the corpse, and was bringing BuUy-
dhu out to the yard, when he met
Jamesy Doyle at the door. Jamesy
took charge of him at once, and
brought him round to the yard, where
for the present he shut him up in his
wooden house ; but he did not intend
to neglect him.
Jamesy told Cotter that Sergeant
Driscoll and his men had taken their
prisoners safe to the barracks, and
desired him to teU Cotter to join them
as soon as soon as possible.
'^I cannot join them yet awhOe,
Jamesy; we have a corpse in the
house.^
'^Grod's mercy I an' shure it's
not the poor ould masther?" said
Jamesy.
"No; I dotft know who he is.
He must have been one of the depre-
dators."
"An' th' ould masther done for
him ! — God be praised ? More pow«
er to his elbow V* ^^
"No, Jamesy, it was not^^iftK
old master. It was Bully-dhu that
choked him — see here;" and he
turned down the quilt.
" The divil a word of lie you're tell-
in', sir; dear me, but he geV him
the tusks in style. Begorra, Bully, 111
give you my own dinner to-day, an* to-
morrow, an' next day for that. See,
Mr. Cotter> how the Lord overtakes
the guilty at wanst, sometimes.
Didn't he strike down Tom Muidock
wid lightning, an' he batin' me out a
horseback ? an I'd never have cum up
wid him only for that."
Cotter could not help smiling at
Jamesy's enthusiam.
" What are you laughin' at, Mr.
Cotter? Maybe it's what you don't
give in to me ; but I tell you I seen
the flash of lightning take him down o v
the horse, as plain as the daylight.
Where's Miss Winny?"
« Whist, whist, boy, don't be talk-
ing that way. Never heed Miss
Winny ; she's with her &ther. I
would not like her to see this dead
man here; don't be talking so loud.
Is there any place we could draw him
into, until we And out who he is ?"
" An' Pd like to show him to Miss
Winny, for Bully-dhu's sake. Will I
caliber?"
"If you do, ni stick you with
this, Jamesy," said Cotter, getting
angry, and tapping his bayonet with
his finger.
"Begorra, an' that's not the waj
to get me to do anything, I can teU
you ; for I — "
" Well, there's a good boy, James ;
you have proved vourself one to-
night; and now for God's sake
don't fret poor Miss Winny worse
than what she is already, and it
would nearly kill her to see this
dead man here now^t would make
her think of somia one else dead,
Jamesy — thiffum tkuf
« liauy begorra — you're right •
enough." • *"
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845
** Where can we bring him to? is
there anj oathonse or place ?^
'*To be sure there is; there's the
bam where I sleep; cam out wid
him at wanst Fll take him bj the
heels, an^ let you dhraw him along
the floore bj his shoulders."
There was a coolness and intrepid!-
ty aboat all Jamesj's acts and expres-
sions which surprised Cotter. With
all his experience he had never seen
Uie same in so joung a boy— except
in a hardened villain; and he had
known Jamesy for the last foar years
to be the very contrary. Cotter, how-
ever, was not philosopher enough to
know that an excess of principle, and
a total want of it, might produce the
same intrepidity of character.
Cotter took the dead man under
the shoulders and drew him along,
while Jamesy took him by the feet
and pushed him.
Neither Winny, nor Biddy, nor the
old man knew a word about this part
of the performance. Jamesy saw the
propriety of keeping it to himself for
the present Cotter locked the barn-
door and took away the key with
him. lie told Jamesy that he would
find out from the other prisoner " who
the corpse was,** and that he would
call again with instructions in the
ooorse of the day. He then hastened
to the barrack, and Jamesy went in to
see Miss Winny and the ould mas-
ther. The message which Cotter had
Bent her by Jamesy was this — ^"To
Ceep up her heart, and to hold herself
in readiness for a visit firom the
resident magistrate before the day was
over.*
CHAFTEB XXXI.
It was still verf early. The gen-
erality of the inhabitants were not yet
up, and Winny sighed at the long sad
day which was before her. She had
first made her father tell her how the
ruffians had served him, and after
healing the particulars she detailed
everythmg which had befallen herself.
She described the battle at the bridge,
as well as her sobs would permit her,
from the moment that Lennon sprang
up from behind the battlement to their
rescue until the fatal arrival of the
police, as she called it, upon the ap-
proach of whom ^ that demon fired his
pistol at my poor Emon as close as I
am to you, father.**
"Wen, well; Winny, don't lave the
blame upon the police ; he would have
fired at Lennon whether they cum up
or not, for Emon never would have
let go his holt.**
"True enough, father. I do not
lay it upon them at all. Emon would
have clung to his horse for miles if he
had not shot liim down.**
"Beside, Jamesy says the police
has him fast enough. Isn*t that a
mercy at all events, Winny ?**
" It is only the mercy of revenge,
father, God forgive mc for the thought
The law will call it justice.'*
" And a just revenge is all fair an*
right, Winny. He had no pity on an
innocent boy, an* why should you
have pity on a guilty villain ?"
" Pity ! No, father, I have no pity
for him. But I wish I did not feel so
vengeful."
" But how did the police hear of it,
Winny, or find out which way they
went ; an* what brought Jamesy Doyle
up with them?**
"We must ask Jamesy himself
about that, father," she said ; and she
desired Biddy to call him in, for he was
with Bully-dhu.
Jamesy was soon in attendance
again, and they made him sit down,
for with all his pluck he looked weaty
and fatigued. They then asked him
to tell everything, from the moment he
first heard the men smashing the door.
Jamesy Doyle's description of the
whole thing was short and decisive,
told in his own graphic style, with
many "begorras,** in spite of Winny*8
remonstrances.
"Begorra, Miss Winny, I tould
BuUy-dhu what they were up to, an*
I let him in at the hall doore, an*
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246
AU'HaLhv) She; or^ The lest of Futuriiy.
when I seen him tnmhle the fust man
he met, and stick in his windpipe
without so much as a growl, I knew
there was one man wouldn't lare that
easy, any way ; an* I med off for the
polLs as fast as my legs and feet could
carrj' me.*'
"And how did — how — did — ^poor
Emon hear of it ?* sighed Winny.
"Arra blur-an-ages, Miss Winny,
didn't I cut across by Shanvilla, an'
tould him every haporth? Why,
miss, he'd murdher me af I let him
lie there dhramin', an' they carrin'
you off, Miss Winny."
" Oh, Jamesy, why did you not go
straight for the police, and never mind
Emon-a-knock ?" she said.
« Ah ! Winny dear," said her father,
"remember that there was nearly
half-an-hour's battle at the bridge be-
fore the police came up; and had
your persecutor that half-hour's, law,
where and what would you be now ?"
"I did not care. I would have
fought my battle alone against twenty
Tom Murdocks. They might have
ill-used me, and then murdered me,
but what of that? Emon-a-knock
would live, perhaps to avenge me ;
but now — ^now— oh, father, father ! I
wish he had murdered me along with
Emon. But, God forgive me, indeed
I am very sinful ; I forgot you, father
dear. Here, Biddy, get the kettle
boiling ; we all want a cup of tea ;"
and she put her handkerchief to her
swimming eyes.
Jamesy had thrown himself in his
clothes on some empty sacks in a cor-
ner of the kitchen, saying, "Mi^s
Winny, I'm tired enough to sleep
anywhere, an' I'll lie down here."
" Hadn't you better go to your own
bed in the bam, Jamesy, where you
can take off your clothes ? I am sure
you would be more comfortable."
" No, IMiss Winny, I'm sure I would
not. Beside, the policeman tuck — ^"
Jamesy stopped himself. " What the
mischief h&ve I been saying ?" thought
he.
" The policeman took what, Jamesy?"
said Winny.
" He tuck the key, miss. He said
no one should g'win there till he cum
back."
" Oh, very well, Jamesy ; lie down,
and let me throw this quilt over you.
But, God's mercy, if here is not a
pool of blood I I wonder what brought
it here? Oh, am I doomed to sec
nothing but blood — ^blood? What is
this, Jamesy, do you know ?*'
" I do, miss. It was Bully-dhu that
cut one of the men when they cum in ;
and no cure for him, Miss Winny !"
" Why, he must have cut him se-
verely, James ; the whole floor is cov-
ered with blood."
" Cut him, is it ? Begorra, Miss
Winny, he kilt him out-an-out. I may
as well tell you the thruth at wanst."
" For heaven's sake, you do not
mean to say that he actually killed
him, Jamesy ?"
" That's just what I do mane. Miss
Winny, an' I may as well tell you, for
Mr. Cotter will be here by-an -bye with
the coroner and a jury to hould an in-
quest. Isn't he lyin' there abroad in
the bam as stiff as a crowbar, an' as
ugly as if he was bespoke, miss?
Didn't I help Mr. Cotter to carry him
out, or rather to dhrag him ? for begor-
ra he was as heavy as if he was made
of lead!"
"Fie, fie, James, you should not
talk that way of any poor fellow-being
—for shame I"
" An' a bad fellow-bein' he was, to
cum here to carry you away. Miss
Winny, an* maybe to murdher you in
the mountain, or maybe worse. My
blessin' on you, Bully-dhu !"
Winny was shocked at the cool
mannner in which Jamesy spoke of
such a frightful occurrence. She was
afraid she would never make a Chris-
tian of him.
Cotter and a comrade soon returned
and took charge of the body until the
coroner should arrive. They had
served summonses upon twelve or
fourteen of the most respectable neigh-
bors — good men and true. They had
ascertained that the deceased was a
man named John Fahy, from the coon-
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JU-RaBaw Ev; or, The Te$t of Futurity.
247
tj of Oavan, a reputed BlbbonmaD.
The cart had belonged to him, but of
course there was no oame upon it. The
news of the whole affair hsA already
spread like fire the moment the people
li^gan to get about ; and two brothers
of Fah/s arrived to claim the bodj
before the inquest was over.
Jamesy Doyle was the principal
witness "before the fact." His evi-
dence was like himself all over. Hav-
ing been sworn by the coroner, he did
not think that sufficient, but began his
statement with another oath of his
own — the reader knows by this time
what it was. The coroner checked
him, and reminded him that he was
already on his solemn oath, and that
light swearing of that kind was very
unseemly, and could not be permitted*
He advised him to be cautions.
Jamesyhad sense enough to take
his advice, although he seldom took
Winny's upon the same subject
"When first I heerd the rooiawnj
I got up, an' dhrew on my clothes, an'
cum round tlie comer of the house. I
seen ithree men stannin' at the doore,
an' I heerd wan of 'em ordher it to
be bruck in. 1 knew there was but
two women an' wan ould man, the
masther, in the house, an' I knew there
was no use in goin' in to be mur-
dhered, an' that I could be of more
use a great dale outside. Bully-dhu
was roarin' like a lion in the back
yard, an' couldn*t get out. I knew
Bully was well able for wan of 'em,
any way, if not for two, an' I let him
out an' brought him to the hall-doore.
The minit ever I let him out iv the
yard he was as silent as the grave,
an' I knew what that meant. Well, I
brought him to the doore, an' pointed
to the deceased, for he was the first
man I seen in from me. Well, with-
out with your lave or by your lave.
Bally had him tumbled on the floore,
an' his four big teeth stuck in his wind-
pipe. ^ ThatOl do,' says I, < as far as
wan of ye goes, any way.;* an' I med
off for the police. I wasn' much out
about Bully, vour worship, for the
man never left that antU Mr. Cot-
ter an' I helped him out into the
bam."
Cotter was then examined. His
evidence was " that he had found tiie
deceased lying dead on the kitchen
floor ;- that the dog on entering lay
down at his head and put his paw
upon his breast, as if pointing out what
he had done." That was all he knew
about it.
The doctor was then examined^-
surgeon, perhaps, we should caU him
on this occasion — and swore " that he
had carefully examined the deceased ;
that he had been choked ; and that the
wounds in the throat indicated that
they had been inflicted by the teeth of
a lEirge, powerful dog; no cat nor
other animal known in this country
could have dwie it"
This closed the evidence. The cor-
oner made a short chai^ to the jury,
and the verdict was "that the de-
ceased, John Fahy, as they believed
him to be, had come by his death by
being suffocated and choked by a
large black dog called Bully-dhu, be-
longing to one Edward GEivana, of
Rathcash, in the parish, etc., etc ; but
that inasmuch as he, the said de-
ceased, was in the act of committing a
felony at the time, for which, if con-
victed in a court of law, he would
have forfeited his life, they would not
recommend the dog to be destroyed."
The coroner said " he thought this
was a very elaborate verdict upon so
simple a case; and disagreed with the
jury upon the latter part of the ver-
dict. The dog could not have known
that, and it was evident he was a fe-
rocious animal, and he thought he
ought to be destroyed."
"He did know it, your honor,"
vociferated Jamesy Doyle. "Didn't
I tell him, and wasn't it I pointed out
the deceased to him, and tould him to
honld him ? If it was th' ould masther
or myself kilt him, you couldn't say a
haporth to aidher of us, let alone the
dog.*'
If this was not logic for the coro-
ner, it was for the jury, who refused
to change their verdict But the
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248
JU-ffaOow Eoe; w^ The Test of FiOurUy.
tack to the yerdict, exooeratixig
poor BuUj-dhUy was almost iinneoe8->
sary, where he had sach a friend in
court as Jamesy Dojle ; for he, anti-
cipating some such attempt, had pro-
vided for poor BuUj's safetj. Hia
first act after Cotter had left in the
morning was to get a chum of his,
who lived not for off, to take the dog
in his collar and strap to an unde^s
son, a first cousin of his, about seven
miles away, to tell him what had hap-
pened, and to take care of the dog
until the thing "blew over," and
that "Miss Winnj would never for-
get it to him."
Billy Brennan delivered the dog
and the message scdfely; "he*d do
more nor that for Miss Winny;" or
for that matter for the dog himself, for
they were great play-fellows in the
dry grass of a summer's day. Now it
was a strange fact, and deserves to
be recorded for the curious in such
things, that although BuUy-dhu had
never seen Jamesy's cousin in his
life, and that although he was a surly,
distant dog to strangers, he took up
with young Bamy Foley the moment
he saw him. He never stirred from
his side, and did not appear inclined
to leave the place.
Before the inquest had closed its
proceedings the two brothers of the
deceased man adverted to had ar-
rived to take away the dead body.
It was well for poor BuUy-dhu, afler
all, that Jamesy had been so thought-
ful, although it was quite another
source of danger he had apprehended.
The two Fahys searched high and
low for the dog, one of them armed
secretly with a loaded pistol, but
both openly with huge crab-tree sticks
to beat his brains out, in spite of coro-
ner, magistrate, police, or jury. But
they searched in vain. They offered
Jamesy, not knowing the stuff he was
made of, a pound-note " to show them
where the big black dog was." His
answer, though mute, was just like
huB. Ho put his left thumb to the
tip of his nose, his right thumb to the
little finger of the left hand, and
began to play the bagfMpea in tho air
with his fingers.
They pressed it upon him and he
got vexed. ^
"Begorra," said be, "af ye com
here to-night after midnight to take
Miss Winny away. Til show him to
you, an' maybe it wouldn't be
worth the coroner's while to go
home."
"He may stay where he is, for
that matther," said one of the broth-
ers. "He'll have work enough to-
morrow or next day at Shanvilla;"
and they turned away.
"Ay^ and the hangman from the
county of Cavan will have something
to do soon aflher," shouted Jamesj
after them, who was never at a
loss for an answer. He had the
last word here, and it was a sore
one.
As the brothers Fahy failed in
their search for Bully, they had noth-
ing further that they dare vent their
grief and indignation upon. It was
no use in bemoaning the matter there
amongst unsympathizing strangers ;
so they fetched die cart to tho barn-
door and laid the corpse into it, cover-
ing it with a white sheet which they
h£^ brought for the purpose.
" Will I lind you a hand, boysT
said Jamesy, as they were struggling
with the weight of the dead man ai
the barn-door.
The scowl he got from one of the
brothers would have discomfited a boy
less plucky or self-possessed thaa
Jamesy Doyle; but he had not said
it in irony. No one there appeared
inclined to give any help, and Jamesy
actuaUy did get under the corpse, an^
" hdped him into the cart," as he said
himself.
The unfortunate men then left,
walking one at each side of their dead
brother. And who is there, except
perhaps Jamesy Doyle, who would
not pity them as they rumbled their
melanchdy way down the boreen to
the road?
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249
CHAPTEB XXXCL
About two hours later in the day
"the chief arrive^ to ** visit the
scene," as he was bound to do before
he made his report.
He was received courteously and
with respect by Winny Cavana, who
showed him into the parlor. He con-
sidezately began by regretting the un-
fortunate and melancholy occurrence
which had taken place ; but of course
added, the satisfaction it was to him,
' indeed that it mast be to every one,
that the perpetrators had been se-
cured, particularly the piincipal
mover in the sad evenL
Winny made no remark, and " the
chief" then requested her to state in
detail what had occurred from the
time the men broke into the bouse
until the shot was fired which wounded
the man. She seemed at fu^t disui-
dined to do so ; but upon that gentle-
man explaining that she would be
. required to do so on her oath, when
the magistrate called to take her
information, she merely sighed, and
said:
^ I suppose so ; indeed I do not see
why I should not."
' She then gave him a plain and
succinct account as far as their
conduct to herself was concerned,
and referred him to her father and the
servants for the share they had taken
toward them.
He then obtained from old Cavana,
Biddy Murtagfa, and Jamesy Doyle
what they knew of the transaction;
and thus fully primed and loaded for
hia report, he left, telling Winny
Cavana ''the stipendiary magistrate
bad left home the day before, but that
he would be back the next day ; and
she might expect an official visit from
him, as he would make aiTaogements
with him that she should not be
brought from her home, when no
doubt the prisoners would be remand-
ed for the doctor's report of the wound-
ed man."
The morning after ^ the chief" had
been at.Rathcash house, Winny Ca-
vana, almost immediately after break*
fast, told Jamesy Doyle to get ready
and come with her to Sfaanvilla. She
was anxious to ascertain from per-
sonal knowledge how poor £mon was
going on. She was distracted with
the contradictory reports which
Biddy Murtagh brought in from
time to time from the passer»-by upon
the road. Winny had little, if any,
hope at all that Edward Lennoa
would sun-ive. • She had been as-*
sured by Father Farrell, iif whose
truth and experience she placed the
greatest confidence, that it was
impombley although he might linger
for a few days. The doctor, too, had
pronounced the same solemn doom.
Her thoughts as she hastened to-
ward ShanviUa were full of awe and
determinaJtiim* She had spent the
night,. the entire night, for she had
never closed an eye, in laying down
a broad short map of her future life,
and it was already engraven on her
mind. She had been clever in draw-
ing such things at the school where
she hail been educated, and her
thoughts now took that form.
Her poor father while he lived;
herself before and after his death;
the Lennons one and all ; Kate Mul-
vey, Phil M'Dermott, Jamesy Doyle,
Biddy Murtagh, and Bully-dhu were
the only spots marked upon the map ;
but they were conspicuous, like the
capital towns of counties. There was
but oue river on the map, and it could
be traced^ by Winny 's tears. It was
the great river of '*the Past," and
rose in the distant mountains of her
memoiy which hemmed in this map
of her fancy. It flowed first round
old Ned and the Lennons, who were
bounded by Winny on the north,
south, east, and west It passed by
Kate Mulvey and Phil M'Dermott,
and thence passing by Jamesy Doyle,
Biddy Murtagh, and Bully-dhu, it
emptied itself into the Irish ocean of
Winny's affectionate heart.
Winny knew that she would meet
Father Farrell at Emeu's bedside ; he
scarcely ever left it; and she knew
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250
JU-HaOow Eve ; or. The Tett of Futterity.
%,
^^i.
that he would not deceive her as to
his real state. She knew, too, that he
^tbuld not refuse her a sincere Chris-
•tian advice and counsel upon the sud-
«4sn resolve which had taken posses-
sion of her heart*
Father Farrell saw her coming
fredl Emon's window, and went to
meet her at the door. They stood
in the kitchen alone. The poor fa-
rther and mother had been kept out
-of Emon's room hy the priest, and
were bewailing their fate in their own
room.
" I am glad you are come, "Winny,
dear," said he. " The poor fellow
lias not ceased to speak of you and
•j^ray for you from the first, when he
^d6es transgress his orders not to speak
at all."
" How is he, oh, how is he, Father
Farrell?"
"Stronger just now, but dying,
Winny C^vana. Let nothing tempt
you to deceive yourself. He has
been so much stronger for the last
hour or so that I was just going to
send my gig for yon. He said it
would soothe his death-bed, which he
knows he is on, Winny, to see you
and have your blessing."
^ He shall have my blessing, and I
sball claim every right to give it to
hun. Father Farrell/' she added, sol-
emnly, but with a full, unti*embling
tone, " will you marry me to Edward
Lennon ?"
The priest almost staggered back
from her for a moment.
" Yes, Father Farrell, you have
heard aright, and I solemnly and sin-
cerely repeat the question. Listen:
You must know that never on this
earth will I wed any other. I shall
devote myself and the greater portion
of any wealth I may possess to the
church for charitable purposes after
Edward Lennon, my foture husband
— ^future here and hereafter — ^is dead.
I wish to call him husband by that prec-
ious right which death will so soon rob
me of. Even so. Father Farrell ; give
me that right, short though it be. It will
enable me legally to provide for his hon-
est, stout-hearted father and his broken-
hearted mother, without the lying lips
of slander doubting the motive. Oh,
Father Farrell, it is the only consola-
tion left me now to hope for, or in your
power to bestow."
The priest was struck dumb. Her
eyeB^ her breath, pleaded almost more
than her words.
Father Farrell sat down upon a
form.
f Winny Cavana," he said, " do not
press me — ^that is, I mean, do not hur-
ry me. The matter admits of serious
consideration, and may not be alto-
gether so unreasonable or extraordi-
nary as it might at first appear. But
I say that it requires consideration.
Walk abroad for a few minutes andlet
me think."
"No, father. You may remain
here for a few minutes and think. Let
me go in and see my poor Emon."
" Yes, yes, you shall ; but I must
go in along with you, Winny. I can
come out again if I find that more con-
sideration is necessary."
Winny saw that she had gained her
point. They then entered the room,
and Emon cast such a look of grati-
tude and love upon Winny as calmed
every doubt upon the priest's mind,
for he was afraid that Emon himself
would object, and that the scene would
injure him.
Winny was soon at Emon's side,
with his hand clasped in hers.
" You are come, Winny dear, to bid
me a final good-by — in this world," he
murmured* ** God bless you for your
goodness and your love for me !"
" I am come, Emon dear, to fulfil
that love in the presence of heaven,
and with Father Farrell's sanction —
am I not, Father Farrell ?"
"I never doubted it, Winny dear."
"And you shall not doubt it now.
You shall die declaring it. Emon —
Emon, my own Emon-a-knock, I am
come to claim the promise you gave
me to make me your wife."
" Great God, Winny I are you mad?
she not mad. Father Farrell ?"
" No, Emon dear, she really is not
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ABrHaUow Eve; tyr^ TheTest of FtOurittf.
251
mad* She will devote herself and
her whole future life to charity and
the love of a better world than this.
She can do that not only as well, bat
better, in some respects, as yoor
widow than otherwise. I have consid-
ered the matter, and I cannot see that
there are any just reasons to deny her
request."
^ Then I shall die happy, though it
be this very night. But oh, Winny,
"Winny, think of what you are about ;
time will soften your grief, and you
may yet be happy with ano— " .
" Stop, Emon dear — ^not another
wordi for here, before heaven and
Father Farrell, I swear never shall I
marry any one in this world but you.
Here, Father Farrell, begin ; here is a
ring you gave me yourself, Emon, and
although not a w^ding-ring it will do
very well — ^we will make one of it."
Father Farrell then brought in Em-
on*s father and mother, and married
Winny Cavana to the dying man.
She stooped down and kissed his
pallid lips. Big drops of sweat burst
out npon his forehead, and Father
Farrell saw that the last moment was
at hand. Winny held his hand be-
tween both hers, and said, ^ Emon,
• you are now mine — ^mine by divine
right, and I resign you to the Lord."
And she looked up to heaven through
the roof, while the big tears rolled
down her pale cheeks.
" Winny," said Emon, in a solemn
but distinct voice, " I now die happy.
For this I have lived, and for this I
die« I cannot count on even hours
now; my moments are numbered.
I feel death tremblmg round my heart.
But you have calmed its approach,
Winny dear. Your love and devotion
at a moment like this is the happiest
pang that softens my passage to the
grave. I can now claim a right to
what you promised me as a favor —
my portion of your space in Rathcash
clu^pel-yard. Grod bless you, Winny
dear I — Good-by — ^my — ^wife !"
Yes, Emon had lived and had died
for the love of her who was now his
mdow.
As Emon bad ceased to speak, a
bright smile broke over his whole
countenance, and he rendered his last
sigh into the safe-keeping of his goar-
dian angel, until the last great day. •
Winny knew that he was dead,
though his breath had passed so gen-
tly forth that he might have been only
falling asleep. She continued t<yhold
his hand, and to gaze upon his ^lill
features, while Father Farrell** , lipg
moved in silent prayer, more for the
living than the dead.
" Come, Winny," he at last said,
"you cannot remain here just at pres-
ent. Come along with me, and I will
bring you in my gig to your father's
house, where I wUl tell him all my-
self."
" Oh, thank you, thank yon, Father
Farrell," she said, turning resignedly
with him. "Tell poor Pat Lennon
what has happened ; their pity for me
as a companion in their grief may
help to soften their own. Tell him,
of course, Father Farrell, that I shall
take all the arrangements of the fu-
neral upon myself — God help them
and me !"
As they came ft-om the dead man's
room they met Pat Lennon in the
kitchen, and Winny, throwing her
arms lound his neck, caught the big
salt tears which were rolling down his
face upon her quivering lips.
" I have a rigTit to call you father
now," she exclaimed. " You have lost
a son, but I wiU be your daughter,"
and she kissed him again and again.
CHAPTER XXXTTT.
On their way to Rathcash, Winny
in the first instance told the priest that
"of course her poor husband should
be buried in Rathcash chapel-yard,
and, as a matter in which she could
not iijterfere, by Father Roche."
Here she stopped, but the kind-heart-
ed priest took her up at once.
"Of course, my dear child," he
said, " that will be quite right. In-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
252
JU^HaBaw Eve; or, The Tesi of Jnuuri^
deed, Winny, I should not wish to be
the person so soon to add that sad
ceremoQj to the still sadder one I was
engaged in to-tlay.**
^ Before God or man, Father Far-
rell, you will never have cause to re-
gret that act. It was my own choos-
ing after deliberate consideration, and
I was best judge of my own feelings.
I can be happy now. I never could
be happy if it were otherwise.*'
^ Grod grant it, my love," said the
priest."
"But still, Father Farrell," she
continued, "I have something more
for you to do for me. Will you not,
like a good man, take all the arrange-
ment of the funeral upon yourself? I
will pay every penny of the expenses,
and let them not be niggardly. Thank
God, Father Farrell, I can do so now
without reproach."
The kind^ sympathizing priest en-
gaged to do everything which was re-
quisite in the most approved of man-
ner. The more he reflected upon
what he 4iad done, the less fault he
had to find with himselfl There was
a calm, resigned t<Hie about all that
Winny now said very different from
what he might have anticipated from
his knowledge of her temper and dis-
position, had the fatal moment taken
place when the shot was fired, or even
subsequently before she became Ed-
ward Lennon's wife. Bitter revenge,
he thought, would have seized her
soul toward the man who had deprived
her of all hope or source of happiness
in this world. Now the only time she
trusted her tongue to speak of him
was an exclamation — *^ May God for-
give him 1"
They soon arrived at Rathcash
house, where Father Farrell paid a
long visit to old Ned Cavana. His
kindness quite gained upon the old
man, and, before he left, he acquainted
him with the facts of his daughter's
position and the death of her husband.
The old man sat silent for some
time after the truth had been made
known to him. Winny stood hoping
for a look of encouragement and for*
giveness ; bat the old man gave it not.
At length, with that impatience ha-
bitual to her disposition, she rushed
into his arms and wept upon his
breast
«0h, father r she exclaimed, «I
could never be the wife of any man
living after poor Emon's death in de-
fence of my life ; ay, more than my
life, of my honor."
^ But oh, Winny, Winny ! to sac-
rifice yourself for a man so near the
grave ! There was no hope for him,
I heerd."
"None, father. I was aware of
that. Had there been, I should have
waited patiently. I told Father Far-
rell here my plans, and the same
thing as swore that I would not alter
them. He will now tell them to you,
father dear; and I shall lie down for
a couple of hours, for indeed I want
rest of both body and mind."
She then kissed her father again
and again, and blessed him, or rather
she prayed God to do so, and went to
her room.
Father Farrell then explained all
Winny's views to her distracted Ci-
ther, observing, as he had been enjoin-
ed to do, the tendercst love and re-
spect for the old man ; taking nothing
" for granted ;" but at the same time
showing the utmost confidence that all
matters would still be arranged for hia
daughter in the same manner he had
often explained to her to be his inten-
tion. ^ One step she was determined
on," Father Farrell said; "and that
was to join a religious sisteriiood of
charity in the north. Nothing should
ever tempt her. to marr}'."
" I'll sell this place at wance," said
old Ned. ^^ If 8 not a month since I
had a rattlin' bid for it ; but my land-
lord — ^and he's member for the county,
you know — tould me with his own
lips, that if ever I had a mind to part
with it, he'd give me a hundred
pounds more for it than any one else."
'*That was Winny's wish, Ned;
and that you should remove with her
to the north, where she would settle
you comfortably, and where she could
Digitized by GoOglC
AB-Biaaow JSfM ; or. Tie litt of J^toirtj^.
253
aee you almost erery daj in tlie
week.**
^AlmoBty" repeated old Ned, sor-
rowfully, t
^Well, periiaps every day, Ned,
for that matter.**
« Well, Father FarreU, I would not
wish to stay here aoy lon^r afther
what has happened. Ill sell the
phice oat an' out at wance. I have
nothing to do but to write to my land-
lord. I coold not bear to be lookin*
across at Miek Mordock's afther what
ta<^ place. I think my poor Winny
la right ; an' that it was the Lord put
it all into her head. Athen, Father
FaneU, maybe it was yourself laid it
down for the Uttle girl?*
''No, Ned ; she laid it all down for
me. I was going to reason with her
at first, bat she put her hand upon my
moatKi,and told me to stop; thatiioth-
iz^ shoald alter her plans. I consid-
eied her words, Ned, for a whUe,
and I gave in ; not on account of her
determination, but becanse I thought
she ^as right. And I think so still ;
even to the marryingKyf Emon on his
death-bed."*
^Indeed, Father Farrell, you have
aised my mind. Glory be to Qod
that gnided her V*
« Amen," said the priest.
Father Farrell had now in the
kindest manner dealt with oki Ned
Oavana, according to Winn/s wishes
and instructions ; so that it was an
easy matter for Winny herself on that
evening, when she hod joined her fa-
ther after a refreshing sleep, to explain
more in detail her intentions as re-
garded herself, and her wishes as re-
garded her friends—- those capitals ot
counties which were marked on the
map of her ima^ation.
Old Ned was like a child m her
hands ; and no mother ever handled
her firBt4x]m babe more fondly than
Winny dealt with her poor old father.
M Ducks an* dhrakes iv it, Winny
asthore; ducks an' dhrakes iv it,
Wnmy dear! Isn't it all your own ;
what do I want with it, mavrone, but
to see you happy? an' haven't you
laid oat a phm for bo'ii yourself an'
myself that can't be bet, Winny ma-
voureen?"
The old man was perfectly satisfied
with the mi^, and studied it so well
tiufct he had it by heart before he went
to bed, and could have told you the
boundaries of all Winny's wishes to
the breadth of a hair, as he kissed her
for the last time that night
I will spare the reader a detail of
the melancholy cortige of poor Emon-
arknock's funeral, which proceeded
from Shanvilla to Bathcash chapel-
yard the day but one after.
Winny had expressed a wish to at-
tend it, but had yielded to the joint
advige of Father Farrell and Father
Boche to resist the impulse.
£mon-a-knock had been well and
truly loved in life, and was now sin-
cerely regretted in death. Father
Farrell, at the head of the procession,
was met by Father Boche bare*headed
at the chapel-gate of Bathcash, and
the melancholy ceremony was per-
formed amidst the silent grief of the
immense crowd around. Poor Emon's
last wish was complied with, and he
now occupied his last resting-place
with the Cavanas of Bathcash.
CHAPTEB XXXIV.
It was still about an hour after
noon when Winny beheld from the
parlor window at which she stood a
veiy exciting cavalcade upon the road,
slowly approachiog the house. At
once she became acquainted with the
whole concern. « The chief " had fore-
warned her that she might expect a
visit from the magistrate the moment
ho returned ; and her intelligence at
once recognized the addition of the po-
lice and prisoners some distance in
rear of the car.
llVumy's heart beat quick and high
as she saw them draw nigh and turn
up the lane. It would be mock hero-
ism to sav that it did not. She knew
Digitized by CjOOQIC
254
JJU-JOanow Eve; otj Th$ Tesi of ROuriig.
that Tom Moidock, the marderer of
her husband, must be one of the pris-
oners, but she did not know why they
were bringing him there — ^for the po-
lice had now made the turn. She
thought the magistrate might have
spar^ her that fresh excitement—
that renewal of her hate. Bat the
magistrate was one of those who had
anticipated the law bj his sense of
justice and his practice. He was one
who gave every one of his maje8ty*8
subjects fair play, and it was therefore
his habit to have the accused face to
face with the accuser when informa-
tions were taken and read.
Poor Winny was rather fluttered and
disturbed when they entered, notwith-
standing '' the chief" had considerate-
ly prepared her for the visit. She did
not lose her self-possession, however,
so much as to forget the respect and
courtesy due to gentlemen, beside be-
ing officers of the law. She asked
them down into the parlor, and request-
ed of them to be seated. They ac-
cepted her civility in silence, seeing
enough in her manner to show them
that she was greatly distressed, and
required a little time to compose her-
self'. She was, however, the first to
speak.
"I suppose, gentlemen, you are.
come respecting this sad affair. I told
this gentleman here all I knew about
it yesterday."
^ Yes, but matters are stiU worse to-
day, although there was no hope even
then that they would be lietter. Of
course it will relieve you so far at once
to tell you that we are aware of the
position in which you now stand
toward the deceased."
<< Tes, sir* It was with a wish that
the world might know it I took the
step I did. I had Father Farrell's ap-
proval of it, and my own parish-priest's
as weU ; but subsequently — "
<'My good girl, we did not come
here to question the propriety or other*
wise of either your actions or your
motives. Nor do I for one hesitate
to say that I believe both to have
been unexceptionable. Bat it wiU be
necessary that you should make bn
information upon oath as to what took
place from the first moment the men
came to the door, until the shot was
fired by which Edward Leunon came
by his death."
^ I suppose, sir, yon must have
much better evidence than mine as to
the firing of the shot I can only
swear to the fact of two men having
tied me up and carried me away on a
cart, and that there was a third man
on horseback with a mask upon his
face; that when we came to Boher
bridge, the deceased Edward Lennon
and his father came to our rescue;
that there was a long and distracting
struggle at the bri^e, which lasted
with very doubtful hopes of success for
my deliverance until Jamesy Doyle, oar
servant-boy, came up with the police ;
that the man on horseback with the
mask, whom I verily believe to have
been Thomas Murdock, turned to fiy ;
that the deceased Edward Lennon
fastened in his horse's bridle to pre-
vent him ; that a deadlv struggle en-
sued between them, and that the man
on horseback fired at the deceased,
who fell, I may say, dead on the road.
The sight left my eyes, sir, and except
that we brought the dying man home
on the cart, I know no more about it
of my own knowledge, sir."
^A very plain, straightforward, hon-
est story afi I ever heard," said the
magistrate* *^ But it will be necessary
for you, when upon your oath, to state
whether you know, that is, whether
you recognized, the man on horseback
at ^Q time."
^ I could not recognize his features,
sir, on account of the mask he wore ;
but I did recognize his voice as that
of Tom Murdock, and I know his fig-
ure and general appearance."
^That will do now, Mrs. Lennon.
I shall only trouble you to repeat
slowly and distinctly what you have
already said, so that I can write it
down."
The magistrate then unlocked his
leather writing-case, took out the nec-
essary forms for informations, and was
Digitized by CjOOQIC
AU^HoBaw Eoe; or^ The Test of Futuriiy.
255
not long embodjing what Winnj had
to say in premier shape.
He then went through the same
form with old Ned, with Biddy Mur-
tagh, and with Jamesj Doyle.
When the magistrate had all the
infonnations taken and arranged^he
directed Sergeant Drisooll to bring in
the piisonersj that he might read them
over and swear the several informants
in their presence. Winny became
very nervous and fidgety, and would
have left the room, but the magistrate
astored her that it was absolutely nee*
essary that she should remain, at least
while her own informations were be-
ing iead« He would read them first,
and she might then retire. He re-
gretted very much that it was neces-
sary, but he would not detain her
more than a couple of minutes at
most.
Tom Muidock and the other prison-
er were then brought in ; and Winny
having identified the other man, her
iii£bnnations were read in a loud, dis-
tinct voice by the magistrate, and she
acknowledged herself bound, etc, etc.
« You may now retire, Mrs. Len-
non," said the magistrate; and she
hastened to leave the room.
Tom Murdock stood near the door
out of which she must pass, his hands
crossed below his breast in conse-
qaence of the handcufia. He knew
that there was no chance of escape, no
hope of an alteration or mitigation of
his doom in Uus world. Everything
was too plain against him. There
were several witnesses to his deed of
death, and the damning words by
which it was accompanied, and he
knew that the rope must be his end.
Well, he had purchased his revenge,
aad he was willing to pay for it. He
determined, thereibre, to put on the
bravado, and glut that revenge upon
his still surviving victim.
^ £mon-a-knock is dead. Miss Cav-
aoa," said he, as Winny would have
passed him to the door, her eyes fasten-
ed on the ground; "^but not buried
j^lT he added, with a sardonic smile.
^ I wish I were free of these manacles.
that I might follow his remains to
Shanvilla chapel-yard."
" You would go wrong," shecahnly
relied. <' He is indeed dead, but not
buried yet. But he is my dead hus-
band, and will lie with the Cavanas in
the chapel-yard of Bathcash, and rise
again with them ; and I would rather
be possessed of the inheritance of the
six feet of grass upon his grave than
be mistress of Bathcash, and Rath-
cashmore to boot. Where will' you
be buried, Tom Murdock? Within
the precmcts of— the jail? To rise
witU^-but no! I shall not condemn
beyond the grave ; may God forgive
you I I cannot."
Even Tom Murdock's stony heart
was moved. " Winny Cavana, do
you think God can ?" he said, turning
toward her ; but she had passed out of
the door.
The magistrate then road the infor-
mations of the other witnesses, while
Tom Murdock and the other prisoner,
stood apparently listening, though they
heard not a word.
Jamesy Doyle's informations were
word for word characteristic of him-
self. He insisted upon having the
fiash of lightning inserted therein, as
an undoubted fact, ^ if ever ho saw
one knock a man down in his life."
The magistrate and <Uhe chief"
had then some conversation with old
Ned and Winny. who had returned at
their request to the parlor. It was of
a general character, but still respecting
the melancholy occurrence, or indeed
occurrences, the magistrate said, for
he had heard of the death of the
man who had been killed by the-
" watch-dog." Ere they left they took
Jamesy aside upon this subject, as the
only person who knew anything of
this part of the business, and the mag-
istrate requested him to state distinct-
ly what he knew of the transacdoiu
Jamesy was distinct enough, as the
reader will believe, from the speci-
mens he has already had of his style
of communicating facts.
" Tell me, my good boy," said the
magistrate, ^ did you set the dc^ at
Digitized by CjOOQIC
256
JB-Balhw JBce; or, The lest of IkOunig.
die deceased J" laying a strong em-
phasis on the word.
"Begarra, your honor, Bally-dhu
didn't want any settin' at all. The
minnit he seen the man inside in the
kitchen, he Btock in his thrapple at
wanst I knew he'd hould him till I
come hack, an' I med off for the po-
Iice.'»
"Arc you aware, my young cham-
pion, that if you set the dog at the
deceased you would he guilty of man-
shiughter at least, if not murder ?"
"Of murdher, is id? Oh, tare
anages, what's this for ? B^orra, af
that be law it isn't justice. Didn't
they tie th' ould masther neck an'
heels ? Didn't they tie Miss Winny
and carry her off to murdher her, or
maybe worse ? Didn't they tie Biddy
Murtagh ? and wouldn't they ha' tied
me af they could get hoult of me ? an'
would you want Bully-dhu to sit on
his boss, lookin' on at all that, your
honor ?"
" That may be all true, Jamesy, but I
do not think the law would exonerate
you, for all that, if you set the dog at
the deceased man."
"Well, begorra, I pointed at the
man, your honor; but I tell you
Bully-dhu wanted no settin' at him at
all; af he did Pd have given it to
hun ; and I think the law would oner-
ate me for that same. See here
now, your honor. Af th' ould mas-
ther had a double-barrel gun, an' shot
the two men as dead as mutton that
was goin' to tie him up, wouldn't the
law be well plaised wid him ? and if
I had a pistol, an' shot every man iv
'em, wouldn't your honor make a
chief iv me at least, instead of send-
ing me to jail? and why wouldn't
Bully«dhu, who had on'y a pair of
double-barrel tusks, do his part an'
help us ? . I'm feedin' an' taichin'
that dog, your honor, since he was a
whelp^ an' he never disappointed me
yet— there now !"
There was certainly natural logic
in all this, which the magistcate, with
all his experience of the law, found it
difficult to contradict A noti<m had
oome into his head at one time that
if Jamesy Doyle had set the dog
at John Fahy, he might be guilty
of ^is death, notwithstanding %e
said John Fahy had been commit-
ting a felony at the time. But there
was no proof that he had set the dog
at the man beyond his own admis-
sion, and the question had not been
raised. Jamesy was willing to avow
his responsibility, as far as it went, in
the most open and candid manner,
and not only that, but to Justify it,
which he ha^i indeed done in a most
extraordinary, clever manner. Then
what had been his conduct all through ?
Had it not been that of a courageous,
faithftil boy, who had risked his own
life in obstructing the escape of the
murderer ? and was he not the most
material witness they had — the only
one who had never lost sight of the
man who had shot Edwai^i Lennon,
until he himself had secured him fot
the police ? " No, no," reflected the
magistrate; "it would be absurd to
hold Jamesy Doyle liable for any-
thing, but the most qualified appro-
bation of his conduct from first to
last"
"Well, Jamesy," said he, out of
these thoughts, "we will take your
own opinion in &vor of yourself for
the present. There is no doubt of
your being forthcoming at the next
assiases?"
" Begorra, your honor, Pll sdck to
the ould masther and Miss Wmny,
an' I don't think they're likely to lave
this."
<<That will do, Jamesy. Come,
Mr. f I think we have taken up
almost enough of these poor people^s
time. We may be going."
A word or two about old AGdc
Murdoch ere we close this chapter, as
the reader, not having seen or heard
of him for some days, will no doubt
be curious to know what he had been
doing, and how he comported him*
self during so trying and exciting a
During the period which Tom had
spent in the obscure Httle pubUo-honse
Digitized by CjOOQIC
M-HaBauf Hoe; or, The Test of Fuiimiy*
267
upon the mountain road in the oountj
Ckvan, his own report that, he had
gone to the north had done him no
sernce; for the addition which he
had taoked to it, about ^ going to get
married to a rich yonng lady/' was not
beHcTed by a single person for whose
deception it had been Spread abroad.
That sort of thing had been so often
repeated without fulfilment that peo-
ple reversed the cry of the wc^ upon
the subject.
There was nothing now for it with
those to whom Tom was indebted but
to go to his £Gither, in hopes of some
arrangement being made to even se-
cure them in their money. Several
bills of exchange--«ome overdue, and
some not yet at maturity^-with his
name across them, were brought to
old Mick for sums varying from ten
to fifteen and twenty pounds. Old
Mick quietly pronounced them one
and an to he forgeries. Tom and he
had had some very sharp words be-
fore he went away. He had called
the poor old man a*^ old nig-
gard" to his face, and he heanl
the words ^cannot lost very
long," as Tom slapped the door be-
hind him.
Old Mick would have only fretted
at all this had his son returned in a
reasonable time to his home, and, as
usual, made pnnnises of amendment,
or had even written to him. It was
the first time that ever a forged ac-
ceptance had been presented to him
for payment, and Tom's prolonged ab-
sence without any preconcerted object
to account for it weighed heavily upon
the old man's heart as to his son's
real character. Tom was all this
time, as the reader is aware, planning
a bold stroke to secure Winny Ca-
vana's fortune to pay off these
forgeries. But we have seen xriik
what a miserable result
It was impossible to hide the glar-
ing fact of Tom Murdock's apprehen-
sion and committal to jail upon the
dreadful charge of murder from his
father. It rang from one end of
the parish to the other. But instead of
VOL. m. 17
ruslung to meet his son, clapping his
hands, and exclaiming, ^Ohl wiris-
thrue, wiristhmel w&t's this for?*
poor old Mick was completely proB-
trated by the news ; and there be lay
in his bed, unable to move hand or
foot from the poignancy of his grief
and disgrace.
If Tom Murdock has broken his
poor old father's heart, and he never
rises from that bed, it is only an*
other item in his great aooount*
CHAPTER XXXT.
Thb reader will recollect that the
incidents recorded in the two last
chapters took place toward the lat-
ter end of June. We will, there-
fore, have time, before the assizes
come on, to let him know how far
Winny *s fancy map was perfected.
For herself, then, first. She had
determined to become a member of a
convent in the north of Ireland, giving
up the world with all its vanities— she
knew nothmg oC its pomps — and de-
voting her time, her talents, and
. whatever money she might finally
possess, to religious and charitable
purposes. , She had noW delayed long
after the magbtrate and ^'the chief'
had left, and she had experienced a
refreshing sleep, in taking her fa-
ther into her confidence to the fullest
extent of her intuitions, not only as
regarded herself, but with respect to
those friends whom she had set down
upon the map to be provided for.
<^ Father," she said, continuing a
conversation, ^ there is no use in your
moving such a thing to me. It is no
matter at what time you project it for
me; my mind is made up beyond
even the consideration of the question.
I will never marry. Do not, like a
dear good father that you have ever
been, move it to me any more.''
^ Indeed, Winny, I could not add a
word mora than I have ahready sed ;
an' if that fails to bring you round,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
258
M-IMaw Eoe; or. The Tut of Fuiur^.
share I'm dumb, Winny a^thore.
God's will be done ! Tm damb."
^ It is his will I am seeking, far
ther. What matter if we are the last
of the Cavanas, as you saj? Be-
side, my children would not be Car-
anas ; recollect that, father."
" I know that, Winny jewel ; but
they'd be of th' onld stock all the
same. Their grandfather would be a
Cavana, if he lived to see them."
" Be thankful for what you have,
father dear. There never was a large
clan of a name but some one of them
brought grief to it"
" Ay, Winny asthorc ; but there is
always wan that makes up for it by
their superior goodness. Look at me
that never had but the wan, an' wasn't
she, an' isn't she, a threasure to me
all the days of my life? Look at
thdt, Winny."
"And there is your next-door
neighbor, father, never had but the
one, and instead of a treasure, has he
not been a curse ? Look you at that,
father."
Old Ned was silent for some mo-
ments, and Winny did not wish to in-
terrupt his thoughts^ She hoped he
was coming quite round to her way of
thinking with respect to her never
'^ getting married;" and she waa
right. V
"Well, Winny asthore," he said,
after a pause, '' shure you're doin' a
good turn for your sowl hereafther at
any rate ; an' I'll be led an' sed by
your own sinse of .goodness in the
matther. For myself, Winny, where-
somever you go I'll go, where Til see
you sometimes — ^as oflen as you can,
Winny. Be my time long or short, I
know that you will never see me
worse, if not betther nor what I al-
ways was. But it isn'i; aisy to lave
this pLice, Winny asthore, where I'm
livin' since I was the hoith of your
knee with your grandfather an' your
grandmother — God rest their sowls!
There isn't a pebble in the long walk
in the garden, nor a pavin'-stone in
the yard, that I couldn't place upon
paper forenent you there this minnit,
and tell you the color of them eveiy
wan. There's scarcely a blade of
grass in the pasthure-fields that
I couldn't remember where it grows
in my dhrames. There isn't a ^ze-
blossom in the big ditch but what I'd
know it out iv the bud it cum from.
There isn't a^thrush nor a blackbird
about the place but what I know
themselves an' their whistles as well as
I know your own song from Biddy
Murtagh's or Jamesy Doyle's. Not
a robin-redbreast in th^ garden,
Winny, that doesn't know me aa
well as I know you ; an' I could tell
you the difference between the very
chaffinches — I could, Winny, I
could."
" I know all that, father dear, and
I know it will not be easy to break
up all them happy thoughts in your
mind. But then you know, father
dear, I could not stop here looking
across at the house where that man
lived. God help me, father, I do not
know what to do !"
Poor old Ned saw that she was
distressed, and was sorry he had
drawn such a" picture of Ids former
happiness at Rathcash. The recollec-
tion of these little matters had run up-
on his tongue, but it was not with any
intention of using them as an argu-
ment to chaage Winny's plans.
" Winny," he said, " I didn't mane
to fret you ; shure I know what you
say is all thrue. I could not stop
hero myself no more nor what you
could, Winny, ailher what has hap-
pened. Dear me, Winny jewel, how
soon you seen through that fellow,
an' how glad I am that you didn't
give in to mel But now, Winny
asthore, let us quit talking of him, and
listen to what I have to say to you.
'Tis just this. My landlord, who you
know is member for the county, tould
me any time I had a mind to sell my
intherest in Rathcash, that he'd give
me a hundred pounds more for it than
any one else. Til write to him to-
morrow, plaise God, about it You
know Jerry Carty? Well, he is
afther offerin' me seven hundred
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AU'HaBow Eve ; or. The 2\st of Futurity.
259
pounds into my fist for my good-will
of the place. As good luck would
have it, I did not put any price upon
it when my landlord spoke to me
about sellin' it. I can tell him now
tliat I have a mind to sell it, an' I
won't hide the raison aidher. I can
let him know what Carty is willin' to
give me for it, an* he's sure to give
mc eight hundred pounds. You
know, VVinny, that your six hundred
pounds is in the bank b'ariii' inthcrest
for you, an' what you don't dhraw is
added to it every half year. But that's
naidher here nor there, Winny, for it
will be aU your own the very moment
this place is sould, an', as I sed be-
fore, you may make ducks and
dhrakes iv it Share I know, Win-
ny, that'll you never see me want for
a haporth while I last, be it long or
short. But, Winny dear, let us live
in the wan house; that's all I ax,
mavonmeen macree."
*' That w^l be about fourteen hund->
red pounds in all, father."
^ A thrifle more nor that, I think,
AVinny. Maybe you did not know
how much or how little it was, when
you laid it out the way you tould
me."
"No, not exactly, father; but I
knew I must have been very
much within the mark ; I took care of
that."
**Go over it again for mc, Win-
ny dear, af it wouldn'tTbe too much
throuble."
**Not in the least, father. You
know I took Kate Mulvey first, and
determhied to settle three hundred
pounds upon her for a fortune
against ' she meets with some young
man,' as the song says. And I be-
lieve, father, Phil M*Dermott, the
whitesmith, will be about the man.
lie is very fond of Kate, but he
would not marry any woman until he
had saved enough of money to set up
a house comfortly and decently upon.
Three hundred pounds ibrtune with
Kate will set them up m good style,
and I shall see the best friend I ever
had happy. Then, father, there are the
Lenuons, my poor dear husband's
parents, whom I shall next consider.
Pat Lennon, poor Emon's father,
risked his life most manfully in my
defence. Were it not for liis resolute
attack upon the two men with the cart,
and the obstruction he gave them,
they would have carried me through
the pass long before the police and
Jamesy Doyle came up; and the
probability is that you would never
have seen your poor Winny again.
I purpose purchasing the good-will of
that little farm and house from which
the Murphys are about to emigrate,
and settle a small gratuity upon them
during their lives."
"Annuity, I suppose you mane,
Winny; but it's no matUier. How
much will that take, Winny ?"
<' About two hundred pounds, fa-
ther, including the — what is it you
call it, father ?'
"Aiinuity, Winny, annuity; I
didn't think you were so — "
" Annuity," she repeated before he
had got the other word out, and he was
glad afterward*
"Well, Wmny, that's only five
hundred out of somethin' over six.''
"Then 111 give Biddy Murtagh a
hundred pounds, and she must live as
cook and house-maid with Kate ; and
I'll lodge twenty pounds in the sav-
ings-bank for Jamesy Doyle. Per-
haps I owe him more than the whole
of them put together."
"That will be the first duck,
Winny."
"How is that, father P'
"Why, it's well beyant the six hund-
red, Winny, which was all you were
goui' upon at first ; but you may now
begin with whatever we get by the
sale of Ratlicash."
"Well, father, I would only wish
to suggest the distribution of that,
for you know I have no call to it, and
God grant that it may be a long day
until I have."
" Faix, an' Winny, af that be so,
you've left yourself bare enough.
But don't be talkin' nonsense, child.
What would I want with it? Won't
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260
AO-HdUmo Eve; or, The Test of Futurity.
you take care iv me, Winny asthore ?
an' won't you want the most iv It
where you are agoin? an' didn't you
tell me already that you'd like me to
let you give it to the charities of
that religious establishment ? Shure,
there's no use in my askin' you any
more not to go into it."
** None indeed, father, for I am re-
solved upon it. But yon shall live in
the town with me, and I can take care
of you the same as if I was in the
house with you. There shall be
nothing that you can want or
wish for that you shall not have, and
no day that it is possible that I ^ill
not see you."
** What more had I here, Winny,
except the crops coming round from
the seed to the harvest, an' the cattle,
an' the grass, an' the birds in the
bushes? Dear, oh dear, yes!
Hadn't I yourself, Winny asthore,
forenent me at breakust, dinner, an'
supper ; an* warn't you for ever talk-
in' to me of an cvenin', with your
sritchin' or your knittin' across your
lap ; an', Winny jewel, wasn't your
light soug curling through the yard,
an' the house, afore I was up in the
mornin' ? But now — now — Winny-^-
oh, Winny asthore, mavoumeen raa-
cree ! but your poor old father will
miss yourself, no matther how kind
your plans may be for his comfort.
Shure, the very knowledge that you
weto asleep in the house with me was
a blessin'."
** Father,'* she said, « God bless
you I I will be back with you in a
few minutes — do not fret;** and she
left him, and shut herself up in her
room.
But he did fret; and he was no
sooner alone than the big tears burst
uncontrollably forth into a pocket-
handkerchief, which he continued to
sop against his face.
Winny had thrown herself upon
her knees at the bedside, and prayed to
God to guide her. Her thoughts and
prayers were too dignified and holy
for tears. But they had made a free
course to the pinnacle of the mercy-
seat, and she rose with her soul re-
freshed by the glory which had re-
sponded to her cry for guidance.
She returned to her father, a radi-
ant smfle of anticipated pleasure play-
ing round her beautiful lips. There
was no sign of grief, or even of emo-
tion, on her cheeks.
"Father," she said, «I have been
seeking guidance from the Almighty
in this matter; and the old saying
that ^ charity begins at home' — that is
moral charity in this instance — ^bas
been suggested to my heart. We
shall not part, father, even temporari-
ly. Where you live, I shall live. I
have been told, father, just now, while
upon my knees, that to do all the good
I have projected need not oblige me
to join as an actual member of any
charitable or religious society. No,
father, I can carry out all my plans
without the necessity of living apart
from you; we will therefore, fether
dear, still live together. But let us
remove when this place is sold to
B f where the establbhment I
have spoken of is situated, and there,
with my knitting or my stitching on
my lap before you in the evenings, I
can carry ou all my plans in connec-
tion with the institution without being
an actual member, which might in-
volve the necessity of my living in
the house. But, father dear, I hope
you do not disapprove of any of them,
or of the distribution of the money, so
far as I have laid it out"
It was then quietly and finally ar-
ranged between them that as soon as
Ra&cash was sold, and the stock and
ftimiture disposed of, they would re-
move to B , in a northern county.
They there intended to take a small
house, either in the town or precincts .
— ^the latter old Ned preferred — ^where
Winny could join the Sisters of Char-
ity, at least in her acts, if not as a resi-
dent member. The money was to
be disposed of as Winny had hud out,
and legal deeds were to be prepared
and perfected ; and poor Winny, not-
withstanding the sudden cloud which
had darken^ the blue heaven of her
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JU^HaOow Eoe; or, Th$ Test of Futurity.
261
life, was to be as happj as the daj
was long*
CHAPTER ZZXYI.
WiTHnr a moatb from the scene
between Winny and her father de-
scribed above, Kathcasb bad been pur-
chased and paid for. There had been
"" a great auction ^ of the stock,
crops, and fomituie. The house was
shut up, the door locked, and the win-
dows bolted. No smoke curled from
the brick chimneys through the pop-
lars. No sleek dark-red cows stood
swinging their tails and licking their
noses, while a fragrant smell of lus-
cious milk rose through the air. No
cock crew, no duck quacked, no turkej
gobbled, and no goose gabbled. No
dog bayed the moon by night. BuUy-
dhu was at the flitting. The corn-
stands and lia^^rd were naked and
cold, and the grass was beginning to
grow before the door. The whole
place seemed solitaiy and forlorn,
awaiting a nc^ tenant, or whatever
plans the proprietor might lay out for
its future occupation. Winny and her
father had torn themselves from the
spot ballowed to the old man by years
of uninterrupted happiness, and to the
young girl by the memory of a bliss-
ial chiMhood and the first sunshine of
the bright hopo which is nearest to a
woman's heart, until that fiital ni^t
when vengeful crime broke in and
snapt both spells asunder. Rathcash
and Rathcashmore had been a byword
in the mouths of young and old for
the nine days limited for the wonder
of such things.
If the goodness of his only child
had broken the heart of one old man
from the reflection that her earthly
happiness had been hopelessly blight-
ed, and his fond plans and prospects
for her crushed for ever, the viUany
and wickedness of another had not
been less certfun in a similar result.
Old Mick ]&iLudock — ere his son stood
before an earthly tribunal to answer
for his crimes — had been summoned
before the court of heaven.
The assizes came round, ^the
charge was prepared, the judge was
arrayed— a most terrible show." Old
Cavana and his daughter were, as a
matter of course, summoned by the
crown for the prosecution, as were
also Pat Lennon, Jamesy Doyle, Biddy
Murtagh, and the policemen who had
come to the rescue.
Old Ned was the first witness,
Winny the second, Jamesy Doyle the
third. Then Biddy Murtagh and Pat
Lennon, and finally, before the doc-
tor's medical evidence was given, the
policemen who came to the rescue,
particularly he who had seen the shot
fired and the man falL
This closed the evidence for the
Crown. There was no case, there
could be no case, for the prisouer, be-
yond the futile cross-examination of
the witnesses, by an able and torment-
ing counsellor, old Bob B y,
whose experience in this instance was
worse than useless.
The reader need hardly follow on
to the result. Tom Murdock was
convicted and sentenced to death ; and
ere three weeks had elapsed he liad
paid the penalty of an ungovemabb
temper and a revengeful disposition
upon the scafibld. *
Poor TVinny had pleaded hard with
the counsel for the crown, and even
with the attorney-general himself —
who prosecuted in person — ^that Tom
Murdock might be permitted to plead
guilty to the abduction, and be sen-
tenced to transportation for life. But
the attorney-general, who had all
the informations by heart, said that
the animus had been manifest all
through, from even prior to the
hurling-match, which was alluded to
by the prisoner himself as he fired the
shot, and that he would most certainly
arraign the prisoner for the murder.
And so he was found guilty; and
Winny, with her heart full of plans of
peace and charity, was obliged to
forge the fixst link in a chain the suo-
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262
AU-HaUow Eee : or^ Tks Test of Fuiarity.
oeeding ones of which dragged Tom
Murdock to an ignominious grave.
Old Ned and Winnj, accompanied
by faithfnl Bullj-dha, had returned to
B - , where the old man read and
loitered about, watching every figure
which approached, hoping to see his
angel giil pass on some mission of
holy charity, dressed in her black hood
and cape.
Accompanied by Bully-dhu, he
picked up every occurrence in the
street, and compiled them in his mem-
ory, to amuse Winny in the evenings,
in return for her descriptions of this
or that case of distress which she had
relieved. Thus they told story about,
not very unlike tragedy and farce I
A sufficient time had now elapsed,
not only for the deeds to have been
perfected, but for the provisions which
they set forth to have been carried
out. Pat Lennon bad already re-
moved to the comfortable cottage upon
the snug little farm which had been
purchased for him by Winny, and the
'* annuity^ she had settled upon him
was bearing interest in the savings-
bank at C. O. S.
Phil M'Dermott was one of the best
to do men in that side of the country,
and his wife (if you can* guess who
she was) was the nicest and the hand-
somest woman (now that "Winny was
gone) that you'd meet with in the con-
gregation of the three chapels within
four miles of where she lived.
Jamesy Doyle had been transferred —
head, body, and bones — to the estab-
lishment, where he excelled himself
in everything which was good and
useful and — handy. Many a figary
was got from time to time af^er him in
the forge, filed up bright and nice,
and if he does not " sorely belie" his
abilities and aptitude, he will one day
become a ^whitesmith" of no mean
reputation.
Biddy Murtagh was to have gone
as cook and thorough servant to Mrs,
MDermoU ; bnt the hundred pounds
which had been lodged to her credit
in the bank soon smoothed the way
between her and Denis Murrican— a
Shanvilla boy, you will guess — who
induced her to become cook, but not
thorough servant, I hope, to himself;
so Elate M'Dermott — ^how strange
it seems not to write ^Kate Mul-
veyM — was obliged to get somebody
else.
Poor Winny, blighted in her own
hopes of this world's happiness, had
turned her thoughts to a surer and
more abiding source. She had seen
her plans for the happiness of those
she loved carried out to a success al-
most beyond her hopes. Her poor
old father, getting whiter and whiter
as the years rolled on, attained a ripe
and good old age, blessed in the fond
society of the only being whom he
loved on earth. Winny herself found
too large a field for individual charity
and good to think of joining any so-
ciety, however estimable, during her
father's lifetime, and was emphatically
the Sister of Charity in the singular
number.
But poor old Ned has long since
passed away from this scene of earthly
cares, and sleeps in peace in his own
chapel-yard, between two tombs. Long
as the journey was, Winny had the
courage and self-control to come with
her father^s bier, and see his coffin
laid beside that of him who had been
so rudely snatched away, and whom
she had so devotedly loved. Poor
Bully-dhu was at the funeral, and
gazed into the fresh-made grave in
silent, dying grief. When all was
over, and the last green sod slapped
down upon the mound, he could no-
where be found. He had suddenly
eluded all observation. But ere a
week had passed by, be was found
dead upon his master's grave, after
the whole neighborhood had been
terrified by a night of the most dis-
mal howling which was ever heard.
Winny returned to the sphere of
her usefulness and hope, where for
many years she continued to exercise
a course of unselfish charity, which
made many a heart sing for joy.
But she, too, passed away, and was
brought home to her last resting-place
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Sequiem JBUmam. 263
in fiathcash chapel-jard, where the years of age. Bat It pleased God, in
three tombs are stiU to be seen, his inscrutable ways, to remore her
'Were she now alive she would yet be from the circle of aU her bounty and
a comparatively young woman, not her love. Had it not been so, this
much past sixty-four or sixty-five tsJe would not have yet been written.
[oBiencAL.]
«BEQUIEM iBTERNAM."
Lo ! another pilgrim, weary
With his toils, hath reached the goal.
And we lift our " Misereri^
For the dear departed soul ;
God of pity and of love !
May he reign with thee above 1
By the pleasures he surrendered,
By the cross so meekly borne.
By Uie heart so early tendered.
By each sharp and secret thorn,
And by every holy deed —
For our brother's rest we plead I
'Mid the throng who rest contented,
Earth to him was but a waste.
And the sweets this life presented,
Were but wormwood to his taste.
Faith had taught him from the first
For the fount of life to thirst
Faith, the sun that rose to brighten
All his pathway from the font :
Then no phantom e'er could frighten,
Nor the sword of piun or want :
^ For, " he said, '* though pain be strong,
lime shall vanquish it ere long."
When he spoke of things eternal,
How the transient seemed to fade I
And we saw the goods supernal
Stand revealed without a shade :
" Surely 'twas a spirit spoke,"
Was the thought his language woke.
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1
264 Jlequiem JBlemam.
Thought prophetic I not^ a spirit
SpoUceth from the world nnaeen :
And the faith we, too, inherit
Telleth what the tidings mean :
^ Friend and stranger I oh, prepare—
' Make the wedding garment &ir«"
Tet oar brother's strength was mortal ;
Bore he naught of earthly taint ?
Did he pass the guarded portal
In the armor of a saint ?
Lord of holiness 1 with dread
On this awfal ground we tread.
I
He was merciful and tender
To the erring and the weak ;
Therefore will thy pity render
Unto him the grace we seek.
Whilst we bring to mercy's fount
Pledges uttered on the Mount
He remembered the departed
Ab we now remember him :
Bright, and true, and simple-hearted.
Till the lamp of life grew dim :
Friend was he of youth and age«»
Now a child — and now a sage.
If those footsteps unretoming
Leave on earth no lasting traoe :
If no kindred heart be yearning
Tearful in his vacant place :
If oblivion be his lot
Here below, we murmur not ;
Only let his portion be
Evermorei dear Lord, wUh Aee t
Bi4Tn,Fi.
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IbUed ShsUAeB in Madeira.
265
From The Dublin UniTenlty lligtsbie.
TINTED SKETCHES IN MADEIRA.
CHAPTBB I.
NoTwiTHSTANDiNa that Madeira
enjoys an imperiBhable distinctian for
its matchless scenery, its sui^y skies,
and its healthful climate, yet the char^
acter of its inhabitants seems to have
been but little studied, and still less the
aingnlar usages and customs which in-
dicate their nationality. Imfn-essed
mth the idea that to supply some ui«-
formation oa these particulars might
heighten the interest experienced for
the Madeirans as an isolated little com-
manity, I have compiled a few pages
descriptive of their social and domes-
tic life, intending them, however, mere-
ly as supplementary to the valuable in-
formation afforded by others.
Passing over the novel and amusing
circumstance of landing at Funchal>
which has already been so often de-
fioribed, I find myself in a'boi-caro, or
ox-car, traversmg narrow and intricate
streets; the murmur of waters and soft
strains of instrumental music saluting
my ear, while a faint perfumed breeze
stirs the eurtiuns of my caro. By
some travellers the boi-caro has been
likened to the body of a caleche placed
on a sledge, but to me it neither had
then, nor has it assumed since, any
other appearance than that of a four-
poet bed, curtained wi& oil-cloth, lined
with some bright-colored calico, and
having comfortaUy cushioned seats.
It is made of light, strong timber, se-
cured on a frame shod with iron. A
pair of fat, sleek oxen are yoked to this
odd4ooking.carriage, while from thongs
passed through timr horns bits of
carved ivory or bone hang on theirfore-
heads to protect them fin>m the influence
ci Malochio qt Evil-eye.
Half an hour brought me to my
destination, No. — , Bua San Fran-
cisco. This house in its structure re-
sembles the generality of the better
class of houses in the island, the sleep-
ing-rooms being sacrificed to the mag-
nificence of the reception-rooms, the
rastness of which appears to modL the
ordinary wants of daily life. The
walls are pure white, lined with prinis,
paintings, and mirrors ; the floors are
either covered with oil-cloth or highly
polished ; and the windows are shaded
by lace curtains and Venetian blinds ;
the fomiture is modem, and of En^sh
manafocture. I have been thus mi-
nute because the interi(»s of all the su-
perior dwellings have the same general
character. I cannot, however, say the
same with regard to the tastes and
habits of the occupants. The British
prince-merchant, with his spirit, his
intelligence, and his philanthropy, gives
his days to the busy cares of life, and
his evenings to the quiet enjoyments
of home ; while the Madeiran gentle-
man passes his days in luxurious indo-
lence, and his evenings in crowded
rooms. The ladies present an equally
strong contrast, and yet, during one
short period in each day, their tastes
and purposes seem to assimilate : when
the brief and beautiful twilight, with
its freshness, its odors,, and its music,
induces even the exclusive English-
women to appear in the shaded bal-
cony, and find amusement in the pass-
ing scenes.
At this hour the peasantry may be
seen returning to their homes in little
parties of four or five, each group being
accompanied by a musician playing
on the national instrument, tiie ma-
ohdtes, or guitarette, and singing some
plaintive air in which, occasionally,
all join. No sooner has one group
passed, than the sweet, soft intonations
of other songsters are heard approach-
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IHniad Stetehe$ tn Madeira.
ing. Sometimes two or even more
parties will enter the street at the
same time, when they at once take np
alternate parts, and that with sndi
perfect taste and harmony that when
the notes begin to die away in the dis-
tance the listener's car is aching with
attention. These songs are usually of
their own composition, and are impro-
vised for the occasion. They have
but few national ballads, and of these
the subjects are either the mischief-lov-
ing Malochio, or Mocham and the un-
happy Lady Anna, or the fable of Ma-
deira's having been cast up by the sea
covered with magnificent forests of
cedar, which aflcrward, catching fire
from a sun-beam, burned for seven
years, and then fix>m the heated soil
produced the luxuriant vegetation with
which it is now clothed.
It must not be supposed, however,
that the peasantry are of a melan-
choly disposition because it is their
custom to make choice of plaintive
music to time their footsteps when
returning at the close of a golden day
to their homes by the sea or on the
rugged mountain heights. On the
contrary, the character of their minds
combines all the variety of the scenes
amongst which they were nurtured,
though the leading trait is a desire
for tlie gay and fanciful, whether in
dress or amusement; While they re-
gard neither money nor time in com-
parison with the gratification of wit^
nessing the numerous ceremonies and
pageants which every other day fill
the streets with richly-dad trains of
eeclesiastics, flashing cavalcades, and
troops of youths and maidens in fes-
tive wreaths and gay attire. The
season of Lent affords them almost
daily opportunities for the indulgence
of this taste.
At an early hour of the Monday
morning in the first week in Lent the
ordinary stillness of the town is inter-
rupted by loud and clamorous sounds,
such as sometimes assail the ear in a
European town, at midnight, when
bands of revellers are reeling toward
their homes. Laughter, song, instru-
mental music,' and t^e unsteady tramp
of a crowd meet the startled ear, sug-
gesting the idea <^the proximity of a
disorderly multitude. Opening the
window cautiously you look down into
the street, and behold bands of men
in masks and habited in every vari-
ety of strange and ridiculous costume.
Some few, however, display both
taste and wealth in the choice of their
disguises, but the generality of the
crowd in their tawdry attire and hid-
eous masks appear to have studied
only efEectual concealment. For
some hours party after party continue
to pass through the street, and as
they knock loudly at the doors, and
even call on the inhalntants by name^
you discover that a feeling of impa-
tience to have the shops opened and
the ordinary routine of business com-
menced is common to all, and, if not
gratified, may manifest itself in some
open act of aggression. Slowly and
with evident reluctance the houses are
opened, while the curious and amused
faces of children and servants may bo
seen peeping from the trellised balco-
nies down on the noisy crowd. After
a time a few men in ordinary costume
begin to appear in the street, trying to
look unconscious and unsuspicious of
any danger, and hurrying forward
with the important pre-occupied air of
men of business. But neither their
courage nor cunning avails them any-
thing. A shower of stale eggs break-
ing on the stalwart shoulders of one
merchant reminds him that the more
grave and English-like is his demean-
or, the more is he regarded as the
proper subject for mirth; while a
plate of fiour thrown over another
would send a dusty miller instead of
a dandy flying into some open door
for shelter, followed by the derisive
laughter of the insolent crowd.
Amazed at such an exhibition of
unchecked violence, the stranger in-
quires the meaning of the scene, and
learns that it is merely the customary
way of celebrating in Fonchal the day
known as Shrove Tuesday, the peo-
olc having from tune immemorial en-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Tinted Sketches in Madeira.
267
joyed an establisbed license to indiilge
on that day in such rude practical
jokes as are warranted by the usages
of all carnival seasons.
I may here observe (hat the Ma-
deirans reckon their days from noon
(o noon, instead of from midnight to
midnight, though their impatience for
frolic and mischief frequently leads
them, as on the present occasion, into
the error of beginning the day some
hours too soon* When, however, cel-
ebrating religious festivals, or on days
set apart for fasting and invoking of
their patroa saints — ^Nossa Senhora
do Monte and Sant Jago Minor —
they carefolly adhere to the establish-
ed rule.
As the day advances the crowd be-
comes bolder, and no one, no matter
what his age, rank, or nation, is suffer-
ed to pass unmolested. These coarse
carnival jests are continued not only
through the day but through the night,
and imtil noon the next day, when
the firing of cannon from the fort an-
nounces the cessation of the privilege
of outraging society with impunity.
Although, however, practical joking is
prohibited from that moment until the
next anniversary of the same day,
masquerading is allowed from Shrove
Tuesday till the week af)er Easter,
the English being the chief, if not the
only, objects for raillery and ridicule.
la general the most nmicablo feel-
ings exist between the Madeirans*and
all foreigners, yet the lower classes of
the natives appear to derive the ut-
most satisfaction in being openly per-
mitted to caricature the English, and
under favor of their privileged dis-
guise to display John's eccentricities
and weaknesses in the most ludicrous
light, while the jealousy of the author-
ities prohibits on his part the most
distant approach to rotaliatton.
Aa the last echo of the warning gun
died away amongst the hills, the sun's
position in the heavens indicated the
hour of noon, and instantly the musi-
cal peals of numerous bells came
floating to the ear from every direc-
tioD, while above their sweet harmoni-
ous sounds is heard the booming of
cannon from the vessels anchored in
the roads, and the loud blasts of trum-
pets from the fort and the barracks.
A stranger might be excused for sup-
posing that the people wero about to
renew the carnival, whereas they
were only announcing, in conformity
with ecclesiastical law, the commence-
ment of the season of Lent. This
was the first day, or Ash Wednesday,
though by our manner of computing
time it was stiU the noon of Tuesday.
At one o'clock the roar of artillery
from the Loo Rock and the shipping
was silent, the martial strains ceased,
but the bells at short intervals con-
tinued to ring out their melodious
summons, which was responded to by
hundreds of persons in ordinary cos-
tume, all moving in the direction of
the 6^, or cathedral, in the Praca
ConstitutioneL Mingling with this
decorous portion of the crowd were
many of the most grotesquely attu*ed
masques of the previous day, whose
antics and buffoonery, jests and laugh-
ter, formed the oddest contrast to the
costume and bearing of the others.
Meanwhile, by one of those sudden
changes so common in tropical cli-
mates, the sky, which a short time be-
fore was so blue and serene, began to
show signs of a gathering storm. There
was an ominous stiUncss in the atmos-
phere, the dull leaden color over-
head was shedding its gloom every-
where, and I heard voices from the
crowd exclaiming, "Hasten forward
there, the rain is coming — hasten!"
A few big drops just then fell with a
plashing sound, and in a second or
two afterward down, with a terrific
noise, poured the fierce wild rain, com-
ing on the streets with the noise of a
waterfall, while on the house-tops it
fell with a sharp rattle, as if every
drop was a paving-stone.
In a few moments from the com-
mencement of the rain the people had
all disappeared, the streets had as-
sumed the appearance of rushing
streams, while the three fiumeras tra-
versing the town kept up an unceas-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
268
Tinted Sketehei in Madeira.
ing roar, as the swollen waters raslied
plonging toward the sea.
Formerly these fiumeras were nn»
inclosed, and consequently after
heavy rains the torrents woald en*
large their bordetB, spreading out on
eveiy side and encompassing the
town, until it assumed the appearance
of having been built in the midst of
waves and currents. Now, however,
walls of strong masonry attest the
wisdom and industry of the modern
Madeirons, and between these the
rivers flow in shallow musical streams
in summer, or sweep on in deep, sullen
floods during the rainy seasons in
spring and autumn. It sometimes,
however, happens that, though tho
rivers can no longer overleap their
boundaries to career round pillared
edifices and lay baixs their founda-
tions, or, sweeping up into their fierce
embrace cottages and their inmates,
indosures and their stalled cattle,
hurry with them into the blue depths
of the bay of Funchal, they still,
when increased by these mountain
torrents, which on leaving the heights
are but whbpering streamlets, gather-
ing depth and strength in their de-
scent, will send boulders of many tons
weight over the high broad walls, fol-
lowed by giant trees, planks of timber,
and jagged branches, as if from the
heaving bosom of the angry waters
rocks and withered boughs are flung
off with equal ease.
CHAPTEB II.
From the period alluded to in the
last chapter, namely, the beginning of
Lent, processions and public cere-
monies become of such frequent re-
currence that I must either pass over
a period of some weeks or fill a vol-
ume in describing them. Believing
the former course to be the wisest, I
shall pass on to the fourth Sunday in
Lent. From an early hour in the
morning every bell-tower had been
awakening the echoes with its mu-
sical clamor, and every hamlet and
village had responded to the Bummoufl
by shading forth crowds of hardy in»
habitants in their best attire, to j<Hn
the gaily dressed multitudes throng-
ing through the narrow, angular streets
of Funchal toward the Praca, in which,
as I have said, stands the s^, or cathe-
dral. This building is quaint-looking
and massive, proclaiming the liberali-
ty, if not the taste, of its founders. It
is somewhat more than three centu-
ries old, having been completed in the
year 1514, and is only now beginning
to assume that mellow and sombre
hue which comports so well with the
character of such piles. By the hour
of noon the Praca presented a sea of
human faces. The long seats beneath
the shade of trees had been resigned
to the children, while the platform in
the centre of the square, occupied on
ordinary occasions by the military
bands, now presented a waving par^
terre of the smiling and observant faces
of peasant girls, who, notwithstanding
their proverbial timidity and gentle-
ness, had managed to secure that ele<^
vated position. Meantime the bal-
conies were filling fast with the fami-
lies of the English and German resi-
dents, all intent on seeing the remark-
able pageant of the day known as tho
"Passo."
Having obtained a front seat in the
balcony of the English reading-room,
I had a full view of the animated and
pictQresque scene beneath, the latter
feature being heightened by the strik-
ing contrasts exhibited between the
costumes of the peasant women and
those of the same grade residing in
the town. As one looked at the hitter
it was not difficult to imagine they had
just come from Europe with the tail
of the fashions. Bonnets, feathers,
flowers, ballooned dresses, all were
foreign importations; while the
women who had come down from
those cottages on the heights, which,
on looking up at, appear like pensile
nests hanging from the crags, wore
dresses of masapqja — a mixture of
thread and bright wools manufactur-
ed by themselves— small shawls woven
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Tinted Sketchei in JUadeira.
269
in bright stripes, and on their heads
the graceful looking lenco, or hand-
kerchief, in some showj, becoming
color. Others from the fishing vil-
lages wore complete suits of blue
cloth, of a light texture, even to the
head-dress, which was the carapuca,
or conical shaped cap, ending in a
drooping horn and a golden tassel;
while a few wore cotton dresses, and
covered their heads with the barrettea,
a knitted ci^ in shape like an elongat-
ed bowl, and having a woollen tuft at
the top glittering with gold beads.
The elder women covered their shoul-
dcfB with large bright shawls, whQe
tho joungerworc tightly-fitting bod-
ices, fastened with gold buttons, and
over these small capes with pointed
eollars. AH, whether old or young,
wore their dresses full, and sufficiently
short to display to advantage their
amall and b^uitifully formed feet.
In singular contrast with this sim*
pUdty of taste in their apparel, is
their desire for a profusion of orna-
ments. Accordingly, you will find
adorning the persons of the peasant
women of Madeira rings and chains
and brooches of intrinsic value and
much beauty, such as in other coan-
tries people of wealth assume the cx-
chisiice right to wear. An instance of
this ruling passion came under my
notice a short time since, which I may
mention here.
Through a long life of toil and pov-
erty a peasant woman had regularly
laid by, from her scanty earnings, a
small sum weekly. Her neighbors
commended her forethought and pru-
dence, not doubting but that the little
hoard so persistently gathered was
meant to meet the necessities of the
days when the feeble hands would
forget their cunning. At length the
sum amounted to some hundreds of
« testatoes, or silvef five-pences, and
then the poor woman's life-secret was
disoovered. With a step buoyant for
her years, and a smile which for a
moment brought back the beauty of
her yoolh, she entered a jeweller's
shopi, 'and exchai^ed the contents of
her purse for a pair of costly ear-
rings. Had she been remonstrated
with, she would have betrayed not
only her own but the national feeling
on the subject, by saying — ^I lose
nothing by the indulgence. At any
moment I can find a purchaser for
real jeweUery."
An hour passed, and signs of impa-
tience were becoming visible in the
crowd, when the sounds of distant
music caused a sudden and deep si-
lence. A feeling of awe seemed to have
fallen at once on the multitude, and
every bronse-colored face was turned
with a reverential expression toward
the street by which it was known the
procession would enter the Fraca.
Slowly the music drew near, now
reaching us in full strains, then seem-
ing to die away in soft cadences.
Meantime the guns from the forts and
shipping renewed their firing, and the
bells swung out their grandest peaL
Curiosity was at its height, when the
foremost row of the procession met
our view — ^four men walking abreast,
wearing violet-colored silk cassocks,
with round capes reaching to the gir-
dles, and holding in their hands wax
candles of an enormous size. A long
train, habited in the same way, follow-
ed these, and then came four ecclesi-
astics in black silk gowns and Jesuits'
caps, bearing aloft a laige and gor-
geous purple banner, in the centre of
which were four letters in gold, ^ S.
Q. P. R," being the initials of a sen-
tence, the translation of which is, ^< To
the Senate and People of Rome."
After this followed another long
line of men in violet, and then again
four clothed in black, carrying a wax
image, large as life, on a platform,
meant to represent the garden of
Gethsemane. Bound the edge were
artificial trees about a foot and a half
in height, having their foliage and
fruit richly gilt The figure was
clothed in a purple robe, and on the
brow was a crown of thorns. It was
in a kneeling position, and the face
was bowed so low you could not dis-
tinguish the features, but the attitude
Digitized by CjOOQIC
270
Tinted Sketches tu Madeira.
gave jou the impression that it was
making painful attempts to rise, which
the weight of the huge cross on the
shoulders rendered ineffectual. An-
other train of candle-bearers followed
this, and then, in robes of rich black
silk, and having on their shoulders
capes of finest lawn trimmed with
costly lace, came four priests holding
up a gorgeous canopj, having cur-
tains of white silk and silver, which
glittered and flashed as the faint
breeze, sweet with the perfume of
flowers and fruit-trees, dallied amidst
the rich folds. From the centre of
the canopy was suspended a silver
dove, its extended wings overshadow-
ing the head of the bishop, who walk-
ed beneath, robed in his most gorgeous
sacerdotal habiUments. Between his
hands he carried the host, and as he
passed along thousands of prostrate
forms craved his blessing. Following
the canopy were more men with ta-
pers, and dressed in violet silk ; then
another purple banner of even great-
er expansioii than the first; then a
lovely train of little prls dressed to
i*epresent angels; then the band
playing the Miserere; and lastly a
regunent of Portuguese soldiers. As
soon as the last of the men in violet
had entered the cathedral, the door
was closed; the soldiers formed in
lines on each side ; the band was si-
lent ; and, at the command of an offi-
cer, all uncovered then* heads, and
stood in an attitude expressive of deep
humiliation. This scene was meant
to represent that sorrowful yet glori-
ous one enacted eighteen centuries
ago in the judgment hall of Pontius
Pilate. The little girls remained out-
side as well as the soldiery.
The dress of these cliildren was
tasteful and piduresque. They woi-e
violet-color velvet dresses, very short
and full, and profusely covered with
silver spangles ; white silk stockings
and white satin or kid shoes; rich
white and silver wreaths, and bright,
fihny, white wings.
For an hour the cathedral door was
kept closed, the soldiers remaining all
that time with bowed heads, motion-
less as statues. At length the door
was slowly opened, and one of the men
wearing violet, having in his hand a
long wand, at the end of which appear-
ed a small bright flame, passed out,
and proceeded to light up numerous
tapers which had been placed on the
front of different houses in the Praca.
As soon as this was done, a command
from an officer caused the men to re-
sume their caps and their upright at-
titude. Presently the rich, expressive
music of a full band was again heard
playing the Miserere, and the proces-
sion passed out between the glittering
and bristling lines, its numbers and its
images increased.
Following close afler the garden of
Grethsemanc, there was now an image
of the Vii^in, attired in an ample pur-
ple robe and a long blue veil, worked
in silver. The exquisite taste and
skill of the Madeiran ladies, exerted
upon the richest materials, had given
to this figure a lifelike appearance far
surpassing that which usually distin-
guishes other draped statues. Over
the clasped hands the velvet seemed
rather to droop than lie in folds, while
the expression of the attitude, which
was that of earnest supplication, as
if craving sympathy for some crushing
woe, was heightened by the artistic ar-
rangement of the heavy plaits of the robe.
The men who carried this image,
and those immediately preceding and
following it, wore blue instciwi of violet
cassocks, while the little angels who
had brought up the van of the first
procession were now clustered about
the bearers of the image of the Virgin.
From the cathedral the pageant
passed on through the principal streets
into the country, the faint peal of the
trumpets occasionally coming back to
the ear, mingled wiih the silvery sound
of the bells, and the deep boom of the
minute-guns. At the foot of the
Mount church, however, various
changes were effected. The little
girls quietly separated themselves
from the crowd, and, being watched for
by anxious mothers and elder sisters,
Digitized by CjQOQlC
Knied Sketches in Madeira.
271
were carried borne. A deputy bishop
took the place of bis superior beneath
the canopj, other men relieved the
bearers of the banners and images,
and other musicians released those
whose attendance had commenced
with the dawn. All through the day
you could trace their course, only oc-
casionally losing sight of them, and
all through the night too, by the light
of the cedar-wood torches borne by
little boys, in snowy tunics, who had
joined the processiou at the foot of the
mount
To understand how beautiful was
the effect of this, you must look with
me on the unique and picturesque town
of Funchal, running round the blue
waters of the bay, and rising up into
the vineyards and gropes and gar-
dens clothing the encircling hills. A
golden light slumbers over the whole
scene, so pure and luminous that we
can trace distinctly every feature in
the luxuriant landscape. The white
houses of the town crowned with ter-
rinhas, or turrets, and having hanging
balconies glowing with flowers of
rare beauty ; the majestic palms ex-
panding their broad and beautiful
heads over high garden walls; the
feathery banana waving gracefully on
sonny slopes, where clumps of the
bright pomegranates display their
crimson pomp ; the shady plane-trees
running in rows along tlie streets ; the
snowy quintas or villas on the hills,
becoming fewer and more scattered
toward the summit ; the churches and
nunneries on higher elevations; and
still further up the white cottages of
the peasantry, with their vine-trelliscd
porches and their gardens of pears,
peaches, and apricots; while above
and around all these, forming a sub-
I'une amphitheatre as they tower to
nearly six thousand feet above the
level of the sea, are the Pico Ruivo
and Pico Grande. A wreath of pur*
pie mist lay that day, as it almost al-
ways does, on their topmost peaks,
giving now and again glimpses of
their picturesque outline, as, like a sofl
transparent veil^ it was folded and un-
folded by the breeze roaming over the
solitudes of scented broom and heath
er. Through such scenes, in view of
all, moved the long, glittering pageant
just described.
CHAPTEB m.
EvERrwHERE the grave declares
its victory — ^in beautiful Madeira as
elsewhere. An old servant, whose
business it was to cut up fire-wood and
carry it into the house, has performed
his last earthly duty and finished life's
journey. lie dwelt with his mother
and sister in a cottage at the extremi-
ty of the garden ; and I was only ap-
prised of the circumstances of his
death by hearing' loud cries coming
up from the shady walks, and the ex-
clamations : " Alas, my son, my son !"
and " Oh, my brother !" repeated over
and over in accents of uncontrollable
grief.
It is customary, as soon as a death
occurs in the family of one of the
peasant class, for all the survivors to
rush forth into the open air, and, with
cries and lamentations, to call on the
dead by every endearing epithet and
implore of them to return once more.
The neighbors being thus made ac-
quainted with what has occurred,
gather round the mourners, and try to
steal away the bitterness of their grief
by reminding them that all living
shall share the same fate, and that
one by one each shall depart in his
turn to make his bed in the silent
chamber of the grave. By such sim-
ple consolations— untaught nature's
promptings — they induce the bereav-
ed ones to re-enter the house and pre-
pare the body for interment.
The heat of the climate renders
hasty burial necessary in Madeira,
and the authorities are strict in en-
forcing it From ten to twelve hours
is the longest period allowed by law
between death and the grave, and the
very poor seldom permit even so much
time to elapse; they merely wait to
ascertain to a certainty that the hand
of death has released the imprisoned
Digitized by CjOOQIC
272
Timt$d SkeUAei in Madeim.
jKml before tbey wrap up the body
and oany it with hurrying' feet to
'* breathless darkness and the narrow
house^*'
In such instances coffins are rarely
used, and when they are, they are
hired by the hour. The usual way is
to roll the body up tightly in a sere
cloth, then place it in a ^^ death ham-
mock" (which resembles an unbleach-
ed linen sheet, tied at the ends to an
iron pole); and hurry with it to an un-
honored grave.
A few days subsequent to the death
of the old servant, the remains of a
little girl were borne past ; the sight
was so singular I think it worth de-
scribing.
Moving slowly and solemnly along
the sti-eet were a number of men,
habited ia deep blue home-made cloth,
the two foremost of whom carried a
light iron bier, on which lay the body
of a little girl, whose brief period of
life numbered not more than five sum-
meiv. A robe of soft, dearj sno^vy
muslin enveloped the motionless form
like a cloud; on the tiny feet, crossed
in rest at last, were white si& stock-
ings and white shoes; and her little
hands, which must so lately have
found gleeful employment in scatter-
mg the fragments of broken toys,
were now meekly folded on her bo-
som over a bouquet of orange blos-
soms. A heavy wreath of the same
flowers, mingled with a few leaves of
the allegro campo, encircled her
young brow, which, as may be sup-
posed, wore that lovely, calm expres-
sion described by poets as the impress
of " heaven's signet-ring.'*
In almost every one of the varied
scenes of life orange blossoms are
made use of in Miadeira, either as
types or emblems. Wreaths of them
grace the bride's young head, as being
emblematical of the beauty and puri-
ty of her character ; as typical of a
grief which shall be ever fresh, chap-
lets of them crown 4he pale brows of
the dead. On the anniversary of a
birth-day they are presented to the
aged as an embodiment of the. truth
that they shall again renew their
youth; while the proud triumphal
arch is adorned with their snowy
beUs, as an assurance that the occa-
sion for which it was erected shall be
held in ever-enduring remembrance.
The little child on the rude bier,
who looked as fair in her death-sleep
as these fairest of flowers, was being
carried to the cemetery belonging to
the resident Roman Catholics, and
known as Laranjeira. There a priest
was awaiting its arrivaL He was
standing by the open grave, and when
the body was laid at his feet he read
over it in Latin a short burial service,
placed some grains of dust on die
pulseless bosom, and departed. Be-
ing carefully wrapped in a sere doth,
it was then placed in a shallow grave
(according to custom) and lightly cov-
ered with three or four inches of
earth.
Laranjeira is situated on the west
of the town. Passing up the Augus-
tias Hill the stranger sees a large,
handsome gate near the empress's
hospital; tlds is the entrance to the
graveyard. Inside is a small flower^
garden, tastefully laid out and neatly
kept, through which you pass to the
broad stone steps leading to the fine
gravel walk runnusg quite through the
cemetery. Another walk, also c^ con-
siderable width, leads round it, while
several narrower ones, shaded by
hedges of geraniums, roses, and laven-
der, are cut through it in different di-
rections. Inclosing the whole is a
high wall, studded with monumental
tablets, on some of which praise and
grief are charactered in deep, newly-
cut letters, while from many others
time has either obliterated every trace
of writing, or the pains and the heat
have washed and bleached them into
meaningless, cloudy white slabs.
There are but few monuments or
even tombstones of any pretension,
though many of the latter bear Eng-
lish inscriptions. Bows of cypress
trees border the centre walk, and al-
most every grave in the indosnre
is overshadowed by a weeping willow.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
iPlnied Sketches in MadeinL,
273
CHAPTES nr. '
It was lite last week in Lent, and,
according to our manner of computing
time, it was eleven o'clock a.m. of the
day known as **Holy Thursday.'*
Beckoning, however, as the Madeir-
ans do, it was the last hoar of that day,
and the nest would be the first of
Good Friday.
An unusual silence had reigned in
the town since the first streaks of pur-
ple light appeared in the east, as if to
render more remarkable the din which
at the hour above-named assailed the
ears of the inhabitants of Funchal.
Strains of military music filled the air,
mingled with the tolling bf bells and
the firing of guns, which found a
hundred echoes in the adjoining hills.
These sounds were the signals to the
people of Madeira that the time was
drawing near when the most imposing
ceremonial of their religion would be
celebrated. With the first trumpet-
notes the streets began to fill, every
house sending forth its inmates,
whether rich or poor, old or young,
either to witness or take part in the
spectacles of the day. As on all like
occasions, the peasantry, in their best
attire, poured in with astonishing ra-
pidity ; while crowding in with them
were ladies in hammocks, clad in
robes of rainbow hues, and partially
concealed from curious eyes by silken
curtains of pink or blue, which were
matched in color by the vests of the
bearers, and the ribbons with long
floating ends adorning their broad-
brimmed straw hats; and gentlemen
on horseback, whom you at once
would recognize as natives by their
short stature, their bright vests, neck-
ties, and hat-ribbons, and their pro-
fusion of rich, showy ornaments.
Quietly making their way on foot
through this throng were the English
merchants, with their wives and daugh-
tersy distinguished from those by
whom they were snrround'sd by an air
of severe reserve and a studied sim-
plicity of dress. A few handsome
wheeled carriages also appeared on
VOL. III. 18
the scene, and one or two of the awk-
ward looking boi-cars. All were tak-
ing the same direction, the Praca da
Constitutionel, and the common object
was to gain admission to the cathedral.
At every turn the crowd augmented,
and even masquers joined in consider-
able numbers—but these latter brought
neither jest nor laughter with their
presence ; the ceremonies of the day
had subdued even them, causing them
to abandon the vacant gaiety apper-
taining to their attire for a demean-
or more fitting the time and occa-
sion.
Arrived at the cathedral, each
party, no matter* how 'exalted their
rank, encountered a delay in obtaining
an entrance. The throng around the
door was great, and it was in vain
that the soldiers endeavored to keep
the general crowd at a distance.
Trained as the Madeirans are to hab-
its of deference to both military
and ecclesiastical authority, they be-
come, like other people, audacious
and headstrong when assembled in
large multitudes, and, in spite of both
church and state, they now sought
an entrance by the exertion of physi-
cal force, and some hundreds suc-
ceeded.
While, however, the struggle and
contention at the door remained un-
abated, the ceremonial which all were
so anxious to witness had been enact-
ed within. To describe it is needless.
The hour when the God-man poured
forth liis soul even unto death is a sad
and awful memory familiar to us all.
Let us, therefore, look at the scene
which the cathedral presents at two
o'clock on that dayf
The windows are boarded up on
the outside, and within are covered
with curtains of heavy black cloth.
The walls all round are hung with fine
stuff of the same color, concealing the
pamtings and other ornaments, and
the altar is hidden behind drapeiy of
black velvet with ghastly-looking bor-
ders of silver. Between this gloomy
vail and the cancelli, or railings, you
see a magnificent catafalque, and on it .
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Tinted Sketchei in Madeira.
a coffin covered and lined with rich
black velvet. A pale, coi-pse-llke fig-
ure, wearing a crown of thorns, lies
within, blood flowing from the wound-
ed brow (or appearing to flow) and
Itooi the hands which lie outside the
winding-sheet of snowj linen. Nu-
merous tapers surround the catafal-
que, but from some cause they carry
such weak, glimmering flames, that a
dim, uncertain light pervades the im-
mediate precincts of tlie altar, leaving
the rest of the building in deep shadow.
Habited in close-fitting black silk
robes, and with lieads bowed down as
in unspeakable sorrow, several priests
stand round 'the coffin, while fitful
wails and sobs from the multitude
show that the scene is not without its
efifect.
An hour passed thus, and was suc-
ceeded by a sudden and dismal si-
lence, as if the great heart of the
multitude had become exhausted
with sorrow, when the melancholy
cadences of the Miserere coming
down from tlie huge organ as if roll-
ing from the clouds, awoke up anew
the grief of the people, and low cries
and haU*-stifled groans mingled freely
widi the long-drawn, plaintive notes.
Meantime the bishop, habited in his
most simple sacerdotal robes, came
&om the sacristy and stood at the foot
of the coffin, while four priests raised
it from the catafalque by means of
loops of black silk and silver cord.
The bishop then move<l forward, the
dense crowd opening a lane for him
as he passed slowly round the church,
followed by the four priests carrying
the coffin, and by others bearing the
dim tapers. As He returned toward
the altar the people's sorrow seemed
to increase, and every head was
stretched forward to catch a last
glimpse of the coffin, *when just as the
procession got within the cancelli a
heavy curtain was let fall, shutting in
altar, catafalque, and tapera, and leav-
ing the cathedral in utter darkness.
This scene was meant to represent
the burial in the tomb of Joseph of
Arimathea, and while tlie greater por-
tion of the congregation were weeping
aloud, a voice was heard proceeding
from the pulpit, and pronouncing that
preliminary sentence to a sermon
known as the " blessing."
In. an instant the sounds of grief
were hushed, and the mute audience
seemed to suppress their very breath*
ing while they anxiously listened to
the words of the preacher.
Spoken in a tongue with which few
visitors to the island are acquainted,
the discourse took to the ears of
strangers the shape of a varied mur-
mur, whose tones and cadences played
on the very heart-strings of the audit-
ors, awakening at will feelings of fear,
agony, remorse, and repentance. As
he proceeded, the passion and pathos
of |ii3 accents increased, and when he
ceased to speak a desolate stillness
pervaded the whole multitude. Pres-
ently two men entered from a side
door bearing dim tapers, and at the
same moment the great door leading
into the Praca was opened, and the
congregation poured like a tide into
the open air, while low, soft siglis and
murmurs falling on the ear told of
feelings of relief which words were
powerless to express.
For a moment the tlirong leaving
the church mingled with the multitude
without. The solid mass swayed
like a troubled sea, and then quietly
broke up and scattered widely. Mea
in trade turned their faces homeward,
the business of life being, in their
judgment, of more importance than
any further participation in the day's
proceedings. Elderly men and wo-
men of the lower classes sought out
those houses and temporary sheds,
over the doors of which the four gold-
en letters, " P. V. A. B.," served the
same purpose as (he less mysterious
British announcement of " entertain-
ment for man and horse ;" while the
young peasants and artisans, forming an
immense concourse, went shouting to-
ward the Mount road, leaving the
streets leading to the beach free from
all obstacles, a circumstance of which
the more respectable and even aristo-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
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275
oratic porrion of the multitude eagerly
availed themselves. . Mingling with
aO parties were ragged-looking ven»
dcrs of curiosities, clamorous old heg-
gars, and younger ones whose brilliant,
laughing black eyes contradict^ the
earnest appeal of the lips.
Should our taste or curiosity lead
us to follow the mob to the Mount road
we behold one of those singular ex-
hibitions which excite almost to frenzy
— a hideous, straw-stuffed figure, or
effigy, of Pontius Pilate, tied on the
back of a poor, miserable, lean don-
key. Amidst the wildest shouts and
fiercest turmoil this creature is dragged
forward, every one taxing his inventive
faculties to discover new iidignities, by
which to express his feelings of horror
and disgust for the original. While
the tumultuous throng thus parade
through the principal streets of the
town, the bay is seen covered by hund-
reds of boats, people of almost every
nation in Europe reclining beneath their
awnings as they sweep slowly over the
blue waves toward the Loo Rock, or
idly glide in front of that well-known
point, beneath which on the sands a gal-
lows had been erected in the morning.
Some hours passed, however, and
there was no occurrence either to grat-
ify the taste or arouse the attention of
(he pleasure seekers. The sun was
drawing near the verge of the hori-
zon, and the sea, assuming the most
intense shades of crimson, gold, and
purple, differed only from the magnifi-
cent canopy which it mirrored in that
it gleamed with a more wondrous
splendor, as if a veil of diamonds
floated and trembled over its broad ex-
panse. Not alone the sea, however,
bat the whole landscape was bathed in
the rich amber and purple fioods ot
light which on that evening streamed
down from the ever changing firma-
ment. The sublime mountains of Pico
Buivo and Pico Grande were crowned
with radiance, the graceful hills, with
their unnumbered giant flowers, their
gardens and vineyards, their rivulets
and waterfalls, glowed in the lustrous
beams, while the brown sands on the
semi-circular beach, reaching from the
picturesque basalts of 6araja5 to Pon-
ta da Cruz, glittered as if a shower of
diamond sparklets had fllllen on them.
At length loud and prolonged shouts,
mingling with the music of military
bandb, were heard approaching from
the town, and immediately ^ Bfter a
riotous and excited crowd, amongst
which appeared hundreds of masquers,
came pressing forward with extrava-
gant gestures, and driving before them
toward the gallows the ill-used don-
key and its foul and hideous burthen.
A general movement at once took
place among the boats, as the crew of
each sought to obtain the most favor-
able position for witnessing the revolt-
ing spectacle of hanging the effigy,
which was accomplished with all the
appalling ceremonies which might
have been deemed necessary, or which
the law might have demanded, had the
Governor of the Jews been there in
person.
The hatred of the exulting mob
being at length satiated, the figure was
cut down and cast into the sea, calling
forth a last volley of execmtion as it
rolled and floundered on the long blue
swells, or momentarily sunk out of
sight in the troughs, while the ebbing
tide carried it out to the deep.
CHAPTER v.
It may appear strange, perhaps even
incredible, that the lower classes of
Madeirans should have leisure, from
their humble duties and the labors
required by their daily necessities, to
attend at so many festas and public
ceremonies as we shall have occasion
to describe, and to indulge beside in
their extravagant fancy for golden or-
naments. But the seeming enigma is
easily solved. In the first plaee, the
men of the peasant class leave home
for Demara every year, remaining
away, at high wages, from six to eight
montlis, and then returning with money
sufficient to enable them to indulge
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276
Tinted Stetehei in Maddra.
their families daring the remainder of
the year in their oriental taste for fcstas
and finery. Secondly, almost all the
manual occupations connected with
agriculture devolve on the women, so
that the absence of either husbands,
sons, or brothers neither retards nor di-
minishes the autumn fruits. Added to
this, they employ themselves during the
evening hours, and at other seasons
when out-door labor is either impos-
sible or unnecessary, in those arts to
which female faculties are partic-
ularly appropriate. Nothing can ex-
ceed the exquisite beauty of the em*
broidery on cambric and lace executed
. by some oT the peasant women, and
which comes from their skilful fingers
so perfectly white and pure that it is
fit for the wear of a princess the
moment it is freed from the paper on
which the design had been traced, and
over which it had been worked.
Others, not possessing such delicate
tusto as the embroiderers, exert their
ingenuity in knitting shawls, and veils,
and pin-cushion covers, in black or
white thread, drawing on their own
imaginations for new and curious pat-
terns; while some few devote their
leisure time to netting black silk shawls
and scarfs, for which they obo invent
the designs..
The earnings of the women by the
sale of these articles to strangers are
considerable, and so completely at
their own disposal that they can inde-
pendently indulge, whenever opportu-
nities oficr, in their taste for ornament
and emotional spectacles. The wear
and tear, however, of such a mode of
life deprive them at an early period
of their native beauty, leaving them at
twenty-five little more than that grace
and freedom of. attitude which they
retain to the close of the longest life.
The men also have- theur handi-
crafls, and the emohunents arising
from their exercise ; and those of them
who are either too old or too young,
or too indolent, or too sincerely at-
tached to home to seek the toils of la-
bor and their reward in Demara, em-
ploy themselves in making articles of
inlaid wood, such as miting-desksy
work-boxes, paper-cutters, and pcn-
trays. The designs on many of these
give evidence of refined and skilful
taste, while others only indicate a fan-
tastic ingenuity. The most perfect of
these manufactures are eagerly secur-
ed for the Portuguese market by
agents, who generally make an honest
estimate of their value, while those of
less merit are set aside till some of the
visitors to Madeira proportion their
worth by their own abundant wealth.
This digression has been so long
that, instead of returning now to the
midnight wanderers mentioned at the
close of the lost chapter, I shall re-
quest my readers to imagine it ten
o'clock A.M. on Saturday morning,
and, consequently, two hours before
the commencement of the Sabbath of
the Madeirans. Once more the Praca
da Oonstitutionel is filled with aa
eager and picturesque throng — ^peaa*
ants, artisans, aristocrats, merchants,
mosqueraders, beggars, and curiosity-
venders all mingled together, and all,
either fix>m motives of piety or in-
quisitiveness, once more seeking ad-
mission to the cathedral, whose fine
proportions and gorgeous ornaments
are still veiled in thick darkness.
By some magic influence the
wealthier portion of the multitude
have all obtained entrance, and then,
the cathedral being full, the door is
forcibly closed. Directly this occurs
the crowd disperse, and while stran-
gcrs are still trying to unravel the
mystery of such unusual self-denial,
troops of little children and young
girls are entering the Fraca dressed
in white, wearing silver-tissue wings,
snowy festive wreaths, and canrying
on their arms beautiful baskets of
cane-work filled with ranunculuses
and lilies. Boys in embroidered tunics
and carrying silver censers follow
these, and presently numbers of these
men who had left that the children
might take up their proper positions,
now return, having in the meantime
provided themselves with fire-arms
and rockets.
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277
Wbile all these changes take pkce
without, preachers are succeeding
each other evcrj half hour in the pul-
pit within the cathedral. At length
one loud sonorous stroke on a gong,
or some other metallic substance, is
heard from the sacristj, announcing
the hour of noon, and then in an in-
stant, as if bj magic, the wooden
blinds without and the black curtains
within are gone from the windows, the
yeil which had concealed the altar
disappears, and a blaze of light fills
the edifice, displaying a scene re-
splendent with gold and gems, tapers
and flowers ; while simultaneously
with the pouring in of the light, thrill-
ing and enthusiastic voices siclging,
** Christ is risen! Christ is risen!"
join .the peal which, like a roar of
triumph, had burst from the organ.
When the multitude have sutficient*
ly recovered the stunning effects of
this scene to separate cause and
effect, they perceive that every pillar
and colnmn from pedestal to chapiter is
cnwreathed with gorgeous ranuncu-
luses and snowy lilies, mingled with
tlic rich green leaves of the allegro
campo, that crowns and gariands of
silver leaves and artificial dew-drops
are scattered profusely, yet with artis-
tic taste, over the high altar and the
various side altars; wbile pendent
from that masterpiece of art — ^the
sculptured ceiling of native juniper —
are rich chaplets of gold leaves and
gems, seeming as if ready to fall on
and crown the heads of the worship-
pers.
After a short interval, the bishop,
in dazzling robes, wearing his jewelled
mitre, and followed by a train of
priests in gorgeous vestments, is seen
standing in front of the high altar,
which on this occasion is covered with
a wliite satin cloth, worked In silver,
while huge candclabras, inlaid with
precious stones, gleam in front of the
recesses known as the diaconicum
and the prothesis. In the former are
kept th<! vessels belonging to the altar,
and in the other the bread and wine
used at the celebration of the mass.
A short mass having been perform-
ed by priests and choir, the great door
is opened, and the people crowding in-
to the Praca are met by the little chil-
dren and young girls strewing flowers
over the streets, by the graceful
youths swinging silver censers and
filling the ambient air with light col-
umns of costly incense; by bands
playing the most inspiriting airs ; by
masquers and others in oidinary cos-
tume sending off rockets and Roman
candles, and by hundreds of artisans
bearing fire-arms, the sharp report of
which, mingling with the booming of
cannon, the braying of trumpets, and
the soft chimes of bells, filled
the air with a most indescribable
din.
In a few moments, however, a
cloud overshadows the scene—- a cloud
which comes not silently but with a
whirring, joyful noise, and with the
beat of fleet pinions. Every one
looks up, and behold, there are the
doves — doves in hundreds, sent off by
nuns, and monks, and other devotees,
to prochiim in their broad-winged
flight the welcome news that ^ Christ
is risen !**
Having witnessed all this, and
while the joyful excitement is still
unabated, you enter your home,
imagining that nothing of the peculiar
usages or customs of a place in which
you are a stranger can follow you
there, save the sounds which float in
through your shaded windows ; but
an agreeable surprise awaits you.
The Madeirans are too gentle and
affectionate in their dispositions to for^
get in a time of such universal joy
even the stranger who may differ
from them in religion, and, according-
ly, yoii find awaiting you a little girl,
neatly dressed, and bearmg in her
hands a dish covered with a white
lace veil. She has been sent by the
nuns, and delivers her present with a
suitable message.
Uncovering the dish you see a
wreath of flowers round the edge, and
in the centre a little lamb made of
sugar, lying amidst almond comfits of
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The OaOidic PulUeaHon Society.
evexy delicate shade of Magenta, blue,
and violet A wreath of sugar-flow-
ers crowns the head of the lamb, and
a similar one graces its neck.
With this picturesque gift you may
sometimes receive a present of royal
and heavenly bacon. These
singularly-named dishes are com-
posed of eggs and sugar. The first
is passed through a hair sieve, falling
in a heap of rings and curls on the
dish; the other is made into thick
slices, and lies on the dish drowned
in sweet syrup.
[OBIOIHAL.]
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY.*
NoTHiKc^ in the history of the hu-
man mind can be more obvious, even
to a superficial observer, than the
&ct that every age has possessed
Intellectual features peculiar to itself,
growing oat of its own particular
need. Thus we find the mentAl ac-
tivity of one period setting in a strong
current toward moral and metaphysi-
cal speculation and of another toward
scientific discovery. When one has
(obtained predominance, the other has
been measurably neglected.
At the present time, however, the
&ct is otherwise. The diligence
heretofore manifested in the conquest
of special subjects is now diffused
over a greater area ; and the ener-
gies of the mind, instead of being con-
xentrated upon the profound and ex-
haustive knowledge of a few branch-
es of learning, are directed to the
acquisition of a general knowledge of
many. Hence, popular instruction to-
day, to be successful, must be simpli-
fied and condensed, rendered suitable
to popular apprehension and fixed at
a point demanding the least amount
of mental labor and promising imme-
diate and tangible results.
It would need but little argument
to show how these conditions of
knowledge have been brought about.
The vast development and wonderful
* ProspectuB of The Catholic Pablication Society.
Tract No. 1, " Indiffercntigm In Religion and
ItB Uemcdy." No. S, " The Pica of bincerity."
Ko. 3, *• Tno Forlorn Hope." No. 4, *' Prisoner
of Cayonne."
discoveries of science within the last
century, the increase of commercial
and mechanical industry, the settle-
ment and growth of America with its
vast resources of wealtli, are sufficient
to account for a material change in the
intellectual status of Christendom.
Science by increasing the means of
human enjoyment has inci*eased the
extent of human wants ; these, by the
force of habit in one class and the
stimulus of ambition in another, have
become in time absolute necessities.
Thus men engage in eager strife to
attain what all unite in esteeming es-
sential to human happiness.
Now since our nature has moral
and intellectual longings — ^however
subdued by the engrossing occupations
of active life — which are still absolute
and imperative, up to a certain point,
it would seem tjiat instruction to suit
the exigency of the times must be
conveyed in such a manner and by
such means as the opportunities and
inclinations of mankind require. Yoa
maj easily gain attention to truth by
a concise, simple mode of addressing
the intellect, demanding but httle time
and not very severe thought, when
you ^cannot secure it by presenting
the subject in a more profound way, by
more elaborate proofs or by more sub-
tle and comprehensive views. If
knowledge, therefore, cannot bcim-
paited in such a way as to suit both
the capacity and convenience of men,
it can rarely be communicated at alL
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Ihe CathoUc PuhUeoHon Society*
279
What IB deemed the most important
parsait of a maa'a life is that to
which he will pay the greatest atten«
tion. If he cannot attain mental im-
provement hj means he considers
easj and agreeable, the probabilities
arc that in a great majority of cases
he will neglect iL Ilere, however,
there is but little difficulty. When-
ever a public necessity is fully recog-
nized, the means of supplying it will not
be long wanting. Hence, we see at the
present time every art and science
reduced to its elementary principles
and presented to the public mind in
phun rudimentary lessons, so that,
while comparatively few are deeply
versed in any one subject, the great moss
of thinkers are well informed in the gen-
eral outlines of many.
What has been said with regard to
matters more strictly intellectual may
be affirmed with almost equal truth of
such as are purely moral. You may
instruct a hundred men in their duty
by means of a tract of ten pages, set-
ting forth incentives to virtue in a co-
gent argument or forcible appeal,
where you would scarcely be able to
obtain a hearing from one by means
of an elaborate essay on ethics, how-
ever able or convincing. Now, it is
evident that a duty, carrying all the
weight of deep obligation, rests upon
those who ha^e the higher interests
of mankind at heart to provide for
them the means of moral and intellect-
ual improvement; and not only so,
but to iiynish it in such a shape as
shall be most acceptable and produc-
tive of the most hopeful and lasting
results. That such an obligation ex-
ists, is apparent from the general
establishment of public and common
schools and from the numerous ef-
forts constantly made to disseminate
knowledge among the masses. The
ends here proposed, however, are ani-
mated by a sentiment of general be-
nevolence or political expediency.
If, then, we owe to society the moral
and intellectual advancement of the
people from motives of public interest,
surely our obligations are not dimin-
ished by those higher considerationB
which readily suggest themselves to
a religious mind.
We are now prepared for the ques-
tion, Are we doing our duty in this
matter ? But to bring it nearer home
and to address the more immediate
circle of our readers, Are we Catholic
Chiistians doing what we know to be
required of us in the education of out
people with sufficient faithfulness to
satisfy an enlightened conscience?
Engrossed in more selfish pursuits,
have we not rather neglected this
business and turned it over to others
who are only more responsible than
ourselves ? We speak to Catholic lay-
men when we say it is greatly to be
feared «hat we are not wholly blame-
less. And here one word as regards
the relative positions of clergy and
laity in the church and their mutual ^
want of co-operation in such things
as may fairly come under the charge
of both.
Every one knows that among all
sects of Protestants the laity perform
no inconsiderable ^amou^t' of labor
and share no little respohgSbility with
the pastor. As teacl^^n^ and super-
intendents of Sunday-schools, leaders
of Bible classes, heads of missionary
societies and the like, their influence
is much felt and their usefulness
highly appreciated by their co-relig-
ionists. Among Catholics, where the
priests have generally three times the
ministerial duty of Protestants to per-
form, the pastor of a church gets little
or no aid from the laity. His mission
may extend over twenty miles of
territory, and he is expected not only
to administer the sacraments to both
sick and well, but to do all that is nec-
essary in the religious training of the
children. In fact, the instruction of
the young is generally looked upon as
belonging peculiarly to his office.
And yet it cannot be denied that well-
disposed laymen of modenito intelli-
gence can at times, acting under his
advice and counsel, very materially
assist tlie overworked priest without
trenching in the least upon his vo-
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cation. The benefit of such assist-
ance could not but be sensibly felt
in those parishes which receive the
services of a priest in common with
others. In the more thinly populated
districts of our country the want of
priests is a crying necessity, known
and felt by every prelate in the land.
It is morally impossible after mass said
on Sunday morning, at two points
perhaps fifteen miles apart, that the
priest can preach a sermon and attend
to other duties arising from the urgent
and imperative wants of his cure.
He cannot administer holy baptism,
hear confessions, visit the sick, bury
the dead, say mass, recite liis office,
attend to church temporalities (no
small affair in some instances of it-
self) and yet find time to give the
requisite instruction to his people.
We can but be aware that regular
pulpit instruction is a most effectual
mode of promoting piety and one of
which we ought not to be deprived.
We i^equire at least all the agencies
Ibr this purpose enjoyed by others.
The people, too, .are eager for it.
Mark the strict attention with which
Catholic congregations follow every
word of the preacher, and mark, too,
the effect of an earnest and appropri-
ate sermon ! It is plainly visible up-
on the faces of old and young. In
addition to this, the command given
in Holy Scripture to preach is imper-
ative. Are we not, then, bound to
more than ordinary exertion to com-
ply with it ?
Such, unfortunately, is the prone-
ness of men to forget their religious
duties that they require precept upon
precept, often renewed and diligently
urged upon their minds. Surrounded
by temptation, forgetfulness of the
great practical truths of religion is not
strange in the absence of direct spirit-
ual teaching. The sacraments of the
church, especially the holy sacrifice of
the altar, undoubtedly do much to ar-
rest spiritual decline in the people ; but
no one will deny that frequent ap-
peals to the conscience, and judicious
instruction in the principles of Catho*
lie faith and morality, however con-
veyed to the understanding, are valu-
able aids even to the worthy reception
of the sacraments.
It is to supply the deficiencies here
aimed at that this enterprise, with the
hearty approbation of several prelates,
has been undertaken, which, if it ^hall
receive the cordial support of the
Catholic pulblic, will produce results
the extent of which is not to be easily
foreseen. Those persons who have at-
tempted the task are actuated with
a settled determination that it shall
succeed ; and it is not to be be-
lieved, in a matter of so great
moment, that they are to be lnh
without the substantial help of Cath-
olics throughout the country. A
society has been fonned, and its work
has already begun, styled ** The Catho-
lic Publication Society," to which the
attention of our readers was called in
our last number. This society pro-
poses to issue short tracts and pam-
phlets conveying that species of instruc-
tion required by Catholics in the
most entertaining form, so as to en-
gage the attention, affect the hearts,
and suit the wants of all classes. To
none would such a blessing be more
welcome than to the poor, who arc in
an especial manner, &om Ihcir very
defcncelessness, under our protection.
These, though they may not read
themselves, can listen to their chil-
dren, taught at school, who can read
for them. Thus, in a simple narra-
tive or dialogue somev important prae-
tical truths may be impressed upon
the mind which shall do good service
in a moment of temptation. It is by
these means that other denominations
are instructing their people and pro-
ducing an infiuenco on many outside
of their own communions.
The number of Catholics in this
country, abready large, is constantly
increasing, and unless we do some-
thing of the kind here suggested,
others will attempt it in our stead.
Keligious tracts from Protestant socie-
ties are flying over the countiy like
leaves before the autumn wind, and it
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Tie CathoUc PujOieaiUm Societif.
281
would not be remaricable if oar own
people were brought within the range
of their infiaence.
Beside this, there is another field
in which we have not only the right
to work| bnt which we cannot,
or at least ought not to, neglect
There are thousands of young
men in the land of fair educa-
tion who, impelled by necessity ot
ambition, fiock to the great commer-
cial centres. These, careless in mat^
tera of religion, having no settled
principles of fiuth, often called upon
to confront great dangers and tempta-
tions, seldom attend any place of wor*
ship ; or if so, only to relieve the en-
nui of Sunday. These are souls to be
cared for. They need instruction up-
on cardinal points of the Christian
faith. They may have received some-
thing akin to it in early youth, but it
has been forgotten. They are diffi-
cult to reach, and in no way can
access to* them be gained more
readily than by the publications of
this society. A few words of earnest
advice, a hint as to the end of a
vicious career, or a warning of the
uncertainty of life, may excite reflec-
tion, and reflection is the first step to-
ward reformation.
At a time like the present of vast
intellectual activity, when myriads of
books arc produced on all subjects
embroeing every description of teach-
ing, there must be abroad not only a
great mass of error, but a great num-
ber of unstable minds ready to receive
it. Men imperfectly educated, striv-
ing to master subjects far beyond
their comprehension, trained to no
logical modes of thought, restrained
by no respect for authority, confound-
ing scepticism with freedom of
inquiry, are often led by a dan-
gerous curiosity to examine certain
fimdamcnUil questions which lie at the
root oi'allknowledgc, and which can only
be safely handled by the most learned
and profound. Such is the class of
persons pecitliarly to be benefited by
Catholic teaching. A theology posi-
tive and satisfying to the soul, that
sets wholesome limits to human
knowledge, and is able to give
adequate answers to great social and
moral problems, is best adapted to
impress minds of this class. The
reading of three pages has before
now convinced a man of the error of
his whole philosophical system, and
may do it again.
The spirit of Catholic charity takes
in all sorts and conditions of men.
The mission of the church is well de*
fined, and may bo summed up in one
word, namely, to convert the world to
God; and as every day brings its
blessings upon labors that have been
already undertaken to secure this ob-
ject, we have reason to hope that new
efforts and fresh zeal, well directed,
will produce abundant fruits.
We cannot close this notice of the
Catholic Publication Society without
adverting to one means of usefulness
which we think it is especially fitted
to promote.
Such has been the virulence of hos-
tility to the Catholic religion in days
gone by, such the monstrous credulity
and unreasoning prejudice of its foes,
that it is not surprising to find a true
knowledge of the Catholic faith ex-
ceedingly rare. Within the last twen-
ty years, however, a great change has
taken place. The general blamoless-
ness of life in those who honor their
religion, fidelity to social and political
duties, and charity toward our enemies,
have not been without precious results.
At the present moment religious big-
otry can no longer animate the hatred
alike of wise and simple. One who
comes prepared to censure, must come
prepared also for the conflict of truth.
Statements, facts, and opinions ai-e
closely scrutinized. Everything is
not now taken upon trust. The atti-
tude of controversy begets caution.
Now, what odvantap^es may we not
hope to reap from this one isolated
fact ? A fair hearing for the true ex-
position of Catholic doctrine ; not doc-
trine carefully prepared with exterior
show of fairness and then imputed to
OS for the purpose of being more easily
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282
The Catholic PuiUcatian Society*
destroyed ; but of the truths of Chris-
tianity as taught by the church for ages.
When we can gain the unprejudiced
ear of the world, truly we may begin
to hope for the day of Christian
unity.
To disarm prejudice is of itself a work
worthy of special effort. We can hope
to make no great progress in persuad-
ing men to Ibten to the voice of Ciiristian
truth until we can convince them that
our teaching rests upon the basis of
sound reason. Those j(7ho have been
told that to embrace Catholic doctrine
is to 6un*ender at discretion all the
powers of the mind, and even the evi-
dence of the senses, must be unde-
ceived before they can be expected to
make any progress in the impartial
investigation of it. But it is chiefly
among Catholics themselves that we
predict the greatest success for this
association. Of our own people there
are very many who need that instruc-
tion which hitherto we have not had
the adequate means of providing for
them. We all feel how important it
is that every Catholic should be thor-
oughly intelligent upon all that he is
required to believe, and the reasons
that exist for requiring it. In every
class of society Catholics are called
upon to render an ac«H>unt of the faith
that is in them, to explain the doctrines
and ceremonies of their religion, and
when unable to do so, they both suffer
the evil consequences of this ignorance
themselves and, by it, retard the spread
of the knowledge of the truth among
those whom the church is equally
commissioned to enlighten, guide, and
save.
We have advocated the aims of the
Catholic Publication Society at greater
length than we at first intended, but
feel that in consideration of their im-
portance we have not said too much.
It is impossible to over-estimate the
good this society may, with God's
blessing, be made io accomplish. To
make it effective, its organization
throughout the United States should
be co-extensive with the church itself.
Our work in this country is getting
ahead of us. The religious needs of
our people are rapidly increasing. . If
we are not up and doing in proper
season, we shall find that during our
repose the enemy has been sowing
tares among the wheat The Iiarvest
is great, but the laborers few. Let'
us all, then, as Ood gives us grace to
know our duty, take this matter earn-
estly to heart, and let us not suffer
under the reproach of denying to our
fellow- Christians all the spiritual food
they are willing to receive.
What is here proposed is truly a
missionary work. Efforts of this kind
can only be successful by zealous la-
bor and generous support ; and we sin-
cerely hope, as the plan by which funds
are to be raised becomes generally
known, the Catholic public will not
deny liberal aid to so worthy a cause.
Almost every one can lend a helping
hand. It will be seen by reference to
the Society*s Prospectus that the sum
of five dollars constitutes b member
for one year. Parents could hardly
gratify their children more than by
subscribing for them. It gives young
folks the idea that they amount to
something in this world when they
find their own names enroUed on the
books of a religious society. The sum
of thirty dollars constitutes a member
for ^ye years and of fifty dollars a
life member. Patrons of one hund-
red and fivQ hundred dollars will not
be wanting amongst so many generous
and appreciative Catholics as there
are in the cou ntry . A number of these
last have already come forward in the
city of New York, and subscribed that
amount to constitute a fund to enable
the society to accomplish its mission-
ary work, and we are sure that this
call will elicit a similar ready response
from many in other cities and towns
who wait only to know what to do for
the advancement of their holy faith
in order to do it. Your parish priest
is willing to spend and be spent in
your service. Show your gratitude
by making him a member of one of
the above classes. He will accept it
from you as a beautiful testimonial of
Digitized by CjOOQIC
New PuhUoations.
yoar esteem and respect. If" has also
been suggested bj an eminent prelate
and patron of the society that it would
greatly promote its success if a cler-
gyman should be appointed in each
diocese by the ecclesiastical authority,
to take chaise of the society's interests,
and to act as its agent.
We trust as the enterprise becomes
more extensively known that gener-
ous hearts will be found to feel a
voluntary interest in this work and
prompted to aid it without further
solicitation. Let it not be forgotten
that one of the objects of this society
is to supply religious reading to the
inmates of hospitals, almshouses, asy-
lums, and prisons — a class of persons
whose spiritual welfare requires to be
specially looked after. Benevolence
has no more sacred field than among
this unfortunate class ; and we hope
that those who have so often proved
themselves worthy of their faith by
relieving the physical wants of their
fellow-creatures, will not be fbund
indifferent to the spiritual. In shorty
what we desire of our fellow-Cath-
iolics b, that an interest in this matter
should become general throughout
the country ; and that each one
should assist as he is able, either
alone or in conjunction with his neigh-
bors. JSeveral prelates have already
become patrons of this society, and
the venerable Archbishop of Balti-
more has honored it by contributing
the first tract ^
While treating of th^' practical
part of this subject, we desire to say
that priests residing in the remote
parts of the country can be furnished
with the society's publications on
precisely the same terms as those
living near at hand. They will be
supplied at prices never exceeding costy
postage prepaid. All Catholics, in
every section of our land, have an
equal interest in its success.
Upon the co-operation of the clergy
we, of course, confidently rely. To
aid them in their arduous duties is
one of the objects of the society. It
will be ^ most powerful auxiliary to
the priesthood in spreading instruc-
tion among our own people and the
truths of the Catholic faith among
all classes of our community. If
they should ask us what w^e would
have them do, we reply — ^^ Reflect
upon the immense importance of this
enterprise to the souls of men ; and,
when you have comprehended what
a vast work of usefulness lies before
this society, your own intelligence
and good ^spositions will best suggest
the manner in which you can most
successfully lend your aid."
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Thb Church op England a Portion
OP Christ's Onb Holy Catholic
Church, and a Means op Bestorino
Visible Unity. An Eirenicon, in a
Letter to the Author of " The Chris-
tian Year." By E, B. Pus^, D.D.,
Begins Professor of Hebrew and
Canon of Christ Church, Oxford.
New York: D. Appleton & Co.
1806. (Reprint from the English
edition.)
Dr. Puscy's "Eirenicon" has been ex-
tensively eommented on by the Catholic '
press both in England ond on the Con-
tinent, Some of his critics have regard-
ed it with favorable eyes, as a sign of
approach toward the Catholic Church,
and others with marked hostility, as an
evidence of determined opposition. Wo
concur with the former class most de-
cidedly. The most remarkable of all the
answers it has called forth is that of Dr.
Kcwman, republished in our April num-
ber, and since then issued in a separate
form, with all the notes, by Mr. Ko-
hoe. Dr. Newman confines himself to
one point, however — the defence of the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
284
New PuKicatitmi.
Calbolic doctrine concerning the Bless-
ed Virgin. The ** Dublin Review " has
given a very able criticism on the por-
tion which relates to the attitude of the
Church of England. An admirable ar-
ticle has also appeared in the learned
Jesuit periodical, ** Etudes Religieuses,"
published at Paris, which is especially
valuable for its exposition of the doc-
trinal authority of the Holy See. As a
general answer to Dr. Pusey^s specific
proposals concerning the way of recon-
ciliation with Rome, we consider P.
Lockhart's article, in the " Weekly Reg-
ister," as the most judicious and satis-
factory. The following letter, from Dr.
Pusey to the editor, shows how he him-
self appreciated this answer :
liETTER FBOH DB. PU8ET ON HIS HOPB8
OF REUlflON.
ToTHB Editor or tbbWbbkltSipiiitxb:
Chbist Chubch, Ozfobd, Nov. 22, 18B5.
Sm : I thank you, with all my heart, for
your kind-hearted and appreciative review
of my " Eirenicon." I am tbankful that you
have brought out the main drift and ob-
jects of it, what, in my mind, underlies the
whole, to show that, in my conviction,
there is no insurmountable obstacle to the
union of (you will forgive the tenns,
though you must reject them) the Roman,
Qreek,and Anglican communions. I have
long been convinced that there is nothing
in the Council of Trent which could not
be explained satisfactorily to us, if it were
explained authoritatwelp—i. «., by the
Roman Church itself, not by individual
theologians only. This involves the con-
viction, on my side, that there is nothing
in our Articles which cannot be explained
rightly, as not contradicting any things
held to he de fide in the Roman Church.
The great body of the faith is held alike
by both ; in those subjects referred to in
cur Art. XXll. I believe (to use the lan-
guage of a very eminent ItaUan nobleman)
"your [our] maximum and our [your]
minimum mi^ht be found to harmonize.
In regard to details of explanation, it was
not my office, as beicg a priest only, in-
vested with no authority, to draw them
out. But I wished to indicate their possi-
bility. You are relatively under the same
circumstances. But I be'ieve that the
hope which you have held out, that the
authorities in the Roman communion
miffht hold that " a reunion on the prin-
ciples of I^ossuet would bo better than a
perpetual schism," will unlock many a
pent-up longing — pent-up on the ground
of the ^^Y^parent hopelessness that Rome
would accord to the English Church any
terms which It could accept.
May I add, that nothing was further
from my wish than to write anything
which should be painful to those in your
communion? A defence, indeed, of necc^ssi-
ty, involves some blame ; since, in a quar-
rel, the blame must be wholly on the one
side or on the other, or divided ; and a
defence implies that it is not wholly on
the side defended. But having smoothed
down, as I believe honestly, every diffi-
culty I could, to my own people, I thought
that it would not be right toward them
not to state where I conceive the real dif-
ficulty to lie. Nor could your authorities
meet our difficulties unless they knew
them. You will think it superfluous that
I desired that none of this system, which
is now matter of " pious opinion," should,
lil^e the doctrine of the immaculate con-
ception be made de fide. But, in the
view of a hoped-for reunion, everything
which you do affects us. Let me say, too,
that I did not write as a reformer, but on
the defensive. It is not for us to prescribe
to Italians or Spaniards what they shall
hold, or how they shall express their pious
opinions. All which wo wish is to havo
it made certain by authority that we
should not, in case of reunion, be obliged
to hold them ourselves. Least of all did
I think of imputing to any of the writers
whom I quoted thai they ** took from our
Lord any of the love which they gave to
his mother." I was intent only on de-
scribing the system which I believe is the
great obstacle to reunion. I had not the
least thought of criticising holy men who
held it.
As it is of moment that I should not be
misunderstood by my own people, let me
add that I have-not intended to express
any opinion about a visible head of the
church. We readily acknoukdge the pri-
mary of the Biehop of Borne ; tJie beannge
of tluU primacy upon other loecU churches
toe believe to be a matter of ecclesiaetieal,
not of divine law ; but neither ii there any- '
tiling in tfie supremacy in itself to which
we should object. Cur only fear is that it
should, through the appointment of one
bishop, involve the reception of that prac-
tical ^U(Mt-authoritative system which is,
I believe, alike the cause and (forgive me)
the justification in our eyes of our remain-
hig apart. ' ,
But, although I intended to be on the
defensive, I thank you most warmly for
that tenderness which enabled you to see .
my aim and objects throughout a long
and necessarily miscellaneous work. And
I believe that the way in which you have
treated this our bond fide " endeavor to
find a basis for reunion, on the principle
debated between Archbishop Wake and
the Gallicnn divines two centuries ago,"
will, by rekindling hope, give a strong im-
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Sew PiMieaiiong.
285
pulse towud tbat reani(m. Despair is
Blill. If hope is revived in the English
mind that Christendom xaoj again be
united, rekindled hope will ascend in the
more fervent prayer to him who " maketh
men to be of one mind in an hoase," and
our prayers will not return unheard for
want of love. Your obedient servant,
E. R PUSET.
This letter, with others which have
appeared from time to time, and the
whole course of Dr. Posey's conduct,
prove^ in our estimation, that he is act-
ing with sincere good faith and good-
will toward the Catholic Church. The
long list of objections and charges
which his bool^ contains, and which
has irritated some Catholics so much,
proves only that Dr. Pusey's mind is
troubled and bewildered, but not that
his heart is malevolent The doctor is
a very learned man, and a very deep
thinker, but in the mystic or contem-
plative order. He is not either rapid or
clear in his intellectual conceptions, nor
is he precise and methodical in the ar-
rangement of the subject of which he
treats. He represents the best school
of English evangelical and scriptural
divines, with the addition of extreme-
ly high-church doctrines. No one can
qaestion his devout and deeply relig-
ious spirit, the extraordinary purity and
goodness of his life, or the zeal and
ability with whieh he has labored for
fifty years to propagate several of the
most fundamental Catholic dogmas.
His essay on baptismal regeneration is
the most thorough and exhaustive one
in our language, and we have never met
with anything equal to it in any other.
It has had an incalculable influence
over the theological mind of the Epis-
copalian communion in England and
America, in laying the foundation of a
right belief in sacramental grace, and
thus preparing the way for the recep-
tion of the entire Catholic system. The
same may be said, in part, respecting
the doctrine of the real presence, the
authority of tradition, and other points.
We look on him as a kind of avarU
courier not only of high-churchmen,
bat of orthodox Protestants generally,
laboring his way with difficulty through
thickets and morasses back to the Cath-
olic Church, by dint of study, medita*
tion, and prayer. That he has come so
near, bringing with him the sympathy
of so large a number, is a sign that an
extraordinary grace of the Holy Spirit
is drawing the most widely separated
members of the Christian family back
to unity and integrity of foith and com-
munion. We request our readers to
take note of the fact that Dr. Pusey,
boldly and without censure, maintains
that the articles of his church can and
ought to be explained in conformity
with the decrees of the Council of Trent.
He proposes these decrees as the basis of
reconciliation. That there should still
remain certain difficulties, preposses-
sions, and misconceptions in his mind,
is not strange ; and while these exist as
a bar to a complete and cordial recep-
tion of the entire Catholic system, there
is no other way for him to do but to
state them as strongly as possible, so as
to bring them under discussion. There
are only two of these difficulties which
are formidable. One relates to the of-
fice of the Blessed Virgin as Mother of
the Incarnate Word and Queen of Saints ;
the other, to that of the Pape as Vicar
of Christ and supreme Bishop of the
Catholic Churoh. A critical notice^ves
no opportunity for discussing such
great and grave questions, which de-
mand an elaborate volume. The pre-
lates and theologians of the church will
no doubt give them the full and ample
treatment which they deserve. We
simply note the fact tliat the whole
ground of discussion is reduced in fact,
by Dr. Pusey, to the nature and extent
of the Papal supremacy, on which de-
pends the definition of the body actu-
ally constituting the Ecdesia Docens or
teaching church, and the dogmatic
value of the decisions made by the Ro-
man Church with the concurrence of
the bishops in her communion. It is
evident that the concession of the su-
premacy claimed by the Roman Church
involves the admission of all the dog-
matic decisions of the councils ratified
by the popes as ecumenical, from the
Eighth Council to the Council of Trent ;
together with the dogmatic definition
of the immaculate conception, and the
condemnations of heretical propositions
which have issued from the Holy See
and are universally acknowledged and
enforced by all bishops in her com-
munion. There is but one point, there-
fore, really in controversy with the
party of Dr. Pusey, as there i| but one
with the so-called Greek Church, viz. :
the^apal supremacy.
It will be noticed by every attentive
reader that Dr. Pusey partially admits
Digitized by CjOOQIC
288
Ntw PtMicaiiang.
this doctrine already, and shows himself
open to argument on the subject. On
the other great question, respecting the
prerogatives of the Blessed Virgin Mary,
he appears to show himself also dis-
posed to listen to explanations tending
to remove his misconceptions. In a
letter to Dr. Wordsworth, published in
the "Weekly Register," of Jan. 37, Dr.
Pusey says :
" In regard to ' the immaculate con-
ception,* ... I may, however, take
this opportunity of saying that I under-
stand that Roman divines hold that all
which is defined is, that the soul of the
Blessed Virgin was infused pure into
her body, and was preserved from both
guilt and taint of original sin for those
merits of our Lord, by whom she was
redeemed, and that nothing is defined
as to * active conception,' i. «., that of
her body. In this case, the words, * in
primo instanti conceptionis suce,' must
De used in a different sense from that in
which St. Thomas uses it of our Lord.
The immaculateness of the conception
would then differ in degree, not in
kind, from that of Jeremiah, who was
sanctified in his mother's womb."
It must be borne in mind that Dr.
Pusey finds no fault with the language
of the Latin or Greek missals and brevi-
aries respecting the Blessed Virgin.
Let the quotations from the Greek
books in the notes to Dr. Newman's
letter be carefully examined, and it
will be seen that they fully sustain the
common Catholic belief and practice.
We have been ourselves fully acquaint-
ed with the doctrine and practice of the
children of St. Alphonsus Liguori, who
are considered as having carried devo-
tion to the Blessed Virgin to the great-
est extreme. We can, therefore, give our
testimony that there is nothing in it
which is not identical in principle with
the prescribed devotions of the missal
and breviary. The notion of there
being a substitution of the Blessed Vir-
gin for Christ, or an overshadowing of
the supreme worship and love of God,
anywhere in the Catholic Church, is a
mere chimsBra, a spectral illusion of an
alarmed imagination. We know what
St Bernard, St Alphonsus, and other
approved writers have said. There is
nothing there beyond the language of
Bt Ephrem, the fathers of Ephesus, the
Greek liturgies, the Salve Eegina^ lUffina
Ccdi, Ave Domina, and litany of Loret-
to.
The array of quotations which Dr.
Pusey has made Irom Catholic writers
will be found, on critical examination,
to contain nothing formidable. One of
the works from which he quotes, that
of Oswald, was placed on the Index in
1855, and retratted , by the author.
Some of the other passages are from
works of a highly imaginative charac-
ter, and contam figurative or poetic ex-
pressions easily susceptible ot an erro-
neous sense when read by persons not
intimately acquainted with the Catholic
religion. We think with Dr. Newman,
with the late Archbishop Kenrick, and
with many other wise and holy men,
that it is very ill-judged to adopt such
phraseology when it is sure to beget
bewilderment and misunderstanding.
We have more need to teach the solid
dogmas of faith than to propagate
Eious opinions, and cultivate exotic,
ot-house fiowers of piety. Dr. New-
man has done more to establish a solid
devotion to the Blessed Virgin, by his
brief theological essay, than all the
fanciful and rhetorical rhapsodies ever
penned. We can forgave Dr. Pusey for
getting bewildered in perusing such a
quantity of poetry, accustomed as he is
to Hebrew and other dry studies ; but
we regret that he has displayed such an
assortment of obscure and dark sayings
to bewilder others. We acquit him
cheerfully of all blame for it, but we
nevertheless cannot help giving our de-
liberate judgment that ho has put forth
one of the most mischievous books,
to ordinary and imperfectly informed
minds, that has ever proceeded from
the English press. We cannot by any
means recommend it to general perusal,
but those who do read it Avill do well
to take its statements, on many points^
with great caution. We will conclude
our remarks upon it with noting some
of its serious, albeit unintentional, mis*
statements :
1 . The correspondence between Arch-
bishop Wake and Du Pin was not a
bond fide negotiation between that pre-
late and orthodox Gallicans, but with
Jansenists, in view of a coalition against
the Roman Church.
2. There is no proof of any ratifica-
tion ever having been made by Borne
of any ordinations according to the An-
glican ordinal.
3. It is a mistake to say that extreme
unction is given only to those whose
life is despaired o£ It may be given
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Sew PuHieatiam.
287
in all cases where a probable danger of
death is feared.
4. It is not admitted by Catholic
writers that Bnssia was converted by
missionaries separated from the com-
munion of the Roman Church.
5. It is a mistake to suppose that the
prelates of tho United States gave no
response to the Holy See respecting the
definition of the immaculate concep-
tion. The question was discussed m a
full council, and the judgment of' the
prelates was transmitted to Rome in
favor of the definition. .The Blessed'
Virgin, under the title of the Immacu-
late Conception, was proclaiflied, by a
decree of the prelates, the patroness of
the Church of tho United States, and
the Sunday within tho octave of the
feast has Deen made one of the princi-
pal solemnities of the year.
Finally, a complete misconception of
the whole question respecting Papal
infallibility and its limits underlies and
vitiates all tho statements of tbo book
on that subject. There is no dissension
or doubt cxising in the Catholic epis-
copate in regard to any definition of
faith, or any doctrinal decisions whose
acceptance is exacted by tho Uoly See
under pain of censure. The Pope and
the bishops, as the infallible Kcdeda
DocenSj are a unit. What one teaches
and requires to be believed, all teach
alike. The unity of faith in the epis-
copate was never so palpable a fact as
it is at the present moment. So far as
relates to disciplinary authority over
doctrinal matters, the Roman Church is
recognized in universal Catholic law as
the court of ultimate appeal, and all
questions respecting the interpretation
of the definitions of the Council of Trent,
which are the great standard of ortho-
doxy, were expressly reserved to it by
the bull of confirmation, with the assent
of the council itself, and by the decree
De Recipiendum etc. There is no possi-
bility, therefore, of negotiating with the
Catholic Church, or any ijortion of it,
for reconciliation, except through the
head of the church. Tho conditions
of reconciliation are plain and distinct,
and they will never be modified so far
as relates to doctrine or essential disci-
pline. Explanation, courtesy, benig-
nant interpretation, full liberty in re-
gard to mere theological opinions, will
be cheerfully accorded ; but no more.
It is vain to expect any propositions
for reconciliation to come from the
hierarchy of the Protestant Episcopal
Church of England or America. We
advise those who desire tho reunion of
Christendom to consider, carefully, the
claims of thaRoman Church, and ii' they
are convince<l of their validity to e£fcct
their own personal union with the
mother and mistresS^of churches. If
they are not, we do not wish them to
come' to us, either singly or in a body.
Those who really become Catholics will
desire to become members of the Cath-
olic Church as she is, and not of a re-
formed body, conglomerated from the
Catholic, Russian, and Anglican church-
es, and will not thank us to concede an
iota of principle. Strict, dogmatic uni-
ty, and unconditional submission to the
supreme authority of the See of Peter,
is the only condition of union in eccle-
siastical fellowship. The Greeks them-
selves have exacted that the question
of dogma should be settled first, before
any propositions of intercommunion
with Anglicans can be entertained ; so
that the hope of obtaining recognition
from them, with the question of dogma
left open, has been overthrown. Our
other Protestant brethren have em-
broiled themselves worse than ever
over their projects for an anti- Catholic
union of sects. There is not the faint-
est chance of any reunion of Christians
except by a return to the centre of
unity.
We are glad to see that Dr. Pusey
has been passing some time with Cath-
olic bishops in France, and that there
is a probability of his going to Rome to
confer with the Holy Father. We trust
tho learned and venerable doctor will
do so, and that he will find his doubts
and perplexities settled at tho Seat of
Truth, tho chair of the Prince of the
Apostles, whence all unity takes its
rise.
Notes on Doctbinal and SprarruAL
Subjects. By tho late Frederick
William Faber, D.D., etc. Vol. I.
Mysteries and Festivals. London;
Richardson & Son, 1866. New York:
Lawrence Kehoe.
Father Faber was a man of cultivat-
ed mind, rich imagination, high po-
etic gifts, exuberant sensibility, and
ardent devotion. His life was rich in
good works and his death deeply're-
gretted. In a literary point of view we
consider his poetry as the best portion
Digitized by CjOOQIC
288
New PuUieatians.
of the products of his fertile mind and
pen. His spiritual works, however, have
attained a great popularity and a wide
circulation, and no doubt hare done and
will do great good to that large class
who love and require instructions deeply
imbued with sentiment and emotion.
The present volnino consists of sketch-
es of instructions never finished, and is
intended as an aid in preparing sermons
or conferences on spiritual subjects.
Wo are glad to see that F. Fabcr's life
is in preparation, and shall await its
publication with interest If well done,
it cannot fail to bo one of the most at-
tractive of biographies. The life and
writings of F. Faber are well suited to
please and benefit n large class of Prot-
estants as well as Catholics. We have
heard not only Episcopalians and Uni-
tarians speak in warm terms of the
pleasure they take in his books, but
even an aged and venerable Presbyte-
rian clergyman recite his poetry with
enthusiasm. Wo do not consider his
works to be beyond criticism, and, for
those who are able to bear it, we regard
the more solid and plain food of F.
Augustine Baker and Father Lallcmant
as more wholesome. But every one
has his own proper gift, and that of
Father Faber was evidently to make
spiritual doctrine sweet and palatable
to a vast number of persons who would
not receive it except through the ave-
nue of sensibility. His works are a
wilderness of flowers and foliage ; nev-
ertheless they contain a doctrine Avhich
is substantiully sound and useful, and
their general aim nnd tendency is to
establish solid, practical piety and vir-
tue. The volume before us is replete
with thoughts and conceptions redolent
with all the peculiar vividness and
brilliancy of the author*s style, and ex-
hibiting also extensive and profound
knowledge of theology. We con rec-
ommend it to clergymen who wish for
a treasury of choice materials where-
with to enrich and enliven their dis-
courses, as a more complete and sug-
gestive manual than any we have in the
English language, and one which may
be used to great advantage if used ju-
diciously. It would bo a very unsafe
experiment, however, to attempt a close
imitation of F. Faber's style, especially
for young and inexperienced preachers,
who might meet the fate of Icarus at-
tempting to fly with waxen wings. We
cannot, therefore, imreservedly recom-
mend this volume as containing the
best models for imitation, but only in a
qualified sense as extremely suggestive
and quickening to thought and senti-
ment, and thus furnishing the materials
and ornaments for discourses planned
and constructed in n plainer and mcjro
sober style. We think it likely to be-
come a great favorite with a large class
of clergymen, especially those who are
anxious to make their sermons as at-
tractive as possible, and well fitted to
bo of great service to them in the way
we have indicated.
The Gsaiiambs. By Mrs. TrafTord
Whitehead. American News Com-
pany. 1 volume 12mo, pp. 882.
Tliis is a commonplace, fcuihiondbU
novel, written in an inflated style. Its
sentiment is weak, its pathos twaddle,
and its tone and morality low and rep-
rehensible. We hope none of our young
people will read it; but if they do that
they will not imitate the heroine who
finds it her missUm to stay in a gentle-
man^s house, in the capacity of govern-
ess to a namby-pamby child, aiXcr she
has discovered that the lady is cold
as ice, and the gentleman, wLose eyes
she cannot understand, has accidentally
betrayed his penchant for herself.
The lady, as in duty bound, dies, and
the governess, of course, marries the
gentleman.
Chkistits Judex : A Traveller's Talc.
By Edward Roth. 12mo, pp. 78.
Philadelphia: F. Leypoldt. 1864.
This is a piece of composition full of
beauty and marked by the most refined
taste. There is a chaste elegance, too,
about the typography and binding
which is highly creditable to the pub-
lisher. It is just such a book as ono
wishes to find to present as a gift to a
friend. We heartily recommend it to
all our readeis.
BOOKS UCSXTXD.
•
From D. Afplitox & Co., ICcw Tork : The Tcm-
{loralMiflfiionof thoIIolvGIiOBt; or.rcason and
Revelation, by llcnry Hdward, Archbliihop oi
Wo8tmJn8tPr. 12mo, pp. 2 • 1.
T, W. Cnri8Tcz:ir, Kew York: Victor Iluffo*! Les
Trnvalllcr.rs uc la Mcr. Editiun Bpccial pour
lc» r.tals-r Dl«.
P. O ViiiA, Kcw York : Kos. 23» 24 and 25 of Darroa*
History of the Church.
Bboput & I>ri:cn, ^Ta^kioffton.D.C: Arjramcnt
in the Supreme Court or tlic United btatcfl of
Aniorlco, l)v Alexander J. P. GarcseM, In Iho
case of the T.cv. ilr.CiimmlnftP. plttlntllT In cr«
ror, e«. the State oi Mifloocrl, defendant in error.
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. m., NO. 15.— JUNE, 1866.
[oBienrAi^]
PROBLEMS OP THE AGE.
in.
THS BELIEF IN GOD AS THE FIBST
ASTICLE OF A RELIGIOUS CBEED.
Ths first article of the Christian
Creed is « Credo in Deum"— "I
believe in God." The Christian
child receives this originally by in-
struction before it attains the com-
plete use of reason, and believes it by
a nataral faith in the word of those
who teach it. Afterward it attains
to a clearer and more distinct con-
ception of its meaning and truth.
This conception, however, is still
furnished to it by Christian theology,
and by theology itself is referred badt
to a revelation Vhose beginning is
coeval with the human race. The
fact just stated in regard to the be-
lief of the Christian child is also true
in regard to the belief of mankind
universally. Wherever the idea of
God, as exhibited by pure, theistic
philosophy, is contained in the com-
voL. ni. 10
mon belief of the people, it is held as
a portion of some religious system
purporting to be derived from revela-
tion. It is learned from the instruc-
tion of religious teachers, and trans-
mitted by a sacred tradition. We do
not attain to the conception of God by
the spontaneous, unaided evolution of
it in our individual reason. Those
nations which remain in the state of
infancy, through a lack of the civiliz-
ing and instructing power, do not at-
tain to that conception. The only
way in which pure, theistic concep-
tions have ever been communicated to
any considerable number of persons
previously destitute of them, has been
by the instruction of those who
already possessed them.
This tradition goes backXo the orig-
inal creation of the race. Mankind was
originally constituted by the Almighty
in a state of civilized and enlighten-
ed society, fully furnished with that
saored treasure which tradition dif-
fuses universally, and which constitutes
Digitized by Google
290
ProUemi of the Age.
the inherited capital on which all the
precious gain and increase in science,
civilization, and every kind of intellec-
toal and moral wealth, are based. It is
in this way that the conception of
Grod, which the founders of the human
race received by immediate revelation,
has been preserved and transmitted by
universal tradition. In the pure and
legitimate line of descent it has come
down nncorrupted through the line of
patriarchs and prophets to Jesus
Christ, who has promulgated it anew
in such a manner as to secure its
inviolable preservation to the end of
time. Indirectly, and subject to vari-
ous changes and corruptious, it has
descended through human language
and law, through civilization and
science, through Gentile literature and
mythology, and through philosophy.
Directly or indirectly, all the concep-
tions of mankind respecting God,
whether perfect or imperfect, crude or
mature, have been transmitted by
tradition from the original and primi-
tive revelation made to the founders
of the race.
The universal utterance of man-
kind is, and always has been, " Credo
inDeum." This is a common credence,
possessed by the race from the begin-
ning, which the individual mind re-
ceives and acquiesces in with more or
less of intelligent belief and under-
standing, but never totally eradicates
from among its conceptions. It is a
credence perfectly enunciated in that
divine revelation which the Christian
church possesses in its integrity, and
communicates in the most complete
and explicit manner to all those who
receive her instructions.
Here may easily arise a misunder-
standing. Some one will say : " You
appear to resolve all our knowledge
of God into an act of faith in a revela-
tion handed down from the past.
But the very conception of revelation
implies the previous conception of Grod,
who makes the revelation. Faith in a
revealed doctrine is based on the
veracity of €rod, who reveals it. But
in order that one may be able to
make this act of faith, he must pre-
viously know that Grod is, and that he
is veracious. Thus, we must believe
that God is veracious because it is re*
vealed, and believe this revealed doc-
trine that he is veracious because of
his veracity. This is a vicious circle,
and gives no basis whatever for ra-
tional belief."
This objection has really been anti-
cipated and obviated in the preceding
chapter. A full understanding of the
answer to it wiD require a careful
reading of the present chapter entire,
and perhaps of the greater part of
the succeeding ones. Just now, we
simply reply to the objector that we
do n6t, as he imagines, resolve tiic
evidence of God's existence, and of
other rational truths, into a tradition
or revelation. We hold firmly tiiat
these truths are provable by reason.
In speaking of revelation or tradition
as our instructor in the doctrine of God,
what is meant is this: The correct
and complete formula, the divine
word, or infallible speech, expressing in
the sensible signs of human language
the explicit conception of that divine
idea which is constitutive of the soul's
veiy rational existence, — this formula
has been handed down by tradition
from the origin of the race. We do
not propose this tradition as a mere
exterior authority to which the mind
must submit blindly, from which it
must derive its rational activity, or in
which it must locate its criterion of
rational certitude. We admit the
obligation of proving that this tradi-
tion is universal and divine. So far
as the doctrines it proposes are
within the sphere of reason, we hold
that reason receives them because
they are self-evident, or capable of
being deduced from that which is self-
evident Thus, for instance, in pro-
posing the veracity of God as the
ground of faith in his revelation, it is
proposed as a truth evident by the
light of reason. Reason, however, is in-
debted to the instruction which comes
by tradition for that clear and distinct
statement of the being and attributes
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PrMems of the Age*
291
of God, incladlng his infinite and eteiv
nal veradtj, which brings the mind
to a reflective ccmsdousness of its own
primitive idea.
This maj be iUnstrated by a com-
parison of the exterior word or reve-
lation with that interior word or
revelation which creates the soul and
gives it the natural light of i*eason.
The word of God spoken in the
creative act creates the rational soul,
and affirms to it his being and the
existence of creatores, including that
of the soul itself. This is a revela-
tion. All natural knowledge is a
revelation from God. Our l^lief in
the reality of the outward world, and
of our own existence, is resolved into
a belief in the reality of the creative
act of God, or of that spoken word
by which he creates the world. We
see no difficulty here, because we
see that the word of Grod, in this
case, enlightens the soul to see tlie
truth of that which it declares to it.
We need not find any more difficulty
in the case of the exterior word.
When this exterior, word declares
l^ainly to an ignorant mind the na-
ture and attributes of €rod, and the
obligation of believing and obeying
the truth revealed by him, this woid
also enlightens that mind to perceive
the truth of what it declares. It
illuminates the soul to see more dis-
toQCtiy the truths that are within the
sphere of reason by direct, rational
peroepdon ; and to see indirectly and
iDdistinctly those truths which are
above reason, in the self-evident
truth of God's veracity, and in the
analogies and correspondences which
exist between these Unths and those
which are directly apprehended by
reason.
This is anticipating what is to be
treated of expressly hereafter. Wo
trust it is now plain that we do not
profess to derive the idea of God
in the human race, and in each in-
dividual mind, from a mere outward
tradition, or to prove its reality from
a mere authoritative dictum of revela-
tion. What we really intend to do
is, to exhibit tna conception of God
contained in Christian theology^ for
the purpose of showing its objective
truth and reality by a rational meth-
od. In the first place, we wish to
bring out the conception itself as
clearly as possible; to describe a drclo
in language vast and perfect enough
to include aU that is intelligible to
human reason respecting God and hb
perfections. In the second place, to
review the different methods of prov-
ing to reason the objective reality
of this conception. And finally, to
propose what we believe to be the
best and most complete method of
presenting to the reflective conscious-
ness of the soul the certitude of its
positive judgment, affirming the beins
of God.*
A great task, certamly ! Some
may regard it as on evidence of pre-
sumption to undertake it. Truly, if
one should propose the conception of
the being of the infinite God as a
mere hypothesis ; criticising and con-
demning the arguments of great men
respecting it as illogical and un-
successful attempts to prove it ; pro-
fessmg to have discovered or invented
some new process of demonstrating
the problem, and thus pretend to
make that certain which has hitherto
been doubtful or probable, it would
ugue the height of arrogance and
presumption. Wo do not, however,
propose any such thing. The idea of
God constitutes the very existence
and life of the human souL The con-
ception of Grod, more or less periectly
explicated, is the possession of the
human race universal, and in its com-
pletely explicated form it is the pos-
session of the church universal of ail
ages. It is the treasure of universal
theology and philosophy, handed down
by an universal and inviolable tradi-
tion not of mere dead words and
logical forms, but of the living
thought and belief of all the sages and
saints of the earth. The truth that
« In the aetnal treatment of the snbjoet, this
order has been changed for the sake of con-
venience
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ProUems of the Age*
God is, and is infinitely perfect in his
attribntesyis the infallible and irreyer-
Bible judgment of the reason of man-
kindy whether naturally or super-
naturallj enlightened. All that an
indiyidual can do is to attempt to
gain a distinct apprehension and
a correct verbal expression of the
self*laminons idea which shines
in all philosophy, but especially in
Christian Catholic philosophy. It
is a mistake, then, to consider
an argument respecting the being
of God as a mere logical process,
conducting from some known prem-
ises to an unknown conclusion; a pro-
cess in which any incorrectness in
analysis or deduction vitiates the re-
sult and leaves the unsolved prob-
lem to the efforts of some new
candidate for the honor of iirst discov-
ering the solution. The reflex con-
ceptions of that infallible affirmation
of Grod to the soul which constitutes
its rational existence mnst be sub-
stantially correct This is especially
the case where revelation fumbhes a
perfect and infallible outward expres-
sion of that inward conception which
the reflective reason is laboring to
acquire. Therefore we consider that
there is a real agreement among
all theistic and Christian philoso-,
phcrs. All have true intellectual
conceptions of th6 idea of God. Yet
there may be some of these concep-
tions which, though true, arq confused.
Again, in the multiplied reflex action
of the mind upon itself and its own
judgments and conceptions, there
may be some imperfections in the
analysis or critical examination of
the component parts of the idea, in
the synthesis or construction of these
component parts into an ideal formula,
and in the language by which verbal
expression is given to the conceptions
of the mind. What is to be aimed
at is, to obtain intellectual con-
ceptions which are clear and ade-
quate to the idea, and a verbal ex-
pression which is also clear and
adequate to the mental conception.
In this direction lies the true path
of progress in Christian philo90|^y.
It is a continual eflbrt to apprehend
more clearly and adequately in the
intelligence the conceptions given to
our reflective reason by revelation,
and to express these conceptions more
clearly and intelligibly in language«
Hence, so far as the doctrine of God
is concerned, philosophy can only
strive after formulas which express
adequately the conception existing
in every mind which has brought the
idea of God into reflective conscious-
ness. If this be true relatively to the
common mind, it must be so much
more relatively to the instructed
philosophic mind of the world, espec-
ially the instructed theological mind
vof the church, where philosophy and
theology are developed in a scientific
form. The individual may reflect on
that part of theology which his own
intelligence has appropriated and
assimilated to itself, and may possibly
advance science by his reflections.
But he cannot possibly cut himself
off from the intellectual tradition and
the continuity of intellectual life by
which his reason lives and acts, with-
out perpetrating intellectual suicide.
"VVo despise and reject, therefore, all
philosophy or theology which severs
itself from the great vital current and
pulsation of traditional wisdom and
science. Wo despise also that which
merely repeats what it has learned,
unless it has flrst made an intelligent
judgment that this ut, in regard to^
whatever matter is under discussion,
the ultimatum that human reason can
attain. One may do some good by
repeating and explaining to others
what are, for him, the last and most
perfect words of wisdom which he
has found in studying the works of
the great and wise teachers of men.
This gives him no claim to be honor-
ed as an original thinker or writer.
He diffuses but he does not advance
science. It is better to do this than
to fall into error and folly, or at least
to waste time and paper, by vainly
striving afler originality for its own
sake, or from a silly motive of vain-
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PrMems of the Age.
298
glory. Or one may really advance
science by original and valuable
thoagbts which are an elaboration of
the tmth that has hitherto remained
in a crude form ; by a better analysis
or synthesis of common, universal
conceptions ; if nothing more, at least
by a better verbal expression and
a more distinct and intelligible meth-
od of exposition. For ourselves, we
are satisfied to explain and diffuse
that wisdom which we have found in the
writings of the greatest and most pro-
found thinkers, especially those who
liavc created or embellished Catholic
theology. We strike out no new and
unknown path. We do not pretend
even to push forward into any unex-
plored region in the old one. All
that is in this treatise may probably
be found elsewhere, and by many wiU
bo recognized as already familiar to
them. Although we do not choose to
burden our pages with citations and
references, the reader may rely on it
that in the main we follow the com-
mon current of Catholic theology.
If we sometimes deviate from it, we
are still, in most instances, following
the steps of some one or more of the
giant pioneers who have gone on be-
fore, leaving a broad trail to direct
the weaker traveller in the path of
science.
What has just been said is applicable
to every subject treated in these essays.
In relation to the special subject now
under consideration, we are very anx-
ious not to seem captions or rash in
criticising the common methods of ar-
j^;iiment employed by theologians.
We recognize the substantial solidity
of the doctrine of God contained in
the best philosophers of all ages, so
far as it agrees with revelation; and
the perfect soundness and complete-
ness of the doctrine as taught by Chris-
tian theologians. It is only the form
and method thati we intend to criticise,
9o fiir as theological doctrine is con-
cerned ; and, so far as relates to the
purely human and rational element of
philosophy, only that which is pecul-
iar to individniJs, schools, or periods.
and not that which is common and uni-
versal. Let us remember that we are
not reasoning as sceptics, and, begin-
ning from a principle of philosopliic
doubt, ignoring all knowledge and be-
lief, and striving to work our way up-
ward to something positive and cer-
tain. Whether we are positively
Christian in our belief or not, we are
taking the viewing-point of Christian
faith, and making a survey of tho
prospect visible to the eye from that
point. It presents to U3 the complete-
ly developad idea of God as always
known and always believed with cer-
titude. What we are to do, then, is
to find the most adequate expression
of that which faith has believed and
reason been able to understand during
all time respecting God. We stand
not alone, in the ignorance of our iso-
lated, individual minds, to create by a •
slow and laborious task the truth and the
belief of which our souls feel the need.
We stand in union with the human
race, always in possession of at least
the elements of truth. We stand in
union with that favored portion of the
human race which has always clearly
and distinctly believed in the absolute
truth of the being and infinite perfection
of God, and in a distinct revelation
from him. We are about to examine
this universal belief, and these intelli-
gent judgments of cultivated univereal
human reason, and to compare them
with the principles and judgments of
our own reason. To ascertain what
Christian Catholic faith is, and how
it is radicated hi an intelligent indu-
bitable certitude of reason — this ia
what we are about to attempt; and
the first part of our task is to exam-
ine the Christian conception of God,
as expressed in theistic philosophy and
Catholic theology. We intend to prove
that it is the original, priinitive, con-
stitutive idea of human reason, brought ,
into distinct, reflective consciousness ;
made intelligible to the understanding,
so far as it is not immediately intelli-
gible in itself, by analogy ; and correct-
ly expressed by tlie sensible siojns of
language.
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294
PrMems of the Age.
IV.
DIFFBRENT IfETHODS OF PBOVING
THE BEING OF OOD.
It is evident that wc have no direct
inteUectnal vision or beholding of Grod.
The goal is separated from him bj an
infinite and impassable abyss. We
cannot now take into account the per-
son of Jesus Christy or of any who
have been elevated to an intellectual
condition different from that which is
proper to our present state on earth.
Apart frx)m such exceptions, the soul
even of the highest contemplative never
directly beholds God himself. In the
words of St. Augustine ; ^ Yideri autem
divinitas humano visa nuUo modo
potest ; sed eo visa videtur, quo jam
qui vident, non homines sed ultra homi-
nes sunt" '* The divinity can in no way
be seen by human vision: but it is
seen by a vision of such a kind that
they who see by it are not men, but
are more than men."* Neither have
we the power to comprehend the in-
itrinsic necessity of God's being and
the intimate reason and nature of his
self-existence. If we had a natural
power of seeing God immediately, we
would be naturally beatified, and all
error or sin would be impossible.
Moreover, we have not even a formed
and developed conception of God in-
nate to our reason, such as that which
the instructed and educated reason can
acquire. For, if we had, it would
be in all minds alike without excep-
tion; everywhere and under all cir-
cumstances the same, without any
need of previous reflection or instruc-
tion. What, then, is the genesis of our
rational conception and belief of the
divme being and attributes ? How is
it evident that God really is ?
The aiguments employed by philos-
ophers are usually cUvided into two
classes, those called h priori, and those
called i posteriori.
An argument a priori is one which
deduces a truth from another truth of
a prior and more universal order.
• DoTrlii.Ub.il.cll.
Therefore, to prove the being of God
iprioriy we must go back to a truth
either really and in itself antecedent
to his being, or antecedent in the prim-
itive idea of reason. That is to say,
there must be an ideal world of truth
logically antecedent to God, and inde-
pendent of him ; an eternal nature of
things whi«h is in itself nccessar}',
and intelligible to our reason, before
it has any idea of God. Or else, the
primitive, constitutive idea of our rea-
son must be an idea of some abstract
bemg of this nature which is not God,
and which in the real order is not an-
tecedent to Grod, but only antecedent
to him in the order of human thought
and knowledge. If the first is true,
God is not the first cause, the first
principle, the infinite and eternal
truth in himself, the absolute es-
sence, and the immediate object of
his own intelligence. The very con-
ception of God which is sought to be
proved is destroyed and rendered un-
intelligible. This will appear more
clearly when we come to develop more
fully hereafter the idea of God and
his attributes. In the order of reaf^
being there is and can be nothing be-
fore God. There is no cause, no prin-
ciple, no truth, no intelligible idea
more universal than God, and prior
to him, from which his being can be
deduced as a consequence. In this
sense, then, an a priori argument for
the being of God is impossible.
If the second alternative is true,
that we have a primitive idea of some-
thing in our minds which is before the
idea of Grod, the order of ideas, of
reason, of human thpught, is not in
harmony with the real order. We
apprehend the unreal and not the real.
We see things as they are not, and
not as they are. The reason appre-
hends the abstract, ideal universe, the
eternal nature of things, the world of
necessary truth, as antecedent to God
and independent of him, when it is
not so. If this were so, we could
never attain to the true idea of God
as before all things and the principle
of aU. For reason most develop ac-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
I^Uems of the Affe.
296
eoidiikg to its primary and cooBtitotiTe
idea and its aecessarj law of thought.
If in this constitutive idea there is
something before God from which, as
a prior principle, a more universal
truth, the being of God is deduced as
a consequence and a secondary truth,
we must always look at things in this
way, and can never directly behold
the real order of being as it is. Thus
we can never attain the true idea of
God while we apprehend any intelli-
gible object of thought as prior to him
who is really prior to all, and must
bo apprehended as prior or else falsely
apprehended*
An a priori argument in this sense
is, therefore, as impossible as in the
other.
Let us now examine more partic-
ularly some of the so-called ii priori
arguments.
One is an alignment from the concep-
tions, or, as they are commonly called,
the ideas, of space and time. It pro-
ceeds thus : Wo have an idea of infinite
space, and of infinite time, as necessa-
ry in the eternal nature of things*
Do what we will, we cannot banish
these ideas, or avoid thinking of space
and time as necessary and eternal.
Therefore, there is an infinite, eternal
being, of whose existence space and
time are the necessary efiects.
This argument dazzles the mind by
a certain splendor and overwhelms it
by a certain profundity and vastness
of conception, but yet leaves it con-
fosedand overpowered rather than con-
vinced. It will not bear analysis, as
Leibnitz has successfully proved in
his letters to Adam Clarke, who de-
fended it with all the acuteness and
ingemuty which his subtle and pene-
trating intellect could bring to bear on
the question.
I^othing is, or can be, which is not
cither G^ or the creation of God.
Space and time, therefore, are either
sittributes of God, or created entities^
if they have any being or existence in
themselves at all. They are either
identical with the essence of Grod,
or they are induded within the crea-
tion and only coeval and co-extensive
with it ; that is, bounded by finite and
precise limits of succession and exten-
sion. If the former, in perceiving
them we perceive God directly.
This is not affirmed by the argument,
which asserts that they are effects of
God's being and external to it If the
second, they are not infinite ; the idea
of their infinity and necessity is an illu-
sion, and no argument can be derived
from it. It is, beside, impossible to
conceive of space and time as entities,
or existing things, distinct and separ-
ate from other existences, and having
certain defined limits. The language
used by those who distinguish them
both from God and creation, and call
them necessary effects of the being of
God, is simply unintelligible. Their
concepti(»i of infinite space and time
is, as Leibnitz calls it, a mere idol of
the fancy, a phantasm representing
nothing real. There is no intelligible
conception of space and time as dis-
tinct both from God and creation.
There is no such thing in the order of
reality or of thought as a necessary
c£fect of God's being, or any effect ex-
cept that produced by his free crea-
tive act Into the idea of God noth-
ing enters except God himself. Sup-
posing that God exists alone with-
out having created, when we think of
God we think of all that can be
thought as actual. His being fills up
his own intelligence, gf which it is ^he
only and complete' ol^ect. Into a
true conceptiop of that being our no-
tions of space and time cannot enter.
Nevertheless, in apprehending space
and time there must be some
real and intelligible idea which
is apprehended. This idea is the
possibility of creation, which in Grod
is necessary and infinite. By his
very essence, God has the power to
create, and this power is unlimited.
The idea of a created universe neces-
sarily includes the idea of its exist-
ence in space and time^ The possi-
bility of space and time are, therefore,
included in the possibility of creation,
and as no limits can be placed to
Digitized by CjOOQIC
296
ProUems of Ab Age.
the one, so none can be placed to the
other. Oar apprehension of infinite
space and time is an apprehension of
the infinite possibility of creation in
God. We apprehend God under the
intuition of the infinite, the neces-
sary, and the eternal. This intui-
tion of the infinite enters into all our
thoughts. And therefore, however
much we may extend our conception
of actual duration or extension in re-
gai'd to the created universe, we must
always think the possibility of that
duration and extension being in-
cit^ased even to infinity. Ideal space
and time is that which we apprehend
of real space and time, with the
thought of their possible extension to
infinity included. Real space and
time are not entities distinct in them-
selves, but relations of succession and
co-existence among created things.
As in God alone, as distinct from
creation, there is nothing intelligible
but the divine being, so in the crea^-
tion there is nothing intelligible but
that which God has created. God
and the existences which God has
made are all that the mind can think.
Take away God and finite, real
things ; nothing remains. Think of
God as not creating, and God is the
sole object of thought. Add to this
the thought of Grod creating, and you
have finite created entities. But yon
have nothing more ; and if you fasicy
there is anything more, such as space
and time in the abstract, you have a
phantasm or idol of tlie imagination,
which is nothing. Real space and
time must be relations of existing
things, and ideal space and time
the possibility of relations among
things which might be ; or they are
nothing. Destroy real entities, and you
destroy all real relations* Deny the
possibility of real entities, and you
destroy all ideal relations. This an-
swers the puzzling question some-
times asked, ^ Can God annihi-
late space 7" He can annihilate real
space by annihilating the real uni-
verse from which it is inseparable.
He cannot annihilate ideal space, be^
cause it is in himself, as included in
his eternal idea of tiie possible crea-
tion, or of his own infinite power to
create. Our apprehensions of space
and time are in the intelligible and
not in the sensible worid. The sensi-
blo form which they have results from
the universal law that all intelligible
conceptions come to us through the
sensible, and represented to us
through sensible signs. They must
ultimately terminate in the idea of
God as pure spirit, without extension
or successive duration. When we
think of extension in space we imagine
a material figure, or an atmosphere
whose circumference we extend
further and further in all directions.
When we think of duration in time,
we think of a succession of material
or intellectual actions, whose series
we extend backward into the past or
forward into the iuture. But, no
matter how fer we carry these process-
es, a definite and limited extension
and duration is all that we reach. It
is impossible that the idea of infinite
space and duration should be actually
realized in the order of finite and
created things. The impossibility of
placing any limit to them which shall
be final must, therefore, be referred to
an idea beyond all relations of space
and time, and truly infinite, which we
imperfectly apprehend by analogy
through these relations. This is the
idea of God as having an infilnite
power to create which is inexhausti-
ble by any actual creation, however
vast. Only in this way is the idea
inteUigible, and we must affirm God
as real and infinite being before we
can correctly apprehend it
It may be said that this is what is
really meant by the argument from
space and time. We are willing
to admit that it is what these eminent
writers really had in their minds.*
But it appears to us that they have ex-
pressed it without sufficient deamesa
and precision, by reason of the confu-
sion whidi prevails in modem philoso-
phy, and that it is not really an h pri-'
ari argument, since it cannot be nuule
Digitized by CjOOQIC
I^oMetM of the Age.
2&7
intelligible withoat aflhTDisg the idea
of God as prior to all other ideas ia
the order of thought as well as in the
Older of being.
Another argument is derived from
the possibility of coneeiving th&t there
is a being absolutely perfect. We
can conceive that there is a being pos-
sessing all possible perfections. But ac-
tual existence is a perfection. There-
fore if we conceive of a being pos-
sessing all perfection, we must con-
ceive of him as having actual exist-
ence.
This amounts merely to saying that
actual existence enters into our con-
ception of God. Where is the proof
that that conception is not merely in
our mind ? Does the fact that we <are
able to form a conception of God prove
that God really exists? Some will
answer. Yes. Because it is absurd
to suppose that the mind can form an
idea greater than itself, and conceive
of a possible order of being greater
than the real order. It is, indeed, ab-
surd; but the absurdity cannot be
shown without at the same time show-
ing the impossibility of finding any
principle of reason prior to the idea
of God. Is that which the reason peI^-
ceives real being? Then the idea of
the infinite is the affirmation of an in-
finite being. It is impossible to con-
ceive of a possible being greater than
the real being, because &e real be-
ing IS directly affirmed as infinite in
the idea of reason. The very idea
we are seeking to prove real presents
itself as real to the reason before we
can even begin the process of proving it.
It is itself prior to every principle we
are looking for as the most ultimate
and the most universal. There cantiot
be fbpnd anything from which we can
reason a priori to that which is itself
prior to alL We have began by
affirming our conclusion as the basis
of our pro^f. At the end of our ar-
gument we come back to our starting-
point.
Is that which the reason perceives
not real being? What, then, is it? It
will be said that it is an ab^ract idea.
If so, this & priori argument proves
only that the actual existence of God
is conceivable, and that it cannot be*
proved that there is no God. It may
even make his real existence appear
to be probable, taken in connection
with the other arguments usually em-
ployed. At best, however, it leaves
the idea of God always under the form
of an hypothesis, and affords no pro-
tection against the corruption of the
idea by pantheistic and materialistic
notions. Where is the passage from
the abstract to the concrete, from the
mental conception to the objective re-
ality ? If our conceptions of Grod lie
in the order of an abstract world, and
it ia not the reality which is the ulti-
mate object of reason, how can we
ever obtain certitude that there is a
real world corresponding to that ab-
stract world which exists in our own
mind ? Such is the reasoning of mod-
ern materialism which is conducting
vast numbers as near to absolute
atheism as the mind by its own nature
is able to go. For the class of men al-
luded to there are no realities except
those of the sensible world. The spir-
itual world of dogmatic truth, relig-
ious obligation, and supernatural
hopes, is ignored and neglected as
merely abstract, hypothetical, and hav-
ing at best but a dubious claim on our
attention ; one which may with safety
and prudence be practically set aside for
the more obvious claims of the present
life. The entire falsity of this whole
philosophy of the abstract, and the
nullity of all abstractions considered
as self-subsisting objects of thought,
will be more directly shown hereafter.
For the present we say no more on
this head, but proceed to consider an-
other form in which the argument
from abstract, h priori principles is
presented.
We have an idea of the good, the
beautiful, the true, as being necessary,
universal, and eternal. Therefore
there must be a being in whose mind
these ideas exist, or of whom these
qualities can be affirmed. This argu-
ment has been answered in answering
Digitized by CjOOQIC
898
PtoUms of Oe Ag^.
the foregoing one, with which it nearly
coincides. Are these ideas abstract,
independent of reality, antecedent to
the idea of real, concrete being? Then
they are forms of the mind, and leare
it without a direct perception of tho
existence of a real, concrete being, in-
finitely good, beautifiil, and true; or
rather, tho infinite goodness, beauty,
and truth in himself. Are these ideas
immediate affirmations of this real
being ? Then we ha^e lost again our
a priori principle, by finding that the
conclusion is actually prior to it.
Either we affirm the intuition of the
concrete, real object, from which the
abstract conception of the good, the
beautiful, and the true is deriyed, or
we can prove only the existence of
these conceptions in the mind, and can-
not argue ft^m the conceptions to the
reality, or in any way perceive clearly
the existence of the reality in an order
external to our own mind.
Let us pass now to the alignment
called a posteriori. This is a method
of reasoning exactly the reverse of
the former ; in which we proceed from
effects to their causes, and from par-
ticulars to the universaL We en-
deavor to prove the existence of God
from certain fi&cts which cannot be
accounted for unless they are regard-
ed as effects of an absolute first cause.
Wc may consider this argament
firom two distinct points of view.
First, we may take it as an effort to
deduce the existence of God from a
great number of facts, as the result of
our knowledge of these particular
facts; an effort to prove by experi-
ment and observation an hypothesis
which is proposed as a probable solu-
tion of the problem of the universe.
We suppose that we begin without the
ideaofGod. We acquire the knowledge
of particular facts through sensation
and reflection. By noting a great num-
ber of facts, and reflecting upon them,
we ascend to general and abstract
truths, £ud as a last result arrive at the
conception of the being of God as the
most universal truth, and the one
which is the sum of all probabilities.
In the second place, we may take
this aigument as a method of mani-
festing the way in which the action of
the first cause is shown forth in the
universe. The idea of God is first
affirmed, and the due explication of
the facts of the universe is then dem-
onstrated to be only an explication
of the idea of God as first cause.
The universe is shown to be intelligi-
ble in its cause, and apart fix)m it to be
unintelligible. Taken in this way the
argument is identical with that which
we are about to propose a little
later.
Taken in the former sense, it is not
a demonstration of the existence of
God. Suppose that we can begin to
reason without the idea of cause, and
we can never establish its necessity
by induction. Eliminate the idea of
self-subsisting, necessary, eternal be-
ing, and suppose it unknown, unimag-
ined; we can never rise above the
particular, isolated sensations and
perceptions of which we are con-
scious. If the facts which are called
effects are intelligible in themselves,
they imply no cause, and none can be
proved from them. If they are not in-
telligible in themselves, they are from
the first intelligible only in their
cause, and the idea of cause is ulti-
mate in the mind^ antecedent to all
knowledge of particulars, the first
premised of every conclusion. It
cannot then be proved as the condu-
sion of any syllogism ; for all argu-
ments start from it as the primitive
idea and first principle of reas(Mi.
This method of argument belongs
to that sceptical system of philosophy
which came in vogue with the theolo-
gy of Protestantism, and has been
ever since working out its filial
results. It is the principle of 4iBinte-
gration, doubt, and denial, transfeiied
from the domain of revealed dogma
into the order of rational truths*
Kant, the great master of this philos-
ophy, and one of the principal chiefs
of modem thought, carried out this
philosophy to the denial of all possi-
bility of science^ and therefore of all
Digitized by CjOOQIC
I^robbms of the Age.
2»9
flcientiflc knowledge of Grod, ininioi>
tality, and moral obligation. Having
swept all natural and revealed truths
oat of the domain of pure reason,
he made a feeble attempt to establish
their anthoritj in the sphere oipracH-
col reason. The individual man and
the human race need the belief in
God to keep them in the order requii^
ed for their well-being. Therefore
we may believe that there is a
God* It is needless to saj that
these dictates of practical reason
are not respected by those who carry
out consistently and boldly the scepti*
cal philosophy. The ravages made
by the principle of scepticism among
those who have cast off all traditional
belief in Christianity are obvious to
all eyes. But it is not so generally
acknowledged that the same philoso-
phy has had a wide and baneful
influence over Christian theology.
Some Christian writers would avowed-
ly sweep away science to give place to
faithy not reflecting that faith tumbles
to the ground when its rational basis
is removed. Others follow the meth •
od of philosophic doubt and the max*
ims of a philosophy constructed upon
that method, a method which is lUto-
gether unfit to be a medium of the
rational explanation of Christian
dogmas. Hence^ there is a schism
between theology and philosophy,
leaving both these sciences in a
mutilated condition. The manifest
inadequacy of the common philosophi-
cal system brings it into contempt,
and induces the cflbrt to transfer the
seat of all certitude and all true
science to theolog}'. Theology can-
cot make the first step without a
basis of rational certitude for faith and
for conclusions drawn from premises
which are fiimished by fidth. Conse-
quently her efforts to walk on air
result to her discredit, and theology
falls into contempt. This ends in
adopting Eant^s practical reason as
the basis of religious belief. Philoso-
phy and theology, as sciences of the
highest order, are deserted. Religion
is defended and explained on the
ground ci its probability and its
utihty. We cannot have science or
make our belief intelligible. It is
safe and prudent to follow on in
the way the great majority of the wise
and good have walked. Let us do
so, and silence the questionings of the
intellect.* The language of scepti-
cism ! This is the mental disease of
our day. Scepticism in regard to
the doctrines of revelation ; scepti*
cism in regard to the dictates of rea-
son I No doubt, if faith had full
sway, and no false philosophy pre-
vailed, theology would be sufficient
by itself. For it contains in solution
the true philosophy ; and the simple,
unsophisticated Christian intellect
will take it up and absorb it naturally
without needing to have it adminis-
tered in a separate state. But where
the mind has been sophisticated by
false philosophy, it cannot take theolo-
gy until the antidote of true philoso-
phy has been given to it. Here is a
lad: in our English-speaking reh'gious
world. And this lack is, perhaps,
the reason why some of the best
writers speak so uncertainly of the
rational basis of faith in revealed
truths, and even in the truth of Grod's
existence. While they affirm the
certitude of their own inward belief,
jet they acknowledge that they can
only construct an argument which in
philosophy is probable. That is to
say, tliey have not a philosophy
in which the ground of their
inward certitude is expressed in a
distinct formula, and by which they
can make their readers conscious of a
similar ground of certitude in them-
selves. They have no philosophy cor-
responding to their theology, and
therefore, when they address the un-
believing or doubting world, they arc
at a loss for a bridge to span the
chasm lying between it and them-
selves.
There is at present a laudable and
* These remarks are not levelled against any
approved system of Catholic philosopbv, but
only against those which are in vogue in the
non-Catholic world, or among certain Catholic
writers of a modem date.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
800
Pirobkms of tke Age.
encouraging desire manifested by the
leading thinkers and writers of differ-
ent churches to bring out the great
fundamental truth that God is the
author of nature' and revelation, in
such a way as to stem the tide of
scepticism. Guizot, who is among the
most eminent, if not the very first, of
the modem advocates of orthodox
Protestantism, in the programme of a
recent work in defence of revealed re-
ligion which he has published, ex-
presses the opinion that the differonces
between his own co-religionists and
Catholics are of minor importance
compared to the great pending con-
troversy with modem scepticism.
This, with many other indications of
a growing cordiality in earnest Prot-
estants toward Catholics who are
similarly earnest, makes us hope to
receive from them as well as from the
members of our own communion a
rcspectful and candid hearing of
what we have to say on this weighty
subject.
And now, having done with the
disagreeable task of criticism, we en-
treat of our readers, if they have
found the preliminary treatment of
the subject we are on abstruse and
wearisome, to resume their courage
and push on a little further up the as-
cent toward the summit of troth.
The traveller, who struggles through
thickets and o^er rocks toward the top
of a mountahi is well rewarded by ihe
landscape whidi lies below and around
hhn, lighted up by the radiance of
the full orb of day. So, gentle
reader, whether you are believer or
sceptic, there is an eminence before
us which we can attain, from which
the fair landscape of natural and snpei^
natural truth is visible as far as the
outermost boundaries which fade away
into the infinite. Wo wish to lead
you to this eminence, and to show
you this landscape lighted up with
the radiance of tbe primal source of
light, the idea of Godj the self-lununous
centre of the universe of thought We
wish to show you this idea of God in
its absolute troth and certitude; clear-
ly and distinctly visible in that horizon
which is within the scope of the
naked eye pf reason, but whose
boundaries are enlarged and its
objects magnified by the aid of that
gigantic telescope called faith.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Mmth in KUkmny.
301
From Once a Week
A MONTH IN KILKENNY.
BY W. P. LENNOX.
Thebb is little to attract the atten-
tion of the traveller between Dablin
and Kilkenny, except the fine range
of mountains and the Curragh of
Kildare. The Newmarket of Ire-
land ia a vasty unbroken, bleak plain,
conBisting of 4,858 statute acres. It
belongs to the crown, and is appro-
priate to racing and coursing, the
adjacent proprietors having the privi-
lege of grazing sheep thereon. The
ranger of the Curragh is appointed by
the government, and has the entire
charge of this celebrated property.
Of tbe race-meetings that take place
on this spot it is needless to speak, as
tbey ore recorded in the newspapers
of the day. Suffice it to say that the
arrangements are well carried out,
the prizes considerable, the number
of horses that contend for them great,
and the sport first-rate.
Afler changing trains at Kilkenny,
I reached Parsonstown, where a cai>
Tiage awaited me, to convey me
to Woodstock, the hospitable seat of
my brother-in-law, the Right Hon.
William Tighe, and my sister, Lady
LfOuisa Tighe*
Inistiogc, anciently called Ini^-teoc,
is a charmingly situated small town
overlooking the Noro, which is
crossed by a picturesque bridge of
ten arches, ornamented on one side
with Ionic pilasters. The town is
built in the form of a square, wliich
being planted with lime-trees gives it
the appearance of a foreign town. In
the centro of the square is a small
plain pillar, based oa a pedestal of
stone. This was the shafl of an
ancient stone cross, and bears an in-
scription to the memory of David,
Baron of Brownsfield, one of the
Fitzgerald family, who died in 1621.
The emerald green turf, and the foli-
age of the trees, in the square, give
it a fresh appearance, and form an
agreeable contrast to the sunoundiug
stone buildings. Inistioge was once a
royal borough, and famed for its relig-
ions establishments. It also pos-
sessed a large Augnstinian monas-
tery. All that now remains of it con-
sists of two towers : one of them is in-
corporated with the parish church;
the other is square at the base and
octagonal in the upper stages. Of
Woodstock itself, I will merely say
that the house contains a valuable
library, some good paintmgs ; the
gardens can find no equal in the
United Kingdom; and the grounds,
laid out with every diversity that
wood and water can bestow, are per-
fectly beautifuL At the back rises
a wooded hill, to the height of 900
feet, the summit crowned with an
ornamental tower ; and as the demesne
stretches for a considerable distance
along the Nore, there are some mag-
nificent views of
" The Ftnbbome Nenvrc, whose watcre ctcv,
By fall Kilkenny aod KosBeponte bona ;'*
which may be described in the words
of the poet of the Thames —
" Though deep, yet dear ; tiiongh gentle, yet not
(lall:
Stronjc without rage; without o'crflowing
One of our first excursions was to
Eolkenny, on our way to which city
we stopped at Bonnet's Bridge, to
Digitized by CjOOQIC
802
A M(mtk in IBJhenny,
witness the humors of a horse-fair.
This small town is famed as having
been the place where the Duke of
Ormonde held a review in 1704, and
which attracted such hosts of visitors
that an inn-keeper is said to have
made as much hj his beds as paid his
rent for seven years. I have attend-
ed many fairs in England, Scotland,
Wales, France, Holland, Germany,
and Canada, but never did I witness
such an extraordinary sight as the
one that presented itself at Bennet's
Bridge. The hamlet itself, and its
outskirts, were filled for more than a
mile with horses, ponies, and
vehicles, attended by a mass of peo-
ple consisting of dealers, farmers,
peasants, tramps, and beggars.
There might be seen some **artr
ful dodger'' trying to palm off to
one lo^ experienced than himself a
spicy-looking thorough-bred nag, whose
legs showed evident marks of many a
hcurd gallop, declaring that for speed
the animal was unequalled, and that
there was not a stone wall in the
whole county that oould stop him;
there might be noticed a gallant col-
onel of hussars, attended by his
"vet^" selectiag some clever three-
year^>lds, with which to recruit
the ranks of her majesty's service.
<<Bedad, gineral,^ exclaims the ven*
dor, ^ with such a regiment of horses
you'd ride over the whole French
cavalry, with Napoleon at the head
of it." " A broth of a boy" may now
be pointed out, charging a stone wall,
with a raw-boned brute that never
attempts to rise at it^ and who, turn-
ing the animal round, and backing
him strongly, makes an aperture, at
the same moment singmg a snatch of
an Irish song, most appropriate for
the occasion — "Brave Oliver Crom-
well, he did them so pommel, that he
made a breach in her battlements."
Next, a ra^ed urchin, without shoes
and stockings, with what might be
termed ^'tbe original shocking bad
hat" and which — on the principle
of exchange no robbery — I was credi-
bly informed he had taken from a field,
set up to scare away the crows.
Then there was the usual number of
idlers and lookers-on, and an unusual
amount of hallooing, shouting, scream-
ing, and bellowing.
After devoting an hour to the
humors of the fair, we proceeded to
view the remains of the abbey of
Jerpoint, which was founded in 1180,
by Donogh, King of Ossoiy, for Cis-
tercian monks. The monks, on the
arrival of tlie. English, had interest
sufficient with King John to get a
confirmation of all the landsbestowedon
them by the King of Ossory; and
Edward III., in the thirty-fourth year
of his reign, at the instance of Phillip,
then abbot, granted him a confirmar
tion of former charters. Oliver Grace,
the last abbqf, surrendered this abbey
on* the 18th of March, the SI Henry
ynL It then possessed about 1,500
acres of arable and pasture land, three
rectories, the altarages and tithes of
thirteen other parishes ; all these were
granted in the reign of Philip and
Mary to James, Earl of Ormonde,
and his heirs male, to hold in capite^
at the yearly rent of £49 8s. 9d.
It is an interesting ruin, and well
worthy the attention of the antiqua*
rian. From Jerpoint we proceeded
to Kilkenny Castle, the home of the
Ormondes.
Eichard Strongbow, by his mar-
riage with Eva, daughter of Dep-
mot, King of Leinster, came into
possession of a great part of the
province of Leinster. Heniy EL con-
firmed his right, with the reservation
of the maritime ports. On being ap-
pointed Lord Justice of Ireland in
1178, he laid the foundation of a cas-
tle in Kjlkenny, but it was scarcely
finished when it was demolished by
the insurgent Irish. However, Wil-
liam, Earl Marshal, descended from
Strongbow, and also Lord Justice, in
1195 began a noble pile on a more
extensive scale, and on the ancient
site. A great part of this fine castle
has survived the convulsions of this
distracted kingdom, and continues at
this day a consfMcnous ornament of
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A MnUk in Jfflkm^.
908
tlie eitj of Okeimy. A rising
ground was chosen, which on one side
has & steep and abrupt descent to tho
river N<»e, which effecCoallj protects
it on that qoarter by its rapid stream ;
the other sides were secured hy ram*
parts, walls, and towers, and the en*
trance is through a lofty gate of mar-
hie of the Corinibian order. Hugh
Le DeSpenser, who obtained the cas-
tle by marriage, in September, 1391,
oonyeyed it and its dependencies to
James, Earl of Ormonde. In later
days, the castle has been mnch im-
proved; the tapestry which adorns
the walls of the entrance-hall and
staircase exhibits the history of Deci-
ns ; it is admirably execated, and the
colors are fresh and lively* The ball-
loom, which is of great length, con-
tains a fine collection of portraits,
landscapes, and battle-pieces.
From the castle we visited the
cathedral chnrch^f St. Canice, which
is the largest diurch in Ireland, with
the exception of St* Patrick's and
'Christ chorch, Dablin* There are
a centre and two lateral aisles. The
roof of the nave is supported by five
pillars, and a pilaster of black marble
on each side, upon which are formed
^ve arches. Each lateral aisle is
lighted by four windows below, and
the central aisle by five above ; they
are in the shape of qnatrefoils. The
origin of this beantiful structure is
nnoertain, but it is conjectured that it
was begun in 1180, when a small
dinrch was erected near the round
tower.
^'Hngh Rnftis laid the foundation
of a noble edifice,*^ say the old
writers, ^and Bishop Mapilton, in
1233, and St. Leger, who succeeded
bim, omipleted the fabric'^ In
describing the church of St. Cam'ce,
I cannot refrain from alluding to tho
extreme politeness of Father Kava-
nagh, a Roman Catholic priest,
who devoted his time to my party
and myself in pointing out the
beauties of this venerable pile.
The Black Abbey was f banded by
"William, Earl Marshal, about 1225,
for Dominican friars. The founder
was interred here in 1231, and three
years after his brother Richard, who
was slain in a battle with the
O'Mores and CConors on the Cur-
ragh of midare. Henry VIII.
granted this monastery to the bur^
gesscs and commonalty of the city;
of Kilkenny. In the time of the
elder James it served for a shire-
house, and in 1643 it was repaired,
and a chapter of the order held in it.
Its towers are light and elegant, and
some of the windows are most artisti-
cally executed.
St. Mary's church contains some
very interesting monuments, among
them one in memory of Sir Richard
Shoe, dated 1608, with its ten sculp-
tured figures at the base. There is
<me also to his brother, EUas Shee, of
whom Holinshed wrote that he was
" a pleasant-conceited companion, full
of mirth without gall.** On an un-
pretending tablet of black and white
marble appears the following in-
scription:
"FBEDEBICE OEOBGB HOWABD,
BBOOXD BON 07 THB EABL OV OABLISLS,
CafTAIH 07 THB OOTU RXOXIONT.
DIED AJ>. 1893, ^T. 38.
*' Within this hallowed alnlo, mid grief elncorc,
Frieodii, comndeB, brothen laid yoonff How-
ard^B bier ;
Gentle and brave, his conntry^e arms he boro
To GaDcos' stream and Ava^s hostile shore :
His God tbroagh war and shipwreck wbb his
shield,
Bnt stretched him lifelesB on the peocefhl
field. ,
Thine are the times and ways, all-n:ling Lord I
Thy will be done, acknowledged, and adored V*
The above lines are from the pen
of the late Earl of Carlisle, who never
went near Kilkenny without paying a
visit to the tomb of his brother.
Poor Howard was killed bj leaping
out of a curricle, which was run away
with between the barracks at Kilken-
ny and Newtownbarry, where his reg-
iment was quartered. Another mon-
ument attracted my attention; it bore
an inscription to the memory of
Major-Greneral Sir Denis Pack,
recording the nulitaiy career of tliis
distinguished soldier. I knew the de-
ceased officer well during the Belgian
Digitized by CjOOQIC
804
A Month in XUkermy*
campaign, and a thousand reooUec-
tioDS sprang up in my mind when I
saw the bust, by Chantrej, of as
brave a man as ever served in the
British army. Bat to return.
Although the sahnon fishing in
Ireland has in many rivers sadly de-
generated within a few years, there is
still excellent sport to bo had in many
of the rivers and lakes. The Nore,
which flows through the county of
Kilkenny, would be a first-rate river
for salmon and trout were it not for
the number of weirs and the illegal
destruction of the fish by cross-lines
and nets. At Mount Juliet, the ro-
mantic seat of Lord Carrick, and
Narlands, the river is partially pre-
served; and here, as at Dunmore,
the property of Lord Ormonde, the
angling is excellent The general
run of salmon flies suits the Nore ;
they should be tied with dobbing of
pig^s wool, and a good deal of pea-
cock in the wing. For trout, the or-
dinary run of flies will be found to
answer well.
Among other fishing localities in
L*eland may be mentioned Lough
Eee,- a fine sheet of water about
twenty miles in extent, studded with
numerous islands, around the shores
of which, and on the shoals, trout
abound. The lake of AUua, about
ten miles above Macroom, in the
county of Cork^ was once famous for
trout and salmon, which have of late
years diminished considerably, in con-
sequence of the introduction of pike,
the tyrant of the waters. The lakes
of Carvagh, in Kerry, of Inchiquin,
of Currana (near Derrynane), Lough
Kittane (four miles from KiUamey),
Lough Brin (in Kerry), Lough Ate-
daun. Lough Gill (in Sllgo), and
Lough Erne, are well supplied with
trout and salmon; while the far-
famed lakes of Kilkumcy will furnish
sport to those who seek pastime, in
addition to the enjoyment of witness-
ing the most beautiful and romantic
scenery that is to be found in the
Emerald Isle. The rivers, too,
abound in fish. Among the best aro
the Liflby, Laune^ Tolka, Bann,
Bhickwater (in Cork), Suir, Annar,
IS^ire (a mountain stream rimng in the
Waterford mountains), Shannon, Lee,
and KiUaloe (remarkable for its eels,
as also for the gastronomic skill
of the inhabitants in dressing them)*
I must now turn from tl^ << gentle
crafte" to otter-hunting, a sport still
carried on with spirit in Ould Ire-
land. The mephitic nature of the
otter renders him an easy prey to bis
pursuers, and his scent is so strong
that a good hound will at once chal-
lenge it. The lodging of this subtle
plunderer is caUed his kermet^ or
cotteh^ and his occasional lodgments
and passages to and fro are called his
haUs, So clever is he as an archi-
tect that he constructs his couchet at
difierent heights, so that, let the
water rise or tall, he has a dry tene-
ment Spring is the best seascm for
ottex^hunting,' but it i% carried on dur-
ing the summer in the Emerald
Isle ; and a day with the amphibioas
tyrant of the finny tribe in the river
Nore, which I enjoyed last Septem-
ber, may not be uninteresting.
At about eleven o'clock on a bright
sunny day, with a refreshing breeze
blowing on us from the south-east,
we met at Coolmore, the seat of Mr.
P. Connellan. The harriers — be-
longing to my host, and consisting of
about six couple of handsome, well-
sized hounds, about seventeen inches
high — ^met in a field dose to the
house, attended by a whipper-in, ad-
mirably mounted. The pack seemed
to possess all the qualificaticHifl of
good harriers — fine heads, ear-flaps
thin, nostrils open, chests deep, em-
braced by shoulders broad but light,
and wen thrown back ; the fore-legs
straight, clean, bony, terminated by
round, ball-like feet, the hind-1^
being angular, and the thighs power-
fuL The beauty of the day had at-
tracted a large party of both sexes
from the neighborhood, some of
whom, and one young lady in psu^
ticular, managed a cot so ably, that
she drew forth the following eon^li-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Mmlh in ESkenny*
S05
ment from one ofthe bold peaaaDtij :
^^Bedad, miss, yoa'd do honor to
Cleopatra's galley/" The principal
part of the sportsmen and sports*
women were on foot, although a few
were mounted, and among the fair
eqaestrians was a young lady whose
seat and hand were peifect, and who
eyidently wished to emulate the
prowess of the Thracian huntress.
This modem Harpalyce, combining
oourdle with feminine deportment,
was prepared to fly like the wind
across the country, had an occasion
presented itself by the accidental dis-
covery of a fleet hare. Arrived at
the river's side, two Saxons with
loaded guns kept a good lookout for
the lurking prey, while the hounds
swam across to a small island, where
an o^r had been tracked by his seal
Shortly a hound was heard to chal-
lenge, but on the approach of the
pack the "goose-footed prowler,**
having been hunted before, left his
couch, and diving imder the water
made head up Ihe stream. Now
every eye on shore is intent on
watching his venHngs; his muzzle
appears above the surface for a sec*
ond ; again it disappears ; and he can
be tracked alone by the bubbles of air
he throws out The sport is now ex-
citing. One of the police, armed with
a primitive spear, which he had
taken from a river poacher, consisting
of a three-pronged fork fixed into the
end of a long pole, is ready to hurl
the weapcm which has proved so fatal
to many a salmon, should the otter
ai^>ear in view, while the staunch
hounds are dose on the scent
**Have a care there," cries a keen
sportsman to the preserver of the
peace. " Don't strike too quickly, or
bedad you may transfix a hound in-
stead of the marauding anunal.*'
But he is not doomed to die so inglo-
zions a death as that caused by a
rusty fork, for before the crude spear
is hurled the hounds have seized
bim, and, after a desperate strug-
gle, in which many of the gallant
pack were bitten, shake the life out
TOL. m. 20
of the captured prey. While enjoy-
ing the sport of the morning, my at-
tention was attracted to a young lady
on. the opposite bank of the river,
who, wising to join our party,
entered a small cot, and gallantly
paddled herself across the fast-flowing
stream. So admirably did this
^guardian Naiad of the strand**
guide her fragile bark, that I could
not fail to congratulate her upon her
prowess. My compliments, however,
fell very shOTt of one uttered by a
ragged boatman, who exclaimed :
^ Ay, and sure, miss, you must be
one of the queen's company. Bedad,
miss, you are worthy of taking
a cot into the Meditherranean.**
While upon the clever sayings of
the Irish, I must give an anecdote
which was told me by &\r John
Power, of Eilfime, than whom a finer
sportsman or more hospitable man
never existed. It seems that the
complaints made against the vulpine
race by owners of poultry are not
confined to England, and upon one
occasion a genuine Irishman, '^Pat
DriscoU by name,'* claimed compensa-
tion for damage done to a turkey
and duck. This was awarded to him,
when a week afterward he waited
upon the owner of Kilftme, and
asked him for compensation for
'^a beautiful cow killed by that
nasty varmen, a fox.*' "A fox
kill a cowl" said Sir John; "im-
possible 1** « Fait and sure he did,**
continued Pat "Til tell you how It
was. My cow was feeding in the
xqeadow dose to my garden, and was
eating a turnip, when up jumped a
baste of a fox, and frightened her so
much that bedad the poor creature
choked herself.** The good-humored
baronet could not fail to be amused at
Dri8Coll*s ready wit, but declined pay-
ing for the loss of the animal, upon
which Pat, not at all taken aback, re-
marked, " Well, Sir John, it's rather
hard upon me ; but in future, instead
of advertising your meets at Eilfane
or Thomastown, perhaps you will
name Eilmacoff (pronounced " Elil-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
306 Bamed and Hmed.
mjcow^) << as moore appropriate torn J ed at hearing the bttfler ask,
case*** "Please, ma'am, will I strip?"
Chapters could be filled with Irish ** xes,* was the reply ; **all the com-
sajings, but space prerents mj gir- pany have arrived." Turning to a
ing more than one, which was told neighbor, he inquired the meaning of
me bj a friend in whose veradtj • the expression, when he found it ap-
I have perfect confidence. An Eng- plied to taking the covers off the
lish gentleman dining at the house of dishes, and was quite foreign to the
an Irish lady, was greatly surpris- usual acceptation of the woid << strip.**
BANNED AND BLESSED.
*« And the Lord God formed numof the slime of theearth; .... Caned ts the esrih la
thy work.
^ And the word wee made fleeh end dwelt among ne.**
Bud out, glad earth, in beauty,
Ring out, glad earth, in song ;
The funeral pall is lifted
That covered thee so long :
The heavy curse laid on thee
For Eden's primal wrong.
Long ages gone, the angels
Hail^ thee with pure delight.
The blooming of thj day-time.
The radiance of thy night ;
And e'en.thy Maker named thee
As pleasant in his sight-
Soon lost that early joyance,
Brief worn that birth-day crown I
The very stars of heaven
Look sorrowfully down
On fairest flowers withered
Beneath man's sinful frown.
Blinded, and banned, and broken,
Along thy penance-path.
Thy vesture stream^ over
With the torrents of man's wrath ;
Thou treadest through the ether
A thing of shame and scath.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Banned and 3e$$ed. 307
Lift up ihj heady poor moumery
Sh£^e die ashes from thy brow ;
Laj off thine age-worn sackcloth
And wear the purple now :
Amid the starry brethren,
Who honor hath, as thou ?
The dust from off thy bosom
The Maker deigns to wear;
^ The word made flesh," in heayen,
Hath given thee such share
No grandeur of thy brethren
With it can hold compare.
Blest art thou that his footsteps
Along thy pathways trod ;
Blest art thou that his pillow
Has been thy grassy sod ;
And blest the burial shelter
Thou gayest to thy God.
And for that little service,
Divine the meed shall be :
When '' fervent heat "* hath melted
The starry choirs and thee,
The moulded dust of Eden
Shall live eternally.
^ <^ The first-bom of all creatures^
Doth wear it on his throne,
The vesture of humanity
By which he claims his own.
How infinite the pardon
That doth thy penance crown I
GENBviEyB Sales*
ifarch tt. isas.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
808
nJOM Geria.
TrandAtod ftom the Franoh.'
L'ABB^ GEBBET.*
BT C. A. 8AINTE-BEUTE.
Fob a long time I bave been reserv-
ing this subject for some feast-daj, for
Corpus Chrisd or some festival of
Ma^, feeling that holiness belongs to
it; unction, grace mingled with sci-
ence, and a reverential smile. ^ But
whj," some of our readers will say, —
^^whj does rAbb6 Gerbefs name
imply all this P* I shall try to show
them the reason and give some idea
of one of the most learned, distin-
guished, and truly amiable men that
the church of France possesses, as
I well as one of our best writers ; and,
without embarking on vexed or doubt-
ful questions, to delineate for them in
soft tints the personality of the man
and his talent*
But in the first place, that I may
connect with its true date this modest
name, which has rather courted obliv-
ion than notoriety, let me remind my
readers that during the BestoraUon,
about the year 1820, when that re-
gime, at fijret so unsettled, was begin-
ning to enter into complete possession
of its powers, a movement arose on
all sides among the youthful spirits,
ardently impelling them to literary
culture and philosophical ideas. In
poetry Lamartine had given the sig-
nal of revival, others gave it in histo-
ly, others again in philosophy; and
among the young people there sprang
up a universal spirit of emulation, a
unanimous determination to begin
anew. It seemed as if, like a fertile
* ** Con8id6rati<ni8 snr le Dogme G^n^ntenr
deUFl^t^CatlioUqiie." 4e Mition, ches Yaton.
land, the French mind, after its com-
pulsory rest of so many years, were
eagerly demanding every Idnd of cul-
tivation. Yes, in religion then, in
theology, it was the same ; a generation
had sprung up full of zeal and anima-
tion, who tried, not to renew what is in
its nature immutable, but to rejuvenate
the forms of teaching and demonstration,
adapt them to the mental condition of
the times, and make the principle of
Catholicity respected even by its oppo-
nents. For, in the words of one of
these young Levites in the beginning
of the movement, '< to act upon the
age, we must understand iL"
I could cite the names of several
men who, with shades of difiPerence
known in the ecclesiastical world, had
this in common, that they stood at the
head of the studious and intelUgent
young clergy : M. Gousset, now car-
dinal archbishop of Rheims, and stand-
ing in the first rank of theologians ;
Mgr. Affr6y who met his death so glo-
riously as archbishop of Paris ; M.
Douey, the present bishop of Montau-
ban ; and M. de Salinis, bishop of
Amiens. But at that time, between
the years 1820 and 1822, one name
alone among the clergy offered itself
to men of the world as a candidate
for widespread fame. M. de La-
meimais in his first Catholic fame had
enforced the attention of all by his
''Essay on Indifference," stirring a
thousand thoughts even in the minds
of the astonished clergy.
And here for the first time we meet
rAbb^ Gerbet He was bom m 1798
Digitized by CjOOQIC
VAhU GtrbeU
309
atPoIignjyintheJura. After complet-
ing ids first stadies in his natiTe town^
he passed through a course of philoso-
phy in the ac^demj of BesanQon;
and in obedience to an instinctive
vocadooy which awoke within him at
the age of ten jears, began his theo-
logical stadies in the same citj« Du-
ring the dangers of invasion, in 1814-
1815, he went into the mountains
to visit a curate, a relation or friend
of his family, and remained there to
study. Thither came one day a young
student of the Normal School, Jonffroy,
two years his senior, who in going
home to pass his vacation in the vil-
lage of Pontets, had paused a moment
on the way. Jouffroy, though in the
first flush of youth and learning, and
wearing the aureole upon his brow, did
not disdain to enter into discussion
with the young provincial semiuarian.
He combated the proofs of revelation,
and especially contested the age of the
world, relying upon the testimony of
the famous Zodiac of Denderah, so
often invoked in those days, and so
soon destroyed. The young semina-
rian, in the presence of this unknown
monument, could only answer: ^< Wait**
These two young men never met
again, compatriots though they were,
and from that day forth adversaries ;
but FAbb6 Gerbet and JoufBroy, wl^e
carrying on a war, pen in hand, never
fiuled to do so in the most dignified
terms of controversy, and Jouffiroy,
whose heart was so good despite his
dogmatic language, always spoke of
rAbb6 Greibet, if I remember right-
ly, with feelii^ of affectionate es-
teem.
On arriving in Paris at the dose of
the year 1818, TAbbS Gerbet entered
the seminary of Saint-Sulpice, but
his health, which was already delicate,
not allowing him to stay there long,
he established himself as a boarder
in the House of Foreign IkOssions,
where he followed the rules of the
seminarians. He was ordained priest
in 1822 at the same time with rAbb6
do Salinis, whose inseparable friend
he has always remained.
A little later he was appointed as-
sistant professor of the Holy Scrip-
tures in the Theological Faculty of
Paris, and went to Hve in the Sor-
bonne. Having no lectures to deliv-
er, he soon began to assist M. de Sa-
linis, who had been made almoner in
the college of Heniy lY., and it was at
this time that he first knew M. de La-
mennais.
At twenty-four years of age, TAbbe
Gerbet had given evidence of remark-
able philosophical and literaiy talent,
and had sustuned a Latin thesis with
rare elegance in the Sorbonne. By na-
ture he was endowed with all the gifts
of oratory, a sense of rhythmic
movement, measure, and choice of ex-
pression, and a graphic power which,
in one word, must become a talent for
writing. To these endowments he
added an acute and elevated faculty
for dialectics, fertile in distinctions,
which he sometimes took delight in
multiplying, but without ever losing
himself among them. In the vciy
beginning of his friendship with M.
de Lamennais, he fel^ without per-
haps acknowledging it to himself, that
that bold and vigorous genius, who
was wont to open new views and per-
spectives, as it were by main force,
needed the assistance of an auxiliary
pen, more tempered, gentler and fiim,
— a talent that could nse evidence ju-
diciously, fill up spaces, cover weak
points, and smooth away a look of men-
ace and revolution from what was sim-
ply intended as a broader expression
and more accessible development of
Christianity. L'Abb^ Grcrbet clothed
M. de I^unennais' system as far as
possible with the character of persua-
sion and conciliation that belonged to
it : to soften and graduate its tenden-
cies-was properly the part he filled at
this time of his youth.
Upon this system I shall touch iii a
few words that will suffice to explain
what I have to say of I'Abb^ Gerbet*s
moral and literary gifts. Instead
of seeking the evidences of Chris-
tianity in such and such texts of
Scripture, or in a personal argument
Digitized by CjOOQIC
810
VAUU GerbeL
addressed to individual reason, M. de
Lamennais maintained that it should,
in the first place, be sought in the
nnirersal tradition and historical tes-
timonj of peoples, for he beliered
that even before the coming of Jesns
Christ and the establishment of Chris-
tianity a sort of testimony was to
be traced, confused certainly, but real
and concordant, running tluough the
traditions of ancient races and dis-
cernible even in the presentiments of
ancient sages* It seemed to him
demonstrable that among all nations
there had been ideas, more or less
defined, of tiie creation of man, of the
fall and promised reparation, of the
expiation or expected redemption — in
short, of all that should one day
constitute the treasures of Christian
doctrine, and was then only the scat-
tered and persistent vestige of the
primitive revelation. From this he
aigued that the lights of ancient sages
might be considered as the dawn
of faith, and that without, of course,
being dassed among the fathers of
the primitive church, Confucius, Zo-
roaster, Pythagoras, Heraclitus, Soc-
rates, and Plato should be considered
up to a certain point as preparers
for the gospel, and not be num-
bered among die accursed* They
might almost be called, in the lan-
guage of the ancient fathers, prunitive
Christians — at least they were like so
many Magi travelling more or less
directly toward the divine cradle.
By this single view of an anterior
Christianity disseminated through
the world, by this voyage, as it were,
in search of Catholic truths fioatiug
about the universe, the teaching of
theology would have been wonder-
fully widened and enlarged, for it
necessarily comprised the history of
philosophical ideas. M. de Lamen-
nais' system, which is especially at-
tractive when developed historically
by the pen of TAbW Glerbet, has
not since then been recognized by the
church. It appeared to be at least
delusive, if not false ; but perhaps,
even from the point of view of ortho-
doxy, it can only merit the reproach
of having claimed to be the sole
method, to the exclusion of all others ;
combined with other proofs, and pre-
sented simply^ as a powerful accessory
consideration, I believe that ^it has
never been rejected.
It may be understood, however,
even withont entering into the heart
of the matter, that in 1824, when
I'Abb^ Gerbet, in concert with M.
de Salinis, established a religious
monthly magazme, entitled the ^ Coo-
lie Memorial,'' and began to develop his
ideas therein with modesly and mod-
eration, but also with that fresb
confidence and ardor that youth be-
stows, there was, to speak merely of
the external form of the questions, a
something about it that gave the
signal for the struggle c? a new
spirit against the stationary or back-
ward spirit The old-fashioned theo-
logians, whether formalist or ration-
alistic, who found themselves attacked,
resisted and took scandal at the name
of traditions which were not only
Catholic but scholastic and classic
But in rAbb6 Gerbet they had to
deal with a man thoroughly well
read in the writings of the fathers,
and possessed of their true significance.
He could bring forward, in his turn,
texts drawn from the fountain-head
in support of this freer and more
generous method; among other quo-
tations, ho liked to cite this fine
passage from Vincent de L^rius:
" Let posterity, thanks to your en-
lightenment, rejoice in the conception
of that to which antiquity gave re-
spectful credence without understand-
ing [its full meaning] ; but remember
to teach the same things that have
been transmitted to you, so that,
while presenting them in a new light,
you do not invent new doctrines."
Thus, while maintaining fiindamental
immutabilify, he took pleasure in
remarking that, in spite of slight dev-
iations, the order of scientific expla-
nation has followed a law of progress
in the church, and has been succes-
sively developed; a fact which he
Digitized by CjOOQIC
VJOM Gerbet.
811
demonstrated by the history of Chiid-
tianitj.
«The Catholic Memorial," in its
very infancy, stirred the emulation of
youthful writers in the philosophical
camp. It was at first printed at
Lachcvardi^re's, where M. Pierre
Leroux was proof-reader, and the
latter, on seeing the success of a
magazine devoted to grave subjects,
concluded that a similar organ for the
promotion of opinions shared by him-
self and his friends might be estab-
lished with even better results. In
that same year, 1824, « The Globe"
began its career, and the two periodi-
caJs often engaged in polemic discus-
sions, like adversaries who knew and
respected each other while they clear-
ly understood the point of controver-
sy. For the ben^t of the curious, I
note an ardcle of M. Gerbet's*
(signed X.) which represents many
others, and is entitled '^ Concerning
the Present State of Doctrines;"-^
the objections are especially address-
ed to MM. Damiron and Jouffroy.
It was the heyday then of this war
of ideas.
L'Abb^ Gerbet's life has been
quite simple and uniform, marked by
only one considerable episode — ^his
connection with I'AbbS de Lamen-
naiss to whom he lent or rather gave
himself for years with an affectionate
devotion which had no term or limit
except in the final revolt of that
proud and immoderate spirit. After
fulfilling all the duties of a religious
friendship, afler having waited and
forborne and hoped, Gerbet with-
drew in silence. For a long time he
had been all that Nicole was to Ar-
nauld — a moderator, softening asperi-
ties and averting shocks as far as
possible. He never grew weary
until thero was no longer room for
further effort, and then he returned
completely to himself. These ultra
and exclusive methods are unsuited
to his nature, and he hastened to
withdraw from them, and to forget
Vol. 4th, p. 188.
what he would never have allowed
to break out and reach such a pass
if he had been acting alone. It
needs but a word, but a breath, from
]&e Vatican to dissipate all that seems
cloudy or obscure in rAbb6 Gerbet's
doctrines. His gentle clouds inclose
no storm, and, in dispersing, they
reveal a depth of serene sky, lightly
veiled here and there, but pure and
delicious.
I express the feeling that some of
his writings leave upon the mind, and
especially the work that has just been
reprinted, of which I will say a few
words. ''Les Con8id6ration8 sur le
Dogme g6n^rateur de la Pi4t6 Catho-
lique," that is to say. Thoughts upon
Communion and the Eucharist, first
appeared in 1829. It is, properly
speaking, ^' neither a dogmatic treatise
nor a book of devoticm, but something
intermediate." The author begins by
an historical research into general
ideas, universally diffused throughout
antiquity — ^ideas of sacrifice and offer-
ing, as well as of the desire and necessi-
ty of communication with an ever-pres-
ent God, which have served as a prep-
aration andapproach toward the myste-
ry ; but, mingled with historical digres-
sions and delicate or profound doctrinal
distinctions, we meet at every step sweet
and beautiful words which come from
the soul and are the effusion of a lov-
ing faith. I will quote a few, almost
at hazard, without seeking their con-
nection, for they ^ve us an insight
into the soul of TAbbS Grerbet- As,
for instance, concerning prayer :
'^ Prayer, in its fundeuaental essence,
is but the sincere recognition of this
contmual need (of drawing new
strength from the source of life) and
an humble desire of constant assist-
ance ; it is the confession of an indi-
gence full of hope."
« Wherever God places intelligences
capable of serving him, there we find
weakness, and there too hope."
And again :
^ Christianity in its fulness is only
a bountiful alms bestowed on abject
poverty."
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813
VAM CkrhiL
^Ib there not aometliiiig divine in
every benefit ?"
" Charity enters not into the heart
of man without combat ; for it meets
an eternal adversary there— pride, the
first-born of selfishness, and the fi&ther
of hatred."
^ The gospel has made, in the full
force of the term, a revolution in the
human soul, by changing the relative
position of the two feelings that divide
its sway : fear has yielded the empire
of the heart to love."
JJAhh6 Gerbet's book is full of
golden words ; but when we seek to
detach and isolate them, we see how
closely they are woven into the tis-
sue.
The aim of the author is to prove
that, from a Christian and Catholic
point of view, communion, accepted
in its fulness with entire faith, fre-
quent communion reverently received,
is the most certain, efficacious, and
vivid means of charity* In speak-
ing of the excellent book entitled
« The Followmg of Christ," he says :
<<The asceticism of the middle ages
has left an inimitable monument,
which Catholics, Protestants, and phil-
osophers are agreed in admiring with
the most beautiful admiration, that of
the heart. It is wonderful, this little
book of mysticism, upon which the
genius of Leibnitz used to ponder,
and which roused something like en-
thusiasm even in the frigid Fontenelle.
No one ever read a page of the * Fol-
lowmg of Christy' especially in time
of trouble, without saying as he laid
the book down: ^That has done me
good.' Setting the Bible apart, this
work is the sovereign friend of the
souL But whence did the poor solita-
ry who wrote it draw this inexhaust-
ible love ? (for he spoke so effectively
only because of his great love.) He
himself tells us the source in every
line of his chapters on the bless^
sacrament: the fourth book explains
the other three."
I could multiply quotations of this
kind, if they were suited to these
pages, and if it were not better to rec-
ommend the book for the solitary med-
itation of my readers ; I would point
out to be remembered among the most
beautiful and consoling pages belong-
ing to our language and religions lit-
erature, all the latter part of Chapter
YILL Nothing is wanting to make this
exquisite little book of TAbb^ Gerbet's
more generally appreciated than it
now is but a less frequent combina-
tion of dialectics with the expression of
affectionate devotion. Generally speak-
ing, the tissue of YAhh6 Gerbet^s
style is too close ; when he has a beau-
tiftil thing to say, he does not give it
room enough. His talent is like a sa-
cred wood, too thickly grown ; — ^the
temple, repository, and altar in its
depths are surrounded on all sides,
and we can reach them only by foot-
paths. I suppose that this is because
he has always lived too near his own
thoughts, never having had the oppor-
tunity to develop them in public
Feeble health, and a delicate voice
which needs the ear of a friend, have
never allowed this rich talent to un-
fold itself in teaching or in the pulpit.
If at any time he had been induced
to speak in public, he would have
been obliged to clear up, disengage,
and enlarge not his views, but the
avenues that lead to them.
In 1838, being troubled with an
affection of the throat, he went to Rome
and, always intending to return home
soon, remained there until 1848. It
was there that in the leisure moments of
a life of devotion and study, in which,
too, the most elevated friendship had
its share, he composed the first two
volumes of the work entitled '*A
Sketch of Christian Rome," designed
to impart to aU elevated souls the feel-
ing and idea of the Eternal City.
''The fundamental thought in this
book," he says, ** is to concentrate the
visible realities of Christian Rome
into a conception and, as it were, a
portrait of its spiritual essence. An
excellent interpreter in the way bo
has chosen for himself, he goes on to
speak of the monuments not with the
diy science of a modem antiquary,
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VAOi GerieL
MS
or with the naif enthnsiasm of a be-
liever of the middle ages, but with a
reflective admiradon which unites
philosophy to piety.
« The study of Borne in Rome,*'
he says aj^in, ^ leads us to the living
springs of Christianity. It refreshes
all the good feelings of the heart, and,
in this age of storms, sheds a wonder-
ful serenity over the souL We must
not, of course, attach too much impoi*t-
ance to the charm which we find in
certain studies, for books written with
pleasure to one's self run the risk of
being written with less charity. But
none the less should we thank the
Divine Groodness when it hannoini2es
pleasure with duty.**
In these volumes of YAhh& Grer-
bet, introductions and dissertations
upon Christian symbolism and church
history lead to observations full of
grace or grandeur, and to beautiful
and touching pictures. The Catacombs,
which were the cradle and die asylum
of Christianity during the first three
centuries, interested him especially,
and inspired in him thoughts of rare
elevation. Here are some verses
(for rAbh6 Gerbet is a poet without
pretending to he one) which ^ve his
first impressions of them, and show
the quality of his souL The piece is
called "The Song of the Catacombs,**
and is intended to be sung.*"
** Yesterday I visited the great
Catacombs of ancient times. I touch-
ed with my brow the immortal tombs
of early Christians, and never did
the star of day, nor the celestial
spheres with their letters of fire,
teach me more clearly to read in
profound characters the name of God.
•We tnwsUte *'I<e Chint dea CatAcombas**
Into prose, that the noble ideas maybe given
with literal accuracy. The author Intended it
to be aonxto the air of *' Le Fil de Lft Vierge "
(Scado). We give one ycrse of the original :
** Hier J*ai vialt^ lea grandes Cataeombea
Des temps anciens ;
J*ai tonch6 de mon front lea immortelles
tombea
Des vleox Chretiens :
Bt nl rastre dn Jonr, ni les ofleetm sphdres,
Lettres da fen,
Ne m'svaiont mienx fklt lire en profonda
caractdres
Lo Bom de Dieo.**
'<A black-firocked hermit, with
blanched hair, walked on in front —
old door-keeper of time, old porter of
life and death ; and we questioned
him about these holy relics of the
great fight, as one listens to a veter*
an's tales of ancient exploits.
" A rock served as portico to the
funeral vault; and on its fronton
some martyr artist, whose name is
known, no doubt, to the angels, had
painted the face of Christ, with the
fair hair, aAd the great eyes whence
streams a ray of deep gentleness like
the heavens.
" Further on, I kissed many a sym-
bol of holy parting upon the tombs.
And the palm, and the lighthouse,
and the bird fiying to God's bosom;
and Jonas, leaving the whale after
three days, with songs, as we leave
this world after three days of trouble
called time.
^ Here it was that each one, stand-
ing beside his ready-made grave, like
a living spectre, wrestled the fight
out, or hud his head down in expecta-
tion I Here, that they might prepare
a strong heart beforeluuid for the
great day of sufiering, they tried their
graves, and tasted the first-fruits of
death I
^^I sounded with a glance their
sacred dust, and felt that the soul
had left a breath of life lingering
in these ashes; and that in this
human sand, which weighs so lightly
in our hands, lie, awaiting the great
day, germs of the almost god-like
forms of eternity.
" Sacred places, where love knew
how to suffer purely for the soul's
good! In questioning you, I felt
that its fiame could never perish;
for to each being of a day who died
to defend the truth, the Being eternal
and true, as the price of time, has
pven eternity.
'' Here at each step we behold, as
it were, a golden throne, and whUe
treading on tombs we seem to be on
Mount Tabor. Go down, go down
into the deep Catacombs, into their
lowest recesses— go down, and your
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814
ZdJibb^ \jr€fb$t»
heart shall rise and, looking up from
these graves, see heaven !"
Beside these verses, which are not
foand in the volumes of ^ Christian
Borne,** and are only a first utterance,
should be placed, as an original pic-
ture full of meaning, his words con-
cerning the slow and gradual destruc-
tion of the human bcnij in the Cata-
combs* We all know Bossuet's mot
(after TertuUian) in speaking of a
human corpse : ^It becomes a some-
thing unutterable," he exclaims,
^wluch has no name in any lan-
guage.'' The following admirable
page from TAbb^ Gerbef s book is,
as it were, a development and com*
mentarj of Bossuef s words. At this
first station of the Catacombs he con-
fines himself to the study of the noth-
ingness of life : '^ the work I do not
say of death, but of what comes afler
death ;" the idea of awakening and
of future life follows later. Listen :
** In your progress you review the
various phases of destruction, as one
observes the development of vegeta-
tion in a botanic garden from the
imperceptible flower to lai^ trees,
rich with sap and crowned with great
blossoms. In a number of sepulchral
niches that have been opened at dif-
ferent periods one can follow, in a
manner, step by step, the successive
forms, further and further removed
from life, through which what is there
passes before it approaches as closely
as possible to pure nothingness.
Lool^ first, at this skeleton ; if it be
well preserved in spite of centuries, it
is probably because the niche where
it lies was hollowed out of damp
earth. Humidity, which dissolves all
other things, hardens these bones by
covering them with a crust whidL
gives Uiem more consistency than
they had when they were members
of a living body. But not the less
is this consistency a progress of de-
struction ; these human bones are
turning to stone. A littie further on
is a grave where a straggle is going
on between the power that makes the
skeleton and the power that makes
dust ; the first defends itself, but the
second is gaining ground, though slow-
ly. The combat between Hfe and
death that is taking place in you, and
will be over before this combat be-
tween one death and another, is near-
ly ended. In the sepulchre near by,
of all tiiat was a human frame noth-
ing is left but a sort of cloth of dust,
a littie tumbled and unfolded like a
small whitish shroud, from which a
head comes out. Lodk, lastiy, at this
other niche ; there is evidently noth-
ing there but simple dust, the colc^r of
which even is a little doubtful from its
slightiy reddish tinge. There, you
say, is the consummation of destruc^
tion 1 Not yet. On looking closely,
you discern a human outline: this
littie heap, touching one of the long!*
tudinal extremities of the niche, is the
head ; these two heaps, smaller and
flatter, placed parallel to each other
a littie lower down, are the shoul-
ders ; these two are the knees. The
long bones are represented by feeble
trails, broken here and there. This
last sketch of man, this vague, rubbed-
out form, barely imprinted on an
almost impalpable dust, which is vol-
atile, nearly transparent, and of a
dull, uncertain white, can best give us
an idea of what the ancients caUed a
shade. If, in order to see better, you
put your head into the sepulchre, take
care; do not move or speak, hold
your breath. That form is frailer
than a butterfly's wing, more swifl to
vanish than a dewdrop hanging on a
blade of grass in the sunshine; a little
air shaken by your hand, a breath, a
tone, become here powerM agents
that can destroy in a second what
seventeen centuries, perhaps, of de-
cay have spared. See, yon breathed,
and the form has disappeared. So
ends the history of man in this
world.**
This seems to me quite a beautiful
view of death, and one that prompts
the Christian to rise at once to that
which is above destruction and
escapes the catacomb— the immortal
prmdple of life, love, sanctity, and
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LAm Geriet.
815
sacrifice. I can only indicate these
noble and interesting considerations
to those who are eager to study in
material Borne the higher city and its
significance.
Among TAbb^ Gerbefs wridngs
^I will menti<m only one other, which
is, perhaps, his masterpiece, aod is
connected with a touching incident
that will be felt most deeply by prac-
tically religious persons, but of which
they will not be alone in their appre«
dation. It was before the year 1838,
previously to the abb6's long resi-
dence in Rome, that he became inti-
mate with the second son of M. de la
Ferronais, former minister of foreign
affiiirs. Toung Count Albert de la
Ferronais had married a young
Russian lady, MdUe. d'Alopeus, a
Lutheran in reUgton, whom he eager-
ly desired to lead to the faith. He
was dying of consumption at Paris in
his twenty-fifth year, and his end
seemed to be drawing near, when the
young wife, on the eve of widowhood,
decided to be of her husband's re-
ligion; and one night at twelve
o'clock, the hour of Christ's birth,
they celebrated in his room, beside
the bed so soon to be a bed of death,
the first communion of one and the
last communion of the other. (June
29, 1836.) L'Abb6 Gerbet was the
consecrator and consoler in this scene
of deep reality and mournful pathos,
but yet so full of holy joy to Chris-
tians. It was the vivid interest of
this incomparable and ideal death-bed
which inspired him te write a dialogue
between Plato and Fen61on, in which
the latter reveals to the disciple of
Socrates all needful knowledge con-
cerning the other world, and in which
he describes, under a half-Med veil,
a death according to Jesus Christ
"O writer of Phaedon, and ever
admirable painter of an immortal death,
why was it not given to you to be the
witness of the things ^thich we see
with our eyes, hear with our ears,
and seize with the inmost perceptions
of the soul, when by a concurrence of
dicumstances of God's making, by a
rare complication of joy and agony,
the Christian soul, revealed in a new
half-light, resembles those wondrous
evenings whose twilight has strange
and nameless tmts! What pictures
then and what apparitions I Shall
I describe one to you, Plato? Yes,
in heaven's name, I will speak. I
witnessed it a few days ago, but at
the end of a himdred years I should
still call it a few days* You will not
understand the whole of what I tell
you, for I can only speak of these
things in the new tongue which
Christianity has made; but still you
will understand enough. Know, then,
that of two souls that had waited for
each other on earth and had met,"
etc.
Then follows the story, slightly
veiled and, as it were, transfigured,
but without hiding the circumstances.
''Plato as a Christian would have
spoken thus," said M. de Lamartine
of this dialogue, and the eulogium is
only just
L'Abbd Gerbet could, no doubt,
have written more than one of these
admirable dialogues if he had wished
to devote himself to the work, or if
his physical oiganization had enabled
him to labor continuously. He pos<
sesses all that is needed to make him
the man for Christian I\iseulane$.
Three times in my life have I had^the
happiness of seeing him in places en-
tirely suited to him, and wMch seem-
ed to make a natural £rame for him :
at Juilly, in 1831, in the beautiful
shades that Malebranche used to
frequent ; in 1839, at Borne, beneath
the arches of solitary cloisters; and
yesterday, again, in the episcopal
gardens of Amiens, where he lives,
near his friend, M. de Salinis.
Everywhere he is the same. Imag-
ine a slightly stooping figure, pacing
with long, slow steps a peaceful walk,
where two can chat comfortably
together on the shady side, and where
he often stops to talL Observe
closely the delicate and affectionate
smile, the benign countenance, in
which something reminds us of Flo-
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316
nAm GwUl
chier and of Fdn^lon ; listen to the
sagacious words, elevated and fertile
in ideas, sometimes interrapted by
fatigae of voice, and bj bis pausing
to take breath; notice among doc-
trinal views, and comprehensive defi-
nitions that come to lite of themselves
and prove their strength upon his lips,
those charming moU and agreeable
anecdotes, that talk strewn with rem-
iniscences and .pleasantly adorned
with amenity, — and do jiot ask if it is
any one else — ^it is he.
L'Abb6 Gerbet has one of those
natures which when standing alone
are not sufficient unto themselves, and
need a friend; we may say that
he possesses his full strength only
when thus leaning. For a long time
he seemed to have found in M. de La-
mennais such a friend of firmer will
and purpose r but these strong wills
often end, without meaning to do so,
by taking possession of us as a prey,
and then casting us like a slough.
True friendship, as La Fontaine un-
derstood it, demands more equality
and more consideration. L'Abb^
Gerhet has found a tender and equal
friend, quite suited to his beautiful
and faithful nature, in M. de Salinis ;
to praise one is to wm the other's
gratitude at once. Will it be an
indiscretion if I enter this charming
household and describe one day there,
at least, iu its clever and literary
attractions? L'Abb^ Gerbet, like
Fishier, whom I have named in con-
nection with him, has a society talent
full of charm, sweetness, and inven-
tion. He himself has forgotten the
pretty verses, little allegorical po-
ems, and couplets appropriate to fes-
tivals or occasional circumstances,
which he has scattered here and
there, in all the places where he has
lived and the countries he passed
through. He is one of those who
can edify without being moumM,
and make hours pass gaily with-
out dissipation. In his long
life, into which an evil thpnght
never glided, and which escaped
all turbulent passions, he has pre-
served the first joy of a pure and
beautiful souL In him a discreet
spirituality is combined with cbeer-
fhlness. I have by me a pretty little
scene in verse which he wrote ft few
days ago for the yoimg pupils of the
Sacred Heart at Amiens, in which
there is a faint suggestion of Esther,
but of Esther enlivened by the neigh-
borhood of Gresset. The bishop of
Amiens always receives them on
Sunday evenings, and they caqie
gladly to his wlony where there is no
strictness, and where good society is
naturally at home. They play a few
games, and have a lottery, and, in
order that no one may draw a blank,
FAbb^ Gkrbet makes verses for the
loser, who is called, I think, h ni*
gaud (the ninny). These nigands
of rAbb6 Gerbet are appropriate
and full of wit; he makes them 5jf
obedience^ which saves him, he says,
from all blame and from all thoi^ht
of ridicule. It is difficult to detadi
these trifies from the associations of
society that call them forth ; but here
is one of the litde impromptus made
for the use and consolation ^ of the
losers ;'' it is called the ^Evening
Game:"
**Mj children, to-day is our Lady*! day ;
Now tell me. I pray. In her dear name,
Should the hand that this morning a cand3e
Hold
clasped,
d cards io-i
-night in ft childish game?
I wonld not with critical words condemn
A pastime the world holds Innocent,
Let me bat say that Its levity
May veil a lesson of deep intent
Think at the drawing of each card
That every day is an Idle game.
If at its close In the treasarea of God
There is no prixe answering to your name.
This erening game is an hour well passed
If God be the guardian of yonr sports ;
And the day, closing as It dawned,
Shall rejoin this morning's holy thoughts. ^
I startle yon all with my gravo discourse ;
Ton woud laugh and I preach with words acs-
tere;
No worldly place this— 'tis the bishop's house ;
tio pardon tnis sermon, my children dear.''
This is the man who wrote the book
upon the eucharist and the dialogue be*
tween Plato and F6nclon, and who had
a plan of wridng the last conference of
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Our ya^Oar. S17
St. Anaelm on the soul ; this is he desire to notice one who fs as distin-
whom the French clergy coold oppose gnished as he is modest,
with honor to Jonfiroj^ and whom the For a long time I have said to mj-
most sympathetic of Protestants could self, If we ever have to elect an ecdesias-
comhat only whQe revering him and tic to the French Academy, how well
recognizmg him as a hrother in heart I know who will be my choice I And
and intelligence. L'AbbSGerbetmiites what is more, I am qoite sare that
to these elevated virtues, which I have philosophy in the person of M. Cousin,
merely been able to glance at, a gen- religion by the organ of M. de Men-
tie gaiety, a natural and cultivated talembert, and poetry by the lips of
charm, which reminds one even in M. de Lamartine, would not oppose
holiday games 'of the playfulness of me.
a Bapin, a Bougeant, a Bonhours. Monday, Brr after the Feast of ABSumpUoD,
There has been much dispute lately as ^^' ^^ *®®-
to the studies and the degree of literary [Smce the above article was written,
merit authorized by the clergy ; many the Abb6 Gerbet has had conferred on
officious and clamorous persons have him the episcopal dignity. He died
been brought forward, and it is my about one year agow — ^Ed. C. W.]
[ORXOIKAL.]
OUR NEIGHBOR.
SsTit down gently at the altar rail,
The faithful, aged dust, with honors meet;
Long have we seen that pioui face so pale
Bowed meekly at her Saviour's blessed feet.
These many years her heart was hidden where
Nor moth nor rust nor crafl of man could harm ;
The blue eyes seldom lifted, save in prayer,
Beamed with her wished for heaven's celestial calm.
As innocent as childhood's was the face,
Though sorrow oil had touched that tender heart ;
Each trouble came as winged by special grace
And resignation saved the wound from smart
On bead and crucifix her fingers kept
Until the last, their fond, accustomed hold ;
« My Jesus," breathed the lips ; the raised eyes slept.
The placid brow, the genUe hand, grew cold.
The choicely ripening cluster lingering late ^
Into Octdber on its shriveled vine
Wins mellow juices which in patience wait
Upon those long, long days of deep sunshine.
Then set it gently at the altar rail,
, The fidthlul, aged dust, with honors meet ;
How can we hope if such as she can £sal
Before the eternal God's high judgment-seat?
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818
Jenifiif'9 PrtJ^er*
From The Lttertry WorkmtiL
JENIFER'S PRATEE.
BY OUVEB CRANB.
IK THRSB PABT8.
[OOyCLUUDV.]
PABTin.
Ladt 6b£T8T0CK droTe on briskly.
They were oat of the shadow of the
trees and again on the broad, white
gleaming gravelled road that led to
tiie west lodge, and the tampike
road to Blagden. Not a word was
spoken. On went the ponies, who
Imew the dark shadows of the elms
that stood at intervals, in groups,
two or three together, by the side
of the load, and threw their giant
outlines across it, making the moon-
light seem brighter and brighter as
it silvered the surface of the broad
carriage drive, and made the crushed
granite sparkle— on went the ponies,
shaking their heads with mettlesome
impatience when the pulling of the
reins offended them, not frightened
at the whirling of the great droning
night insects, which flew out from
the oak-trees on the left, nor shying
away irom the shadows— on they
went through the sweet, still, soft,
scented night air, and the broad,
peaceful light of the silent moon —
on they went I Not one word mingled
with the sound of their ringing
hoofs, not a breath was heard to
answer to the sighing of the leaves;
the *^ good night " that had been
spoken between the stranger and
themselves stiU seemed to live in
the hearing of those to whom he
had spoken, and to keep them in a
meditative and painiul silence.
At last the lodge was reached.
The servant opened the gates ; the
carriage was driven through ; the
high road was gained, and all roman-
tic mystery was over; the dream that
had held those silent ones was gone ;
and like one suddenly awoke, Lady
Greystock said : " Eleanor 1 how
wonderful ; you knew that man I
Eleanor I he knew you ; asked about
you ; had been seeing you. Why
was he there in the Beremouth
woods — appearing at this hour, amoqg
the ferns and grass, like a wild
creatare risen from its lair? Elea-
nor! why don't you speak to me?
Why, when he spoke of you by
your name, did you not answer for
yourself? Why did you send him
to Jenifer ? Oh I Eleanor ; I feel
there is something terrible and strange
in all this. I cannot keep it to my-
self. I must tell my father. It
can't be right It cannot be for any
good that we met a man lurking
about, and not owned by you, though
he is here to find you. Speak,
Eleanor! Now that I am in the
great high road I feel as if I had
gone through a terror, or escaped
some strange danger, or met a mys-
tery face to fkce."
Lady Greystock spoke fast and
in a low voice, and Eleanor, bending
a little toward her, heard every
word.
<< You have met a mystery fietce
to face," she said in a whisper, which,
however, was sufficiently audible.
<< I did know that man. And I am
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JisMfirM JTOyW.
819
not denying that he soaght me, and
that he had a light to seek me.
But many things have changed since
those old daysy when^if I had obeyed
him,l8houldhaTedonebetterthanIdid.
I know what he wants ; and Jenifer
can give it io him. Here we are
at Blagden; think no more of it^
Lady Greystock.**
No answer was giren to Eleanor^s
words ; they me^ Dr. Blagden on the
steps at the door. ^You are later
than usual— «dl right?" ^All quite
right^^'sud Eleanor. <<The beauty
of the night tempted us to come
home through Beremonthy'said Lady
Greystock. "How lovely it would
look ocL such a sweety peaceful night,''
said Mrs. Blagden, who now joined
them; and then Eleanor took the
carriage wraps in her arms up stairs,
and Lady Greystock went into the
drawing-room, and soon after the
whole hoasehold — all but Eleanor—
were in bed.
Not Eleanor. She opened a box
where she kept her letters, and many
small objects of value to her, and
carefully shutting out the moonlight,
and trinmiing her lamp into brillian-
cy, she took out letter after letter
from Henry Evelyn calliDg her his^
beloved one, and his wife; then
the letter ftDm Corny Nugent, say-
ing that Henry Evelyn and Horace
Erskine were one ; and the one
thing that Corny Nugent had sent
to her as evidence-^it seemed to be
proof sufficient. It was a part of a
letter from Horace to his uncle, Mr.
Erskine, which had been flung into
a waste-paper basket, and which,
having the writer's signature, Corny
had kept, and sent to Eleanor. Not,
as he said, that he knew the man's
handwriting, but that she did ; and
that, therefore, to her it would have
value as proving or disproving his
own convictions.
Eleanor had never brought this
evidence to the proof. She had laid
by Comy's letter, and the inclosnre.
She had put it all aside with the
weight of a great dread on her mind,
and ** Not yet, not yet,** was all she
said as she locked away both the
assertion and the proof.
But her hnsl]and was at Bere-
mouthnow. Yes; and on what er»
rand ? She knew that too.
Mrs. Brewer had called that mom<
ing to see Lady Greystock. Mrs.
Brewer had come herself to tell
Claudia that Mary would arrive, and
that Horace would bring her. She
would not trust any one but herself
to give that information. She never
let go the idea of Horace having
behaved in some wrons way to
Claudia. She knew Claudia's disposi-
tion, her bravery, her determination ;
and her guesses were very near the
truth. « Mother Mary "had those
womanly instincts which jump at
conclusions; and the truths guessed
at through the feelings are truths,
and remain truths for ever, though
reason has never proved them or
investigation explained them.
Then, too^ there was her sister's
letter, which Mrs. Brewer had sent
to Father Daniels. There the pass-
ing ftmcy for Claudia had been spoken
of. In that letter the love of money
had peeped oat, and supplied the
motive ; but Mrs. Brewer faiow very
well that Claudia's disposition was
not of a sort to have any acquaint-
ance with passing fancies. If she
had loved Horace, she had loved
with her whole heart; and if she
had been deceived in him, her whole
heart had suffered, and her whole
life been overcast <* Mother Mary "
had felt to some purpose ; and now,
only herself should say to Lady
Greystock that he was coming among
them again.
She had arrived at Blagden and
she had told Claudia everything;
what Horace wished as to Mary,
and what her sister and Mr. Erskine
desired ; and she had not hidden
her own unwillingness to lose her
child, or her own wish that Mary
might have married, when she did
marry, some one more to her moth-
er's mind, and nearer to her mofchei's
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8:^0
Jeni/ef'i Prager.
honse.' And it was in remembrance
of this conyersation that Ladj Grey-
stock, when she took Jenifer into the
carriage, had said: ^' If you ever pray
for my father, and aU he loves, pray
nowr*
Something of all this had been told
by Lady Greystock to Eleanor. And
in the time that the aunt and niece
had been together that day, Eleanor
hod said to Jenifer, ^^ He is down at
the park wantbg to marry Miss Lor-
imer."
Jenifei's darling— Jenifer's darling's
darling; how she loved ^'Mother iSar
ry," and Lansdowne Lorimer's child,
only her own great and good heart
knew. What could she do but go to
God, and his priest? What human
foresight could have prevented this ?
What human wisdom could set things
right? And after all, they did not
mirely know that Eleanor's husband
and Claudia's lover Were met in one
man, and that man winning the heart
of lovely, innocent Mary Lonroer,
and pressing marriage on her. But
for her prayer, Jenifer used to say,
she should have gone out of her mind.
Oh, the comfort that grew out of the
thought that God knew I and that
her life and all that was in it wero
given to him. Such a shifting of re-
sponsibility — such a supporting sense
of his never allowing anything to bo
in that life that was not, in some way,
lR>r his glory — ^such practical strength,
such heart-sustaining power, grew out
of Jenifer 8 prayer that even Eleanor's
numbed heart rested on it, and she
had learnt to be content to live, from
hour to hour, a life of submission and
waiting.
But was the waiting to be over now ?
—was something coming ? If so, she
must be prepared. And so, diligently,
by the lamp-light, Eleanor produced
her own letters, and opened that torn
sheet to compare the writing. It was
different in some things, yet the same.
As she gazed, and ezandned, and com-
pared terminations, and matched the
capital letters together, she knew it
was the same handwriting. Time had
done its work. The writing of the
present was firmer, harder, done with
a worse pen, written at greater speed.
But that was all the change. She
was convinced j and she put away her
sorrow-laden store, locked them safe
fix>m sight, said her night prayers, and
went to bed. Not a sigh, nor a tear.
No vain regrets, no heart-easing
groans. The time for such consola-
tions had long been passed with Elean-
or. Within the last nine years her
life had as much changed as if she
had died and risen again into another
world of intermediate trial A very
great change had been wrought in
her by Lady Greystock's friendship*
Eleanor had become educated. The
clever, poetical girl, who had won
Horace Erskine's attention by her nat-
ural superiority to everything around
heiv— even when those surroundings
had been of a comparatively high state
of cultivation, had hardened into the
industrious and laborious woman*
When it pleased Lady Greystock
to hear her sing, in her own sweet,
untaught way, the songs of her own
country, she had sung them ; and then,
when Leidy Greystcdc had offered to
cultivate Uie talent, she had worked
hard at improvement. She had been
brought up by French nuns, at a con-
vent school, and had spoken their lan«
guage from childhood; when Lady
Greystock got French books, it was
Eleanor's delight to read ak)ud ; and
she had made Mrs. Blagden's two
little girls almost as familiar with
French as she was herself. Those
things had given rise to the idea that
Mrs. Evelyn, as she was always called,
had seen better days ; and no one had
ever suspected her relationship to Jen-
ifer. Mr. Brewer alone knew of it»
As to Mr. Brewer ever telling any-
thing that could be considered, in the
telling, as a breach of confidence, that
was, of course, impossible.
That night— that night so import-
ant in our story, Jenifer, having done
all her duties by her mistress, which
were really not a few, and having
seen that the girl who did the dirty
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Jenif9r^9 Prayer.
821
work was safe in the darkness of a
safelj put out candle, opened her lat-
tice to look on the night. Her little
room had a back view. That is, it
looked over the fkigged kitchen court,
and the walled-in flower garden, and
hejond toward the village of Blagden
and the majestic woods at the bade of
the house at Beremouth.
Jenifer had gone to bed, and had
risen again, oppressed bj a feeling
that something was, as she expressed
it, ^ going on — something doing some-
where — *• something up,* as folks saj,
sir. I can't account for it. I fancied
I heard something — ^that I was wanted.
And I thought at first that some one
was in mj room. Then I went into
mistress's room, without mj shoes, not
to wake her. She was all right, sleep-
ing like a tender babe. Then I went
to Peggy's room. The girl was asleep.
I Isniffed up and down the passage,
just to find if anything wrong in the
way of smoke or fire was about. No ;
all was pure and pleasant ; and then I
went down stairs to make sure of the
doors being locked. Everything was
right, sir " — such was Jenifer's account
to Mr. Brewer ; who, when she paused
at this point, asked : ^ What next did
you do? Did you go upstairs again
to bed?" "I went upstairs," the
woman answered^ ^ but not to bed. I
sat at the window, and looked out over
the garden, and over the meadows be-
yond the old bridge, and on to Bere-
mouth. And the night was the bright-
est, fairest, loveliest night I ever beheld.
And so, sir, I said my prayers once
more, and went again to bed; and
slept in bits and snatches, for still I
was always thinking that somebody
wanted me, till the clock struck six ;
and then I got up." " You don't usu-
ally get up at six, or before the girl
gets up, do you ?" " No, sir ; never,
I may say. But I got up to ease my
nund of its burthens. And when
Peggy had got up, and was down
stairs, Istartoi off for the alms-house;
I thought Mr. Dawson might be up to
say mass there, for it was St. Law-
rence's Day/' «WeU?' "Butthero
VOL. ni. 21
bad been no message about mass,
and no priest was expected* And as
I got back to our door there wai
Mrs. Fell, the milk-woman. She had
brought the milk herself. I asked
how that should be. She said they
had had a cow like to die in the night,
and that their man had been up all
night, and that she was sparing him,
for he had gone to lie down. Then I
said, * Why, I could never have heard
any of you busy about the cattle in the
night ' — ^you see they rent the mead-
ows. But she said they were not in
tlie meadows ; the beasts were all in the
shed at the farm. ^But,' she said,
it's odd if you were disturbed, for a
man came to our place just before
twelve o'clock, and asked for you.'
* For me I' I cried—' a man at your
place in the middle of the night, ask-
ing for me I' She said, *• Yes ; and a
decent-spoken body, too. But tired,
and wet through and through. He
said he had follen into the Beremouth
deer pond, up in the park. That is,
he described the place clear enough,
and we knew it was the deer pond,
for it could not be anywhere else l' "
<<And did you ask where the man
went to?" "No, sir. I lifted ay
eyes, and I saw him." "And who
was he ?" ■ " Oh, Mr. Brewer, it must
all be suffered as he gives it to me to
suffer ; but I am not clear about telling
his name."
Mr. Brewer took out his watch and
looked at it. " It is nearly ten o'clock,"
he said. " Where's your mistress ?"
" Settled to her work, sir."
Mr. ]^rewer held this long talk with
Jenifer in that right-hand parlor down
stairs where he had paid that money to
Mrs. Morier, when the reader first made
his acquaintance. He had great con-
fidence in Jenifer. He ^ew her
goodness, and her patience, and her
trust. He knew somethmg, too, of her
trials, and also of her prayer; but he
had come there to investigate a very
serious matter, and he was going
steadily through with it.
" Listen, Jenifer."
« Yes, sir."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
322
Jenifer' $ Proffer.
^ Last night, just after our night
prajen, Fa&er Daniels being in the
hoofie, mj friend, Mr. Erskme, who
escorted my step-daughter, Mary
Lorimer, bmne, went out into the
paik, just, as was supposed, to have a
cigar before going to bed. Mrs.
Brewer and I were in Mary's room
when we heard Mr. Erskine leave
the house. He certainly lighted his
cigar. Mary's window was open, and
we smelt the tobacco. Jenifer, he
never returned."
They were both standing and
looking at each other. ^My life,
and idl that is in it T Up went
Jenifer's prayer, but voicelessly, to
heaven. ^My life, and all that is
in itr But a strong faith that the
one terriUe evil that her imagination
pictured would not l)p in it, was strong
within her.
^He never returned. My man-
servant woke me in my first sleep by
knocking at the bed-room door, and
saying that Mr. Erskine had not
returned. I rose up and dressed
myself. I collected the men and
went out into the park. We went
to the south lodge, to ask if any one
had seen him. <l^o,' they said.
' But the west lodge-keeper had been
there as late as near to ten o'clock,
and he had said that a man had
been in their house asking a good
many questions about Beremouth,
and who we had staying there, and
if a Mr. Erskine was there, or ever
had been there, and inquiring what
sort of looking man he was,«whether
he wore a beard, or had any peculiar-
ity? how he dressed, and if there
had ever been any report of his going
to be married ? They had answered
his questions, because they suspected
nothing worse than a gossiping cu-
riosity; and they had given him a
rest, and a cup of tea. He said that
a friend, a cousin of his, had lived
as servant with Mr. Erskine; and
he also asked if Mr. Erskine would
be likely to pass through that lodge
the next day, for that he had a great
curiosity to see him. He said that
he had known him well once, and
wanted greatly to see him once more.
He, after all this talking, asked the
nearest way to Marston. He was
directed through the paiic, and he left
them. Our inquiries about Horace
Erskine having been answered by
this history told by one lodge-keeper
to the other, we could not help sus-
pecting that some one had been on
the watch for the young man, and
taking Jones from the lodge, and his
elder boy with us, we dispersed oar-
selves over the paric to seek for him,
a good deal troubled by what we had
heard. We got to the deer pond,
but we had sought many places be-
fore we got there ; it did not seem a
likely place for a man to go to in the
summer night. We looked about —
we went back to get lanterns — they
were necessary in ^e darkness made
by the thick foliage; one side was
bright enough, and the pool was
like a looking-glass where it was
open to the sloping turf, and the
short fern, which the deer tmmplc
down when they get there to drink;
but the side where the thorns,
hollies, and yew-trees grow was as
black as night; and yet we thought
we could see where the vrild climbing
plants had been pulled away, and
where some sort of struggle might
have taken place. As we searched,
when we came back, we found strong
evidence of a desperate encounter;
the branches of the great thorn-tree
were hanging split from the stem,
and, holding the lantern, we saw
the marks of broken ground by the
margin of the pond, as if some one
had been struggling at the very edge
of it Then, all at once, and 1 sh^
never understand why we did not
see it before — the moonbeams grew
brighter, I suppose — ^but there in the
pond was the figure of a man; not
altogether in the water, but having
struggled so far out as to get his
head against the bank, hid as it was
with the grass and low brush-wood,
the ferns and lai^go-leaved water-
weeds; we laid bold of the poor
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jmiifn^9 Prater,
d*2S
fellow — it was Horace Enkine,
Jenifer r
« Afy life, and aU that %$ in Ur
Bat the hope, the faith, rather, was
still aUre, that that worst grief shooM
not bo in it-^so she prayed— ^o she
fekr-i)oor Jotufer! ^Master," she
l^asped, ^not dead— not dead— Mr.
Brewer,'*
"^Not deadr he said gravely;
^ he woald have been dead if we had
not found him when we did. He
was bruised and wounded; such a
sight of ill-treataieat as no eyes ever
before beheld, I think. He mnst
have been more bmtally nsed than I
could have believed possible, if I had
not seen iL His clothes wefe torn ;
his face so disfigared that he will
scsireely ever recover the likeness
of a man, and one arm is broken."
""Bui not dead?'' <<No; but he
fTtOEydie; the doctor is in the house,
and the police are out after the man
whom we suspect of this horrible
barbarity. Now, Jenifer, hearing
some talk of a stranger who seemed
to know yon, I came here to ask you
to tell me, in your own honest way,
your honest story."
Bat Jenifer seemed to have no de-
sire to make confidences.
^ Who told you of a sttai^ier ?"
^Have you not told me yourself,
in answer to my first questionp, be-
fore giving you my reasons for in-
quiring?^
*^ No, sir; that won't da I jndge
from what you said that you had
heard something of this stranger before
you came here."
^ I had, Jenifer.** And Mr. Brewer
looked steadilv at her.
« Well, sir ?^
^Jenifer, I Uhve reaUy come out
of tenderness to yoo, and to those who
may belong to you."
^!No one doubts your tenderness,
sir; least of any could I doubt it.
Tell me who mentioned a stranger
to you, so as to send yoa here to
^laAj Greystock's groom, commg
to Beremouth early, and finding ns
in great trouble, made a declarati<ni
as to a strangci^ who had appeared
and stopped his mistress as she was
driving through the park last night.
He says this man asked if they could
tell where Mrs. Evelyn lived, and
Mrs. Evelyn, immediately answering,
said that she lived somewhere in tho
neighborhood, and that he could
learn by inquirmg for you. The
groom says tlint the man evidently
knew Mrs. Morier's uame, as well as
year name; and that after speaking
to htm, Mrs. Evelyn asked Lady
Greystock to drive on, and that she
drove rapidly, and never spoke till
they had almost got back to Blag-
den."
"It 13 quite true,** said Jenifer.
" He told me the same story this
day.*'
*^ Can yoa say where this man is ?
He will be found first or last; and
it is for the sake of justice that you
should speak, Jenifer. The police
are on his track. Let me entreat
you to give me every information.
Concealment is the worst thing that
can be practised in such a case as
this*-have you any idea where ho is?
I do not ask you who he is;
you will have to tell all, I fear, before
a more powerful person than I am.
I only come as a friend, that you
may not be induced to conceal the
evil-doer,**
"The evil-doer,** sud Jenifer;
" who says he did it ?**
"I say he will be tried for domg
it; and that a trial is good for the
innocent in such a case of terrible sns>
picion as this.**
"May be,** said Jenifer, "may
her
Then, once more, that prayer,
said, from her very heart, though
unspoken by her lips; and then
these qniet words — ^"And as toji
the man himself. He is my brother.
My mother's child by her second
husband.** "Your brother — ho with
whom Eleanor lived In Ireland?**
"Yes, Mr. Brewer; he of whom I
told you when yoa saved Eleanor so
Digitized by CjOOQIC
324
JnUfn^M I^vj/er.
manj years ago. And as to where
he is — step into the kitchen, sir,
and vcu may see him sleeping in a
chfur by the fire — any way, I left
him there, when I came to open the
door to you."
Mr. Brewer had really oome to
Jenifer in a perfectly friendly way;
exactly as he had said— -out of
tenderness. He had known enough
to send him there, and to have
those within call who would secore
this stranger, whoever he was, and
wherever he was found. Now,
known, he walked straight into the
kitchen, and there stopped to take a
full view of a man in a leathern
easy chair, his arm resting on
Jenifer's tea-table, and sound asleep.
A finer man eyes never saw. Strong
in figure, and in face of a remark-
able beauty. He wa^ sunburnt;
having pulled his neckcloth off, the
skin of his neck showed in fair
contrast, and the chest heaved and
fell as the strong breath of the
sleeper was drawn regularly and with
j healthy ease. It was a picture of
calm rest; it seemed like a pity to
disturb it. There stood Mr.. Brewer
safely contemplatiDg one who was
evidently in a state of blissful
unconsciousness as to danger to others
or himself.
" Your brother ?" repeated Mr.
Brewer to Jenifer, who stood stiff and
upright by his side.
" My half-brother, James CKeefe,"
^ There is some one at the irout
door ; will you open it ?"
Jenifer guessed at the personage to
be found there. But she went steadily
through the front passage, and, open-
ing the door, let the policeman who
had been waiting enter, and then she
came back to the kitchen without ut-
tering a word. As the man entered
Mr. Brewer laid his hand on the sleep-
oi^s shoulder, and woke him. He
opened his fine grey eyes, and looked
round surprised. ^^On suspicion of
having committed an assault on Mr.
Horace Erskine last night, in the park
at Beremonth," said the policeman,
and the stranger stood up a prisoner.
He began to speak ; but the police-
man stopped him. ''It is a serious
case," he said. ''It may turn out
murder. You are warned that any-
thing you say will be used against
you at your trial." " Are you a mag-
istrate,sir?" asked O'Keefe ashetum^
to Mr. Brewer. " Yea ; I am. I
hope you will take the man's advice,
and say nothing."
^ But I may say I am innocent?"
" Every word you say is at your own
risk." " I ran no risk in saying that
I am innocent — ^that I never saw this
Horace Erskine last night— though if
I had seen him — ^"
"I entreat you to be silent; you
must have a legal adviser"— ^I!
Who do I knowP' "You shall be
well looked to, and well advised," said
Jenifer. "There are those in this
town, in the office where Lansdowne
Lorimer worked, who will work for
me."
It was very hard for Mr. Brewer
not to promise on the spot that he
would pay all possible expenses. But
the recoUection of the disfigured and
perhaps dying guest in his own house
rose to his mind, and he had a painful
feeling that he was retained on the
other side. However, he said to Jen-
ifer that perfect truth and sober jus-
tice anybody might labor for in any
way. And with this sort of broad
hint he left tho house, and Jenifer saw
the stranger taken off in safe custody,
and, mounting his horse, rode toward
Blagden. He asked for his daughter ;
and he was instantly admitted, and
shown upstairs into her sitting-room —
there he found Claudia, looking well
and happy, engaged in some busy
work, in which Eleanor was helping
her.
" Oh, my dear father 1" and Lady
Greystock threw the work aside, and
jumped up, and into the arms that
waited for her.
It was always a sort of high lioli-
day when Mr. Brewer come by him-
self to visit his daughter. When tho
sound of the brown-topped boots was
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JcWij0T B PfCtyCT*
825
heard on the stairs, like a voice of
music to Claudia's heart, all human
things gave waj, for that gladness that
her father's great heart brought and
gave away, all i-ound him, to every-
body, everywhere — but therey there,
where his daughter lived — ^there,
among the friends with whom she had
recovered from a great illness and got
the better of a threatened, life-long
woe — ^there Mr. Brewer felt some
strong influence making him thatj
which people excellently expressed
when they said of him — ^ he was more
than ever himself that day."
Now Mr. Brewer's influence was to
make those to whom he addressed
himself honest, open, and good. He
was loved and trusted. It did not
generally enter into people's minds to
deceive Mr, Brewer. Candor grew
and gained strength in his presence.
Candor took to herself the teachings
of wisdom; candor listened to the
advice of humility; candor threw
aside all vain-glorious garments when
Mr. Brewer called for her company,
and candor put on, forthwith, the
crown of truth. " My darhng P said
Mr. Brewer, as he kissed Claudia;
" my darling !*'
"Oh, my dear father— my father,
my dear father 1" so answered Claudia.
Then she pushed forward a chair ;
and then Eleanor made ready to leave
the room. " Yes, go ; go for half an
hoar, Mrs. Evelyn. But don't be out
of the way ; I have a fancy for a lit-
tle chat with you, too, to-day." A
grave smile spread itself over Eiean-
or^s placid face as she said she should
come back when Lady Greystock sent
for her, and then she went away.
Once more, when she was gone, Mf.
Brewer stood up and^ taking Claudia's
hand, kissed her. " My darling," he
said, " I have something to say, and I
can only say it to you — 1 have some
help to ask for, and only you can help
me. But are you strong enough to
help me ; are you loving enough to trust
me?"
" I will try to be all you want, fa-
ther; I am strong; I can trust — ^but
if you want to know how much I love
you — why, you know I can't tell you
that — it is more tlian I can measure, I
am afraid. Don't look grave at me. It
can't be anything very solemn, if /
can help you ; or anything of much
importance, if my help is worth your
having."
" Your help is absolutely necessary ;
at least necessary to my own comfort
— ^now, Claudia. Tell your father
why you broke off your engagement
with Horace Erskine."
" He did it "—she trembled. Her
father took her little hand into the
grasp of his strong one, and held it
with an eloquent pressure.
"He wanted more money, father.
It came as a test. He was in debt
I had loved him, as If — as if he had
been what you must have been in your
youth. You were my one idea of man.
I had had no heart to study but yours.
I learnt that Horace Erskine was un-
worthy. He was a coward. The
pressure of bis debts had crushed him
into meanness. He asked me to bear
the trial, and to save him. I did. I
did, father r
"Yes, my darling."
He never looked at her. Only the
strong fingers closed with powerful
love ma the little hand within their
"But you were fond of Sir
Trey?"
" Yes ; and glad, and grateful. I
should have been very happy — ^but — ^
"But he died," said her father,
helping her.
" But Horace sent to Sir Greoffrey
the miniature I had given him — let-
ters — and a lock of my poor curling
hair — '* How tight the pressure of
the strong hand grew. " I found the
open packet on the table " — she could
not say another word. Then a grave,
deep voice told the rest for her — ^* And
your honored husband's soul went up
to God and found the truth" — and
the head of the poor memory-stricken
daughter found a refuge on her father's
breast, and she wept there silently.
" And that made you ill, my darling ;
my dear darling Claudia — ^my own
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»26
Jwkftri JlK^/tr*
dear daaghter ! Thank jon, mj pre-
cious one* And 70a don't like Beie«
moath now ?"
"I love Beremouth, and every-
thing abontit," cried Lady Greystock^
raising her head, and gathering aU
her strength together for the effort;
^but I dare not see this man —
and I woald rather never look again
on the deer-pond in the park, because
there he spoke: there he promised
— there I thought all life was to be as
that still pool, deep, and overflowing
wWb, the waters of happiness and
their never-ceasing music We used
to go there every day. I have not
looked on it since—I could not bear
to listen to the rush of the stream
where it falls over the stones between
the roots of the old trees, between
whose branches the tome deer would
watch us, and where old Dapple —
the dear old beauty whose name I
have never mentioned in all these
years-— used to take biscuits from our
hands. Does old Dapple live, father ?
Dapple, who was called ^ old ' nine
years ago?" And Lady Grcystock
looked up, and took her hand from
her father's grasp, and wiped her
eyes, and wetted her fair forehead
from a bowl of water, and tried
by this question to get away from
the misery that this sudden return
to the long past had brought to
mind.
"Dapple lives,'' swd Mr. Brewer.
And then he kissed her again, and
thanked her, and said '* they should
bve each other all the better for the
confidence he had asked and ^he had
given."
" But why did you ask ?"
^ I want to have my luncheon
at your early dinner," said Mr. Brew-
er, not choosing to answer her. ^' You
do dine early, don't you ? '
^^Yes, and to-day Eleanor was
going to dine with me."
"Quite right. And I want to
speak to her. Claudia, something has
happened. You most know all before
long. Everybody will know. You
had better be in the room while
I speak to Eleanor. Let us get it
over. But you had better take your
choice. It is still about Horace that
I want to speak — ^to speak to Eleanor,
I mean."
"I should wish to be present,'*
said Claudia. And she rose and rang
the bell.
" Will you ask Mrs. Evelyn to
come to us?" she said, when her
servant appeared. In a yqtj few
minutes in walked Eleanor.
" Mrs. Evelyn," said Mr. Brewer,
"last night you directed a man to
seek Jenifer at Mrs. Morier's house.
That man was James O'Keefe, Jeni-
fer's half-brother. You knew him ?"
" Yes, Mr. Brewer, I knew him."
" But he did not know you ?" " No."
"He asked about you. Why did
you send him to Marston?" "Be-
cause he could there learn all he
wanted to know. I am not going
to bring the shadow of my troubles
into this kind house." "That was
your motive ?" " Yes. But I might
have liad more motives than one.
I think that was uppermost ; and
on that motive I believe that I
acted."
" That man was in the paik. At
the lodge-gate he had made inquiries
afler my guest, Mr. Erskine. TiiKt
man was at Mrs. Fell's, the daity-
woman, at midnight. He was #(*
through ; he had, he said, fallen ioli»
the water — he described the place,
and they knew it to be the deer-
pond."
As Mr. Brewer went on in his
plain, straightforward way, both wom-
en listened to him with the most
earnest interest ; but as he proceeded
Eleanor Evelyn fixed her eye on him
with an anxiety and a mingled ter-
ror that had a visible effect on Mr.
Brewer, who hesitated in his story,
and who seemed to be quite dis-
tracted by the manner of one usually
so ver}' calm and so unfailingly selt-
" Now Mr. Erskine had gone out
into the park late. Mr. Erskine,
my dear friends, — Mr. Erskine never
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Jmifw^B IVaifer.
827
came hach^* He pamed, and collect*
ed his thonghts once more, in order to
go on with hLs story.
"We went to seek for him. He
was found at last^ at the deer-pond,
suiToonded by the evidences of a hard
struggle having taken place there,
a stru^le in which he had only
just escaped with his life. He has
been ill4reated in a way that it
is horrible to contemplate. He is
lying now in danger of death. And
diis morning I have assisted in the
capture of James O'Keefe, whom I
found by Mrs. Moriei^s kitchen fire,
for this possible murder. I shonld
tell you that Mr. Erskine is just as
likely to die as to Kve.*'
** Mr. Brewer," said Elei^or, ris-
ing up and taking no notice of Lady
Greystock's deathlike face, — ^'^ Mr.
Brewer, is there any tmth in a
report that has reached me from a
man who was in the elder Mr. Ers-
kine's service in Scotland— -a report
to the efiect that Mr. Horace Erskine
wished to propose marriage, or had
pxoposed marriage, to Miss Lorimer T*
"There is truth m that report,"
said Mr. Brewer.
"Then I must see that man,"
Bfldd Mrs. Evelyn. << Before this
terrible affair can proceed, I must
see Horace Erskine. If indeed it
be true that he has received this
terrible punishment, I can supply a
motive for James CKeefe's conduct
that any jury ought to take into
consideration."
"But (yKeefe denies having ever
seen him," said Mr. Brewer. <' He
does not deny having inquired about
him. He even said words before me
that would make me suppose that he
had come into this neighborhood
on purpose to see him, and to take
some vengeance upon him. Mr. Ers-
kine is found with the marks of the
eererest ill-usage about him, and
jou say you can supply a motive for
Buch a deed. CVKeefe, however, de-
nies all but the will to work evil ;
he confesses to the will to do the
deed, but denies havhig done it."
^1 must see Mr. Erskine," was
all that Eleanor answered. " I must
see Mr. Erskine* Whether he sees
me or not, /must see Atm."
The young woman was standing
up — ^her face quite changed by the
expression of anxious earnestness
that animated it
"I must see Mr. Erskine. Mr.
Brewer, you must so manage it that
I must see Mr. Erskine without
delay."
^But you wtmld do no good,"
said Mr. Brewer, in a very stem
tone and with an utter absence of all
his natural sympathy. ^ The man
is so injured that his own mother
could not identify him."
" Then may God have mercy on
usT' cried Eleanor, sinking into a
chair. <<If I could only have seen
that man before this woe came
upon us r V
And then that woman burst into
one of those uncontrollable fits of
tears that are the offspring of despair.
Lady Greystock looked at her for a
moment, and then rose from her
chair. ^ Victories half won are nei-
ther useful nor honorable," she said.
"Wkit, Eleanor, I wiU show you
what that man was."
She opened a large metal-bound
desk, curiously inlaid, and with a
look of wondrous workmanship. She
said, looking at her fother, ^1 left
this at Beremouth, never intending
to see it agam, But it got sent here
a few years ago. It has never been
opened since I locked it before my
wedding day." She opened it, and
took out several packets and small
parcels. Then she opened one
— ^it was a miniature case which
matched that one of herself which
had been so cmeDy sent to good,
kind Sir Grec^Erey — she opened it
"Who is that, Eleanor?" It was
curious to see how the eyes, blinded
by tears, fastened on it "My hus-
band — my husband— Henry Evelyn.
My husband, Mr. Brewer. Oh,
Lady Gzeystock, thank God that at
any cost he did not run his soul still
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328
Jemfn^i Prag^.
farther into sin by bringing on you
and on himself the misery of a mar-
riage unrecognized by Crod."
"And because your unde, James
(yKeefe, heard the report that got
about concerning that man and Miss
Lorimer, he ran his own soul into a
guilt that may by this time have
deepened into the crime of murder.
Oh, Eleanor! when shall we remem-
ber that < vengeance is mine, saith
the Lord?'"
« My life, and ail that is in it r
The words came forth sofUy, and
Mr. Brewer, turning round, saw
JenUor.
^He has been before the magis-
trates at Marston, Mr. Brewer. Ho
has denied all knowledge of every-
thing about it He is remanded on
the charge — ^wailing for more evi-
dence — waiting to see " whether Mr.
firskiiie lives or dies. I hired a gig,
and came off here to you as fast as
I could be driven. Mr. May, in the
old office, says that if Mr. Erskine
dies, it will be hard to save him.
But the doctor's man tells me Mr.
Erskine has neither had voice nor
sight since he was found — I saw
Father Daniels in the street, and he,
too, is evidence against the poor
creature. He knows of Corny Nu-
gent's letter; and Corny wrote to
Jem also, so Jem told me, and he
came off here to make sure that
Horace Erskine and Henry Evelyn
were the same people. And he
walked from the Northend railway
station, and asked his way to Bere-
mouth, and got a gossip with the
gate-keeper, and settled to come on
to Marston. And he met Lady
Grcystook in the carriage, and asked
where Eleanor lived, and inquired
his way. Did you know him, Elea-
nor?'*
"Yes, I knew him directly; and
it was partly because I knew him
that I directed him on to you."
'^Then he lost his way, and took
to getting out of the park by walking
straight away in the direction he
knew Marston to be lying in.
And ho got by what we call *tbe
threshetts,' sir^the water for keep-
ing the fishponds from shallow-
ing — and there he must have fallen
in, for he says he climbed the
hedge just afler, and walked straight
away through the grass fields and
meadows, and seeing the lights
where the Fells were tending the
sick cow last night, he got in there,
all dripping wet, as the town-clock
stmck twelve. He does not deny to
the magistrates that if he had
found Horace Erskine and Henry
Evelyn to be one and the same
man, that he might have b^«
tempted to evil; he does not deny
that He says he felt sore tempted
to go straight to Beremouth House
and have him out from sleep and
bed, if to do so could have been
possible, and to have given him his
punishment on the spot He says
he wished as he wandered through
the park that something might send
the man who had injured us all so
sorely out to him, to meet him in
the way, that they might have come
hand to hand, and face to face. He
says he has had more temptaticHis
since Corny Nugent s letter to himi
and more heart-stirrings in the long
silent time before it came, than he
can reckon up; and that he has
felt as if a dark spirit goaded him
to go round the world after that
man, and never cease ibllowing him
tUl he had made his own false
tongue declare to all the earth his
own false deeds — but somctbing,
he says, kept him back. Always
kept him back till now; till now,
when Comy's last letter said tibai
Erskine was surely gone to Bere-
mouth to be married. Then, he
said, it was as if something sent
him— ah yes; and sent him here
to see the man, to make sure who
he was. To tell you, as a brother
Catholic, the whole truth — to keep
from the dear convert mother the
bitter #grieC of seemg her child
bound to a man whom she could
never ciJl that chiki's husband. So
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JtntjtTZ Jyv^tT*
829
he came, Mr. Brewer. He came.
and be was fomid here— but he
knows no more of the punishment
of that x)oor man, that poor girl's
husband" — pointing to Eleanor —
^^than an unborn babe. As I hear
him speak, I trace the power of the
prayer that I took up long ago in
my helplessness — ^when I could not
manage my own troubles, my own
life, my own responsibilities, it
came into my heart to offer all to
him. ^ My ufe^ and ciU that is in
it* You and yours have been in
it, Mr. Brewer. Your wife has been
in it, her life, and her child's — ^you,
toOy my dear,** turning to Claudia, —
**you whom I have loved like one
belonging to me — ^jon have been in
it; and that woman, my sister's
legacy to my poor helplessness.
There were so many to care for, to
fear for, to suffer for, and to love —
how could I put things right, or
keep off dangers ? I could only give
up all to the Father of us all — ^ Mr/
Ufe^ and aH thai is in it.* And I
tell you this, Mr, Brewer — ^I tell it you
because my very soul seems to know
it, and my lips must utter it: In
that life there will be no red-
handed punishment — ^no evil ven-
geance — no vile murder, nor death
without repentance. I cannot tell
you, I cannot even guess, how that
bad man got into this trouble — ^I
have no knowledge of whose hands
he fell into— but not into the hands
of any one who belongs to me, or to
that life which has been so long
given into Grod's keeping."
Jenifer stopped speaking. She
Imd been listened to with a mute
attention. Her hearers could not
help feeling convinced by her ear-
nestness. She had spoken gently,
calmly, sensibly. The infection of
her entire faith in the providence of
Grod seized them. They, too, be-
lieved. Lady Greystock, the only
one not a Catholic, said afterward
that she felt quite overpowered by
the simple trust that Jenifer showed,
and the calm strength with which it
endowed her. And Lady Greystock
was the first to answer her.
"It is no time .for self-induU
gence," she said. "Father, Elea-
nor and I must both go to Bere^
mouth. And we must stay there«
We must be there on the spot, to see
how these things are accounted for
— to know how matters end — to help,
as far as we may, to bring then\
right."
And so, before two hours were
over, Jenifer was back in Mrs.
Morier's parlor, and Mary Lorimer
was with her ; sent there to stay ;
and Lady Greystock and Mrs. Eve-
lyn were at Beremouth.
There was silence in the. house,
that sort of woful silence that
belongs to the anxiety of a dreadful
suspense. Toward evening there
were whispered hopes — ^Mr. Erskine
was better, people thought. But the
severest injuries were about the neck
and throaty the chest and shoulders.
His hair had been cut off in large
patches where die head wounds were
— ^his face was disfigured with the
bandages that the treatment made
necessary. He lay alive, and groan-
ing. He was better. When more
was known about the injuries done
to the throat and chest, something
less doubtful would be said as to his
recovery. "If he can't swallow,
he'll die," said one nurse. "He
can live long enough without swallow-
ing" said another. And still they
waited. '
At night, Eleanor and Lady Grey-
stock stood in the room, with Mr.
Brewer, far off by the door, look-
ing at him. There was no love
in either heart. The poor wife
shrank away, almost wishing that
the period of desertion might last for
ever.
A week passed, a terribly long
week. He could swallow. He could ^
speak. He could see out of one eye.
He had his senses. He had said
something about his arm. He
would be ready in another week to
give some account of all he had gone
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880
Jlm(fef^s Proj^.
throngli. He would be able, perhaps,
to identifj the man. In the mean-
tune, James 0*Keefe was safe in
custody. And Jenifer was sajring
her prayer — ^^ My life^ and att that is
in itf* still quite sure, with a
strong, simple, never4lEuling faith,
that the great evil of a human and
remorseless vengeance was not in it.
And jet, as time passed on, and, not-
withstanding every effort made by
the police, backed by the influence of
all that neighborhood, and by Mr.
Brewer himself, not a mark of
suspicion was found against any one
else, it seemed to come home to
every one's mind with the force of
certainty that James O'Keefe had
tried to murder Horace Erskine —
that James O'Keefe had done this
thing, and no one else.
Very slowly did Horace seem to
mend — ^very slowly. When questions
were put to him in his speechless state,
he seemed to grow so utterly confused
as to alarm his medical attendants.
It was made a law at Beremouth that
be was to be kept in perfect quietness.
James O'Keefe was again brought be*
fore the magistrates, and again re-
manded; and still this time of trial
went on, and still, when it was thought
possible to speak to Horace on the
subject of his injuries, he grew so ut-
terly confused tiiat it was impossible
to go on with the matter.
Was there to be no end to this mis-
ery ? The waiting was almost intol-
erable. The knowledge that now ex-
isted in that house of Horace Erskine's
life made it very easy to understand
his confusion and incoherency when
spoken to of his injuries. But the lin-
gering—the weight of hope deferred^
the long contemplation of the misera-
ble sufferer — ^the slowness of the pas-
sage of time, was an inexpressible bur-
then to the inhabitants of Beremouth.
One sad ev^iing, Lady Greystock
and her father, on the terrace, talked *
together. ^< Come with me to the
deer-pond, Claudia*'* She shrank
from the proposal "Nay," he said,
"come! You said at Blagden that
half victories were powerless things.
You must not be less than your own
words. Come to the deer-pond —
now." So she took his arm and they
walked away. It was the beginning
of a sweet, soft night— the evoiing
breezes played about them, and they
talked together in love andoonfldence,
as they crossed the open turf^ and
were lost in the thickets that gathered
round the gnarled oak and stunted
yew that marked the way to the pond.
It had been many years since Clau-
dia had seen its peaceful waters ; ter-
rible in dreams once ; and now sad-
dened by a history that would belong
to it for ever. They reached the spot,
and stood there talking.
Suddenly they heard a sound, they
started — a tearing aside of the turn-
ing boughs — a sound, strong, positive,
^S^y — ^^^ A gentle rustSng of the
leaves, a softmovement of the feathery
fern — and Lady Greystock had let go
her father's arm, and was standing
with her hand on the head, between
the antlers, of a huge old deer — ^Dapple
— ^' Don Dapple," as the childroa Imd
called him^-and speaking to him ten-
derly — ^' Oh, Dapple, doyou know me ?
Oh, Dapple — alas I poor beast — did
you do it — that awful thing? Are
you so fierce, poor beast — were yoa
the terrible avenger ?" How her tears
fell ! How her whole frame tremUed !
How the truth came on her as Bhe
looked mtothe large, tearful eyes of the
once tame buck, that had grown fanci-
ful and fierce in its age, and of whom
even some of the keepers had declared
themselves afraid. Mr. Brewer took
biscuit from his coat-pocket, chance
scraps from lunches, secreted from
days before, when he had been out on
long rounds through the farms. These
old Dapple nibbled, and made royal
gestures of satisfaction and approval
— and there, viewing his stately head
in the water, where his spreading an-
tlers were mirrored, they lefl him to
walk home, with <me wonder out of
theur hearts, and anotbeiv-^ wondering
awe at tlie thing that had happened
among them— to abickthartfor evar.
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Jmfei'i J^naget.
831
Thej came back, they called the
doctors, they examined the torn clothes.
They wondered they had never thought
of the truth before.
Time went cm. And at lost, when
Horace could speak, and they asked
him about the old deer at thbe pond,
he said that it was so— it was as they
had thought. It had been an almost
deadly struggle between man and
beast ; and Horace was to bear the
marks upon the fiice and form that had
been loved so well to his life's end* A
broken-featuied man, lamcy with a stiff
arm, and a sightless eye — and the
stoiy of his ruined life no longer a
secret — ^known to all.
Lady Gieystock and Mrs. Evelyn
remained at Beremouth. Mary Lori-
mer was left at her grandmoUier's
under the care of the trusty Jenifer.
James (yKeefe had returned to Ire-
land, leaving his niece and her history
in good guardianship with Father
Daniels and Mr. Brewer ; and Freddy,
being at school, had been hi^pily kept
out of the knowledge 6f all but the
surface fiicts, which were no secrets
from anybody, that a man who had
been seen in the park and was a stran*
ger in the neighborhood had been sus-
pected of being the perpetrator of the
injuries of which the old deer had
been guilty. Poor old deer— poor
aged Dapple! It was with a firm
hand and an unflinching detemunation
that the kindest man living met the
beast once more at the deer-pond, and
shot him dead. Mr. Brewer would
trust his death to no hand but his
own — and there in the thicket where
he loved to hide a grave was dug,
and the monarch of the place was
buried in it.
Lady Greystock and Eleanor kept
their own rooms, and lived together
much as they had done latterly at
Blagden. When Horace Erskine
was fit to leave his bed-room, he used
to stt in a room that had been called
"Mr. Brewer V It was, in fact, a
sort of writing-room, fitted up with a
small usefiil library and opening at
the end into a bright conservatory.
He had seen Lady Oreystoek* He
knew of Eleanor being in the I^ase.
He knew also that his fomer relations
with her were known, and he never
denied, or sought to deny, the &^ of
their Catholic maniage.
No one ever spoke to him on the
subject The subject that was first in
all hearts was to see him well and
strong, and able to act for himself.
One thing it was impossible to keep
from him ; and that was the anger en
Mr. Brskine, his unde, an anger
which Luda his wife did not try to
modify. Mrs. Brewer wrote to her
sister; Mr. Brewer pleaded with his
brother-in-law. Not a thing could
they do to pacify them. Horace was
everything that was evil in their eyes ;
.his worst crime in the past was his
having made a Catholic marriage
with a beautifol Irish girl, and thehr
great dread for the future was that
he would make this marriage valid by
the English law. They blamed Mr.
Brewer for keeping Eleanor in the
house; they were thankless to Mr.
Brewer for still giving to Horace care,
Idndness, and a home. Finally, the
one great dread that included all other
dreads, and represented the overpow-
ering woe, was that c<mtained in the
thought that Horace mightrepent, and
become a Papist.
Mr. Brewer, when it came to that,
set his aU-coaquering kindness aside
for the time, or, to adopt his wife's
words when describing these seeming
changes in her husbuid's character,
^ he clothed his kindness in temporary
armor, and went out to fight.'* He
replied to Mr. and Mrs. Erskine that
for such a grace to fall on Horace
would be the answer of mercy to the
prayer of a poor woman's faith— that
he and all his household joined in that
prayer; that priests at the altar, and
nuns in their holy homes, were all
praying for that great result ; and that
for himself he would only say that for
such a mercy to fall upon his house
would make him glad for ever.
There was no disputing with a man
who could so openly take his stand on
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382
Jen\f«9*9 Pra^r.
such a broad ground of hope and
prayer in snch direct opposition to the
wishes of his neighbors. The Ers«
kines became silent, and Mi\ Brewer
Irnd gamed all he hoped for; peace,
peace at least for the tune.
At last Horace was well enough to
move, and Freddy's holidajs were ap-
proachmg, and there was an unex*
pressed ^ling that Horace was not
to be at Beremouth when the boy came
back. Mr. Brewer proposed that Hor-
ace should go for change of aft to the
same house in which Father Dawson
was lodging, just beyond Clayton,
where the sea air might refresh him,
and the changed scene amuse his
mind ; and where, too, he could have
the benefit of all those baths, and
that superior attendance, described in
the great painted advertisement that
covered the end of the lodging-houses in
BO promising a manner. Horace accept-
ed the proposal gladly. Ho grew al-
most bright under the expectation of
the change, and when the day came
he appeared to revive, even under the
fatigue of a drive so much longer than
any that he had been before allowed
to venture upon.
Mr. Dawson was to be kind, and
to watch over him a little; and
Father Daniels was to visit him, and
write letters for him, and be his, ad-
viser and his friend. Before he left
Beremouth he had asked to see Lady
Greystock. She went with her fa-
ther to his room quite with the old
Claudia Brewer cheerfulness prettily
mingling with woman's strength and
woman's experience. He rose up,
and said, '^I wished to ask you to for-
give me. Lady Greystock — to forgive
me my many sins toward you I'' She
trembled a little, and said, '' Mr. Ers-
kine, may Grod forgive me my pride,
my anger, my evil thoughts, which
have made me say so often I conld
never see nor pardon you." It seem-
ed to require all her strength to carry
out the resolution with which she had
entered that room. "Of course,"
she went on, ^' the personal trial
that you brought upon me, here, in
my young days, I know now to have
been a great blessing in a grief'a
disguise. Though not— no^ yet — a
Catholic, I know you were then, as
now, a married man." Horace Ers-
kine never moved ; he was still
standing, holding by the heavy
writing-table, and his eyes were
fasten^ on the carpet. She went
on : *' Since then your wife, a
beautiful and even an accomplished
woman, has become my own dear
friend. We are living together, and
until she has a home of her own, we
shall probably go on living together.
I have nothing, therefore, to say
more, except — except — ^ Here her
voice trembled, and changed, and
she was only just able to articulate
her loRt words so as to be under-
stood by her hearers, ** Except about
my dear husband's death — ^better
death than life under misapprehen-
sion. That too was a blessing
perhaps. Let us leave it to the
Almighty Judge. I forgive you ; if
you wish to hear those words from
my poor erring lips, you may re-
member that I have said them hon-
estly, submitting to the will of hxm
who loves us, and from whom I
seek mercy for myself."
She turned round to leave the
room. " Stop, Lady Greystock ;
stop I" cried Horace. "In this
solemn moment of sincerity, tell
me — do you think Eleanor loves
me now?" "I would rather not
give any opinion." "If you have
ever formed an opinion, give it I
entreat you to tell me what is, is for
as you know, the truth. Does
Eleanor love me?" "Must I
speak, father ?" "So solemnly
entreated, I should say, yes,*
"Does Eleanor love me?" groaned
Horace. "No," said Lady Grey-
stock; and turning round quickly,
she left her father alone widi I
Horace, and went out of the
room.
Five years passed by. Freddy
was growing into manhood, enjoy-
ing home by his bright sister Lady
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Jenifer' $ Pra^.
333
GrejBtock's side, and paying visits
to ]us other sister, the happy bride,
Mi's. Harringtoxi, of Harrington-
leigh, the master of which place,
"a recent convert," as the news-
papers said, ^had hitelj married
tiie convert step-daughter of Mr.
Brewer, of Beremouth." Lodj
Greystock always lived with her
&ther now, united to him in faith,
and joining him in such a flood of
good wor^ that all criticism, all
wonderment, all lamentation and
argument* at *' such a step I" was
simplj run down, overpowered,
deluged, drowned. The strong flow-
ing stream of charity was iiresist-
ible. The solemn music of its
deep waters swallowed up all the
surrounding cackle of inharmonious
talk. Nothing was heard at Bere-
mouth but prayer and praise— «evil
tongues passed by that great good
house to exercise themselves else-
where. Evil people found no fitting
liabitatioa for their wandering spirits
in that home of holy peace. And
all his life Mr. Brewer walked hum*
bly, looking at Claudia, and calling
her « my crown 1" She knew why.
He had repented with a great soi^
row of those early days when he
had left her to others' teaching.
He had prayed secretly, with stn»ig
resolutions, to be blessed with for-
giveness. And at last the mercy
came — ^'^ crowned at last. All the
mercies of my life crowned by the
great gift of Claudia's souL" So the
good man went on his way a peni-
tent. Always in his own sight a
penitent Always recommending
himself to Grod in that one character
—-as a penitent
Five years were passed, and Lady
Greystock had. been at ]Mary*s wed-
diDg, and was herself at Beremouth,
8tiH in youth and beauty, once more
the petted daughter of the house —
but Eleanor was there no longer.
Full three years had passed since
Eleanor had gone to London with
Lady Greystods:, and elected not to
return. They helEtfd from her how-
ever, frequently; and knew whero
she was. When these letters camo
Claudia would drive off to Marston
to see Grandmamma Morier, still
enjoying life under Jenifer's care.
The letters would be read aloud up-
stairs in the pretty drawing-room
where the fine old china looked as
gay and bright as ever, and where
not a single cup and saucer had
changed its place. Jenifer would
listen. Taking careful note of every
expression, and whispering — some-
times in the voice of humble prayer,
sometimes in soft tones of triumphant
thanksgiving — ^^ My life, and all that
is in it !"
But now this five years' close had
been marked by a great fact; the
death of Horace Erskine's uncle, and
his great estate passing to his
nephew, whom he had never seen
since their quarrel with him, but
whom he had so far forgiven as not
to alter his will.
Horace Erskine was in London ;
and his Beremouth friends were
going up to town to welcome him
home afler four years of life on the
continent
London was at its fullest and gay-
est Mr. Erskine had been well
known there, making his yearly
visits, taking a great house, and at-
tracting round him all the talent
of the day. A very rich man,
thoroughly well educated, with a
fine place in Scotland, and his beau-
tiful wife Lucia by his side, he
found himself welcome, and made
others in their turn welcome too.
Now all this was past For two
seasons London had missed Mr.
Erskine, and he had been regretted
and lamented over, aa a coiifirmed
invalid. Now he was dead. And
after a little brief wonder and sor-
row the attention of the world was
fixed upon his heir, and people of
fashion, pleasure, and literature got
ready theur best smiles for his ap-
proval.
Horace had been well enough
known once. Never exactly sought
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334
ScdniM of the Desert.
after by heads of bomes, for be waa
too much of a BpeculatioD. He waB
known to be in debt; and all in-
quiries as to his uncle's property had
been quenched again and again by
those telling words, "no entail."
But Horace had had his own world ;
and had been only too much of a
hero in it. That world, however,
had lost him ; and as tlie wheels of
fashion's chariot fly fast, thotdast of
the light road rises as a cloud and
hides the past, and the people that
belonged to Horace Erskine had been
left behind and forgotten. Now,
however. Memory was alive, and
brushing up her recoUections ; and
Memory had found a tongue, and
was hoping and prophesying to the
fullest extent of friend Gossip's re-
quirements, when the news came
that Horace Erskine had arrived.
**He has taken that charming house
looking on to the park. Mr. Tudor
had seen him. Nobody would know
him. Broken nose, my dear! And
he was so handsome.^ He is lame,
too— -or If not lame, he has a stiff
shoulder. I forget which it is. He
was nearly killed by some mad ani-
mal in the park at Beremouth. He
behaved with the most wonderful
courage, actually fought and con-
quered! But he was gored and
trampled on— -nearly trampled to
death. I heard all the particulars
at the time. His chest was injured,
and he was sent to a warmer cli-
mate. And there he turned Pa-
pist. He did, indeed ! and his uncle
never forgave him. But I suspect
it was a love nflkir. You know he
has brought his wife home. And
she is lovely, everybody who has
seen her says. She is so very still
— ^too quiet — ^too statuesque — ^that is
her only iault in fact. But all the
world is talking of her, and if you
have not yet seen her lose no time in
getting introduced ; she is the wonder
of the day."
And so ran the talk — and sack
was Eleanor's welcome as Hbrace
Erskine's wife. Her husband had
really repented, and had sought her,
and won her h^rt all over again, and
married her once more.
To have these great triumphs of
joy and justice in her life was granted
to Jenifer's Prayer.
From The Honth.
SAINTS OF THE DESERT.
BY VEBT EEV. J. H. NRWMAN, D.D.
!• Abbot Cyrus said to a brother :
^'If thou hadst no fight with bad
thoughts, it would be because thou
didst bad actions; for they who do
bad actions are thereby rid of bad
thoughts."
« But," said the other, « I have bad
memories."
The abbot answered: "They are
but ghosts ; fear not tlie dead, but the
living."
2. When Agatho was dying, his
brethren would have asked him some
matter of business. He said to them :
" Do me this charity ; speak no more
with me, for I am lull of business al-
ready." And he died in joy.
3. An old man visited one of the
fathers. The host boiled some pot-
herbs, and said: "First let us do
the work of God, and then let us eat."
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Ckriitine: A Traubadoui^s Song. 885
[OUODTAL.]
CHEISTINE :
A TROUBADOUR'S BONG,
□I nrs 0AST06.
BY QBOBGE H. HILE9.*
(oosrcLimaD.)
THB FOUBTH BONO.
Amid the gleam of princely war
Christine sat like the evening stkr,
Pale in the sunset's pageant oright,
A separate and sadder light.
O bitter task
To rear aloft that shining head,
While round thee, cruel whisperers ask —
" Marry, what aileth the Bridegroom gay ?
The heralds have waited as long as they may.
Yet never a sign of tlie gallant Grey.
Is Miolan false or dead?"
n.
The Dauphin eyed Christine askance:
"We have tarried too long," quoth he;
" Doth the Savoyard fear the thrust of France ?
By the Bride of Heaven, no laggard lance
Shall ever have guard of thee I"
• Entered according to Act of CoogretB, in tbe year 1868, by Lawrence Eehoe, in the Clerk**
Office of the District Court of the UnitediiUtea for the Southern DiBtrict of New York.
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838 Ckrittine: A Thoubadour^i Sang.
You could Bee the depths of the dark eyee Bhine
And a glow on the marble cheek,
Afl she wliisperedj " "Woe to the Dauphin's ImQ
When the eagle shrieks and tlie red lights shine
Bound the towers of Pilate's Peak."
She levelled her white hand toward tlie west,
Where the omen beacon shone ;
And he saw the flame on the castle crest.
And a livid glare light the mountain's breast
Even down to the rushing Ehone.
Never braver lord in all the land
Than that Dauphin true and tried;
But the rein half fell from his palsied hand
And Ids fingers worked at the jewelled brand
That sho^ in its sheath at his side.
For it came witli a curee from eai'liest time,
It was carved on his father's halls,
It had haunted him ever from clime to clime,
And at last the red liffht of the ancient rhyme
Is burning on Pilate s walls!
Yet warrior-like beneath his feet
Trampling the sudden fear,
He cried, ''Let tliy lover's foot be fleet —
If thy Savoyard would wed thee, sweet.
By Saint Mai'k, he were better here!
"For I know by yon lio^ht there is danger near,
And I swear by the Iloly Shrine,
Be it margin spear or Miolan's heir.
The victor to-day shall win and wear
Tliis menaced daughter of mine!"
The lists are aflame with the gold and steel
Of knights in their proud array,
And gong and tymbalon chiming peal
As forward the glittering squadrons wheel
To the jubilant courser's neigh.
The Dauphin springs to the maiden's side,
And thrice aloud cries he,
" Eide, gallants all, for beauty ride,
Christine herself is the victor's bride.
Whoever the victor be!"
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Oiriaine: A I\rauiadaur'$ Song. 8d7
And thrice the heralds cried it aloud,
While a wondering whieper ran
From the central lists to the circling crowd,
For all knew the virgin hand was vowed
To the heir of Miolan.
Quick at the Danphin's plighted word
Full many an eve flashed fire,
Full many a knight took a truer sword,
Tried buckle and girth, and many a lord
Cliose a stouter lance from his squire.
Back to the barrier's measured bound
Each gallant speedeth away; •
Then, forward fast to the trumpet's sound,
A hundred horsemen shake the ground
And meet in the mad mel4e.
Crimson the spur and crimson the spear,
The blood of the brave flows fast ;
But Christine is deaf to the dying prayer,
Blind to the dying eyes that glare •
On her as they look their last.
She sees but a Black Knight striking so well
That the bravest shun his path ;
His name or his nation none may tell,
But wherever he struck a victim fell
At tlie feet of that shape of wrath.
" 'Fore God," quoth the Dauphin, " that unknown sword
Is making a merry davr'
But where, oh where is me Savoyard,
For low in the slime of that trampled sward
Lie the flower of the Dauphin^ I
And the victor stranger rideth alone,
Wiping his bloody blade ;
And now that to meet him there is none.
Now that the warrior work is done,
He moveth toward the maid.
Sternly, as if he came to kill,
Toward the damsel he tumeth his rein;
His trumpet sounding a challenge shrill,
While the fatal lists of La S6ne are still
As he paces the purple plain.
VOL. m. 22
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338 Christine: A H-ouiadaur'§ Sang.
A hollow vcttce through the Tisor eried,
" Mount to the crupper with me.
Mount, Ladye, mount to thy master's side.
For 'tis said and ^tis sworn thou shalt be the Bride
Of the victor, whoever he be."
At sound of that voice a sudden flame
Shot out from the Dauphin's eyes,
And he said, "Sir Knight, ere we grant thy claim,
Let us see the face, let us hear the name,
Of the gallant wno winneth the prize."
" 'Tis a name you know and a face you fear,'*
* The Wizard Knight began ;
"Or hast thou forgotten £at midnight drear,
When my sleeping fathers felt the spear
Of Vienne and Miolan ?
"Av, ouiver and quail in thy coat of mail,
Tor nark to the eagle's shriek ;
See the red light burfis for the coming bale 1"
• And all knew as he lifted his aventayie
The Knight of Pilate's Peak.
From the heart of the mass rose a cry of wrath
As they sprang at the shape abhorred,
But he swept the foremost from his path,
And the rest fell back from the fatal swath
Of tliat darkly dripping sword.
But uprose the Dauphin brave and bold,
And strode out upon tlie green,
And quoth he, " Foul fiend, if my purpose hpld,
By my halidome, the' I be passin/j ola,
We'll splinter a lance for Christine.
" Since her lovers are low or recreant.
Her champion shall be her sire;
So get a fresh lance from yonder tent.
For though my vigor be something spent
I fear neither thee nor thy firer
Swift to the stirrup the Dauphin he sprang,
The bravest ana best of his race :
Ko bugle blast for the combat rang ;
Save the clattering hoof and the ^armor clang,
All was still as each rode to his place.
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Chmtine: A TVwbouhur's Stm^. 339
With the crash of an April avalanche
They meet in that mercilees tilt ;
Back went each steed with shivering hannch.
Back to the croup bent each rider stannch.
Shivered each spear to the hilt
Thrice flies the Baron's battle*axe ronnd
The Wizard's sable crest ;
Bnt the coal-blaok steed, with a sudden bound,
Hurled the old Crusader to the ground,
And stamped on his mailed breast
»
Thrice by the venffefbl war-horse spumed, *
Lowly the Dauj^in lies;
While the Black J^ight laughed as again he turned
Toward the lost Christine, and his visor burned
As he gazed at his beautifiil prize.
Her doom you misht read in that gloating stare,
But no fear in me maid can you see ;
Nor is it the cahn of a dumb de^air,
For hope sits aglow on her forehead fair.
And she murmurs, ''At last — ^it is he !"
Pfoudly the maiden hath sprung from her seat,
Proudly she glanceth around,
One hand on her bosom to stay its beat,
For harkl there's a sound like the flying feet
Of a courser, bound after bound.
Clearing the lists with a leopard-like spring,
Plunging at top of his speed.
Swift -o'er the ground as a bird on the wing.
There bursts, all afoam, through the wondering ring,
A gallant but riderless steed. ^
Arrow-like straight to the maiden he sped.
With a long, loud, tremulous neigh,
The rein flving loose round lus glorious head.
While all wnisper again, " Is the Savoyard dead ?" *
As they gaze at the riderless Grey.
One sharp, swift pang thro' the virgin heart,
One wildering cry of woe.
Then fleeter than dove to her calling ne?t.
Lighter than chamois to Malaval's crest
She lei^ to the saddle bow.
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S40 Christine: A Trofubadout^M Song.
" Awav I" He knew the sweet voice ; away,
With never a look behind;
Away, away, with echoing neigh
And streaming mane, goes the gallant Grey,
Like an eagle before the wind.
They have deared the lists, they have passed her bower,
Aid still they are thnndering on;
They are over the bridge — anofier honr,
A league behind them the Leaning Tower
And the q[)ireB of Saint Antoine.
• -Away, away in their wild career
Past the slopes of Mont Surjen ;
^ Thrice have they swmn the swift Isere,
And firm and clear in the purple air
Soars the Grand Som full in view.
Bongh is their path and sternly steep,
Tet halting never a whit,
Onward the terrible pace they keep,
Wliile the good Grey, breathing free and deep,
Steadily strains at the bit.
They have left the lands where the tall hemp springs,
Where the clover bends to the bee;
They have left the hills where the red vine flings
Her clustered curls of a thousand rings
Kound the arms of the mulberry tree.
Thev have left the lands where the walnut lines
The roads, and^the chestnuts blow;
Beneath them the' thread of the cataract shines,
Around them the plumes of the warrior pines.
Above them the rock and the snow.
Thick on his shoulders the foam flakes lay.
Fast the big drops roll from his chest,
Yet on, ever on, goes the gallant Grey,
Bearing the maiden as smoothly as spray
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
Onward and upward, bound after bound,
By Bruno's JBridge he goes ;
And now they are treading holy ground,
For the feet of her flying Caliph sound
Bv the cells of the Grand Cnartreuac*
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Ohmtine: A TVoubadour's Song. 841
Around them the darkling cloisters frown,
The sun in the valley hath sunk;
Wlien right in her path, lo! the long white gown,
The withered face and liie shaven crown
And the shrivelled hand of a monk.
A light like a glittering halo played
Eonnd the brow of the holy man;
With lifted finger her conrse he stayed,
^ All is not well," the pale lips said,
"With the heir of Miolan.
"But in Chambery hangs a reUc rare
Over the altar stone:
Take it, and speed to thy Bridegroom's bier ;
If the Sacristan question who sent thee there,
Say, * Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.' "
She bent to the mane while the cross he signed
Thrice o'er the suppliant head :
"Away with thee, cndd!" and away like the wind
She went, with a startled glance behind,
For she heard an ominous tread.
The moon is up, 'tis a glorious night,
They are leaving the rock and flie snow,
Mont JBlanc is betore her, phantom white,
While the swift Is^re, with its line of light,
Cleaves the heart of the valley below.
But hark to the challenge, "Who rideth alone?"—
"O warder, bid me not wait! —
My lover lies dead and the Dauphin o'erthrown —
A message I bear from the Monk of Cologne" —
And she swept thro' Chambery's gate.
The Sacristan kneeleth in midnight prayer
By Chamber's altar stone.
"What meaneth this haste, my daughter fair?"
She stooped and murmured in his ear
The name of the Monk of Colc^e.
Slowly he took from its jewelled case
A kerchief that sparkled like snow.
And the Minster shone like a lighted vase
As the deacon imveUed the gleaming face
Of the Santo Sudario.
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342 Ckruitne: A 7Vaubadour'§ &mg.
A prayer, a tear, and to saddle she springs,
Clasping the relic briffht;
Away, away,.' for the feu hoof rings
Down the hillside behind her — God give her wings 1
The fiend and his horse are in sight
On, on, the gorge of the Doriat^s won.
She is nearing her Savoyard's home,
By the grand old road where the warrior son
Of Hanno swept with his legions don,
On his mission of hatred to Borne.
The ancient oaks seem to rock and reel
As the forest mshes by her,
But nearer cometh the clash of steel,
And nearer falleth the fatal heel,
With its flickering trail of fire.
Then first the brave voimg heart grew sick
Ifeath its load of love and fear,
For the Grey is breathing faint and quick.
And his nostrils bum and the drops fall thick
From tlie point of each drooping ear.
His glorious neck hath lost its pride,
His back fails beneath her weight.
While steadily gaining, stride bv stride,
The Black luiight thunders to ner side —
Heaven, must she meet her fate?
She shook the loose rein o'er the trembling head,
She laid her soft hand on his mane,
She called him her Caliph, her desert-bred,
She named the sweet springs where the palm trees spread
Their arms o'er the burning plain.
But the Grey looked back and sadly scanned
The maid with his earnest eyes —
A moment more and her cheek is fanned
By the black steed's breath, and the demon hand
Stretches out for the virgin prize.
But she calls on Christ, and the kerchief whito
Waves fidl in the face of her foe :
Back with an oath reeled the Wizard Knight
As his steed crouched low in the wondrous light
Of the Santo Sudario.
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OMstim: A ThmbaiouT^i Sang. 343
Blinded they halt while the maiden hies,
The munnnring Arc she can hear,
And, lo I like a cloud on the shining skies,
Atop of yon perilous precipice,
The castle of Miolan's Heir.
" Fail not, my steed I" — ^Ronnd her Caliph's head
The relic shines like the sun:
Leap after leap up the spiral steep,
He speeds to his master's castle keep,
And his glorious race is won.
" Ho, warder 1'' — ^At sight of the gaUant Grey
The drawbridge thundering falls:
Wide goes the gate at that jubilant neigh,
And, glory to (?od for his mercy to-day,
She is safe wi&in Miolan's walls.
THE FIFTH SONG.
I.
Ik the dim grey dawn by Miolan's gate
The fiend on his wizard war-horse sate.
The fair-haired maid at his trumpet call
Creeps weeping and wan to the outer wall:
"My curse on thy venom, my curse on thv spell,
They have slain the master I loved too well.
Thou saidst he should wake when the joust was o'er,
But oh, he never will waken more P
She tore her fair hair, while the demon* laughed,
Saying, " Sound was the sleep that thy lover quafled ;
But bid the warder unbar the gate,
That the lost Christine may meet her fate."
n.
" Hither, hither thou mailed man
With those woman's tears in thine eyes,
With thy brawny cheek all wet and wan,
Show me the heir of Miolan,
Lead where my Bridegroom lies."
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344 Gkriitine: A Troubadowi^t Song.
And he led her on with a sullen tread.
That fell like a muffled ffpoan,
Through halls as silent as the dead,
'Neath long grey arches overhead,
Till they came to the shrine of Moan.
What greets her there by the torches' glare!
In vain hath the mass been said!
Low bends the sire in mnte despair,
Low kneels the Hermit in silent prayer.
Between them the mighty dead.
No tear she shed, no word she spoke,
Bat gliding up to the bier,
She todc her stand by the bed of oak
Where her Savoyard lay in his sable cloak,
His hand still fast on his spear.
She bent her burning cheek to his,
And rested it there awliile.
Then touched his lips with a lingering kiss,
And whispered him thrice, " My love, arise,
I have come for thee many a mile 1"
The man of God and the ancient Enight
Arose in tremulous awe;
She was so beautiM, so bright.
So spirit-like in her bridal white,
It seemed in the dim fiinereal light
Twas an angel that they saw.
" Thro' forest fell, o'er mount and dell,
Like the falcon, hither IVe flown.
For I knew that a fiend was loose from hell,
And I bear a token to break this spell
From Bruno, the Monk of Cologne.
^Dost thou know it, love? when flre and sword
Flamed round the Holy Shrine,
It was won by thee from the Pavnim horde,
It was brought by thee to Bruno s guard,
A gift from Palestine.
" Wake, wake, my love ! In the name of Grace,
That hath known our uttermost woe,
Lo 1 this thorn-bound brow on thine I place 1"
And, once more revealed, shone the wondrous face
Of the Santo Sudario.
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Christine: A Troubadour's Song. Bi5
At once over all that ancient hall
There went a luminons beam;
Heaven's deepest radiance seemed to fall,
The helmets shine on the shining wall,
And the faded banners gleam.
And the chime of hidden cymbals rings
To the song of a cherub choir;
Each altar angel waves his wings,
And the flame of each altar taper springs
Aloft in a luminous spire.
And over the face of the yonth there broke
A smile both stem and sweet;
Slowly he turned on the bed of oak,
And proudly folding his sable cloak
Around him, sprang to Ixis feet.
Sack shrank the sire, half terrified,
Both he and the Hermit, I ween;
But she — she is fast to her Savoyard's side,
A poet's dream, a warrior's bride.
His beautiM Christine.
Her hair's dark tangles all astray
Adown her back and breast;
The print of the rein on her hand still lay.
The foam-flakes of the gallant Grey
Scarce dry on her heaving breast.
She told the dark tale and how she spurred
From the Knight of Pilate's Peak ;
You scarce would think the Bridegroom heard.
Save that the mighty lance-head stirred.
Save for the flush in his cheek;
Save that his gauntlet clasped her hair —
And oh, the look that swept
Between them ! — all the radiant air
Grew holier — it was like a prayer —
And they who saw it wept
E'en the lights on the altar brighter grew
In the gleam of that heavenly gaze ;
The cherub music fell soft as dew,
The breath of the censer seemed sweeter too.
The torches mellowed their requiem hue, ^
And burnt with a bridal blaze.
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346 Christine: A Trwbadauf'9 Sang.
And the Baron clagpe his son with a cry
Of joy as his sorrows ceasp ;
While the Ilermit, wrapt in his Eosary,
Feels that the world beneath the sky
Hath yet its planet of peace.
But hark 1 by the drawbridge, shrill and clear,
A trumpet's challenge rude :
The heart of Christine grew faint with fear,
But the Savoyard shook his mighty spear,
And the blood in his forehes^ stood.
"Beware, beware, ^tis the Fiend P quoth she:
"Whitner now!" asks the ancient Knight,
" What meanest thou, boy? — ^Leave the knave to me:
Wizard, or fiend, or whatever he be,
By the bones of my fathers, he shall flee
Or ne'er look on morning light.
" What, thou just risen from the grave,
Atilt with an arm6d man ?
Dost dream that youth alone is brave,
Dost deem these sinews too old to save
The honor of Miolanf
But the youth he answered with gentlest tone,
"I know thee a warrior staunch.
But this meeting is meant for me alone.
[Jnhand me, my lord, have I wonum grown %
Wouldst stop the rushing of the Bhone,
Or stay the avalanche?"
He broke from his sire as breaks the flash
From the soul of the circling storm :
You could hear the grasp of his gauntlet crash
On his quivering lance and the armor clash
Bound that tSl young warrior form.
"Be this thy shield?" the maiden cried,
Her hand on the kerchief of snow ;
" If forth to the combat thou wilt ride,
"^ace to face be the Fiend defied
With the Santo Sudariol"
But tlie youn^ Knight laid the relic rare
On the ancient altar- stone ;
" Holy weapons to men of prayer.
Lance in rest and falchion bare
Must answer for Miolan's son."
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OiriiHiie: A Hwtiadour'B Sang. U7
A^n the challenger's tmmpet pealed
From the barbican, shrill and clear ;
And the Savoyard reared his dinted shield,
Its motto, gold on an azure field —
" Alles zu Gott und Ihb."
To horse! — ^From the hills the dawning day
Looks down on the sleeping plain;
In the court-yard waiteth the gallant Grey,
And the castle rings with a joyous neigh
As the Knight and his steed meet again.
And the coal-black charger answers him
From the space beyond the gate,
From the level space, where dark and dim
In the morning mists, like giant grim,
The Fiend on his war-horse sate.
Oh, the men at arms how they stared aghast
TVTien the Heir of Miolan leapt
To saddle-bow sounding his bugle-blast ;
How the startled warder breathless gasped.
How the hoary old seneschal wept 1
And the fair-haired maid with a sob hath sprung
To tlie lifted bridle rein;
Fast to his knee her white arms clun^,
While the waving gold of her fair hair hung
Mixed witli Grey Caliph's mane.
" O Miolan's heir, O master mine,
O more than heaven adored,
Live to foi^et this slave of thine,
Wed the dark-eyed Maid of Palestine,
But dare not yon demon sword !"
But the Baron thundered, " Off with the slave !"
And they tore the white arms away,
" A woman 's a curse in the path of the brave ;
Level tliy lance and upon the knave,
For he laughs at tliis fool delay !
" But pledge me first in this beaker bright
Of foaming Cyprian wine ;
Thou hast fasted, God wot, like an anchorite.
Thy cheeks and brow are a trifle white,
And, 'fore heaven, thou shall bear thee in this fight
As beseemeth son of mine !"
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348 ' CSiriiline: A Troubadoui's Seng.
The youth drank deep of the bnrning juice
Of the mighty Maretel,
Then, waving his hand to his Ladye thrice,
Swifter than snow from the precipice,
Spurred ftill on the infidel.
" O Bridegroom bold, beware my brand !'*
The Knight of Pilate cries,
" For 'tis written in blood by Eblis' hand,
No mortal might may mine withstand
Till the deeul in arms arise."
^'The dead are up, and in arms arrayed,
They have come at the call of fate:
Two days, two nights, as thou know'st, I've laid
On oaken bier" — ^and again there played
That halo light roimd the Mother Maid
In the niche by the castle gate.
Each warrior reared his shining taige,
Each plumed helmet bent.
Each lance thrown forward for tlio charge,
Each steed reined back to the very marge
Of the mountain's sheer descent.
The rock beneath them seemed to groan
And shudder as they met;
Away the splintered lance is thrown,
Each falchion in the morning shone,
One blade uncrimsoned yet
But the blood must flow and that blade must glow '
E'er their deadly work be done ;
Steel rang to steel, blow answered blow,
Fiom dappled dawn till the Alpine snow
Grew red in the risen sun.
The Bridegroom's sword left a lurid trail,
So fiercely and fleetly it flew;
It rang like the rattling of the hail,
And wherever it fell the sable mail
Was wet with a ghastly dew.
The Baron, watching with stem delight,
Felt the heart in nis bosom swell:
And quoth he, "By the mass, a gallant sight I
These old eyes have gazed on many a fignt,
But, boy, as I live, never saw I knight
Who did his devoir so well 1"
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Ckristine: A TVoubadour^s Song. 849
And oh, the flimh o'er liis face that broke,
The joy of his shining eyes,
When, backward beaten, stroke by stroke,
The wizard reeled, like a falling oak,
Toward the edge of the precipice.
On the trembling verge of that perilons steep
The demon 8t^>d at bay.
Calling with challenge stem and deep,
That startled the inmost castle keep,
^ Daughter of mine, here's a dainty leap
We must take together to-day.
" Come, maiden, come P Swift circling round,
Like bird in the serpent's gaze,
She sprang to his side with a single bound.
While the black steed trampled tne flinty ground
To fire, his nostrils ablaze.
" Farewell !" went the fair-haired maiden's cry,
Shrilling from hill to hill ;
"Farewell, farewell, it was I, 'twas I,
Who sinned in a jealous agony,
But I loved thee too well to kill !"
High reared the steed with the hapless pair,
A plunge, a pause, a shriek,
A black plume loose in the middle air,
A foaming plash in the dark Isire, —
Thus vanMied for ev^r the maiden fair
And the "Knight of Pilate's Peak.
A mighty cheer shook the ancient halls,
A white hand waved in the sun,
The vassals all on the outer wall
Clashed their arms at the brave old Baron's call,
"To my arms, mine only one!"
But oh, what aileth the gallant Orey,
Why droopeth the barbed head ?
Slowly he turned from that fell toumejr
And proudly breathing a long, last neigh,
At the castle gate fell dead.
m.
Lost to all else, forgotten e'en
The dark eyes of Ins dear Christine,
His fleet foot from the stirrup freed,
The Knight knelt by his fallen steed.
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3^0 CkrisHne: A Jhniiadaur'$ &mg.
Awhile with tone and tonch of love
To cheer him to his feet he strove :
Awhile he shook the bridle-rein —
That glazing eye ! — alas, in vain.
Bareheaded on that fatal field.
His ganntlet ringing on his shield,
His voice a torrent deep and strong,
The warrior's soul broke forth in song.
And art thon, oH thou dead, —
Thou with front that might defv
The gathered thunders of Ihe sky.
Thou before whose fearless eye
All death and danger fled !
My £halif, hast thou sped
Homeward where the palm-trees' feet
Bathe in hidden fountains sweet,
Where first we met as lovers meet,
My own, my desert-bred!
Thy back has been mr home;
And, bending o'er thy nying neck,
Its white mane waving without speck,
I seemed to tread the galley's deck.
And cleave the ocean^s fi)ara.
Since first I felt thy heart
Proudly surging 'neath my knee,
As earth<][uales heave beneath the sea,
Brothers m the field were we;
And must we, am we part?
To match thee there was none I
The wind was laggard to thy speed:
O God, there is no deeper need
Than warrior's parted from his steed
When years nave made them one.
And shall I never more
Answer thy laugh amid the clash
Of battle, see thee meet the flash
Of spears with the proud, pauseless dadi
Of billows on the shore ?
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OhrMne: A Ihmbadaur'i Song. 851
And all our victor war,
And all the honors men call mine,
Were thine, thon voiceless warrior, thine ;
My task was but to touch the rein —
There needed nothing more.
Worst danger had no sting
For thee, ana coward peace no charm ;
Amid red havoc's worst alarm
Thy swoop as firm as through the storm
The eagle's iron wing.
more than man to me!
Thy neigh outsoared the trumpet's tone.
Thy back was better than a throne,
There was no human thing save one
1 loved as well as Uiee T
O Knighthood's truest friend!
Brave heart by every danger tried,
Proud crest by conquest glorified.
Swift saviour of my menaced Bride,
Is this, is this tne end? —
Thrice honored be tliy grave!
Wherever knightly deed is sung.
Wherever minstrel harp is strung,
There too thy praise shall sound among
The beauteous and the brave.
And thou shalt slumber deep
Beneath our chapel's cypress sheen;
And there thy lord and his Christine
Full oft shall watch at mom and e'en
Around their Khalif s sleep. "
There shalt thou wait for me
Until the funeral bell shall ring.
Until the funeral censer swing.
For I would ride to meet my King,
My stainless steed, with tlieel
The song has ceased, and not an eye
'Mid all those mailed men is dry ;
The brave old Baron turns aside
To crush the tear he cannot hide.
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352 Christim: A Traubcdoui^i S(m^.
With stately step the Bridegroom went
To where, upon the battlomenL
Christine herself, all weeping, leant.
Well might tlmt crested warrior kneel
At such a shrine, well might he feel
As if the angel in her eyes
Gave all that hallows Paradise.
And when her white hands' tender spell
Upon his trembling shoulder fell.
Upward one reverent glance he cast,
Then, rising, murmured, " Mine at last !"
" Yes, thine at lastl" Still stained with blood
The Dauphin's self beside them stood.
"Fast as mortal steed could flee,
My own Christine, I followed thee.
Saint George, but 'twas a gallant sight
That miscreant hurled from yonder neight :
Brave boy, that single sword of thine,
Methinks, might hold all Palestine.
But see, from out the shrine of Moan
Cometii the good Monk of Cologne,
Bearing the relic rare that woke
Our warrior from his bed of oak.
See him pass with folded hands
' To where the shaded chapel stands.
The Bridegroom well hath won the prize,
There stands* the priest, and there the altar lies."
IV.
When the moon rose o'er lordly Miolan
That night, she wondered at those ancient walls:
Bright tapers flashing from a himdred halls
Lit afl the mountain— liveried vassals ran
Trailing from bower to bower the wine-cup, wreathed
With festal roses — ^viewless music breaihea
A minstrel melody, that fell as falls
The dew, less heard than felt; and maidens laughed.
Aiming their curls at swarthy men who quafled
Brimmed beakers to the newly wed: while some
Old henchmen, lolling on the court-yard green
Over their squandered Cyprus, vowed between
Their cups, "there was no pair in Christendom
To match their Savoyard and his Christine?'
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OkriidHe,' A Ihmkuhm^i Sang. 858
The TrovSre ceased, none praised the lay,
Each waited to hear what the King would e%j.
But the grand blue eye was on the wave,
Little redded he of the tuneless stave:
He was watching a bark just anchored fast
With England's Danner at her mast,
And quom he to the Queen, "By my halidome,
I wager our Bard Blondel hath comeP
E'en as he spoke, a joyous cry
From the beach proclaimed the Master nigh;
But the merry cheer rose merrier yet
When the Monarch and his Minstrel met.
The Prince of Song and Plantagenet.
" A song 1" cried the Eang. " Thou art just in time
To rid our ears of a vagrant's rhyme :
Prove how that recreant voice of thine
Hath thriven at Cyprus, bard of mine I"
The Minstrel played with his golden va«st,
And began the ^"^Fytte of the Bloody Veet.^
The vanquished Trovere stole away
Unmarked by lord or ladve gay:
Perchance one quick, kind glance he caught,
Perchance that glance was all he sought.
For when Blondel would pause to tune
His harp and supplicate the moon,
It seemed as tho^ the laughing sea
Cai^ht up the vagrant melody ;
And far along the listening shore.
Till every wave the burthen bore,
In long, low echoes might yon hear*— , '
"AUes, Alles m Gott und IhrP
VOL. WL 88
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Z5l
The Christian SAoob of Jlexandria.
Vtcm The Dnblin B«yiew .
THE CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS OP ALEXANDBIA^-OBIQEN-
Opera ' Ommoy Ed. De la
Rub, accurante J. P. Migne.
Paxisiis. S. Gregorii Thau-
nuOurgi, Oratio Panegjrica in
Origenem (Opera Omnia), accu-
ranto J. P. Migne. PariBiis.
Last Julj we commenced a sketch
of the histoiy and labora of Origen.
We resume our notes on those twenty
years (211-280) which he spent with
little iDtermption at Alexandria, en-
gird chiefly in ihe instraction of the
catechumens. We have already
seen what he did for the New
Testament; let us now study his
labors on the Old.
The authorship of that most famous
Greek version of the Old Testament,
the Septuagint, seems destined to be a
mystery in literature. The gorgeous
and circumstantial account of the Jew
Aristeas, with all its details of em-
bassy and counter-embassy, of the
seventy-two venerable sages, the cells
in the rock, the reverence of the Ptol-
emy, and the wind-up of banquets,
gifb, and all good things, seems, as
Dom Mont&uc(m says, to ^ savor of
the fabidous.'' There is some little
difficulty about dates in the matter of
Demetrius Phalerius, the literary
minister under whose auspices the
event is placed. There is a far more
formidable difficulty in the elevation
of Philadelphus, a cruel, sensual des-
pot, into a devout admirer of the law
of Moses, bowing seven times and
weeping for joy in presence of the
sacred documents, and in the sudden
conversion of all the cultivated
Greess who are concerned in the
story. The part of Aristeas's narra-
tion which regards the separate cells,
and the wonderful agreement of the
translations, is curtly set down by ^St
Jerome as a fiction. It seems proba-
ble, moreover, that the translator of
the Pentateuch was not the same as
the translate of the other parts of the
Old Testament In the midst of un-
certainties and probabilities, however,
four things seem to be tolerably
clear; first, that the version called
the LXX. was made at Alexandria;
secondly, that it was the work of dif-
ferent authors ; thirdly, that it was not
inspired ; fourthly, that it was a holy
and correct version, quoted by the
apostles, always used in the 6reek
church, and the basis of all the Latin
editions before St Jerome's Yul-
gate.
All the misfortunes that continual
transcription, careless blundering, and
wilful corruption could combine to
inflict upon a manuscript had feJlea
to the lot of the Septuagint version at
the time when it was ^mded Origen
to be used in the instruction of the
faithful and the refutation of Jew and
Greek. This was only what might
have been fully expected from the
fact that, since the Christian era, it
had become the court of appeal of
two rival sets of controversialists—
the Christian and the Jew. Indeed,
from the very beginning it had been
defective, and, if we may trust St
Jerome, designedly defective ; for the
Septuagmt translation of the propheti-
cal bo^s had purposely omitted pas-
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The CkruHm Schools of Jhxandria.
do5
sages of the Hebrew which itsouthors
considered not proper to be submitted
to the sight of profane Greeks and
Gentfles. Up to the Christian era,
however, we may suppose great dis-
crepancies of manuscript did not ex-
ist, and that those Tariations which
did appear were not much heeded in
the oomparativelj rare transcription
of the text. The Hellenistic Jews
andUie Jews of Palestine used the
LXX. in the synagogues instead of
the Hebrew. A few libraries of
great cities had copies, and a few
learned Greeks had some idea of
their existence. Bejond this there
was nothing to make its correctness
of more importance than that of a
liturgy or psalm-book. But, soon
after the Christian era, its character
and importance were completely
changed. The eunuch was reading the
Septuagint version when Philip, by
divine inspiration, came up with him
and showed him that the words he
was reading were verified in Jesus.
This was prophetic of what was to
follow. The Christians used it to
prove the divine mission of Jesus
Christ ; the Jews made the most of it
to confute the same. Thereupon,
somewhat suspiciously, there arose
among the Jews a disposition to un-
derrate the LXX., and make much
of the Hebrew originaL Hebrew
was but little known, whereas all the
intellectual commerce of the world
was carried on by means of that Hel-
lenistic Greek which had been dif-
fused through the East by the con-
quests of Alexander. If, therefore, the
Jews could bar all appeals to the
well-known Greek, and remove the
controversy to the inner courts of
their own temple, the decision, it
might be expected, would not impro-
bably turn out to be in their own
fiivor. Just before Qrigen's own
time more than one Jew or Judaizlng
heretic had attempted to produce
Greek versions which should super-
sede the Septua^t. Some ninety
years before the period of which we
write, Aquik, a Jewish proselyte of
Sinope, had issued what professed to
be a literal translation from the
Hebrew. It was so uncompromis-
ingly literal that the reader some-
times found the Hebrew word or phrase
imported bodily into tho Greek, with
only the slight alteration of new char-
acters and a fresh ending. Its pur-
pose was not^disavowed. It was to fur-
nish tiie Greek-speaking Jews with a
more exact translation from the He-
brew, in order to fortify them in their
opposition to Christianity. Some five
years later, Theodotion, an Ebionite
of Ephesus, made another • version
of the Septua^nt; he did not profess
to re-translate it, but only to correct
it where it differed from the Hebrew.
A little later, and yet another Ebion-
ite tried his hand on the Alexandrian
version; this was Symmachns. His
translation was more readable than
that of Aquila, as not being
BO utterly barbarous in expres-
sion ; but it was far from being ^ele-
gant, or even correct, Greek.
Of course Origen could never
dream of substituting any of these
translations for the Septuagint,
stamped as it was with the approba-
tion of the whole Eastern church.
But still they might be made very
useful; indeed, notwithstanding the
original sin of motive to which they
owed their existence, we have the
authority of St. Jerome, and of Origen
himself, for saying that even the bar-
barous Aqoila had understood his
work and executed it more fairly
than might have been expected.
What Origen wanted was to get a
pure Greek version. To do this he
must, of course, compare it with the
Hebrew; but the Hebrew itself
might be corrupt, so he must seek
help also elsewhere. Now these Greek
versions, made sixty, eighty, ninety
years before, had undoubtedly, hei
could see, been written with the Sep-
tua^t open before their writers.
Here, then, was a valuable means of
testing how far the present manu-
scripts of the Septuagint had been
corrupted during the test century at
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856
The Ckritlxm Sckoeb of JkxoHdria.
least Ha himRelf liad collected
some SQch manuscripts, and the duties
of his office made him acquainted
with manj more. From the com-
mencement of his career he had been
accustomed to compare and criticise
'them, and he had grown skilful, as
may be supposed, in distinguishing the
valuable ones fit>m those that were
worthless. We have said sufficient
to show how the idea of the ^ Hex-
apla" arose in his mind* The
Hezapla was nothing less than a
complete transcription of the Septua-
gint side hy side with the Hebrew text,
the agreement and divergence of the
two illustrated by the parallel tran-
scription of the versions of Aquila,
Theodotion, and Sjmmachus ; the re-
maining column containing the He-
brew text in Greek letters. The whole
of the Old Testament was thus tran-
scribed sixfold in parallel colunms.
These extra illustrations were fur-
nished by the partial use of three
other Greek versions which Origen
found or picked up in his travels,
land which he considered of sufficient
importance to be occasionally used in
his great work. And Origen was
not content with the mere juxtaposi-
tion of the versions. The text of the
Septuagint given in the Hexapla was
his own; that is to say, it was an
edition of the great authoritative
translation completely revised and
corrected by the master himself. It
was a great and a daring work. Ofits
necessity there can be no doubt ; but
nothing except necessity could have
justified it ; and it is certkinly to the
bold and unprecedented character of
the enterprise that we owe the shape
that he has given it in perform-
ance. To correct the Septua^t to
his own satbfaedon was not enough ;
it must be corrected to the satisfac-
tion of jeabus friends and, at least,
reasonable enemies. Side by side,
therefore, with his amended text he
gave the reasons and the proofs of
his corrections. He was scrupulously
exact in pointing oat where he had
altered by addition or subtractioB.
The Alexandrian critics had invented
a number of critical marks of varied
shape and value, which they indus-
triously used on the work^ aboat
which they exercised their propensity
to criticise* Origen, ^Aristarchus
socer,'* as an admiring aathor calls
him, did not hesitate to avail himself
of these profane fwUB, There was
the ^ asterisk,^ or star, which maiked
what he himself had thought it proper
to insert, and which, therefore, the
original authors of the Septuagint had
apparently thought it proper to leave
out. Then there was the <' obelus,"
or spit, the sign of slaughter, as St.
Jerome calls it; passages so marked
were not in the original Hebrew, and
were thereby set down as doubtful
and suspected by sound criticism.
Moreover, there was the " lemniscus,"
or pendent ribbon, and its supple-
ment, the ^ hypo-lemniscus ;" what
these marks signified the learned can-
not agree in stating. It seems cer-
tain, however, that they were not
of such a decided import as the first
two^ but implied some minor degree
of diveigence from the Hebrew, as
for instance in those passages where
the translators had given an elegant
periphrasis instead of the original
word, or had volunteered an explana-
tion which a critic would have pre-
ferred to have had in the margin.
The <<astorisk^ and << obelus" still
continae to figure in tl^ose scraps of
Origen's work that have come down
to us ; so, indeed, does the lemniscus ;
but since the times of St. Epiphanius
and St. Jerome no MS.* seems to
make much distinction between it and
the ^ ast^isk.** Of the other marks,
contractions, signs, and references
which the MSS. of Hexapla show,
the greater part have been added by
transcribers who had various pur-
poses in view. Some of these marks
are easy to interpret, others continue
to exercise the acumen of the keenest
critics.
The Hexapla, as may be easily
supposed, was a gigantic work. The
labor of writing out the whole of the
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The Christian StAools of Ahxandria.
857
Old Testaaient six times over, not to
meBtion those parts which were writ-
ten seven, eight, or nine thnes, was
prodigious. First came the Hebrew
text twice over, in Hebrew chamcters
in the first column, m Greek in the
second. Biblical scholars sigh to think
of the utter loss of Origen's Hebrew
text, and of what would now be the
state of textual criticism of the Old
Testament did we possess such a He-
brew version of a date anterior to
Masoretic additions. But among the
scattered relics of the Hexapla the
Hebrew fragments ore at once fewest
in number and most disputable in char-
acter. The two columns of Hebrew
were followed bj Aquila the stiff, and
be hj Svmmachus, so that the Jews
could read their Hebrew and their
two favorite translations side by side.
Next came the Septu^nt itself, point-
ed, marked^ and noted bj the master.
Theodotion closed the array, except
where portions of the three extra
transhitions before mentioned had to
be brought in. Beside these formid-
able cokimns, which may be called
the text of the Hexapla, space had to
be found for Origen's own mai^ginal
notes, consisting of critical observa-
tions and explanations of proper
names or difficult words, with perhaps
an occasional glance at the Syriac and
Samaritan. Fifty enormous vohmina
would hardly have contained all this,
when we take into consideration that
the characters were in no tiny Italian
hand, but in great broad uncial pen-
manship, such as befitted the text and
the occasion. The poverty and unpro-
xidedness <^ Origen would never have
been able to carry such a work through
had not that very poverty brought hun
the command of money and means. It
is always the detadied men who ac-
complish the really great things of the
world. Origen had oomverted from
some form oiP heresy, probably from
Yalentinianism, a rich Alexandrian
named Ambrose. The convert was one
oi those Jealous and earnest men who,
without possessing great powers them-
selves, are always urging on and of-
fering to assist those who have the
right and the ability to work, but per*
haps not the means or the inclination.
The adamantine Origen required no
one to keep him to his work; and yet
the grateful Ambrose thought he could
make no better return for the gift of
the fidth than to establish himself as
prompter-in-chief to the man that had
converted him. He seems to have
left his master very little peace. He
put all his wealth at his service, and
it would appear that he even forced
him to lodge with him. He was con-
tinually urging Origen to explain some
passage of Scripture, or to rectify some
doubtfol readingi^ During supper he
had manuscripts on the t<'U[>le, and the
two criticised while they ate; and the
same thing went on in their walks and
recreations. He sat beside Am fat
into the night, prayed with him when
he left his books for prayer, and after
prayer went back with him to his books
again. When the master looked round
in his catechetical lectures, doubtless
the indefatigable Ambrose was there,
note-book in hand, and doubtless
everything pertaining to the lectures
was rigidly discussed when they found
themselves together again; for Am-
brose was a deacon of the church,
and as such had great interest in its
external ministration. Origen calls
him his ifryc^i&KTTjg, or worh-prener^
and in another place he says he is one
of God's work-prcsscrs. There is lit-
tle doubt that the Hexapla is in great
measure owing to Ambrose. Origen
resisted long his friend's solicitations
to undertake a revision of the text;
reverence for the sacred words, and
for the tradition of the ancients, held
him back ; but he was at length pre^
vailed upon. Ambrose, indeed, did a
great deal more than advise and ex-
hort ; he put at Origen's disposal seven
short-hand writers, to take down his
dictations, and seven transcribers to
write out fairly what the others had
taken down. And so tho gigantic
work was begun. When it was fin-
ished we cannot exactly tell, l^ut it
cannot have been till near the end of
Digitized by CjOOQIC
358
The OhrisHan Schools of Alexandria.
bis life, and it was probably completed
at Tyre, just before he suffered for the
faith« After his death, the great work,
^opus Ecclesia," as it was termed, was
Placed in the library of Gsesarea of
Palestine. Probably no copy of it
was ever taken; the labor was too
great It was seen, or at least quoted,
by many; such as Pamphylus the
Martyr, Ensebius, St Athanasius,
Didymus, St^ Hilary, St. Eusebius
of Vercelli, St. Epiphanius, St. Basil,
* St Gregoiy Nyssen, St Ambrose, St
Augustine, and especially St Jerome
and Theodoret It perished in the
sack of Ccesarea by the Persians or
the Arabs, before th« end of the sev-
enth century.*
We need not say much here about
the Tetrapla. Its origin appears to
have Been as follows: When the
Hezapla was completed, or nearly
completed, it was evident that it was
too bulky to be oopied. Origen,
therefore, superintended the produc-
tion of an abridgment of it He
omitted the two columns of Hebrew,
the great stumbling-block to copyists,
and suppressed some of his notes. He
then transcribed Aquila, Symmachus,
and Theodotion, puttmg his amended
version of the Sej^tuagint, without the
marks and signs, just before the last
The two first answered the purposes
of a Hebrew text, the last was a sort
of connecting link between it and the
freedom of the Septuagint; and so,
for all practical purposes, he had a
version that friends might put their
trust in, and that enemies could not
dispute.
Such was the work that Origen did
for the Bible. It was not all done at
once, in a year, or in ten years. It
was begun almost without a distinct
conception of what it would one day
^ A new edition of the flragmeate of the
Hexapla is announced, at wo write, by Mr.
Field, of l^orwich. The flrat instalment of ibis
important work, for wblch there are now many
more materials than Dom Montfancon had at
command, mair be expected almost as we go to
press. The editor*s new sooroes are chiefly the
recently discovered SlnaiticMSS.,and theSyro-
Hexaplar version, part of which he has lately re-
translated into Oreek in a very able manner, by
way of a specimen.
grow to* It progressed gradually, in
the midst of many cares and much
other labor, and it was barely com-'
pleted when its architect's busy life
was drawing to a close. Every one
of those twenty years at Alexandria,
which we are now dwelling upon, must
have seen the work going on. The
seven short-hand writers, and the
seven young maidens who copied out,
were Origen's daily attendants, as he
seems to say himself* But the cate-
chetical school was in full vigor all
this time. Indeed, the critical fixing
of the Bible text, wonderful as it was,
was only the material part of his
woric. ^ He had to preach the Bible,
not merely to write it out. His
preaching will take us to a new scene
and to new curcumstanoes — to
OoBsarea, where the greater part of
his homilies were delivered. But,
before we accompany him thither, we
must take a glance at his school at
Alexandria, and try to realize how he
spoke and taught We have already
described his manner of life, and the
description of his biblical labors will
have given some idea of a very im-
portant part of his daily work ; what
we have now to do is to supplement
this by the picture of him as the head
of the great catechetical school.
One of the most striking character^
istics ot the career of Origen is the
way in which his work grew upon
him. It is, indeed, a feature in the
lives of all the great geniuses who
have served the church and lived in
her fold, that they have achieved
greatness by an apparently uncon-
scious following of the padi of duty
rather than by any brilliant excursion
under the guidance of ambition.
Origen was the very opposite of a
proud philosopher or 8elf-«ppointed
dogmatizer. He did not come to his
task with the consciousness that he
was the man of his age, and that he
was bom to set right the times. We
have seen his birth and bringing up,
we have seen how he fouAd himself
in the important place that he held,
and we have seen how all his success
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The OkriUim Sehoob of AbxandrUu
859
seemed to come to him whflst he was
merely bent oa canying through with
the utmost industiy the affair that had
been placed in his hands. We have
Been that, so fhr was he from trying
to fit the gospel to the exigencies of a
cramped philosophy, — ^that he was
brought up and passed part of his
youth without any special aoquamt-
ance with philosophy or philosophers.
He founds howevery. on resuming his
duties as catechist, that if he wished
to do all the good that offered itself
to* his hand, he must make himself
more intimate with those great minds
who, erring as he knew them to be,
yet infiuenced so much of what was
good and noble in heathenism. At
that very time, a movement, perhaps
a resurrection, was taking place in
Gentile pluloaophy. A teacher,
brilliant as Plato himself, and with
secrets to develop that Plato had only
dreamt of, was in possession of the
lecture-hall of the Museum. Ammo-
nins Saocas had landed at Alexan-
dria as a common porter; nothing
but uncommon energy and extraordi-
nary talents can have gi^en him a
position in the university and a place in
h]8tory,a8 the teacher of the philosophic
Trini^^ and the real founder of Neo-
Platonism. Origen, to whom the
Museum had been strange ground in
his early youth, saw himself com-
pelled to frequent it at the age of
thirty. Saocas, to be sure, was
probably a Christian of some sort.
At any rate, the Christian teacher
went and heard him, and made him-
self acquainted with what it was that
was charming the ears of his fellow-
citizens, and furnishing ground for
half of the objections and difSeulties
that his catechumens and would-be
converts brought to him for solution.
That the infiuence of these studies is
seen in his writings is not to be de-
nied. It would be impossible for any
mind but the very dullest to touch the
spirit of Plato and not to be im-
pressed and affected. The writings
of Origen at this period include three
philosopldcal works. There im first
the ^ Notes on the Philosophers,'*
which is entirely lost. We may sup-
pose it to h%ire been the conunou-
place book wherein was enter^ what
he learnt from his teacher, and what
he thought of the teacher and the doc-
trine. Then there is the '< Stromata''
(a work of the same nature as the
Stromata of his master, St. Clement),
whose leading idea was the great
master-idea of dement, that Plato
and Aristotle and the rest were all
partially right, but had failed to see
the whole truth, which can only be
known by revelation. This work,
also, is lost— all but a firagment or
two. Thirdlv, there is the celebrated
work, HepiipxQVi or, << De Pidnd-
piis." Eusebius tells us expressly
that this work was written at Alex-
andria. Most unfiirtunately, we have
this treatise not in the original, but in
two rival and contradictory Latin ver^
sions, one by St Jerome, the other by
Buffinus. noth profess to be faithful
renderings of a Greek original, and
on the decision as to which version is
the genuine translation depends in
great measure the question of Ori-
gen*8 orthodoxy or heterodoxy. And
yet this treatise, <'De Principiis,"
much as it has been abused, from
Marcellus of Ancyra down to the last
French author who copied out Dom
Ceillier, and waiving the discussion of
certain particular opinions that we
may have yet to advert to, seems to
us to bear the stamp of Origen on
every page. It is such a work as a
man would have written who had
come fresh fit>m an exposition of deep
heathen philosophy, and who felt,
with feelings too deep for expression,
that aU the beauty and depth of the
philosophy he had heard were over-
matched a thousand times by the
philosophy of Jesus Christ. It is the
first specimen, in Christian literature,
of a regular scientific treatise on the
principles of Christianity. Every one
knows that a discussion on the princi-
ples or sources of the world, of man,
of life, was one of the commonest
shapes of controversy between the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
/
860
I%4 CMiiian Sokoob of Abxcandria.
schools of philosophy; and at that
verj time, the great Longinus, who
probaUj sat beside Q^igen in the
school of Ammonius Saccas, was
writing or thinking out a treatise with
the veiy title of that of Origen. It
was a natural idea, thei*efore, to show
his scholars that he- coold give them
better prindpia than the heathens.
The treatise takes no notice, or next
to none, of heathen philosophy and its
disputes; but it travels over well*
known ground, and what is more, it
provokes comparison in a very signi-
ficant manner* For instance, the
words wherewith it commences are
words which Plato introduces in the
'^ Gorgias," and to those who knew
that elaborate dialogue, the sudden
and unhesitating introduction of the
name of Christ, and the cahn position
that he and none else is the truth,
and that in him is the science of the
good and happy life, must have been
quite as striking as its author proba-
bly intended it to be. The treatise is
not in the Platonic form — ^the dia-
logue ; that form, which was suitable
to the days of the Sophists and the
sharp-tongued Athenians, had 1>een
supersede at Alexandria by the
ornate monologue, more suitable to au
audience of novices and wonderers.
Origen adopts this form. One God
made all thmgs, himself a pure spirit ;
there is a Trinity of divine persons,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; of
the rational creatures of God, some
fell irremediably, others fell not at
all ; otliers again — ^that is, the race of
man — fell, but not irremediably, hav-*
ing a mediator in Jesus Christ, being
assisted by the good angels and
persecuted by the bad; the wonderful
iact that the Word was made flesh ;
man's free will, eternal punishment
and eternal reward; such are the
heads of the subjects treated of in the
** De Prindpiis." The lame and dis-
jointed condition of the present text
is evident on a very cursory examina-
tion; it is perfectly unworthy of the
'^contra Celsum." But the reader
who studies the text carefully, by the
light of contemporary tJiought, caa
hardly help thinking that materials
BO solid and good must have been put
together in a form as satis&etory and
as conclusive* A first attempt in any
science is always more admired for
its genius than criticised for its
faults. This of Origen's was a first
attempt toward a scientific theology.
We say a theology, not a philosopliy ;
(or, though philosophic in form, and
accepted as philosophy by his hearers,
it is wholly thecJo^cal in matter, be-
ing founded on the continual word*of
Holy Scripture, and not unfirequeatly
undertaking to refute heresy. Chris-
tianity, as we have before observed,
was looked upon by strangers as a
philosophy, and its doctors rightly al-
lowed them to think so, and even
called it so themselves. Now the
*' De Principiis" was Origen's philoso-
phy of Christianity. It did not
prove so much as draw out into sys-
tem. It answered all the questions of
the day. What is God? asked the
philosophers. He is the creator of
all things, and a pure spirit, answered
the Christian catechist Is not this
Trinity a wonderful idea? said the
young students to each other, after
hearing Saccas. Christianity, said
Origen, teaches a Trinity far more
awful and wonderful, and far more
reasonable, too— a Trinity, not of
ideas, but of persons. The new
school talked of the inferior gods that
ruled the lower world, and of the de-
mons, good and bad, who executed
their behests. The Christian philoso-
pher explained the great fact of crea-
tion, and laid down the true doctrine
of guardian angels and tempting
iev'Ss, The constitution of man was
another puzzle; the rebellion of the
passions, the nature of sin, the ques-
tion of free-wilL Plotinus, who lis-
tened to Saccas at the same time
as Origen, has led us the attempts at
the solution of these difficulties that
were accepted in the school of his
master; the answers of Origen may
be read in the ^ De Prindpiis." The
earnest among the heathen philoso-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Christian SchooU of Akxandria.
861
phexB were totalij in the dark as to
the state of soal and of bod7 after
death. Some were ashamed of hav-
ing a body at all, and few of them
eould see of what use it was, or how
it oould subserve the great end of ar-
xiving at union with God. Origen
dwelte with mailed emphasis, and
with tender Hngering, on the great
key of mysteries, the incamadon, and
its consequences, the resurrection of
tiie flesh ; and 8Ik>ws how the body is
lobe kept down in this life by the
rational will, that it too may have its
glory in the life to come. The whole
efibrt and striving of Neo^latonism
was to enable the soul to be united
with the Divinity. Qrigen accepted
this ; it was the object of the Chris-
tian philosophy as well ; but he drew
into prominence two all-important
&cts — ^first, the necessity of the grace
of Grod; secondly, the moral and not
physical nature of the purification of
the soul ; io^their with the Christian
dogma that it was only after death
that perfect union could take place.
All this must have been pei^tly
fitted to the time and the occasion.
And yet there are evident signs that
it was not delivered or written as a
mamfesto to the frequenters of the
Museum ; it was evidently meant as
an instruction to the upper class of
the catechetical schooL Its author^s
first idea was that he was a Chrisdan
teacher, and he spoke to Christians
who believed the Holy Scriptures.
What his words might do for others
he was not directly concerned with,
bat there is no doubt that the subjects
treated of in the " De Principiis" must
have been discussed over and over
again with those students and philoso-
phers from the university who, as
Eusebius tells us, flocked to hear him
in such numbers, and also with that
large class of Christians who still re-
tained their love of scientific learning,
though believing most firmly in the
&Aih of Jesus Christ.
Of the matter of his ordinary cate-
chetical instructions we need say little,
because it is evident that it would be
• mainly the same as it has been trader
the like dicumstances ia all ages.
Those of St. Cyril of Jerusalem, de-
livered a century later, may furnish us
with a good idea of them, saving where
doctrinal distiactions are discussed
which had not arisen in the time of^
the elder teacher. It is rather extra- [
ordmary that so little trace has reached
us of any formal catechetical discourse
of Origen. We are inclined to think,^
however, that the ^ De Prindpiis," in
its origifud form, must have been the
summary or embodiment of his peri-
odical instructions. But we have nu-
merous hints at what he taught in the
several woxks on Holy Scripture, some
lost, some stiU partly extant, which he
composed during these twenty years
at Alexandria. It appears that he
was in the habit of writing three dif-
ferent kinds of commentary on the
Scriptures; first, brief comments or
notices, such as he has left in the
Hexapla ; secondly, scholia, or expla-
nations of some length; and thirdly,
regular homilies. But his homilies
belong to a later period. At Alexan-
dria he commented St. John's Gospel
(b, labor that occupied him all his life),
Genesis, several of the Psalms, and
the *< Canticle of Canticles,'' a cele-
brated work, yet extant in a Latin
version, of which it has been said that
whereas in his other commentaries he
excelled all other interpreters, in this
he excelled himself. But the whole
interesting subject of his creation of
Scripture-commentmg must be treated
of when we follow him to Csesarea,
and listen to him preaching.
What we desire now, to complete
our idea of his Alexandrian career,
and of what we may call the inner Hie
of his teaching, is, that some one — a
contemporary and a scholar, if possi-
ble-*should describe his method and
manner, and let us know how he
treated his hearers and how they liked |
him. Fortunately, the very witness
and document that we want is ready
to our hands. One of the most famous
of Origen^ scholars was St Gregory
Thaumaturgus, and tihe most interest-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Chrittim SchodU of Aleoeandria.
ing of the extant works of that fisitJier
is undonbtedly ihe discourse and pane-
gyric which he pronounced upon his
master, on the occasion of bidding fare-
well to his schooL Gregory, or, as he
was then called, Theodore, and his
brother Athenodoms, were of a noble
and wealthy family of Cappadocia;
that is to say, probably, descendants
of Greek colonists of the times of the
Alexandrian conquests, though, no
doubt, with much Syrian blood in
their veins. When Gregory was four-
teen they lost their lather, and the
two wealthy young orphans were left
to the care of their mother. Under
her guidance they were educated ac-
cordmg to their birth and position,
and in a few years began to study for
the profession of public speakers* As
they would have plenty of money, it
mattered little what they took to ; but
the profession of an orator was some*
thing like what the bar is now, and
gave a man an education that would
be useful if he required it, and oma*
mental whether he required it or not.
The best judges pronounced that the
young men would soon be finished
rhetores; St Gregory tells us so, but
will not say whether be thinks their
(pinion right, and before proof could
be made the two youths had been per-
suaded by a master they were very
fond of to take up the study of Boman
jurisprudence. Beiytus, a city of
Phcenicia, better known to the modem
world as Beyrout, had just then at-
tained that great eminence as a school
for Boman law which it preserved for
nigh three centuries. Thither the
young Gappadooians were to go. Their
master had taught them what he could,
and wished either to accompany them
to the law university or to send them
thither to be finished and perfected.
It does not appear, however, that they
ever really got there. Most biogra-
phies of St. Gregory say that they
studied there ; what St Gregory him-
self says is, that they were on their
way thither, but that, having to pass
through Ctesarea (of Palestine), they
mot with Origen, to whom they took
so great an afi^ection that he converted
them to Christianity and kept them
by him there and at Alexandria for
five yean. The ** Oratio Panegyrica"
was delivered at C^sarea, and after
the date of Origen's twenty years as
catechist at Alexandria ; but it will be
readily understood that the whole spirit,
and, indeed, the whole details, of the
composition are as applicable to Alex-
andria as to CiBsarea ; for his teaching
work was precisely of the same nature
at the latter city as at the former, with
a trifling difference in his position.
The oration of St Gregory is a formal
and solemn effort of rhetoric, spoken
at some public meeting, periiaps in
the school, in the presence of learned
men and of fellow-students, and of the
master himself. It is written very
elegantly and eloquently, but it is in a
style that we should call young, did
we not know that to make parade of
apophthegms and weighty sayings, to
mondize rather too much, to pursue
metaphors unnecessarily, and to beat
about a thing with words so as to do
everything but say it, was the charac-
teristic of most orators, old and young,
from the days of Ptolemy Phihidelphus
till the days when oratory, as a profes-
sion, expired before anarchy and the
barbarians. But its literary merits,
though great, are the least of its recom-
mendations. Its value as a theologi-
cal mcmument is shown by the appeals
made to it in the controversy against
Arius ; and in more recent times Bishop
Bull, for instance, has made great use
of it in his ^ Defensio Fidei NicaBnse.^'
To us, at present, its most important
service is the light it sheds upon the
teaching of Origen. We need make
no apology for making St Gregory
the type of the Alexandrian or Csesa-
rean scholar ; they may not have been
all like him, but one real living speci-
men will teU us more than much ab-
stract description.
First of all, then, the scholar was
not of an emphatically philosophic
cast of mind. The Greek philoso-
phers were absolutely unknown to
him. He was a rich and clever young
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Ohfittian SehooU of Alexandria.
363
man, bade fair to be a^od speaker,
etadied the law not because 1^ liked
it, but because his fiiends and his.
master wished it; thought the Latin
language very imperial, but very di£9i-
onlt ; imd had a habit of takmg up
what opiqions he did adopt more afler
the manner of dothes that he could
diange as he pleased than as immuta-
ble truths. He was of a warm and
afiectionate disposition^ and had a keen
appreciation of physical and moral
beauty. He was not without leanings
to Christianity, but he leaned to it in
an easy, off-hiwd sort of way, as he
might hare leaned to a new sdiool in
poetry or a new style of dress* He
had no idea that there is such a thing
as the absolutely right and the abso-
lutely wrong in ethics any more than
in taste. He was confirmed in this
state of mind by the philosophic
schools of the day, among whom it
was considered disreputable to change
one's opinions, however good the rea-
sons for a change might be; which
was to degrade philosophy from truth
to the mere spirit of party, and to make
a philosopher not a lover of wisdom
but a volunteer of opinion. So pre-
pared and constituted, the scholar, on
his way to Beiytus, fell in with Ori-
gen, not so much by accident as by
the disposition of Providence and the
guidance of his angel guardian ; so at
least ho thought himself. The first
process which he went through at the
hands of the master is compared by
the scholar to the catching of a beast,
or a bird, or a fish, in a net. Philoso-
phizing had small charms for the ac-
complished young man; to philoso-
phise was precisely what the master
bad determined he should do. We
must remember the meaning of the
word ipiiXoucxpelv ; it meant to think,
act, and live as a man who seeks true
wisdom. All the sects acknowledge
this theoretically ; what Clement and
Origen wanted to show, among other
things, was that only a Christian was
a true philosopher in practice. Hence
^ the net he spread for Theodore, a net
of words, strong and not to be broken.
^You ane a fine and clever young
man," he seemed to say ; « but to what
purpose are your accomplishments and
your joomeys hither and thither ? you
cannot answer me the simple question,
Who are you? You are going to
study the laws of Bome, but should
you not first have some definite notion
as to your last end, as to what is real
evil and what is real good ? You are
looking forward to enjoyment from
your wealth and honor from your
talents ; why, so does every poor, sor-
did, creeping mortal on the earth ; so
even do the brute beasts. Surely the
divine gift of reason was given you to
help you to live to some higher end
than this.'* The scholar hesitated, the
master insisted. The view was strik-
ing in itself, but the teacher's personal
gifts made it strike far more effectual-
ly. '' He was a mixture," says the
scholar, ^of geniality, persuasiveness,
and compulsion. I wanted to go away,
but could not; his words held me like
a cord." The young man, unsettled
as his mind had been, yet had always
at heart believed in. some sort of Di-
vine Being. Origen completed the
conquest of his intellect by showing
him that without philosophy, that is,
without correct views on morality, the
worship of God, or piety, as it used
to be called, is impossible. And yet
wisdom and eloquence might have
been thrown away here as in so many
other cases had not another influence,
imperious and all-powerful, been -all
this time rising up in his heart. The
scholar began to love the master. It
was not an ordinary love, the bve
with which Origen inspired his
hearers. It was an intense, almost a
fierce, love (we are almost translatiag
the words of the original), a fitdng
response to the genuineness and
kindly spirit of one who seemed to
think no pains or kindness too great
to win the young heart to true morali-
ty, and thereby to the worship of the
only God— "to that saving word,"
says St Gregory, in his lofty style,
" which alone can teach God-service,
which to whomsoever it comes home
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8G4
Tk§ OknsHan SMoob of Ahafcmdria.
it makes a conquest of them ; and this
gift God seems to have giyen to him,
bejond all men now in the world."
To that sacred and lovely word,
therefore, and to the man who was its
inteT][»^ter and its friend, sprang up
in the heart of the scholar a deep, in-
eztingaishdble love* For that the
abandoned pursuits and studies which
he had hitherto considered indispen-
sable; for that he left the ^grand**
laws of Borne, and forsook the fii^aids
he had left at home, and the friends
that were then at his side. "And
the soul of Jonathan was knit to th?
soul of David,'' quotes the scholar,
noting that the text speaks emphati-
callj of the union c^ the soul, which
no earthlj accidents can affect, and
ftading a parallel to himself in Jona-
than, to his master in David, the wise,
the holy, and the strong. And
though the hour for parting had
come, the moment when these bonds
of the sool should be severed would
never eome 1
The scholar was now completely in
4he hands of his teacher-—" as a land,''
he says, "empty, unproductive, and
the reverse of fertile, saline" (like the
waste lands near the Nile), "burnt
up, stony, drifted with sand ; yet not
absolutely barren ; nay, with qualities
which might be worth cultivating,
but which had hitherto been left with-
out tillage or care, to be overgrown
with thorn and thicket" He can
hardly make enough of this metaphor
of land and cultivation to show the
nature of the work that the teacher
had with his mind* We have to read
on for some time before we find out
that all this vigorous grubbing,
ploughing, harrowing, and sowing
represents the dialectical trainmg
which Origen gave his pupils, such
pupils, at least, as those of whom
Gregory Thaumaturgus was the type.
In fact, the dialectics of the Fhtto-
nists and their off-shoots is very inad-
equately represented by the modem
use of the word logic It seems to
have signified, as nearly as a short
definition can express it, the rectify-
ing the ideas of the mind about it-
self, and about those things most inti-
mately connected with it A modem
student takes up his manual of logic,
or sits down in his class-room with
his most important ideas, either cor-
rect and settled, or else inoprrect, be-
yond the cure of logic At Alexan-
dria manuals were scarce, and the
ideas of the converts from heathen-
ism were so utterly and fundamental-
ly confitsed, that the first lessons of
the Christian teacher to an educated
Greek or Sjrrian necessarily took the
shape of a Socratac discussion, or
a disquisition on principles. And
80 the scholar, not without much
amazement and ruffling of the feel-
ings, found the field of his mind un-
ceremoniously cleared out, broken up,
and freshly planted* But, the pro-
cess once complete, the result was
worth the inconvenience
It was about this stage, also, that
the master insisted on a special train-
ing in natural history and mathcmat*
ics. In his youth Origen had been
educated, as we have seen, by his
&ther in the whole circle of the
sciences of the day. Such an educa-
tion was possible then, though impos-
sible now, and the spirit of Alexan-
drian teaching was especially at-
tached to the sciences that regarded
numbers, the figure of the earth, and
nature. The schools of the Greek
philosophers had always tolerated
these sciences in their own precincts ;
nay, most of the schools themselves
had arisen from attempts made in the
direction of those very sciences, and few
of them had attempted to distinguish
accurately between physics and meta-
physics. Moreover, geography, as-
tronomy, and geometiy, were the pe-
culiar property of the Museum, for
Eratosthenes, Euclid, Ilipparchus,
and Ptolemy himself, had d)served
and taught within its waUs. Origen, |
therefore, would not be likely to un-
dervalue those interesting sciences
which he had studied with his father,
and which nine outx>f ten of his cdu- #
cated catechumens were more or less
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The ObtiMiian Schooli of Jkxandria.
acquainted, and pazzled, or delighted^
with. Happj dajs when mathemat-
ics was little and chemistry in its in-
fancy, when astronomy lived shut up
in a tower, clad in mystic vesture,
and when geology was yet in the
womb of its mother earth ! Enviable
times, when they all (such at least as
were bom) could be sufficiently at-
tended to and provided for in a casual
paragraph of a theological instruc-
tion, or brought into a philosophical
discussion to be admired and dis-
missed! Origen, however, had, as
usual, a deeper motive for bringing
physics and mathematics into his
system* We need not remind the
leader that, if Plato can be consid-
ered to have a weak part, that part is
where he goes into Pythagorean spec-
ulations s^ut bodies, numbers, and
regular ^oUds. His reviyers, about
the time we are speaking of, had
with the usual instinct of revivers
found out his weak part, and made
the most of it, as if it had been the
sublimest evolution of his genius.
We may guess what was taking place
from what afterward did take place,
when even Porphyry fluctuated all
his life between pretensions to philos-
ophy and what Saint Augustine
calls ^^sacrilegious curiosity," and
when the whimisical triads of poor old
Produs were powerless to stop the
deluge of theurgy, incantations, and
all superstitions that finally swamped
Neo-Platonism for ever. ' With this
view present to our minds the words
of the scholar in this place are very
significant ''By these two studies,
geometry and astronomy, he made us
a path toward heaven,'* The three
words that Saint Gregory uses in the
description of this part of the master's
teaching are worth nodcmg. The
first is Greometry, which is taken to
mean everything that relates to the
earth's surface. The second is
astronomy, which treats of the &cd of
the heavens. The third is physi-
ology, which is the science of nature,
or of all that comes between heaven
and earth. So that Origen's scientific
teaching was truly cncyclopcedic.
He was, moreover, an experimental
philosopher, and did not merely re-
tail the theories of others. He ana-
lyzed things and resolved them into
their elements (their " very first" ele-
ments, says the scholar) ; he descant-
ed on the multiform changes and
conyersions of things, partly from
his own discoveries, and gave his
hearers a rational admiration for the
sacredness and perfection of nature,
instead of a blind and stupid bewil-
derment ; he '' caryed on their minds
geometry the unquestionable, so dear
to all, and astronomy that searches
the upper air.** What were the pre-
cise details of his teachings on these
subjects it would be unfair to ask,
eyen if it were possible to answer.
We know that he thought diamonds
and precious stones were formed from
dew, but this is no proof he was be-
hind his age ; and his acquaintance
with the literature of the subject
proves he was, if anything, before it
With regard to naphtha, the magnet,
and the looking-gkuss, it will be pleas-
ing to know he was substantially
right. He was, perhaps, the first to
mttke a spiritual use of the accepted
notion that the serpent wais powerless
against the stag; the reason is, he
says, that the stag is the type of
Christ warring against Anti-Christ.
That he belieyeid in griffins is unfortu-
nate, but natural in an Alexandrian,
who had lived in an atmosphere d
stories brought down fe>m the upper
Nile by the ingenious sailors. Ab to
his ''denying the existence of tAe
Tragdaphue" we must remain igno-
rant whether it redounds to his ci^t
or otherwise, until modern researches
have exhausted the African conti*
nent
TO Bx ooxnxnm).
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866
Eoe d$ La Ihwr^Adauu
Translated from the Berne Contemporaine.
EVE DE LA TOUR.D*ADAM.
BT O. DE LA LANDELLB.
I HATE those pretentious and high*
sounding Christian names which cer-
tain upstarts inflict as a label of ridi*
cole on their children ; but, though I
should be accused of having two
weights and two measures, I should
be pleased to see perpetuated in the de-
scendants of a noble race the most
^tastic of those chosen bj their an-
cestors. My antipathy gives way be-
fore the religion of remembrance, be-
fore heroic or knightly traditions. I
love then even their oddity. I can
pardon even their triviality. I per-
ceive only the old glory, the reflecdon
of which is preserved by these oonse-
crated names.
Among the Roqueforts, who claim to
have sprung from the Merovingians,
they have, even to our days, the names
of Clodimir, Chilp^rie, or Bathilde.
Since the time of the Crusades, the
youngest son of the Du Maistres is al-
ways an Amaury. The Canluries of
Gonneville owe their names of Arosca
and Essomerie to the discoveries of
the celebrated navigator, their ances-
tor, who brought from southern lands,
in 1503, the Prince Essomerie,
son of the King Arosca, whom ho
adopted and married later, in Nor-
mandy, to one of his relations. There
is a family in Brittany who never part
with the names of Audren, Salomon,
Grallow, or Conau. The Corr^,
originally from Portugal, pride them-
selves on seeing on their genealogical
tree those of Caramuru and of Para-
guassus, which signify the Man of
Fire and GrecA River,
Chivalry, the Cpisades, some semi-
fabulous legend, some marvellous
chronicle, the grand adventures of a
Tancred or a !l^hemond, the exploits
of a Tannegry, finally, the great alli-
ances, explain and justify in certain
families Uie privileged nse of first
names too rare, or too commonplace,
fantastic, romantic, strange, or old, to
be suitable except for them.
Now, it was thus that, in virtue of
an old custom, the grand-daughter
of the Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam
had received that of Eve at the bap-
tismal fonts of St. Sulpioe.
In passing the Grorge d'Enfer, not
far from the famous valley of Bonce-
vaux, you have perhaps remarked
the ruins, still majestic, of a tower
which leans above a frightful preci-
pice. The shepherds of the country
maintain that it was built by the fa-
thers of the human race ; were I the
most profound of archffiologiats I
should be very careful not to contra-
dict them. Who can prove that the
Pyrenees did not rise on the limits of
Eden? In the fourteenth century
was not all Europe convinced that the
terrestial paradise, engulfed in the
Atlantic, rises partly above the water
in the form of Saint Brandon's Isle,
the promised land of the saints,
where Enoch and Elias await the last
day?
In the same manner that the erudite
La Tour d' Auvergne, as simple- as
he was brave, has demonstrated in his
'^ Origines Gauloises"* that Adam and
Eve spoke Bas-Breton, in the same
manner the Basque tongue furnishes
imexceptionable proo& of the antiquity
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Hve d$ La Tour^Adam.
867
of the times of Adam which the wa-
ters of the deluge respected.
Be this as it maj, antediluvian
or noty Punic or Roman, Grothic, Sar-
acen, or Spanish, the old tower was
the cradle of an illustrious family —
niustrious on hoth sides of <he Pyre-
nees* From time immemorial the
first-horn was giyen the name of
Adam or of Eve.
At the beginning of this simple
history we have not the leisure to re-
count how a royal Moorish prisoner,
who, it is said, was called Adam, es*
caped from the tower, carrying with
him the heiress of the castle. Nor
can wc stop from the wars in Pales-
tine one of the warlike ancestors of
our Parisian heroine, a proud Crusa-
der, who brought to his domains an
Oriental Eve, the beloved daughter of
we know not what Saladin.
These different traditions, which
were not the only ones, made the cus-
toms of their ancestors very dear to
the &mily of La Tour-d'Adam ; but
the young and merry companions of
the grand-daughter of the last mar-
quis did not care to inquire into the
cause of her unusual name. They
kept themselves in bounds in finding
it tolerably ridiculous that she should
be called just like the ancestors of the
human species*
^ BeaUy, I do not know who could
have served as god-mother to our
beautiful friend," said Clarisse Dufres-
nois, biting her lips. "In my days I
would not consent to give so dangerous
a name. When one hears it one seems
to have a too decided fancy for forbid-
den finit"
''Oh I Clarisse, that is mean,'' mur-
mured Leonore.
This charitable and timid observa-
tion received no response. Albertine,
Valerie, Suzanne, and several other
young girls, who were chattering to-
gether while waiting the opening of
the ball, seemed by their smiles to en-
courago the mocking spirit of Clarisse
Dufresnois. They made a charming
group. Blondes and brunettes, red
and ^diite, adorned with fiowers and
ribbons with delicate taste, they pre*
sented to the view an adorable reunion
of smiles and graces, as they said in
the kst centurv. Youth, gaiety, fresh-
ness, beautiful black eyes, large blue
eyes, lovely figures, wilful airs, piquant
countenances, enjoyment, vivacity, del-
icacy — ^what then did they lack that the
gentlemen cavaliers should make them
wait ? Truly, we cannot say ; but their
habitual delay contradicted the olden
fame of French gallantry. These
gentlemen, without doubt, were a
Siousand times culpable for Clarlsse's
little sarcasms.
** With the fortunate name of Eve,"
she continued, <^ should one not always
be the first to show herself?"
"If you would say, at least the
first to arrive," interrupted Leonore.
^ But it has a grand air to appear
late; it 'produces a sensation; one
scats by her entrance all the most
elegant danders ; one would be watched
for, desired, impatiently waited for.**
^ For that matter, I am sure," said
Leonore quickly, "Eve thinks little
about all that ; she is as simple as she
}a good."
" You see, girls," replied Clarisse,
with equal vivacity, " that I have said
something evil of our deai* Eve I
Goodness ! I love her with all my
heart. She is languid, cool, and senti-
mental; she has her little eccentrici-
ties. Who of us has not? I said simply
that she is always the last to arrive ;
but, however, I do not think she is
so much occupied in varying her
toilette. She is inevitably crowned
with artificial jasmine."
" Nothing becomes her better," said
Leonore. "Beside, Eve is suffi-
ciently pretty to be charming in any-
thmg."
"Doubtless," replied Clarisse, a
little piqued ; " only I ask, how can
you tell what becomes her best when
she has never worn anything else for
at least four years."
" Pour I" cried nearly all the girls.
" Four years ! Why, that is an age P
"Four years of jasmine!'* said
Valerie ; " what constancy 1"
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8«8
Ei;e de La Ihur^JdaoL
"Bonqaetj garkad, crown, and^I
don't know what else," continued
Clarisse, ^*Eve alwajs has jasmine
in some shape.''
" For me," said Suzanne, " I would
not, for anything on earth, show my-
self three times in succession with a
br anch or wreath of jasmine*"
The word jasmine, repeated four
or five times, made a young girl
tremble as she entered, and, not
knowing any of the young ladies,
seat herself at a distance ; but, as ii
drawn by the word which affected
her so singularly, Louise de Mire-
font took her pkce nearest to
Qarisse.
Louise was nineteen ; she did not
yield in natural grace to Suzanne
nor to Valerie ; her color was equal
in freshness to the channing Alber-
tine's ; Lucienne had not such bril-
liant black hair, Leonore an expres-
sion of gentleness not more sympa-
thetic. A timidity acquired, perhaps,
by a sudden trouble veiled the looks
of the new rival who now disputed
with all the palm of beauty ; a lively
carnation spread itself over her fea-
tures, which had a faultless purity.
With her blushes and her emharrass-
ment was mingled a vague sentiment
of sadness; but what physiognomist
would have been sufficiently skilful
to explain the impression which af-
fected her ?
Of all the merry young girls col-
lected at the ball, Louise was the sim-
plest attired. She was beautiful
enough to carry off any costume ; a
simple white dress, alight, roseKM:)lored
ribbon around her waist, that was all.
Ail her companions had either flowers
or pearls in their hair ; she alone had
no other coiffure than her waving
curls, which rolled round her white
shoulders. Each young girl had
some rarity in her toilette. Clarisse,
for example, had admirable bracelets
and ear-rings, Lucienne. had a valu-
able cameo, Suzanne was distin-
guished by a spencer of an original
pattern, even Leonore by knots of
ribbons of exquisite tast^ Alberdne
by bands of coral interwoven in the
tresses of her fair hair.'
No borrowed ornament could have
increased the value of Louise's
charms, whom if one could not with-
out hesitation discern as the prize of
the concourse, at least as the most
faithful lover of the Greek type the
model of which she presented in her
classic perfection.
At the moment she approached,
Leonore had said, indulgently:
" Four years I four winters I — without
doubt Clarisse exaggerates."
" No, Miss Leonore, I do not exag-
gerate; .1 repeat that for four
years Eve has worn only jasmine."
Clarisse alone could call up the
memories of four years ; she was the
oldest of all her friends. Some of
these had been only a few months out
of the convent, others^had made their
"entrance into society only the winter
preceding. She was not even of the
same age as Eve, who had come out
much earlier than any of them*
Clarisse had just passed the age of
twenty-five. Having dreamed of six
or seven superb marriages, she had
the grief of aspiring to a seventh
dream, and this was why her indul-
gence, at all times mediocre enough,
went decreasing in hope as hope de-
ceived, or in inverse ratio to the square
of her age, to help ourselves for once,
by chance, by the algebraic style.
Clarisse could have said, but she
did not, that she had seen Eve de La
Tour-d'Adam, crowned with roses,
the first time she appeared at the
house of the Comtesse de PeyroUcs.
Four or five springs, at most, made
a second crown of roses for the brow
of that maiden, who conducted an old
septuagenary whose ideas and deco-
rations recounted the exploits of a
generation almost extinct. Eve ad-
vanced on the arm of the Marquis de
La Tour-d'Adam, who had not been
seen for several years. Man of the
world as he had been in his youth,
and was no longer,^ the marquis
reserved to himself to' introduce her
into society. Eve was very young.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Eve de La Taur^Adam.
bat the weight of years was heavy
on the old man. The hour was ad-
TEDced because he wished it sa
Their entrance made a great sen-
sation ; Clarisse remembered that it
made too much.
Fair, delicately pale, frail and slen-
der aa a wasp, the only and last
heiress of the Lords de La Toor-
d'Adam, Eve, the child yet un-
known, attracted all eyes. Give life
to one of those aerial vignettes to
which the English sculptors deny
nothing, unless it is a soul; render
motion to those images of the saints
which the simple and pious workmen
sculpture and animate in some sort
with their faith, for the front of oar
temples; spread an expression of
angelic sweetness and infinite tender-
ness over the countenance of a virgin
purer than the azure of the sky;
around this creation of your least pro-
fane thought let there reign an atmos-
phere of generous sympathies, that
hearts may be touched, that souls
may he captive, that men and
women shall be equally attracted by
this undefined sentiment, commonly
called of interest, that this interest
shall extend to every harmonious ges-
ture, to every movement, to every
word of the fair young girl; take
into account the veneration inspired by
the presence of the old gentleman, her
grandfather — and you will understand
at once what was Eve, and the effect
of her first appearance at Madame de
PeyroUes'. .
Four years had passed since then.
Eve now had entered her nineteenth
year. Had she grown old in one day,
had she grown young again, or some
slow suffering, unknown phenomenon,
some mysterious illness, was it, that„
without wasting the young girl,
abruptly arrested her development,
up to that time so precocious ? But,
such aa she was seen at Madame
de PeyroUes* four winters before, as
such Eve reappeared in the same
drawing-room; only Clarisse Dufres-
nois had said enough about it — ^the
crown of roses was replaced by a
YOU m. 24
branch of Jasaiine entwined in her
golden hair.
And, indeed, a branch of jasmine
was placed on the front of the girl's
dress, when dressed for the ball, and,
aoo(Hnpanied by Madame du Cas-
teUet, her governess, she present-
ed herself to her grandfather, who
awaited her in the west parlor of the
mansion of La Tour-d'Adam and
welcomed her with a tender smile.
Eve came forward raiaing to him
her sweet blue eyes, and, in melodi-
ous accents :
"My father," she said, "I have
obeyed you; you see I am ready;
but why will you oblige me to leave
you again alone for all <»ie long
evening?'
''Cluld, I shaU not be alone; I
shall think that my Eve is amusing
herself, I shall see her as if I were
there! Youth should have innocent
distractions. Oh I thoa hast nobly
loved me with all thy heart, but the
society of an old mm like me does not
suffbce at thy age."
" God knows I would renounce
this ball with happiness, in order to
give you your evening reading."
" I do not doubt it, my child ; but
you have promised me that you will
go ; go then, amuse yourself with your
companions { dance, frolic, receive the
homage which is your due. I am not
a miser who hides his treasure, I
wish that my diamond should shme
for all eyes; your triumphs are
mine, and your gaiety is the joy of my
life."
<^My father, I am never gay ex-
cept by your side."
The old man smiled, not without a
little incredulity, but the young girFs
clear eyes were fixed on him with a
touching expression of veneration and
filial love. Eve repeated with affect-
ing candor that the watch by her
grandfather's side was to her a thou-
sand times preferable to the noisy
pleasures of ihe world ; she grew ani-
mated, and, drawing yet nearer, she
said:
<< When I have passed the evening
Digitized by CjOOQIC
370
jEve de La TawHTAdanu
with you, I return joyously to
my loom, my heart ftill of noble
thoughts. Often you have recounted
to us some incidents of your life, and
I am proud of being your child; I
wish for power to imitate your gene-
rous example ; finally, I find an inex-
pressible charm in your recollections
and in your narratives. If you have
spoken to me of my father and
my mother, whom I have never
known, I am still happy ; my melan-
choly is sweet ; I represent to myself
as my guardian angels those whom
your words make me love more every
day.**
The Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam
felt himself touched ; the young girl's
governess had seated herself. Eve
added in a less firm tone :
"On the contrary, when I return
from a ball, I feel an indefinable sen-
timent of void and weariness ; I do not
know what it is that I want, I am sad,
discontented with myself.''
** Childishness I" interrupted the old
gentleman. << Off with us I A little
thoughtlessness and folly, I insist
upon it! One is discontented with
oneself only when one has fiiiled in
some duty ; you are good, submissive,
pious, charitable."
Eve blushed slightly, and while
her grandfather was continuing his
eulogy she prepared him a cup of tea,
drew the stool near, arranged the
cushion on which he rested his head,
then, going to the piano, she played
an old battle air of which he was
very. fond.
Meanwhile the marquis addressed
the governess.
^My cousin," he said (Madame du
CasteUet was a distant relative of the
Tour-d'Adams), "combat these ten-
dencies, I implore you ; pleasures and
distractions, they are the remedy 1 I do
not understand why this ball should
sadden our darling Eve, why meeting
her friends and her partners should
make her melancholy. Eve does not
know how to' be untruthful, she hides
nothing from us ; but she is ignorant
herself why she suffers. Discover
this secret, I implore yon, that she
may be happy."
"Eve's happiness is my only de-
sire," replied the governess. "You
know that I love her as my own
daughter. I never contradict her;
indeed, she never desires anything
that is not praiseworthy. She plans
to do good with an admirable perse-
verance and delicacy."
The old marquis at this moment
recognized the martial air which Eve
was playing for him ; he was deeply
affected:
"She forgets nothing," he murw
mured.
Then noticing the flowers the young
girl wore :
"Always jasmme," ho said to the
governess.
" She forgets nothing," said Madame
du CasteUet, in her turn.
" It is then impossible to overcome
the pride of those unfortunate Mire-
fonts ?" replied the marquis.
"My nephew, Gaston, cannot get
anything ticcepted," nisponded the
governess ; " but we will save them in
spite of themselves."
"Heaven preserve me," said the
marquis immediately, " from blaming
their susceptibility ; unfortunately, the
secret means which Eve has so long
employed scarcely suffice ; it is neces-
sary to do more."
" Gkston will aid us, I imagine," re-
plied the governess in a low voice;
" but hush ! my pupil will not pardon
me if I betray her secrets."
Eve returned from the piano; the
marquis and the governess exchanged
a glance of prudent intelligence.
"Off with us, young lady, to the
ball, to the ball, the carriage is wait-
ing!" said the* old gentleman gaily,
kissing the young girl's forehead.
Madame du CasteUet dragged off
Eve ; the marquis, left alone, thought
tenderly of his dear grandchild, the
bouquet of jasmine, the unfortunate
Mirefont family, of aU that Eve had
said or done with her habitual grace,
while the military march she had
played stiU resounded in his heart.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Eve de La Tour^cTAdanu
871
**The noble chadThe murmured;
**they counselled me to be severe;
how could I be ? I have been indul-
gent ; I have repressed nothing, spoiled
nothing ; her generous nature has free-
ly developed itself; she has made her-
self blessed even by those who do not
know her. Happy, yes, happy, will
he be who shall be her husband."
The few words exchanged between
the marquis and Eve's governess have
shown us that for some time, at least,
the secret of one of the young girl's
good actions had been revealed to her
grandfather. The old gentleman
would have thought little enough of
the coiffures chosen by Eve, or of her
taste for such or such a flower ; but
Madame du Castellet had been much
surprised one day by her pupil's pre-
dilection for bouquets and wreaths of
jasmine. Questions followed each
other; Eve evaded them for a long
time; the governess insisted. She
blamed the girl's extravagance, which
did not cease to expend considerable
sums for the same flowers.
" I wish to know if this caprice has
anything reasonable in it?" she said
finally, with firmness, even at the risk
of displeasing the young heiress.
Eve blushed; Uien in a suppliant
t(me —
*'Be at least discreet," she said.
'*It is the matter of an honorable
family suddenly fallen into extreme
poverty, whose only resource is the
sale of jasmine. People do not buy
it, so it is that I buy so much."
"But still," said Madame du Cas-
tellet, "without doubt you know the
name of the family."
"No, cousin. Fearing to wound
worthy people, I have not asked it.
Only my artificial-flower seller told
me that this jasmine was the work of
the only child of a poor knight of St.
Louis, completely ruined by the last
revolution, and struck with incurable
infirmities. His wife can only take
care of him and wait on him. I
was much affected by the story, and
above all by the courage shown by
this young girl, who obtained a living
for her father and mother by her work.
I promised oflen to buy jasmine on
condition that my name should never
be mentioned; do not be surprised,
cousin, that I keep my promise."
Madame du Castellet embraced Eve
with feiTor. But soon going to the
source, she knew that the family suf-
fering from so many misfortunes was
that of the Mirefonts. The marquis
was instructed. Various offers of as-
sistance were made, but proudly re-
fused.
Eve continued to adorn herself with
jasmine and to make liberal presents
of it to all her friends, which Clarisse
Dufresnois pleasantly laughed at.
"Do you love jasmine?" she said^
smiling. "Apply to Eve. For a lottery,
a vase or a crown of jasmine ; for a
present, jasmine ; for a head-dress, jas-
mine. Madeline, who has penetrated
into the delicious boudoir of Mademoi-
selle de La Tour^d'Adam, saw only
jasmine on every side. Has she not
given some to you also ?"
" Eve has given me a charming
bunch," said Leonore. "It was a
master-piece of its kind ; a flower was
never more perfectly imitated." No-
body listened to Leonore.
" Jasmine is, then, Eve's adoration ?"
said Albertine.
" Perhaps," suggested Suzamie, " it
is the emblem of a deep sentiment,
some memory."
"In any case, it is a passion, a
mania."
" I do not know what to imagine,"
said Leonore; "but I would rather
believe it a work of charity."
" You hear Leonore, young ladies,"
cried Clarisse ; " would it still be
wicked to find this abuse of jasmine
monotonous ?"
Louise de Mirefont had started sev-
eral times, for she was the unknown
artist whose filial devotion created the
bouquets and wreaths which Eve had
not ceased to buy.
For the second time in her life
Louise penetrated into the drawing-
room of the Countess de Peyrolles,
where she had been presented the pre-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
379
JSn€ de La Taur^Adam.
ceding winter hj Iflle. de Boaifraf ,
an old finend of her mother, and com-
panion to the Counteas. At the reit^
rated requests of MUe. de EoaTrajr,
Louise's parents consented that their
dangliter should go among the sodetj
in which her birth and education called
her to hire, had not her entire want of
fortune kept her away.
At the time of that single parlj,
which occopied a large pliM)e in the
young girl's memory, she had remark*
ed one of her masterpieces over the
browof £vedeLaTooi>d'Adam. She
had blushed, not without an innocent
joy-
How different was her feeling now I
Every mocking shaft of Qarisse
wounded her, the smiles of the other
ffirls put her to torture; and when
Leonore, in her indulgent observations,
which had consoled her a little, inno-
cently pronounced the word charity,
she grew pale and felt humbled. Pride
brought to her eyes two tears, which
vexation dried on her eyelashes.
""Mile, de La Tomvd'Adam has
done me an act of charity/' she thought
with a sort of wrath. ^ We have a
disguised ahns, and M. Gaston du Gas*
tellet has failed in all his promises."
Such were, we are obliged to avow
it, Louise de Mirefont's first thongfats ;
pride rendered her unjust and nngrate-
' ful. Alas ! as we have been told many
times, first thoughts in our weak nature
are not always the best An angry
suspicion, moreover, augmented the
girl^ indignation.
The nephew of Eve's governess,
Gaston du Castellet, introduced into
the family of Mirefont by MUe. de
Rouvray, had he, in an excess of leeal,
revealed the secret of a distress couz^
ageously concealed for more than four
* years? Gaston was, himself, in a
position of fortune more than mediocre,
he lived honorably, but in a very
modest office. He had been received
with a noble simplicity ; his tact, his
delicacy, rendered him worthy of such
a reception, and he had also conqueis
ed the good graces of M. and lime,
de Mirefont.
Lonise, during her king hours of
work, often surprised hsbelf thinking
of the amiable qualities, the distinction,
the boievolenoe, of Gaston dn Castel-
let. While with a light hand she cut
cot or adjusted the green leaves or
white flowers on their stem, she could
not forbid herself to dream of the
prudent attentions whidi Graston show^
ed her. Together with her fairy
fingers, her imagination, or rather her
heart, built a frail edMce of green
leaves, hope, and white flowers, like
the innocence of her love. A worc^
a glance, a smile of Gaston's, some
msuk of sdicitude for her veneraMe
parentSy a generous word pronounced
with feeling, received with eagerness,
pkmged her in long and sweet reveries.
Her floral task was generally finished
before her dream.
^He wished to associate his efforts
with mine to comfort my parents' old
age I With what eagerness he assist-
ed my mother!^ thought Louise,
trenibhng with emotion. <*<WhycanI
not always replace you thus P said he.
'My presence wiM permit you to
continue your pious work.' I succeed-
ed in finishing tliat evening tiie crown
of jasmine Jor which my employer
waited so impatiently. And on Sun-
day, what could be greater than Gas-
ton's shicere goodness toward my
father while my mother and I had
gone to pray for him ? When we re-
turned our prayers seemed to have been
heard : he suffered less, and attributed
the amelioration of his state to Gas^
ton's cares, cordial gaiety, and oonver-
sation. Heavens I what were they
talking of in our absence ?"
And Louise's mind lost itself in
sweet and charming suppositions.
Add to this, that a year before Gaston
had met Louise at a ball at Madame
de Peyrolles'; he had noticed her
there; and a few days afterwanl
was presented to her parents by their
old friend MUe. de Bouvray. Gaston
wad the only young man admitted to
thar intimacy. Six months had not
roUed away before he occupied a
room in the same house with Lixiise.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
J^ iA La Tauv^Adam,
B73
liooise believed lierself loyed, and
did not fear to speak without disguise
of the extreme trouble of her family.
The young man had abreadj ventured
various oners of assistance^ he re*
turned to the charge ; H. and Mme.
de Mirefont constantly with a grate-
ful dignity refused them. Louise,
wU^e delicious work was selling bet-
ter and better, positively forbade him
to attempt any officious proceeding.
Oaston promised to make none, ai^
very sincerely kept his word.
^But Gaston was the nephew of
Eve de La Tour-d' Adam's governess.
As dtuisse Dnfresnois said, Eve
bought jasmine with devotion ; accord-
ing to Leonore, it was without doubt
from charity she did so. Well, then I
had Gaston broken his promise ? his
direct offers being refused, had he
employed indirect means? might he
not be, finally. Eve de La Touiv
d'Adam's agent, her assoduite, her
agent in good works ?**
Louise loved Grast<Mi. And you
will pardon her injustice, her ingrati-
tude, her jealousy; for her second
thought was a burst of repentance;
she reproached herself for her pride,
she was ashamed of herself for doubt-
ing Graston, and, more than all, for
being ungrateful to her benefac-
tress.
Eve entered; she entered crowned «
wi& jasmine.
A tear — but this was a tear of
gratitude— bathed Louise's eyelashes,
and slowly descended down her burn-
ing cheeks. Her heart was already
refreshed. She no longer heard
Clarisse's whispers, she did not see
the mocking smiles of Valerie, Alber-
tine, and their companions; she did
not even peiodve that several young
men were comins toward her, and
asking her hand for a contra-dance ;
Eve had entered— «he saw only Eve.
'^Oht she is an angslP she mur-
mured rapturously.
"You say truly, Miss Louise, she
is an angel !* re^^ed Gaston, taking
her hand.
Louise raised her head, dried her
eyes, and permitted herself to be ear-
ned <^by her attentive caviJier, who
had observed all, heard all, and un^
derstood all, from the moment she
had taken her plaee in the circle of
girls.
Eve, conducted by her partner,
passed near them, and turning :
^ Gaston," she said in a tone of
afi^tionate familiarity, *^ will you be
our vis-d^$ f "
The young gbls found themsdves
in each other's presence, their looks
met; Louise's ardent gratitude sud^
denly aroused Eva de La Tour-
d'Aoam's sympathy.
^'What a chamung young girl!
Do you know her, sir ?'
**No, Miss Eve," answered Eve's
partner, and his reply was not finished
without the compliment called forth
by a natural term of comparison,
but the triumphant gentleman ex-
pended his eloquence for nothing*
" I>oe8 she know me P* said Louise
to Gaston ; *^ how she looks at me !"
" Eve does not know who you are ;
she will doubtless ask me your name ;
well, in telling it, I shall not rebte
any of your family secrets."
"Oh! so much the better T ex-
claimed Louise.
"Just now you were blushing and
turning pale, I heard, I noticed—"
Louise lowered her eyes in embar*
rassment
"You were wrong," continued Gas-
ton. " The only indiscretion commit^
ted has been by your employer, the
fiower-merchant Eve is interested
in you, she loves you. without knowing
your name. Her sincere solicitude
goes back already for four years ; it ia
only one, Louise, since I had the hap-
piness of first seeing you. It was
here. The next day Mile, de Rou-
vray received a visit from me, and a
few days afterward your parents kind- >
ly admitted me to their house."
An expression of happiness lighted
Louise's delicate features.
"Then, just now," she said after a
moment's interruption, ^^you divined
my thoughts?"
Digitized by CjOOQIC
874
Bv$ d$ La Tam^Adam.
^ I heard Miss Clarisse Dafresnois*
I giiffered as 70a suffered. I hastened
to juBtifj myself to you."
** Oh, Gaston, how much better is
your beautiful cousin than I T
OCbey novr passed in the conira-
dance; £ve*s hand was not slow in
taking Louise's ; the two girls shivered
at once.
Eve must have seemed singularly
absent to her partner; she did not
cease to watch Louise and Graston,
she was troubled, and was conscious
of a strange uneasiness.
" Why this extreme emotion?* she
asked herself; ''oh I how my heart
beats ! I tremble, I suffer,my eyes are
growing dim I What is the matter
with me ? Who is this yoiing girl, and
what is Gk^ton saying to her? They
pronounced my name, I believe T
Gaston was talking ^ithusiastically
to LquIsc.
« Eve is not of this earth I** he said.
^ She is a celestial being whom I feel
myself disposed to invoke on my knees;
the respect with which she inspires me
'prevents me from seeing even her
beauty. I venerate her, but you,
Louise, you I love T
Louise started.
'^ Oh I do not be vexed by this avow-
al ; I am permitted to make it. During
your absence, on Sunday, M. de Miie-
font yielded to my request. My hap-
piness, Louise, depends on you alone.''
The young girl did not succeed in
dissembling her joy, her smiles crowned
Gaston's wishes; he continued in a
softened voice :
^Ohl it was not without trouble
that I triumphed, dear Louise. For
a long time vour father rejected me
on account of his deplorable position ;
he would not consent, he said, that I
should bind my future to the sad des-
tinies of his family. I spoke of my
love, he replied 1^ reciting his misfor-
tunes. Permit, I said to him, a son
to diminish by his zeal your Louise's
task. Would you repulse me if for-
tune favored you? or do you find me
unworthy to share your lot? Her
filial virtues even more than her
channs have captivated me. If she
were destined to opulence like Mile,
de La Tonr^'Adam, for example, I
should be insane to dare to aspire to
her hand. But your Louise is the
companion necessary for a poor, hard-
working man like me. She is cour-
ageous and devoted. I came to sup-
plicate you to accept my devotion and
my courage. Finally, overcome by
my insistance, he held out his hand
to me ; I bathed it with my tears ; then,
opening his arms : ' Louise shall pro-
nounce,' he said. With what impa-
tience I waited for you that evening I
Your mother by this time should be
aware of my application, and to-mor-
row, if you consent, it shall not be
simply as a friend, but as your Jianci
that I shall enter under your parent's
roof."
" Gaston — my fianci^ murmured
Louise. " O God! I am too happy."
Eve also was near succumbing un-
der a strange emotion ; but by a su-
preme effort she succeeded in conquer-
ing it ; but she was so pale she might
have been taken for an alabaster statue.
She was faint when she seated hei^self
at some distance behind Mme. du Cas-
tellet and Mile. Bouvray, who, retired
to one side apart, were talking in a low
voice but with animation.
Gaston's aunt and the countesses
companion, drawn together by the
similarity of their positions, made
part of that commendable variety of
aristocracy which we are permitted
to call the poor of the great world.
Resigned, free from envy, devoted,
body and soul, to the families in which
even their office increased the consid-
eration and the regard which they
merited, such persons are always
justly respected. Their presence hon-
ors the bouses which welcome them.
They lived in the highest sphere with
an admirable abnegation ; the firmness
of their principles equalled the amia-
bility of their character: they had
espoused the interests which exclu-
sively occupied them, and were slaves
to their duties.
Eve, still tremblings continued to
Digitized by CjOOQIC
£ve de La TournfAdam.
875
watch Gaston and Louise, at the same
time that, as if her nervous excite-
ment had given her the facultj of
liearing the feeblest sounds, she did
not lose a word of the conversation of
the two old friends.
^ You cannot believe how mnch
this marriage contents me," said
Madame du Gastellet, " I have always
been afraid that mj nephew was taken
with Eve. Eve is so beautiful, so
tender, so generous : one cannot know
her without loving her. Graston
already loved her like a brother ; thej
saw each other continually in spite of
all my skilL I did well, the old mar-
quis did not even suspect the danger.
It would have been imprudent to have
hinted the possibility ; I kave lived
on thorns for three or four years.
Eve and Gaston have known each
other from childhood ; a formidablo
friendliness reigned between them;
Eve was full of sisterly attentions ; I
trembled for my poor nephew.''
^ It is certain that MUe. de La
Tour-d'Adam, with her name and her
immense fortune, can only make a
grand marriage,'' »iid Mile, de Bon*
vray. " We can doubly felicitate our-
selves on the success of our effort
Hie old Chevalier de Mirefont was ten
years younger this evening, when he
announced to me the regular request
made by Gaston."
^ '* It is scarcely any time since I siud
to the marquis how much I relied on
my nephew, but I did not know it
was so advanced."
'* It is a settled thuig, ' said Mile.
de Rouvray, smiling, for Gaston and
lionise had been constantly observed
by the two old friends."
^ My nephew will soon be advanced,**
said Madiune du Castellet, ^'he will
not lack a future, and moreover, he
will not refuse the advantages of
which our good cousin will assure him
by marriage contract The Mirefont
family will soon find themselves in
ease."
^ Louise is worthy of this good for-
tune," said Mademoiselle de Bou-
Tray.
^ When I shall be permitted to tell
Eve that her cousin is to marry her
interestbg protege^ oh I I am sure
she will be transported with joy."
Eve, at these words, thoroughly
understood. Detaching from her head-
dress a little branch of flowers, she
contemplated it a moment Then she
regarded Louise and Gaston, seated
by each other, wrapped in their hap-
piness, oblivious of the world around
them.
" How haj^y they areP she
thought
The ball was very animated, Alber-
tine, Valerie, and Lucienne had aban-
doned themselve9 to the gaiety of their
age, but Ciarisse, who observed with
secret envy sometimes Gaston and
Louise,. sometimes Eve, pensive, re-
fusing ten invitations, — Ciarisse cried
out flJl at once :
^ Mademoiselle de La Tour-d'Adam
IS ilL"
The musicians stopped playing.
Gaston rushed to his cousin. Louise
was the first to take in hers Eve's ice-
cold hands ; she could not refrain from
pressing them to her lips.
Eve soon opened her eyes, saw
Louise on her knees, Gaston at her
side, smiled on them with angelic
sweetness, and addressmg herself to
ihe young girl :
'< You do not know me," she said,
"but I wish you to be my friend.
You will come to see me, will you not ?'
The little branch of jasmine which
Eve had taken from her own forehead
remained in Louise's hands. Madame
du Castellet, aided by her nephew, car-
ried away E^e de la Tour-d'Adam.
A few minutes after Louise was
conducted home.
Ciarisse Dufresnois did not fail to
attribute Eve's faintiag to the desire
of appearing interesting ; this was. at
least the version which she gave to
the young ladies Suzanne, Valerie,
Lucienne, and Albeiline, but the sup-
position which she expressed to the
Vicomte de la Perliere, the object of
her seventh matrimonial dream, was
less inoffensive.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
876
JSve de La Tour^TAdam.
^ MademmseDe ie La Tour^ Adam,"
said she, ^ was taken ill of jealousy
and vexation, on remarking her cou-
sin's attention to Mile, de RouvraT's
She enlarged on this theme with so
mnch wit, that the Yicomte de la Per-
li^re, a man of sense who did not lack
heart, forgot at die end of the winter to
propose to her. The autumn follow-
ing he asked and obtained Leonore's
hand, which did not prevent Clarisse
from being more witty than ever.
n.
Eve passed a frightfhl night, a prey
to the delirium of ferer ; 3ie doctors,
forced to reassure the old marquis and
the govemess, did not conceal from
Gaston that his cousin's case presented
very alarming symptoms. Gaston was
uneasy, Louise shared his fears, but
their betrothal took place notwithstand-
ing; the promise already made by
ML de Mirefont was confirmed in the
family, but on account of Eve's illness
Madame dn Castellet's absence was
excused.
Li the Castle de La Tonr-d'Adam
reigned a profound sadness.
Eve had recovered her ordinary
calm and serenity, but her weakness
and pallor were extreme ; the old mar-
quis was conducted to her room.
** Eve, my dear diild, when I think
of all you said to me before going to the
ball, I reproach myself bitterly for hav-
ing forced you to go."
" Do not regret it, grandfather, for
I am delighted to have seen the young
girl who is going to marry my cousin
Gkston. I wish her to be my best
friend.**
^ My child,** said the marquis again,
^is anything lacking that you wish ?
Have confidence in me.**
^ What can I lack ? you refuse me
nothing.**
** Doubtless, and for all,** suggested
the old man, with a real timidity, " you
fear to unveil for me the state of your
heart ! I hesitate to say what I think,
my dear daughter, but if you have a
secret inclination — **
Eve shuddered, and lowered her
large eyes.
'* Enow well, at least, that I shall
never be an obstacle to your happi-
ness ; my Eve would not know how to
make an unworthy choice.'*
The young girl bent her head and
remained silent. Mme. du Castellet
observed her sadly.
^^Eve,** said she, **you answer
nothing?*
** What can I answer ?** murmured
the heiress, ^ I ask myself," she said
with feeling. * My good father," she
said again, ** words are wanting to ex-
press to you my gratitude imd my
tenderness.'*
** Then from what does she suffer ?"
the marquis asked himself ^ de-
spair.
As a flower scorched by the sun.
Eve languished ; the fever disappeared,
but her strength did not return. Her
only pleasure was to put on, one after
another, the freshest of her jasmine
wreaths.
The doctors understood nothing of
her illness ; the most skilful of all in-
terrogated the governess.
** I fear that this young girl is struck
by a moral hurt ; love, when it is op-
posed, sometimes presents analogous
symptoms.**
** We have been beforehand with
your question, doctor ; Eve knows that ^
her choice would be approved; she
made no response."
<^Has she pronounced any name in
her delirium ?*
**None ; she spoke only of -the good
woiks which constantly occupied her.**
Madame du Castellet had found that
Eve knew the whole history of Lou-
ise's filial devotion.
"Madame," replied the physician,
"I persist in believing that Mile, de
La TourHd*A^buii conceals her secret
from you. A false shame, without
doubt, restrains her send for her con-
fessor, and have him, if possible, oblige
her to tell you the truth."
When the doctor had gone, I^bdame
du Castellet burst into tears. Eve
was given up by science, because tliey
Digitized by CjOOQIC
^e de La Tour^Adanu
87T
absolutely would have it that her ill-
ness had a mysterious origin.
The confessor was called, aUhough
the governess hoped nothing from Us
intervention. An emotion of profound
piety was painted on the features of
the man of Qod when he came oat of
the invalid*s chamber, but Eve, calm
and with pious recollection, was pray*
ing with her eyes raised to heaven.
The young girl made no confidence to
Mme. du Castellet, only several hours
later —
"Cousin,* she said, ''Mile. Louise
de Mirefont and Gaston are slow in
coining to see me."
It was not the first time that Eve
bad expressed the same desire; the
governess ordered the carriage in or-
der to go for Mile, de Mirefont
''Louise, generous Louise," mur-
mured Eve, "I would that my soul
could be blended with yours !"
Her heart beat violently as she
thought of Gaston's happiness; Eve
did not account to herself for her poig-
nant emotion, but she prayed that God
would permit her to live for her noble
grandfather.
"My loss woi\ld be too cruel for
him," she murmured, weeping.
Then she interrogated herself with
a simple severity :
" Would 1 then be culpable for not
speaking of that of which I am myself
ignorant?"
Her conscience responded by a firm
resolution not to carry trouble to the
hearts of all those who cherished her.
" My dilty, I feel, is to rejoice at the
happiness of Gaston and of Louise.
Do I deceive myself? My God! en-
lighten me, guide me !"
Eve was kneeling ; the Marquis de
X^a Tour-d* Adam, assisted by his valet,
entered, and in a reproachful tone —
" Why do you fatigue yourself
thus?" said he; *'Eve, I implore
thee, be carefol of thy strength, if on-
ly out of pity for me."
Eve arose with difficulty.
** Fo^ve me," she said mfh a sweet
smQe, " I win not kneel again until I
am cored."
Then she sat by her grandfiiiher's
side. The marquis, frightened at her
mortal pallor, contemplated her with
anguish.
" I saw her father perish in the flower
of his age," he thought ; " her mother
a few months after died in giving her
life; she was an orphan from her cra-
dle. All my affections are concen-
trated in her; she has never given me
occasion for the least pain. Alas ! I
suffer to-day for all the happiness she
has given me."
"Do not distress yourself, my father,"
said Eve, who surprised a tear in the
old man^s dry eyes; ♦' I have asked of
God to let me remain to console the
rest of your days; my prayer has
been heiud, it will be granted. Oh,
for pity, do not cry more."
The marquis took her hand and
pressed it against his heart.
'•My father," said Eve after sev-
eral moments of silence, " our cousin
has gone for Gaston and his fiancee ;
my fiither, I have a request to make of
you."
"Tell it, tell it," said the old man
ardently.
Eve bent, and said in a tremblmg
voice :
" They are both of them generous
and devoted; both of them have suf-
fered much: make them rich, I implore
you, lest your wealdi should pass into
avaricious hands."
"Oh! my God I you expect, then,
to die ! Eve, my darHng daughter, is
this your secret?"
"No! I do not wish to die J no! I
wish to live for you I"
" But I am old, very old !" the mar-
quis replied, with hesitation, "and— ■
after me — "
"After you whom shall I love?"
said Eve in a melodious voice. " Fath-
er, I implore you, make Gaston and
Louise's future sure, and you will have
crowned all my wishes.*
Eve had scarcely finished when
Mme. du Castellet entered; Louise
and Graston followed her. The two
lovers succeeded in wiping away their
tears, but their emotion was redoub-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
878
£ve de La Tour-^Adam.
led when they flaw themselres be-
tween the yonng girl and her grand-
&ther.
" Come to me," said Eve, " come,
Loaise! Do jou not know that I
loved you before I knew you ? See, all
that surrounds me is your work.
What would I not give to have made,
like you, one of these bouquets of jas-
mine r
^< Mademoiselle," murmured Louise,
^ I have known you and have loved
you only for a few days; but my
gratitude and my affection for you are
boundless."
^ Place them on Gaston : he is dear
to me as a brother ; and you, Louise,
call me henceforth your sister."
She held her one hand, with the
other she drew Gaston forward ; then,
addressing the marquis :
^Father," she said, "see them
before you ; bless them, I pray you."
The old gentleman, weeping, ex-
tended his hands, then with a voice
choked with sobs :
**Eve, my beloved child! Eve,
thou wishest then to die ?"
The young girl blushed slightly, a
ray of sunlight which played through
the curtains crowned her with a lumi-
nous halo ; she had risen, her ethereal
figuro mingled with the white flowers
which adorned her room.
Gaston said in a low voice to
Louise :
"You see plainly, my friend, that
she is not of the earth."
They bent reverently; but Eve
extended her arms: Louise found
herself pressed against her heart
The marquis, seeing Eve so ra-
diant, renewed his hope :
"She is saved 1" he said to
Madame du CasteUet. "The pres-
ence of these young lovers has done
her good. Have them come often,
I pray you. But I should leave
them together. Adieu, my children,
adieu!''
He was carried back to the great
halL However, the governess trem-
bled ; she saw at last the &tal truth.
The heiress's great blue eyes were
fixed on hers ; the old lady's trouble
increased. Eve put her finger on her
lips, and drawing her to one side :
" Why are you still distressed, my
good cousin," she said to her; "do
you not see how happy I am in their
happiness ?'
Gaston's aunt retired heart-broken,
doubtful of her suppositions, not dar-
ing to hope for the young girl's re-
coveiy.
Eve was seated between the two
lovers :
" I demand a part in your joy, my
friends, and I wish that my memory
may always live with you."
Then she recounted with simplici-
ty the history of her four last years.
Tlie praises which she gave to
Louise's filial piety penetrated the
hearts of the two betrothed, who
wished to prostrate themselves before
her, her words had so much purity,
sweetness, and unction. Louise re-
proached herself, as if it were a sacri-
lege, for the thought of pride which
she had felt at the ball. Gaston was
under an indefinable impression of
tenderness and of gratitude. Eve
addressed him with noble and tender
encouragement. Eve, with a pious ar-
dor, made wishes for the felicity of
their union; finally, when they were
retiring she divided between them a
branch of jasmine.
"Preserve this," she said, "in
memory of me."
The sacrifice was accomplished.
When they had gone, Eve sighed,
prayed, and felt herself weaker. She
had expended in this interview the
little strength which remained to her.
A despairing cry soon resounded
through the house where the young
girl's inexhaustible goodness had won
all hearts.
"'Mademoiselle is dying! Mad-
emoiseUe is going to die !
The Marquis de La Tour-d'Adam,
fulfilling his promise, went to add a
disposition to his will, in case the
heiress should not attain her majority.
The pen fell from his hand, the chOl
of death ran through his veins :
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Bury the Dead.
879
<<EyeI Eve! who will take me to
her?'
Bat Eve entered the nxHU, for she,
on her side, had prajed the governess
to have her eondacted there.
The old man saw on her featoies
the certain mark of death, and death
struck 4 him. He murmured for the
last time the name of Eve, then fell
hack, cold, in his arm-chair.
However, Eve lived an entire daj
after her grandfather.
Her agonj was slow and gentle.
She asked for jasmine, her couch was
covered with white flowers, bathed in
her tears whose filial love had made
them.
^ May Louise be your daughter,''
said Eve to Madame du Gastellet
** Louise^will replace me with you."
Thea» addressing Louise •
^My sister, make your husband
happy. Love the poor and pray with
them for my parents, my grandfather,
and myself God be praised," she
murmured finally, *^ my father's father
has preceded me, I go to join him.
Adieu, Gaston I my brother, adieu !*'
Her voice fiuled, her heart ceased
to beat, heaven counted one angel
more.
Madame dn Castellet, Gaston, and
Iiouise passed the night in prayers by
the two beds of death. Finally, the
same hearse conducted to the same
tomb Adam, Marquis de La Tour-
d'Adam, last of the name, and his
grandchild Eve, the last branch of an
illustrious stock.
A sword which had never been
drawn except in a just and holy cause
decorated *Uie aged man^s coffin, but
that of the child cut down at the
threshold of life was. covered with the
white fiowers which she had so piously
loved.
To-day the mansion of the Tonr-
d' Adams is inhabited by M. and
Mme. de Mirefont, Mme. du CasteQet,
her nephew Gaston, and her niece,
Louise.
A room hung with crovi^ns and
wreaths of artificial jasmine serves
as the family oratory.
No one ever penetrates there ex-
cept with recollection.
The servants call it the saints'
chamber.
It is that whence rose toward
heaven, as an agreeable perfume to
God, the soul of a maiden dying in
all the purity of first innocence ; dead
without knowing there existed a for-
bidden fruit ; dead because she loved
with that celestial love which belongs
only to the angels in paradise.
From TIm Month.
BURY THE DEAD
■ CttftlM » gr»T«, thall amy bury vaj dMd oat of my sight.**— 0«n«ilfl zxUI, 4 (Bebi)
EirwBAFT in fair white shroud.
With fragrant fiowers strewn.
With loving tears and holy prayers,
^d wailing loud.
Shut out the light I
Buiy the Dead, bury the Dead,
Out of my sight 1 ^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
880 Bury the Bead.
Corruption's touch will wrong
The sacied Dead too soon ;
Then wreath the brow, the ejeUds Idas ;
Delay not long,
Behold the bl^htl
Buiy the Dead, harj the Dead,
Out of our sight I
•
But there are other Dead
That will not buried be,
That walk about in glaring day
With noiseless tread.
And stalk at night ;
ITnbaried Dead, nnburied D^,
Ever in sight.
Dear friendships snapt in twain.
Sweet confidence betrajed,
Old hopes forswcum, old loves worn out.
Vows pledged in vain*
There is no flight, ^
To living, unrelenting Dead,
Out of your sight.
Oh ! for a grave where I
Might hide my Dead away I
That sacred bond, that holy trust,
How could it die ? ■
Out of my sight ! ^
O mocking Dead, unburied Dead,
Out of my sight !
O eveivliving Dead,
Who cannot buried be ;
In our heart's core your name is writ.
What though it bled?
The wound was slight
To eyes that loved no more, in death's
Remorseless night
O still belovM Dead,
No grave is found for you;
No friends weep with us o'er your bier.
No prayers are said ;
For out of sight
We wail our Dead, our secret Dead,
Alone at night
Give me a grave so deep
That they may rest with me ;
For they shall lie with my dead heart
In healing sleep ; ^ '
Till out of night
We shall all pass, O risen Dead,
Into God's sight !
Digitized by CjOOQIC
JUtigim in jVm T^rk
asi
[ovGnrAx..]
RELIGION IN NEW YORK.
Thb city of New York is euppoaed
to contain aboat one million of inhabi-
tants. Of tfcese, from 300,000 to
400,000 are Oatbolics, probably 60,-
000 Jews, and from 550,000 to 650,-
iKX) Protestants, or Nothingarians.
We will first speak of the provision
made for the religions instmctioR of
the non-CathdlicnMgority of oar popu-
lation.
There are 280 cbarches of all de-
scriptions, excluding the Catholic
churches. Of these, there are :
Bplscopallan JJ
PrMbyierUa 5S
Ifethodlst JS
Btpti«t »
JewiBh g
Dutch Beformed ^
Luthena 5
Congregattonal •
UniverMdlfit J
Unitarian •
Friends ,2*
HiaoeUaneona V^*
The number of communicants in
Protestant churches is estimated as
64,800. If the churches were all of
ample size and equally distributed
through the dty, they would suffice
tolerably well for the accommodation
of the people, should they be generally
disposed to attend public worship. A
large projjyortion of them, however, are
small, and only 80 churches are situa-
ted below First street. The lower and
more populous portion of the city is
therefore very destitute of church ac-
commodation, while the great majority
of the churches, especially the largest
and finest, are in the upper part of the
town, among the residences of the more
well-to-do classes of the communitj.
The Protestant population as a whole
is, therefore, very poorly provided with
church accommodation.
* These flsures are taken from the last Df*
factory. The -Walk aboat New York" gives
th« namher at SIS.
A pamphlet, entitled ^' Startling
Facts: a Tract for the Times, by
Philopsukon: Brinkerhoff, 48 Fulton
street, 1864,** gives a considerable
amount of information on this point.
The estimates of this gentleman are
based on a supposed population of 950,-
000. For the section of the city be-
low Canal and Grand streets, including
(he first seven wards, there are, ac-
cording to him,. 12 churches and 8
mission chapels, capable of accommo-
dating about 15,000 persons. The
population of this district is 185,000.
Twenty Protestant congregations have
within the last twenty-five years aban*
doned their churches in l^is district,
and removed to new ones up town.
One of the old churches (St. Greorge's)
is retained as a mission chapel, and
another, a very fine (xie, the Rutgers
street Presbyterian church, has been
convertedinto a Oatholic church* These
removals have reduced the church ac»
commodation from 18,000 to 20,000
sittings, while the population has
meanwhile doubled.
For the section between Canal and
Fourteenth streets, including also
seven wards, there are 88 churches
for a population of 262,000. Fourteen
churches have been abandoned within
ten years. Of these 84 abandoned
churches, 8 have been turned into
Uvery stables, and the remainder into
public oifRces or stores and factories.
The upper section, extending to
Sixty-first street, includes eight wards,
witii a population of 418,000, and has
82 churches.
This gentieman has counted only
what he calls ^ Evangelical ** churches,
in which he estimates the total sittings
throughout tiie whole city at 126,600,
but the actual attendance at only 84,-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
382
Religion in New JorL
400. A^'CondensedStatemenf^which
we have in our bands, estimates the
total Protestant church accommodation
at 200,000, and the number of com-
municants at 64,800. If we allow
150,000 for the ordinary or occasional
attendants at Protestant worship, and
25,000 for the Jewish synagogues, we
shall have then from 875,000 to 475,-
000 of the non-Catholic population who
attend no place of religious worship or
instruction at all.* The author of the
" Startling Facts,*' who summarily
hands over all except the attendants at
" Evangelical ** churches to the devil,
takes a very gloomy view of the state
of things, and considers that ^ 865,-
600 out of the 950,000 pass to the
judgment-seatof Christ WITHOUT the
MEANS OP GRACE f to be condemned,
we are left to infer, because they did
not enjoy those means; while those
who did enjoy them and failed to pro-
vide for the wants of the remainder are
to be rewarded.
It must be allowed, however, that
he berates them handsomely for their
neglect of duty. He says :
^^Nor is it intended in these few
pages to canvass the question as to the
necessity or the expediency, etc^ of
what is called the up'tavm removed of
so many of the churches (in all 86),
first from the lower, and now from the
central section of the city. All that
can be done is to note the following
facts, and leave others to draw their
* " The Oroat MetropoUs, a Condensed State-
ment,'* glvefl the Protestant charch accommoda-
tion at mooO. '' Walks abont New York, bj
the Secretary of the City Hiasion,'* estimates
the number of attendants at ** BTangelical
churches" at 824,000. Allowing 10,000 more for
other Protestant congregations, and 25,000 for
the Jewish synagogues, this leaves 840,000 as
the minimnm number of the non-Catholic popu-
lation who attend no place of public worship.
It appears to us that it is a large calculation tp
allow 1,000 attendants to each church, which
would give the total of 280.000 church-goers,
leaving a remainder of 820,000. All the non-
Cathoiic churches together are capable of ac-
commodating less than 225,000 persons atone
time, leaving 875.000 who have not suAcient
church-room to accommodate them, if all wore
disposed to attend regularly. Nevertheless, it
does not appear that the majority of the Pro-
testant churches are over-crowded. The mass of
the non-church-goers are quite apathetic on the
subject. They do not wish to nave churches,
and probably would not frequent them If they
vero built for them free of expense.
own inference as to their practical
effects.
'' 1. In every instance of such church
removal, it has originated in the chanae
of residence of a few of the wealthier
families of said church : this, of course,
was followed by a diminution of the
means of support to the said church.
Hence the plea of necessity for its re-
moval ; and, making no provision to
retain the old church for missionary
purposes, the effect has been to scatter
by far the larger portion both of
the church members and of the con-
gregation to the four winds. For,
^ 2. The old church property having
been sold, the new location has been
selected with a sole view to the ac-
commodation of these families of
wealth, who left it for an up-town pa-
latial residence, and a costly church
edifice has been erected (often largely
beyond their means) compatible with
their tastes. The result of this has
been,
8. To place the privileges of the
church beyond the reach of the me»
diocre and lower classes. And this
has led to an ignoring of that divinely
appointed law of God, ^ the rich and
the poor meet together, the Lord being
the maker of them aW' (Prov. xxiii. 12).
Hence the origin of caste in the
churches. Money has been erected into
the standard of personal respectaibility,
by which every man is measured ; and
hence a courting of the favor of the
rich, and a despising of the poor.
^ Thus the way is prepared to account
for the paucity of attendance at many
of these larger and wealthier churches.
A consciousness of self-respect operates
largely to deter those who might other-
wise repair to them. They shrink
from an encounter, whether right or
wrong, from that invidiousness to which
the above principle of the measure-
ment of personal respectability sub*
jects them ; and taking human nature
as it is , it cannot be otherwise. Hence,
finding themselves thus ^ cut off" from
the privileges of the churches, and that
by the act of the churches themselves,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ReUgion in New York.
888
thej relapse into a state of absolute
" neglect of the great sahattonJ' ♦
^ And when there is taken into the
accoant the neglect of these wealthier
chnrches to make provision for the
populations in those sections of the
dty formerly occupied by tliem, tibere
is iumished an explanation of the vast
disparity between the number of
churches compared with the immense
population as a whole, which remain
unprovided for.
** True, in order to escape the impu-
tation of neglecting ^ the poor of this
world * altogether, some of the weal-
thier churches have established mis-
tionary Sabbath schools outside
of their own congregations. The
principal denominations — the Episco-
palians, MeihodistSy Baptists, Reform-
ed Dutch Church, and Presbyterians,
are also doing something in the way of
supporting missionary chapels for the
poor; but none of them are making
provisions for them in a manner or to
an extent at all commensurate either
with their ^u^ or their means.
" Take, in iUustration, a vie^ of the
amount of missionary work being done
in this city by the large and wealthy
presbytery of New York. True,
the Brick church; the Fifth avenue
church, comer Twenty-first street;
the Fifth avenue church, between
Eleventh and Twelfth streets; the
Presbyterian church in University
place, comer Tenth street, and per^
haps one or two others, each support, in-
dependently of drawing upon the funds
raised for domestic missions, a mission
Sabbath school and chapel. But out of
the moneys contributed annually by the
churches connected with the presby-
tery, amounting to from $12,000 to
$15,000, there are only two regularly
organized missionary churches connect-
ed with that body. These are the
Grerman mission church in Monroe
street, comer of Montgomery, and the
Afirican mission church in the Seventh
avenue, each supported at an expense
* How this is poBiible m the case of those who
have received the gift of infallible persevemnce,
it Is dlfflcult to see, anless the '* elect" are chiefly
found among the SUte of society.
of $600 per annum. Nor are the
ecclesiasticjal judicatories of other
churches domg much better.
" Is this, then, the way to * continue
in GocTs goodness ¥ Writing on this
subject, so long ago as 1847, the Kev.
Dr. Hodge, the oldest professor occu-
pying a chair in the Princeton Theolo-
gical Seminary, and the leamed and
able editor of ^The Princeton Re-
view,' had used his pen in refuting
the statement of those in the Presby-
terian Church who affirm that ^we
have already more preachers than we
know what to do wUh^ etc. ; and hav-
ing disposed of that matter, he passes
to the subject of the difference in the
mode of sustaining and extending the
gospel in and by the Presbyterian
Church. In reference to the policy
adopted by said church to this end, he
says:
" * Our system, which requires the
minister to rely for his support on the
people to whom he preaches, has had
the following inevitable results: 1.
In our cities we have no churches to
which the poor can fredy go and feel
ihemtehes at home. No doubt, in
many of our city congregations there
are places in the galleries in which
the poor may find seats free of charge ;
but, as a general thing, (A« churches
are private property. They belong to
those who build them, or who purchase
or rent the pews after they are built.
They are intended and adapted for
the cultivated and thriving classes of
the community. There may be ex-
ceptions to this remark, but we are
speakmg of a general fact. Hie mass
of the people in our cities are excluded
from our churches. The Presbyterian
Church is practically, in such places,
the church for the upper classes (we do
not mean the worldly and the fashion-
able) of society.^ And to this Dr.
Hodge adds, as the resuU of the work-
ing of * our system,* the following :
" < The Presbyterian Church is not
A CHURCH FOR THE POOR. She has
precluded herself from that high voca-
tion by adopting the principle that the
support of the minister must be deriv
Digitized by CjOOQIC
881
JUKgimi in Nn9 Tart.
edfrom thepeofJe tovhom hepreacheB*
I£y therefore, the people are too few,
too sparse, too poor, to soatain a minis*
ter, or too ignorant or wicked to ap-
preciate the gospel, THST inrsT go
WITHOUT ir/"
Thus far the author of the tract
and Dr. Hodge. The statements
of the latter are indorsed by the
General Assembly of the Pres-
byterian Church. A Baptist cler-
gyman, writing in the '^Memorial
Papers," a work which was suppressed
afWr publication, says : ^* The Church
has no conversions and no hold on the
masses. The most successful church
building is that which excludes the
poor by necessity.^' *
We do not cite these statements in
<Nrder to make apcvnt against Protest-
antism &om the adnSssions of its
advocates, or to exult over these ad-
miasions. We respect our anonymous
friend, and the learned and accomplish-
ed Princetmi divine, for their candor,
honesty, and zeal for the religious in-
struction of the poor. We have no*
thing in view except an exposition of
the real state of things in New York,
and are anxious to arrive at facts*
AUowii^ for all errors and exaggera-
tions, and with a perfect willingness to
admit everything which can be said to
extenuate the evil, we must admit tlie
palpable, undeniable fact, that some
hundreds of thousands of our popula-
tion are either unprovided with the
(^portunity of attending any form of
worship and religious instruction, or
are indlfierent to the subject Sunday
is to them a mere holiday from work
(to many not even that), to be spent
in recreation and amusement, if not
in something positively bad.
It appears especially that the lower
section of the city has been almost
entirely given up by Protestants.*
There is one very notable and very
honorable exception, however, in Trin-
ity church, which has always been the
best managed ecclesiastical corporation
* A bigbprice will b« paid at this offloe tor a
copy of *' The Memorial Papers\*
^bat is, except aa a miaBioiuury ground.
of all the Protestant religioas institn-
tions in our ooontay*
The educational and eleemosynary
instittttions of New York are on a col-
ossal scale. We will not go into ex-
tensive details on this subject, as our
topic is properly the religion of the
city. It is estimated that there are
144,000 chUdran in New York, of
whom 104000 are at school,* and
40,000 growing up without instruction.
The poverty, wretchedness, and in-
difference of parents is more to blame
for the condition of that portion not at
school, than the want of acccHumodation.
Hospitals, refiiges, asylums of all
kinds, abound in the city ; as well as
dispensaries where medicsi assistance
and medicine can be obtained by the
poor gratuitously. There is, beside,
a gigantic system of domestic relief and
outdoor charity under the directioa
of the municipal authorities. The num-
ber of individuals relieved in various
ways during the year by these public
charities is about 57,000; aO,000
receive gratuitous medical attend-
ance from the dispensaries. For
education, $1,000,000 a year is ex-
pended by the city, and for public
charity, $700,000. The collections
made for local purposes of benevo-
lence are estimated at $500,000, and
the other collectioDS made in Protest-
ant churches at $500,000 more* The
ecclesiastical expenses of maintaining
the various churches are estimated at
$1,000,000. The great Protestant
societies whose headquarters are in
New York, receive about $2,700,000
annually. $6,000,000 were distributed
among the fieunilies of soldiers during
the late war. Beside these rou^
estimates of the vast sums expend-
ed by great public organizations,
there is no counting the amount of in-
dividual contributions, often on a large
scale, to collies, etc., and the sums
expended in benevolent works by pri-
vate societies or individuals.
There can be no doubt that the peo-
• Tbis indndea alao Catholic acfaools and ool-
iMea. The eetlmate la too amallt bowever, and
aaother glvea 906,000 aa the iiiimber goixiK to
school.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
EeUgum in New York.
885
pie of New York, possessing means,
are a very libetal and philanthropic
class* That there is still lemainmg a
great deal of ^ evangelical'' religious
seal and activity is also manifest.
Nererthelessy it cannot be denied that
the influence of the old, orthodox
Protestant tradition has remarkably
diminished, and that the minority
of nomussJ Protestants have lapsed
into a state of indifference to positive
Christianity. We donbt if 25,000 men
can be found in the city who sincere-
ly profess to believe the tenets com-
mon to what are called the '^ evangel-
IcaF' churches; and of these but a
small fraction adhere intelligently to
the distinctive doctrines of any one
sect; 0. g.^ the Protestant Episcopal,
or Presbyterian. The remainder have
a general belief in the truth of Protest-
ant Christianity^ more or less vague,
with a great disposition to consider
positive doctrines as matters of in-
difference. Outside the communion
list of the difierent churches, we be-
lieve the general sentiment to be,
among the educated, that Christianity
is a very useful, moral institution, con-
tainmg substantially all the truth which
can be known respecting ultra-mun-
dane things, but without any final au-
thority over the reason, and complete-
ly subject to the criticism of science.
Among the uneducated, we believe
that negative unbelief, and a supine
indifference to everything beside ma-
terial interests, prevails. We will
not attempt to assign causes or rea-
sons for i#; but the fact is evident.
A vast mass of the population is com-
pletely outside of the influence of any
religious body, or any class of relig-
ious teachers professing to expound
revealed truths concerning Grod and
the future life. Moreover^ the tradi-
tional belief in revealed truths is much
weaker in the young and rising genera-
tion, even of those brought up under
positive religious instruction, than it is
in the present adult generation. There
appears to be no tangible, palpable
reason for thinking that Pix>testant
Christianity, under any form, is in
VOL. III. 25
a condition to revive its former
sway; to keep what it retains, or to
recover what it has lost The mere
lack of church accommodation will not
account for this, and if at once this
lack were remedied, it would not
change it materially. For, in those
places which are furnished with a sup-
erabundance of churches, the same
undermining of religious belief is go-
ing on. "nie fact that the most re-
spectable Protestant publishers make
no scruple of republishing the works
of such writers as Renan and Colenso,
and that these books are read with such
avidity, indicates the way the current
is setting.
What the result of all this will be,
is a matter for very serious considera-
tion. Our political, civil, and moral
order is founded on Christianity. The
old Christian tradition has been the
principle of the interior life of the na-
tion. Take away positive Christian
belief, and the moral principles which
are universally acknowledged are still
only a residuum of the old religion.
Tlie spirit of Christianity survives part-
ly in civilization as its vital principle.
How long a certain political and social
order may continue after faith has
died out, we cannot say. We cannot
but think, however, that a disintegratr
ing principle begins to work as soon
as religious belief begins to die out
Thei*e is nothing, therefore, more de-
structive to the temporal well-being of
men, than the spread of sceptical and
infidel principles. Merely from this
point of view, therefore, the decay of
religious belief and earnestness ought
to be deplored as the greatest of evils,
and one for which no advance in phys-
ical science or material prosperity can
compensate. What the moral fruits
already produced by this decay are, and
what the prospects are for the future
in this direction, we leave our readers
to gather fr(»n the perusal of the secular
papers; and it may be estimated from
the cry of alarm which is from time to
time forced from them, as new and stai*t-
ling developments of the progress in
vice and criminality are made.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
386
jReHgton in New TarL
We tarn oar attention now to the
Catholic population of the city, and
the religious institutions under the
control of the Catholic Church.
The Catholic population is variously
estimated at from 800,000 to 400,000.
As no census has been taken, all esti-
mates must be merely approximate.
One way in which an estimate may be
made, is by taking the returns of the
census giving the total population of
foreign birth, and getting the proper^
tion of Catholics to non-Catholics
among the various nationalities. Some
probable estimate of the native-bom
Cadiolics must then be made and add-
ed to the number of foreign-bom. In
1860 the number of inhabitants of
foreign birth was 383,717, out of a
total of 813,669. If we suppose that
the foreign-bom population has in-
creased to 460,000, it seems not
improbable that the Catholic proper^
tion of it, with the home-bom Catho-
lics added, will reach the total of
400,000.
Another basis of calculation is the
ratio of baptisms to the whole popula-
tion. A register is kept with the utmost
exactness in each parish, and the result
transmitted once a year to the chancery,
where it is entei«d in the diocesan
record. We are furnished, therefore,
with an authentic census of births
from Catholic parents each year, and
if the exact multiplier could be ascer-
tained by which to multiply this num-
ber, we should reach a certain result.
It can only be conjectured, however,
with more or less probability, and
varies in different localities remarkably
according to the character of the pop-
ulation. The baptisms for one year
are 18,000. Multiply the number by
33, as is usually done in making the
estimates of the general census, and
you have 594,000. This number is
too large, however. If we take 20, it
gives us 360,000; 25, 450,000. We
do not profess to come any nearer
than this to an estimate of the actual
Catholic population. The two con-
jectural calculations, compared with
each other, appear to settle the point
that it is, as we have already stated,
between 300,000 and 400,000.
The number of churches is 32, or
one to from 10,000 to 12,000 people;
and the number of priests 93, or one
to about 4,000 people. In the lower
section, embracing the first seven
wards, there are five churches: St.
Peter's in the Third ward, St. James's
in the Fourth, St. Andrew's and Trans-
figuration in the Sixth, and St. Teresa's
in the Seventh. These churches furnish
nearly three times as much accommo-
dation as the Protestant churches in
the same district It must be remem-
bered that the capacity of a Catholic
church includes standing room as well
as sittings, and must be multiplied
by the number of masses. A church
which will hold, when crowded, 2,000
persons, and where four masses are
celebrated, will accommodate 8,000
on one Sunday; and, considering the
causes which keep many from attend-
ing church regularly, 12,000 different
indi\'iduals who attend regularly or
occasionally. One of these churches,
St. Teresa's, is a very fine building of
stone, which was purchased about four
years ago from the Presbyterians, and
was called in former times the Rutgers
street Presbyterian church. No Cath-
olic church in the lower part of the
city has ever been closed, or moved
up town, with the exception of St.
Vincent de Paul's.
The middle district has nine
churches : St. Alphonsus' in the Eighth
ward (Grerman and English), St Jo-
seph's in the Nintii, St Bridget*s in
the Eleventh, St Mary's in the Thir-
teenth, St Patrick's in the Fourteenth,
St Ann's in Oie Fifteenth, Holy
Redeemer (German), St Nichoks's
(Grerman), Nativity, in the Seven-
teenth.
Below Fourteenth street we have,
therefore, fourteen churches, most of
them very large, surrounded by a dense
Catholic population, and crowded with
overflowing congregations. A very
large proportion of our Catholic pop-
ulation is in this part of the city.
Between Fourteenth and Eighty-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Religion tn New TorL
387
fiixlh streets we have fifteen churches :
St. Cokimba'g and St.yinceDt de Paal's
(French) in the Sixteenth ward, St.
Francis Xavier's and the Immaccdate
Conception in the Eighteenth, St.
Francis's (German), St. John Bap-
tist's (Oennan), and St. Michael's in
the Twentieth, St. Stephen's and St.
Grabriers in the Twentj-first, Holj
Cross, Assumption (German), and
St. Paal's in the Twenty-second, St.
Boniface's, St. John's, and St. Law-
rence's in the Nineteenth. Above
Eighty-sixth street we have St. Paul's,
Harlem, and the Annunciation and
St Joseph's* (German), Manhattan-
viUe.*
After the old Catholic fashion of
jamming and crowding, all. these
churches might allow somewhere near
200,000 persons, or two-thirds of the
adult Gathoh'c population, to hear mass
on any one Sunday, if they should
all attempt to do so on the same day.
Judging by the • way* churches are
crowded, we would suppose that more
than two-thirds* attend occasionally;
and of those who do not, the majority
neglect it through poverty, discourage-
ment, indolence, and a careless habit^
or some other reason which does not
imply loss of faith. As to confessions
and communions, they fiow in a cease^
less stream throughout the year, as if
the paschal time were perpetual In
cachone of our churches there are from
100 to 500 communions every week,
and a much greater number on the
. principal festivals. . Probably the usual
number of communions in the city, on
any Sunday taken at random, is not
short of 5,000. .At least 8,000 chUdren
receive first communion and confirma-
tion every year; and from 40,000 to
50,000 are instructed every week in
tiie catechism, the Sunday schools
varying in their numbers from 500 to
2,500.
* Of these churches, St Teresa's. Immacnlato
Conception, St. MlchaePs, St. Gabriel's, St. Boni-
face's, Aasomption, St. Paul's, and St. Joseph's
(German), are compuratiyely new; and a very
large cathedral, capable of containing 10,000
persons. Is bnllding. Bt Stephen's is also being
enlarged to a capacl^ of 5.000, and a chorch has
been purchased for tne Italians.
The Catholic population is increas-
ing at the rate of at least 20,000 a year.
New York is now about the fourth
city in the world in Catholic pop-
ulation, and bids fair, in a few
years, to rank next to Paris in this
respect
The Catholic institutions for educa-
tion, strictly within the city limits, are :
1. Two coUeges, St Francis Xavier^s
and Manhattan colleges, the first con-
ducted by Jesuits, and the second by
Christian Brothers.
2.* Two academies for boys and
twelve for girls.
d. Twenty - one parochial schools
for boys, and twenty for girls, the
whole containing about 14,000 pupils.
There are other Terj large and fine
establishments in theVicinity of New
York, practically 'belonging to the
city, but not within its limits.
There are 4 orphan asylums, a
protectory for the reception of vagrant
children in two departments, male
and female, which is out of town,
another for servant girls out of place,
a very fine industrial school for girls,
2 hospitals, 4 religious communities of
men; and 11 .of women. The most
numerous of .these ' religious con-
gregations are. the Jesuits and^ the
Sisters of Charity ; the former having
in^the diocese 89 fathers, beside nu-
merous members of inferior grade, and
the latter 333 sisters and 39 difiTerent
establishments.
. In every sense except as regards
municipal government Brooklyn,
.which is on the other side of East
River, is* a part of New York ; and
there we have another diocese of im-
mense proportions, with another great
congeries of Catholic institutions. On
the opposite side of the town, and on
the Jersey shore* of the Hudson, the
churches of Jersey City, which* is
remarkably advanced in Catholic in-
stitutions, are plainly visible.
Our object in this article has been
to ^ve a general idea of the provision
made for the religious wants lOf the
mass of the population in the city of
New York.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
S88
ReUgion in New York.
In spite of the oncertafntj of the
estimates and statistics we have given
in regard to exact numbers, it is plain
that this provision is very inadequate ;
that a vast mass of our population is
unprovided for or totally indifferent;
that the orthodox Protestant societies
have lost to a great extent their in-
fluence over the mass of the popula-
tion, and that a great body of practi-
cally heathen people has been gra-
dually forming and accumulating in
the very bosom of our social system.
Where are we to look for a remedy
to this state of things? It is neces-
sary to our political and social well-
being that crime and vice should be
restrained, that the mass of the people
should be instructed and formed in
virtue, taught .sobriety, chastity, hon-
esty, obedience to law, fidelity to their
obligations, and universal morality.
Soldiers, policemen, prisons, poor-
laws, and all extrinsic means of this
kind are insufficient preventives or
remedies for the disorders caused by a
prevalence of^vice and immorality.
They will burst all these bonds, and
disrupt society, >if not checked in their
principle. Can liberal Christians,
philanthropists, philosophers, political
economists, and our wealthy, well-
informed gentlemen of property, who
have thrown away their Bibles, and
who sneer at all positive revelation,
indicate to us a remedy ? Can they
apply it ? Is it in their power, by
scientific lectures, by elegant moral
discourses, by material improvements,
by societies, by laws, by any means
whatever, to tame, control, civilize,
reform, make *gentle, virtuous, con-
scientious, this lawless multitude?
Can they give us incorruptible legis-
lators, faithful 'magistrates, honest
men of business, a virtuous common-
alty? Can they create truth, honor,
and magnanimity, patriotism, chastity,
filial obedience, domestic happiness,
integrity? If not, then give them
their way, let their doctrines prevail,
throw away faith in a positive reve-
lation, and they will not be safe in
their houses. The rogues will hang
the honest men, and might will be the
only right. One of the leaders of thb
party has not hesitated to avow that
the prevalence of his principles would
necessarily produce a social and moral
chaos of disorder, before mankind
oonld learn in a rational Iray that
their true happiness lies in intellectual
and moral cultivation. What has the
sect of the philosophers ever done yet
to produce virtue and morali^ in the
mass of mankmd ? What can they
do now? They cannot even re-
produce what was good in heathen-
ism, for that was due to an imperfect
and corrupted tradition of the ancient
revelation, and the influence of the
sophists tended to destroy even that.
Our modem sophists act on the same
principle, and are busily at work to
destroy the Christian tradition of faith,
and with it the principle which vital-
izes Christian civilization*
Can orthodox Protestantism recover
its ancient sway, and repioduoe a
state of religions belief and moral vir-
tue equal to that which once pre-
vailed r We would like to have them
prove their ability to do so, and show
that they have even made a fisiir be-
ginning toward recovering their lost
ground. We leave them to do what
they can, and to try out their experi*
ment to the end on the iion«Catholic
majority of our population. If their
intelligence, wealth, seal, and prestige
of position were thrown into the defence
of the common canse of Christian re-
velation by union with the Catholic
Church, the victory would be oertaia.
Unbelief and indifferentism oonld never
make any standagainst a united Chris-
tianity, in a population so fuU of reli-
gions reminisoenoea and predilections,
and so susceptible to persuasive logic
and genuine eloquence, as our own.
The Christian cause is weakened by its
divisions, and by the political and
social schisms which are bred by the
schisms in religion. Not only those
who are separated from the common
trunk o£ the Catholic Church suffer
from the separation, but the trunk itself
suffers and is mutilated by the loss.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
JSMgiam in New Tork.
399
The Catholic Church cannot do her
work completely where the majority
of those who prefer Christianity are
opposed to her, especially when this
majority includes the greater port of
the more elevated clajBses.
It is evident, nevertheless, that the
Catholic Church in New York has done
a great work in our population, and
has a great work to do. We have much
more than one-third of the whole
population, and the majority of Uie
laboring class, and of the poor people,
on OUT hands. The Catholic clergy
alone possess a powerful and extensive
religions sway over the masses of the
people. The poor are emphatically
here, as they have been always and
everywhere, our inheritance. Nearly
all that has been done, and is now
doing, in an efficacious manner and on
a large scale, for the religions welfare
of the populace, is the work of our
priesthood and their coadjutors. It is
impossible to* estimate the benefit to
society in a political,, social, and
moral point of view, accruing from
the influence and exertions of the
Catholic clergy. This is persistently
denied by a certain class of writers,
who never do justice to the Catholic
Church except under compulsion. One
of them, writing in one of our prin-
cipal wedclies, recently qualified the
Catholic Church in the United States,
whose growth and progress he could
not ignore, as a mere empty shell
without any moral life or power. He
accused the Catholic clergy of not ex-
ercising that moral influence in the
country at large which they ought to
exercise, and have exercised in other
times and places.
Wliat a change of base this is!
But now, the Catholic religion was a
kind of embodied spirit of evil, and
her ministers had to vindicate their title
to the rank of men and Christians*
Beligkm, morality, liberty, happiness,
would be swept firom the country if
they were not exterminated! Now,
forsooth, we are gravely asked why
we do not e^ert a greater influence for
promoting the general well-being of the
430untry? The truth is, that the in-
fluence of the Catholic clergy on the
people at large has until now been a
cipher* They have had do recognized
position, and have been counted ior
nothing, except so far as certain in-
dividuals have commanded a personal
respect. There is, moreover, a great
amount of sham and trumpet-blowing
about the great moral demonstrations
of the day. The Catholic clergy have
not chosen to meddle with questions
which were none of their business, or
to parade and speechify on platforms
or at anniversaries. They have
enough to do in looking after the im-
mediate and pressing spiritual and
temporal wants of their own people.
And in doing this tliey prevent and re-
form more vice, produce more solid
morality, and work more* efiectually
for the well-being of their fellow-men,
than could be done by the best devised
philanthropic schemes. One mission
in a city congregation, one paschal-
time with its labor in the confessional,
will 5I0' more to uproot drunkenness,
dishonesty, and lioentioiisness, or to
hinder these upas-trees from striking
root in virgin soil, than our amateur
philanthropists could detcribe if they
^ere all to write and leetore on the
subject for a year.
The one great, palpable fact wMch
confronts us on every side is, that the
religious and moral education of nearly
one-half our population is in the hands
of the Catholic Church, and that the
well-being of our commonwealth de-
pends, (therefore, to a great degree on
the thorough fulfilment of this task*
It is evident that we have oiough to
do in making provision for our vast
and increasing Catholic population, to
employ all the enei^ies and resources
which can possibly be brought into
play, bodi by the clergy and the
laity*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
890
A Pretended DmvUk in 7Mke$km.
Translated from Lo Correapondaat
A PRETENDED DERVISH IN TURKESTAN,
BT fcciLE JONVEAUX.
TV.
The next daj the hadjis assembled
in the court of the monastery in
which they had resided since arriving
in Khiva. The caravan, thanks to
the generosity of the fkithful, pre-
sented a very different appearance from
that which it offered at its arrivaL
They were no more those ragged
beggars, covered with sand and dust,
whose pious sufferings the multitude
had admired; every pilgnm had the
head enveloped in a thick turban as
white as snow, the haversacks were
full, and even the poorest had a little
ass for the journey.
^ It was Monday, toward the close
of the day,** relates our traveller,
*^ that making an end of our benedic-
tions, and tearing ourselves with
difficulty from the passionate em-
braces of the crowd, we left Khiva by
the gate Urgendl. Many devotees in
the excess of their seal followed us
more than a league ; they shed many
tears, and cried despairingly, < When
will our city have the happiness again
to shelter so many saints?* Seated
upon my donkey, I was overwhelmed
with their too lively demonstrations of
sympathy, when happily for me, the
animal, iktigued by so many em-
braces, lost patience and started off
at a grand gallop. I did not think it
proper at tirst to moderate his ardor ;
only when at a considerable distance
from my inconvenient admirers I en-
deavored to slacken somewhat his
pace. But my long-eared hippogriff
had taken a fancy to the course ; my
opposition only vexed him, and he
testified his ill-humor in noisy com-
plaints which displayed the extent and
richness of Ids voice, but which I
could have preferred to hear at a dis-
tance."
The travellers, after a day's march,
encamped on the bank of the Oxus,
which they wished to cross at this
poinL The river, swollen by the
melting of the snows, becomes so
wide in the spring that one can hard-
ly see the opposite bank. The yellow
waves, hurried rapidly along, con-
trast with the verdure of the trees
and cultivated lands which extend as
far as eye can reach. Toward the
north, a mountain — Oveis-Karaine —
is defined like an immense cloud upon
the azure sky. The passage of the
Oxus, begun in the morning, lasted
till sunset. It would not have re-
quired so long a time, but the current
carried the voyagers into the midst of
little arms from which it was neces-
sary afterward to ascend or re-de-
scend, and this accident occurred
eveiy few paces. The transportation
of the donkeys, which it was neces-
saiy now to put upon land, and
again to gather into the boats, was, as
one may imagine, a prodigious labor.
** We were reduced," says our travel-
ler, ^' to carry them in our arms like
so many babies, and I laugh yot when
I think of the singular figure of one
of our companions, named Hadji
Yakaub. He had taken his morUure
upon his back, and while he tenderly
pressed the legs to his bosom, the
poor animal, all trembling, tried to
hide his head upon the shoulder of
the pilgrhn."
The caravan followed the banks of
the Oxus for many days, or rather
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervish in Turkestan.
391
daring many nights, for the heat waa
80 great that it was impossible to
traTel until sunset The pale light
of the moon gave to the landscape
something fantastic; the long file of
c&mels and travellers extended itself
^in tortuous folds upon the flint7 soil,
the waters of the river flowing slowlj
with a mournful noise, and beyond
extended afar the formidable desert
of Tartarj. This district, which bears
the name of Tojebojun (camel's back),
no doubt on account of the curves
described bj the Oxus, is inhabited
at certain seasons of the year by the
Kirghiz, a nomad people among the
nomads. A woman to whom Yam-
beiy made some remarks on the sub-
ject of this vagabond existence, re-
plied laughing, •* Oh, certainly ! one
never sees us, like you other moUahs,
remain days and weeks sitdng in the
same place ; man is made for move-
ment. See ! the sun, the moon, the
Btars, the animals, the fish, the birds,
cverythmg moves in this world ; only
death remains motionless." As she
finished these words, the cry was
heard, "The wolf! the wolf!'* The
shepherdess cut short her philoso-
phical dissertation to fly to the assist-
ance of her flock, and made so good
a use of voice and gesture, that the
ferocious beast took flight, carrying
with him only the beautiful fat tail of
one of the sheep.
The Kirghiz are very numerous in
central Asia; they inhabit the im-
mense prairies situated between Sibe-
ria, Chkia, Tuikestan, and the Caspian
sea ; but it is difficult to compute their
number. Ask them a question on this
subject, and they will reply emphati-
cally, "Count first the sands of the
desert, then you will be able to num-
ber the Kirghiz." Their wandering
habits have secured them against all
authority, and Europeans are in an er-
ror when they believe them to be subject
to the government of R^psia or that of
the Celestial Empire. None of these
nations have ever exercised the least
power over the Kirghiz ; they send, it
is true, officers chai;^ to j^llect taxes
among them, but the nomads regard
these functionaries as the chiefs of a
vast foray, and they only admire how,
instead of despoiling them of every-
thing, they content themselves with
levying upon them only a slight tax.
Revolutions have often changed the
face of the world, the inhabitants of
the desert have remained the same for
thousands of years ; singular types of
savage virtue and vice, they offer to-
day a faithful image of the ancient
Turani.
The pilgrims were anticipating with
delight the end of their journey ; only
six or eight stages remained, when
one morning at break of day, two men
almost naked approached the caravan,
crying in suppliant tones : "A morseL
of bread, for the love of God !" Every
one hastened to assist them, and when
food had somewhat restored their
strength, they informed the dervishes
that, surprised by a band of Cossacks,
ataman Tekkcy they had lost baggage,
clothes, provisions, and were only too
happy not to have lost their lives. The
brigands, one hundred and fifty in num-
ber, were planning a raid upon the
troops of Kirghiz camped upon the
banks of the Oxus: "Fly, then, or
hide yourselves," added the men, " or
else you will meet them in a few hours,
and in spite of your sacred character,
these bandits without faith or law will
abandon you in the Khalata, after rob-
bing you of all you possess." The
kervanbashi, who had already been pil-
laged twice, no sooner heard the words
Tekke and ataman than he gave the
order to beat a retreat Consequently
after having rested the animals a short
time and filled their bottles, the had-
jis, casting a look of inexpressible re-
gret upon the tranquil banks of the
Oxus, made their way toward those
frightful solitudes which had already
swallowed up so many caravans. They
advanced in perfect silence, not to
arouse their enemies; the step of the
camels upon the dusty soil returned
no sound, and very soon the shades of
night enveloped them.
Toward midnight aU the pilirrims
Digitized by CjOOQIC
392
A J^r^iended Dervish in TUnkjton.
were obliged to dismount and walk,
because the animaJls buried themselves
to the knees in the sand* It was a
severe trial for Yamb^ry ; his infirmi-
ty doubled the fatigue of a tramp over
a moving ground, in the midst of a
continuous chain of little hills, therefore
he hailed with joj the point designated
for the morning station. The place,
however, bore a name little calculated
to inspire confidence. AdamX^pryl^an
(the place where men perish) justified
in appearance its sinister appellation.
As far as the eye could reach, extended
only a sea of sand, which, on one side
raising itself in hills like furious waves,
still bore the visible imprint of the tem-
pest, and on the other resembled a tran-
quil lake hardly ruffled by a light
breeze. Not a bird traversed the air,
not an animal, not an insect gave an ap-
pearance of life to this desolate spot.
Far and near were seen only the
bhmched bones of men and camels,
frightful witnesses of the disasters
caused by the Tebbad or fever-wind,
which from time to tune poured upon
the desert its burning breath.
The travellers were not pursued;
the Tekkes themselves, bold cavaliers,
hesitated to penetrate the Khalata.
According to the calculation of the
kervanbashi, six days' journey at most
separated the caravan from Bokhara ;
the bottles being well filled, the pil-
grims hoped they should not suffer
from thirst; they had not counted
upon the burning sun of the dog-days,
which evaporated the precious liquid.
In vain, to escape frOm this cursed
region, they endeavored to double the
hours of march ; many cameb died of
fatigue, and the water diminished all
the more rapidly. At last two hadjis,
exhausted by privations, became so ill
that it was necessary to bind them
upon their donkeys with cords, for
they were imable to hold themselves
up. « Water ! ^ater !*' they murmured
in dying accents. Alas, their best
friends refused to sacrifice for them
the least swallow of this liquid, each
drop of which represented an hour of
life; so, on the fourth day, when the
pilgrims reached Medemin fialag, one
of these unhappy men was released
by death from the cruel tortures of
thirst. H.s palate had assumed a
grayish tint, his tongue had become
black, the lips like parchment and the
open moutb displaying the naked teeth. .
Horrible to relate, the father hides
fix)m the son, brother from brother, the
provision of water which would relieve
his torture I Under any other proof,
these men would, perhaps, have shown
themselves generous and devoted, but
thirst drives from the heart every sen-
timent of compassion.
Vamb^ry soon experienced himself
its terrible effects. He managed with
the parsimony of a miser the contents
of his bottle, until he perceived with
fright a blac^ point formed upon the
middle of his tongue. Then, blinking
to save his life, he swallowed at once
half (he water which he had left. The
fire which devoured him became more
violent toward the morning of the
fiflh day, the pains in the head in-
creased, and he felt his strength fail-
ing him. Meanwhile, they approached
the mountains of Khalata, the sand be-
came less deep, all eyes eagerly sought
the tracks of a flock, or &e hut of a
shepherd; in this instant the kervan-
bashi called the attention of the pil-
grims to a cloud of dust which rose at
the horizon, warning them to lose not
a moment in dismounting from their
camels.
** The poor animals,'' relates Vam-
bSry, "felt the approach of the Teb-
bad. Uttering a doleful cry, they threw
themselves upon their knees, extended
their long necks upon the ground, and
endeavoied to hide their heads in the
sand. We sheltered ourselves near
them as behind a wall ; hardly were
we upon the ground when the tempest
broke over us with a sullen roar, leav-
ing us the moment after, covered with
a tiiick coat of dust* When this rain
of sand enveloped me, it seemed to
me burning li^ fire. If we had been
attacked by this tempest two days be-
fore in the midst of the desert^ we
must all have perished.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pntmded IkrviA in Tbtibften.
898
<<The Air had become of an ovet^
Trhelming weight; I coald not have
remoonted mj camel withoat the aid
of my companions ; I suffered intoler*
able pains, of which no words can give
the least idea. In fiuse of other perils,
courage had now left me, but in this
moment I felt broken down, my head
ached so that I could not think, and a
heaTy sleep oyercame me* On awak-
ing, I found myself lying in a hut of
clay, surroimded by long-bearded men
whom I recognized as Iramans."
They were, in fact, Persian slaves
sent into the desert to watch the flocks
of their master ; these brave fellows
made Vamb^ry swallow a warm drink,
and, soon after, a beverage composed
of sour milk, water, and salt, which soon
restored his strength. Before quitting
the Sunnite pilgrims, in whom they
must have recognized the bitterest ene-
mies of their race, the poor prisoners
shared with them their slender pro-
vision of water, an act of meritorioos
charity which without doubt was re-
garded widi complacency by the God
of mercy who is the Father of all.
The caravan at last reached Bok-
hara, the most important city of cen-
tral Asia, but which preserves to-day
few traces of its ancient grandeur.
Still, it possesses fine monasteries and
colleges which rival those of Sam^r-
cand. These schools, founded at a
great expense and sustained by great
sacrifices, have given Europeans a high
idea of Asiatic learning; but «it must
be remembered, they are controlled by
a blind fanaticism. The exclusive
spirit of the Bokhariots restricts sin-
gularly the circle of studies, all instruo
tion turning upon the precepts bf the
Koran and religious casuistry. We
do not find to-day a single disciple who
occupies himself with history or poet-
ry ; if any one were tempted to do it,
he would be obliged to conceal it, for
attention given to subjects so frivolous
would be considered a proof of weak-
ness of mind«
Yamb^ry and his companions found
asylum in a Tehki or convent, a vast
square building, of which the forty
cells opened upon a court planted with
fine trees. The Khalfoy or '^ reverend
abbot,'' as our Hungarian traveller
calls him, was a man of agreeable ex-
teri<» and gentle and poUshed man-
ners. He received YambSry moat gra-
ciously, and the two interlocutors
opened a pompous, subtle conversa-
tion, full of reticence and mental re-
serves, which charmed the good Khalfa
and gave him also the highest opinion
of his new guest; so irom his airival
in B<ddiara, our traveUer acquired a
great reputation for learning and sanc-
tity.
The next day, accompanied by
Hadji Bilal, he went out to see the
city The streets and houses of this
noble city are chiefiy remarkable
for their slovenly appearance and
ruinous condition. After having
crossed the public squares, where
they went up to the ankles in a black-
ish dust, the two firi^nds arrived at the
baasaar which was filled with a noisy
and busy crowd. These establish-
ments by no means equal those of
Persia in extent and magnificence,
but the mingling of races, of costumes
and habits, forms a bizarre spectacle
which captivates the eye of a stranger*
Persians, their heads wrapped in
their large blue or white turbans, ac-
cording to the class to which they be-
long, jostle tlie savage Tartar, the
Ej^hiz with his slouching gait, the
Indian with his yellow and repulsive
^Euse, bearing upon the forehead the
red brand, and, finally, the Jew, who
preserves here, 'more than anywhere
else, his distinctive type, his noble
features, his deep-sunk eyes, where an
astute intelligence glitters. Here and
there we meet also a Turcoman, easily
recognized by his proud mien and bold
' glance ; motionless before the shops
of the merchants, they thmk perhaps
of die precioas booty which the riches
displayed before them will furnish for
their forays.
The pilgrims received everywhere
marks of enthusiastic sympathy ; the
foreign appearance of Yamb^ryex-
cited particular admiration. ^ What
Digitized by CjOOQIC
894
A Pretended Dervish in Taricstcm.
faith he must hare,'' said one, ^ to
come from Constantinople to Bokhara,
and endure the &tigue of a joumej
through the great Desert, in order to
meditate at the tomb of fiareddin ! *
"Without doubt," replied another,
" but we also go to Mecca, the holy
city bj eminence, and in order to ac-
complish this pilgrimage we leave our
business, and endure, I should think,
quite enough fatigue. These people,**
and he pointed his finger at Yambdrj,
" have no business to occupy them ;
their whole life is consecrated to ex-
ercises of piety and to visiting the
tombs of the saints." — " Bravo, very
well imagined I" thought our traveller,
while he cast glances which he tried
to render indifferent, upon the display
of Russian and other European goods
exposed for sale ; he often had great
difficulty in repressing an imprudent
emotion when he saw articles of mer-
chandise bearing the stamp of Man-
chester or Birmingham. Quickly
turning his head for fear of betraying
himself, he fixed his attention upon
the products of the soil and of native
industry, examined a fine cotton fabric
called Aladjoy where two colors alter-
nate in narrow stripes, silken stufis,
rich and various, from the elegant
handkerchief as thin as the lightest
gauze, to the heavy atres^ which falls
in large luxurious folds. Leathers
play an important part in Bokharist
manufactures, the shoemakers of the
country make of them long boots for
both sexes; but the shops towards
which the people pressed most eagerly
were those of the clothes-merchant,
where ready-made garments strike the
eye by their dazzling colors, for Bok-
hara is the Paris of central Asia, re-
garded by the Turcomen as the centre
of elegance.
When he had sufficiently contem-
plated this curious tableau, Vambery
asked Hadji Btlal to take him to a
place where he might rest and refresh
himself; and the two friends went
* An ascetic celebrated throngboqt Islam,
fonodor of the order of the Naklshbendl, to
which the Hungariaa traveller pretended to
belong.
together to a pkce called Leli Ham
Divanbeffhi (quay of the reservoir of
Dlvanbeghi), where all the fashi<Hi-
ables of the city collect. In the middle
of the. square is a reservoir one hundred
feet deep and eighty wide, bordered
with cubic stones forming a stair of
eight steps to the water's edge. All
around magnificent elms shade the
inevitable tea-shop, and the colossal
eamavary not less inevitable, invites
every passer-by to take a ^^up of the
boiling liquid. On three sides of the
square, little stalls, sheltered by bam-
boo matting, display to the eye bread,
fruits, oonfectioneiy, hot and cold
meats. The fourth side takes the
form of a terrace, and dose by rises
the mosque Meedjidi Divanheghi,
Before the doors are planted a number
of trees, under which the dervishes and
meddah (popular orators) recount to
the wondering crowd, the exploits of
heroes, or the holy deeds of the pro-
phets. Just as Vambery arrived, the
Nakishbendis crossed the square,
making their daily procession. ^ Never
shall I forget," says our traveller,
'^ the impression which these wild en-
thusiasts made upon me : their heads
covered with pointed hats, with fiowing
hair, and long staves in their hands,
they danced a round like the orgies of
witches, yelling sacred songs, of which
their chief, an old man with a gray
beard, intoned alone the first strophe."
The secret inquisition established in
Bokhara began very soon to annoy
Vambery in spite of his reputation for
sanctity. Spies sent by the govern-
ment came almost every day, apon
one pretext or another, to open with the
stranger conversations which always
tomedupon Europeans, their diabo-
lical artifices, and the chastisements
which had punished the audacity of
many of them. They hoped that some
imprudent word would drop to justify
their suspicions, but the European was
too much on his guard to bo caught ;
he listened at first with patience, and
thenafiecting an air of contemptaous
indifference, ^ I left Constantmople,''
said hcb '^to get away from these
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervish %n Turkestan.
81)5
coreed Earopeans, who, no doabt, owe
their arts and sciences to the demon.
Now, Allah be praised! I am in
Bokhara, and I don't want to be
troubled with thinking about them."
The emir was then absent; the
minijster who directed the inquest,
seeing that his emissaries were com-
pletely foiled, resolved to make the
stranger appear before a tribunal
composed of onlemas, where his
orthodoxy would be scrupulously
examined. He had, in fact, to sus-
tain a running fire of embarrassing
questions which would be sure some
day to pierce his incognito. Fortun-
ately, he perceived the snare in time,
and changing his character, took him-
self the part of questioner. Urged by
a pious zeal, he consulted the learned
doctors on the most minute cases of
conscience, wished to know the differ-
ences, often imperceptible^ between
the Farz and the Sunnet, precepts of
obligation, and the Tadjib and the
Mustahab, simple religious counsels.
This artifice had complete success;
many an obscure text furnished ma-
terial for an animated discussion, in
which Vamb^y never lost an occasion
of malong a pompous eulogium of the
Bokharist oulemaSyand loudly pro-
claiming their superiority. Then the
judges, gained to his cause, told the
minister that he had committed a grave
mistake. Hadji Reschid was a very
distinguished mollah, well prepared to
receive the divine inspiration, precious
hfflntage of the saints.
yamb6i7,free henceforth from all
fear, could study at leisure the cha-
racter and aptitudes of the people of
Bokhara. This city, which is, accord-
ing to him, the Home of Islam, since
Mecca and Medina represent Jeru-
salem, is not a little proud of its reli-
gious supremacy. Though it recog-
nizes the spiritual authority of the
Sultan, it does not, like Khiva, blindly
submit to it, and it hardly pardons the
emperor for permitting himself to be
eormpted by the detestable influence
of Europeans. Our traveller, in his
supposed quali^ of Turk, was fre-
quently obliged to defend Constantino-
ple from the reproaches addressed to
him : " Why," demanded, for example,
the fervent Bokharists, — ^ why does
not the sultan put to death all the
Europeans who live in his states?
why does he not ordam every year
a holy war against the unbelievers ?"
Or again : " Why do not the Turks
wear the turban and the long robe
which the law prescribes? Is not
this a frightful sin ? and also, why have
they not the long beard and short
moustache which the Prophet wore ?"
The emir Mozaffar ed Din watches
carefully over the maintenance of the
sacred doctrines. Every city has its
BetSf or guardian of religion, who,
whip in hand, runs through the streets
and public squares, interrogating every
one he meets upon the precepts of
Islam. Woe to the unhappy passenger
taken in the flagrant crime of igno-
rance : if it were a gray-headed old
man he is also, all business ceasing,
sent for a fortnight to the benches of
the schooL A disciplme equally rigor-
ous, obliges every one to go to the
mosques at the hour of prayer.
Finally, the espionage of the Bels does
not stop at the threshold of the private
dwelling, and in the privacy of his
family a Bokharist takes care not to
omit the least rite, or even to pro-
nounce the name of the emir without
adding the sacramental formula, '< May
Allah give him a hundred and twenty
years of life !" It needs not to say
that all joy and gaiety are banished
from social life, except the momentary
animation of the bazaar. Bokhara
presents a sad and monotonous aspect
During the day, every one fears per-
petually to find himself in the presence
of a spy ; in the evening, two hours
after sunset, the streets are deserted ;
no one ventures to visit a friend, the
sick may perish for want of help, for
Mozaffar ed Din forbids any one to go
out under the most severe penalties.
Nevertheless, this prince is gen-
erally beloved by his subjects : he is
strictly faithful to the policy of his
predecessors, but they cannot reproach
Digitized by CjOOQIC
396
A Pretended DtrviA in Twteetan.
him witii anj crimoyor anjafbitmiy or
cruel act A pkHis aad instructed
Mussulman, he has taken for device
the word ^^ justiee," and he conforms
himself* to it scmpalooaly. This
Bokharist justice might appear a lit-
tie summary to Europeans, and the
war against Khokand, is not^ as we
shall see hj-and-bye, just in the full
acceptation of the woni, yet a prince
of central Asia, educated in the
bosom of the most fiery fanaticism,
must be judged with some indulgence.
It must be said in his praise, diat if
he is sometimes lavish of the blood of
his nobles, he spares at least that <^
the poorer class, so that his people
have sumamed him " the destroyer
of elephants, and the protector of,
mice."
A declared enemy of all innova-
tion, the emir applies himself especial-
ly to maintain the austere manners
of the ancient Bokhara. The im»
portation of articles of luxury is for*
bidden, rexj rigorous sumptuary Ix^
regulate not only dress, but even the
structure and furniture of the dwell-
ings. Mozaffiur ed Din gives the first '
example of the contempt of all luxu-
ry ; he has reduced by half the num-
ber of his servants ; and one vainly
seeks in his palace the least appear-
ance of princely pomp. The same
simplicity resigns in die harem, the
oversight of which is intrusted to the
mother and grandmother of the sov-
ereign; the wise direction of these
two princesses merits for this sanctu-
ary a high reputation for chastity.
Its doors, carefully closed to laics,
open only to the moUahs, whose
sacred breathings bring with them
only happiness and piety. The sul-
tanas, four in number, are accustomed
to the exercise of domestic virtues ;
their table is frugal, their dress
modest; they make their own gar-
ments and sometimes those of the
emir, who exercises over all expenses
a minute control. ^
Before quitting Bokhara, Yamb^ry
wished to visit the tomb of Baveddin,
the supposed end of his loingpiigrimaffe.
This saint, the patnm jaC Tnikes-
tan, is the object of profound venera-
tion throughout all Asia. They re-
gard him as a second Mohammed ; and
even fixun the heart of China, the
fidthful come in crowds to kiss his
relics. The sepulchre is in a little
garden, near which they have built a
mosque; troops of blind, lame or
paralytic beggars completely obstract
the approach. In front of the mauso-
leum is found the fiMaoous &one ef
Deeirey which has been much worn
by the contact of the foreheads of pil-
grims ; on the tomb are placed rams'
horns, a banner, and a broom sadcti-
fied by a long service in the temple
of Mecca. Many times they have
tried to cover all with a dome, but
Baveddin prefers the open air, and
always after three nights the builds
ings are thrown down. At least such
is the legend, related by the sheiks,
descendants of the saint
V.
The two companions of Yamb^ry,
Hadji Salih and Ha<^i Bilal, were
impatient to quit Bokhara in order
to reach before winter the distant
t)ravince where they lived. Our
traveller proposed to accompany them
to Samarcand ; he wished to see this
celebrated city, and anticipating an
interview with the emir, he wish^ to
secure for himself the support of the
pilgrims. The day of departure the
caravan was already much I'educed,
being contained entirely in two carts.
The European, sheltered from the
sun by a hanging of mats, expected
to repose coidbrtably in his rustic
carriage, but this illusion was soon
broken. The violent jolting of the
vehicle threw the pilgnms every in*
stant here and there, now against
each other, now against the heavy
wagon-irame ; their heads were beat-
en about like billiard-balls. ^For
the first few hours," adds Yamb^ry,
'^ I was literally sea-eick ; I suffered
much more than wh^i mounted upon
the camel, the swaying of wluch^ xe*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervith in Turheetan.
8D7
sembling tbe rolling of a ship, I had
dreaded very much.**
The travellers followed, at first a
monotonous road; short, stinted pas-
tures extended everywhere to the ho-
rizon, but nothing justified the mar-
vellous stories of the mhabitants of
the channing villages and enchanted
gardens which lie between Bokhara
and Samarcand. The caravan crossed
the little desert of Ohol Melik^ and
I^eached the next day the district of
Kermineh; there the landscape sud-
denly changes, beautiful hamlets,
grouped near each other, offer to the
eye their inns, before which the gigan-
tic samovar makes the traveller dream
of solace and comfort ; their farms,
surrounded by rich harvests, by praines
where magnificent cattle feed, and by
farm-yards sheltering their feathered
population. Everything breathed life
and abundance, and Yamb^iy could not
contemplate without emotion this smil-
ing picture, which recalled his fertil
Germany.
After a journey of five oays the
hadjis arrived within sight of samar-
cand. Thanks to the remembrances of
the past, and the distance which
separates it from Europe, the ancient
capital of Timour excites a lively
curiosity. We will permit the Hun-
garian traveller to describe, himself,
this famous city.
" Let the reader," says he, ** take a
scat beside me in my modest carriage.
He will perceive toward the east a
high mountain, the cupola-like sum-
mit of which is crowned by a small
edifice ; there reposes Chobanata, the
venerated patron of shepherds*. Below
extends the city. Its circumference
nearly equals that of Teheran, but it
must be much less populous, for the
houses are much more scattered ; on
the other hand its ruins and public
monuments give it an air more grand
and imposing. The eye is first at-
tracted by four lofty dome-like build-
ings, which are the midresses or col-
leges. Further on we perceive a
small, guttering dome, then toward
the south another, larger and more
majestic; the first is the tomb, the
second the mosque of Timour. Just
in front of us, at the extreme south-
west of the city, rises on a hill the
citadel (Ark), itself surrounded by
temples and sepulchres, which define
themselves against the blue sky. If now
we imagine all this intermingled with
gardens of the most luxuriant vegeta-
tion, we shall have an idea of Samar-
cand. A feeble and imperfect idea, it is
true, for the Persian proverb justly
says : < It is one thing to see and an-
other to hear.'
"Alas! why must we add that in
entering this city all this prestige
vanishes, and gives place to a bitter
disappointment ? We were obliged to
cross the cemetery before reaching the
inhabited quarters, and in spite of my-
self, this line of a Persian pOet, which
to-day seems tinged with a cruel irony,
came to my mind ?
* * Banureaad U the •im of tlie world.* **
The same evening Vamb^ry and
ni3 companions were received in a
house very near the tomb of Timour.
Our traveller was delighted to leara
that his host filled important ftinction^
near the Emir The return of this
prince, who had just finished a vic-
torious campaign in Khokand, being
expected very soon, Hadji Salih and
Haji Bilal consented, out of regard to
their friend, to prolong their stay in
jSamarcand until VamWry had obtain-
ed an audience of Mozaffar ed Din,
andfonnd a caravan with which he
might return to Persia. While wait-
ing the pilgrims visited the ancient
monuments of the city, which, in spite
of its miserable appearance, is the
richest city in Central Asia in histori-
cal remembrances. The plan of this
sketch does not permit us to follow the
author in the details which he gives
of these remarkable buildings. We
only cite .
1 The summer palace of Timour,
which preserves, even to-day, some
vestiges of its ancient magnificence.
The apartment, to which we ascend
by a marble staircase of forty steps,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
398
A Pretended Dervish in Turkestan,
contains ri;^ maral paintiagSy made
with colored bricks, and the payementy
entirely of mosaic^ preserves the fresh-
ness and brilliancy of the first day,
2. The citadel, where we admire in
a vast apartment called '^Timour's
audience-hall," the celebrated Koktask
(green stone) upon which was placed
the throne of the famous conqueror.
3. The tomb of Timour, surmounted
by a very beautiflil stone of deep
green, two spans and a half wide, ten
long, and of the thickness of six fingers.
Not far from this a black stcme
shades the sepulchre of Mir Seid
Berke^ the spiritual director of the emir,
near whom the powerful monarch
wished to be buried. In the vaults of
this mausoleum is preserved a copy of
the Koran written upon gazelle skin,
by the hand of Osman, Uie secretary
and successor of Mohammed.
4. The MidusseSf of which many,
entirely abandoned, are falling into
ruin; others, yet flourishing, are
maintained with care. The most re-
markable is that of TiUakair, so call-
ed from its golden ornaments.
The new city is much smaller than
the ancient capital of Timour ; it has
SIX gates, and several bazaars where
they sell at a very low price manufac-
tured articles, confessedly of European
workmanship^ Yambery, without
thinking, like the Tartars, that << Sa-
marcand resembles Paradise,'' still
found it quite superior to other Turco-
man cities, by the beauty of its situa-
tion, the splendor of its monuments^
and the richness of its vegetation.
Meanwhile, days passed and the
emir did not arrive, the caravan which
was to take Yambery back prepared to
start, when the conqueror of Khokand
at last made his triumphant entry.
Mozafihr ed Din, following the unscru-
pulous policy adopted in &e east, had
organized a vast conspiracy against the
sovereign of the rival khanat ; then
lured assassins, by his orders, deliver-
ed him from his enemies ; and profiting
by the confusion thus caused, Mozaffar
succeeded in making himself master
df the capitaL At Uus news Samar«
cand burst into transports of joy, the
people considered Mozaffar as a new
Timour, who was about to reduce suc-
cessively under his dominion, China,
Persia, Afghanistan, India, and
Europe; m their warlike ardor the
Turcomen saw already the world
divided between their prince and the
Sultan of Constantinople. Nor must
we be so much surprised that the tak-
ing of Khokand had so greatly excit-
ed them ; this city, four times as large,
they say, as Teheran, is the capital of
a powerful khanat, which has for a
long time remained in a state of per-
petual hostility to the Bokharists.
But one foresees that the Russian gov-
ernment will soon establish peace be-
tween these two enemies, in assuming
the part of the judge in the fable. It
slowly pursues its end, sows division,
and already its bayonets have subjected
Tashkend, the most western city of
Khokand, and equally important in a
commercial and military point of view.
At the period when Vamb6ry vis-
ited Samarcand, the intoxication of
the victory obtained by the emir dis-
pelled all gloom ; the Europeans and
their encroachments were forgotten in
the noisy rejoicings. The happy re-
turn of Mozaffar ed Din was cele-
brated by a national festival, in which
rice, mutton, tallow, and tea were dis-
tributed to the people with royal
prodigality; the next day, the emir
having granted his subjects a public
audience, our traveller seized the oc-
casion to be presented. Accompa-
nied by his friends the pilgrims, he
was preparing to enter the palace,
when a Mehrem stopped him, saying
that his Msgesty desired to see the
hadji of Constantinople alone. ^ We
were extremely alarmed^'' relates Yam-
bery ; ^' this distinction seemed to us
an ill omen. Nevertheless, I followed
the officer with a firm step. He intro-
duced me into a spacious hall, where
I perceived the emir seated upon
an ottoman, and surrounded with
books and manuscripts of all sorts. I
did not suffer myself to be intimidated
by the cold and severe air of the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervith in Tarheglan.
399
prinoe, and after Having recited a
short suroy followed l^ the habitual
prayer for the sovereign, T seated my-
self without asking permission near
the royal person. He did not appear
offended, for my character of dervish
authorized this conduct, but he fixed up-
on me his great black eyes with a sus-
picious and interrogatory air, as if he
would read to the bottom of my souL
Fortunately, for a long time I have lost
the habit of blushing, therefore I sus-
tained this scrutiny with coolness.
" * Hadji," at last* the emir said to
me, " you have come from Turkey, I
understand, to visit the tombs of
Baveddin and the saints of Turkes-
tan?"
**<Te3, Takhsir' (Your Majesty),
but I wished also to refresh myself
with the sight of your divine beauty/
***It is very strange! how, have
you no other motive for undertaking
so long a journey ?'
"'No, Takhsir; I have always
had an .ardent desire to behold the
noble Bokhara, the enchanting Sam-
arcand, the sacred soil of which,
according to the remark of the sheikh
Djilal, ought to be trodden with the
head rather than with the feet. I
have beside no other business in this
world, and for a long time I liavo
wandered about like a pilgrim of the
universe.*
" * A pilgrim of the universe ! you,
with your kme leg !'
"'Remember, Takhsir, that your
glorious ancestor Timour,* peace be
with him, had the same infirmity,
which did not hinder him from being
the conqueror of the universe.*
" These words charmed the emir ;
he addressed to me various questions
relating to my journey, asking the
inaprcssion which Bokhara and Sa-
marcand had made upon me. My
answers, all wrapped in Persian sen-
tences and verses of the Koran,
gained the confidence of the prince,
* This prixice,from whom the emira of Bokhara
pretend to descend, was lame, from whence
ramethe surname of Timonr-lcnk, or Tlmoar the
lame, of which we make Tamerlan (Fr.), Tamer-
lane (Kng.)
Bsfore dismissing me, he gave an or-
der to remit to me a complete suit
of clothes, and to count me out thirty
tenghes."
Yambery, much elated, hastened to
inform his friends of the result of the
interview; they advised him not to
count too surely on the royal protec-
tion, and not to defer his departure.
It cost him much to quit these good
dervishes, generous and devoted
hearts, the faithful companions of his
hours of suffering The bold explor-
er, the witty and sarcastic writer, fuU
of pungent humor, here finds words
which indicate deep feeling " I can-
not describe,'* says he, '' the emotion
with which we parted* For six
months, we had lived the same life,
shared the same perils ; perils in the
midst of the burning sands of the
desert, perils from the savage Turco-
men, perils from the inclemency of
nature and the elements. Differences
of age, of position, of nationality, had
disappeared; we were members of
one family Now we were to separ-
ate, never to meet again ; death could
not have parted us more widely, nor
left in our souls a deeper grief My
heart overflowed^ and I sobbed aloud,
when I thought that even m this su-
preme hour, I could not confide to
these men, my best, my dearest
friends, the secret of my disguise. I
must deceive those to whom I owed
my life. This thought caused me a
real remorse: I sought, but in vain,
an occasion for bringing out the dan-
gerous confidence."
How, in fact, could he tell these
pious pilgrims, zealous believers, tliat
the friend whose religious learning
they had admired, whose faith and
virtue they respected, was an im-
postor, who, urged by the thirst for
secular learning, had surprised their
confidence, profaned their ministry, had
trifled, in a word, with their dearest
sentiments? Such an avowal might
not, perhaps, have broken the bonds of
affection which united him to tlie two
dervishes, but what a bitter deception
for these fervent and sincere souls t
Digitized by CjOOQIC
400
A Pretended Dervish in Turkestan.
And yrhj destroj an illusion so
sweet? y%)nb6r7 retained the secret
leadj to escape him ; his ejes swim-
ming in tears, he tore himself from
the embraces of his friends. *^ I see
them always," he adds, ^ motionless in
the place where I had qaitted them, the
hands raised toward hearen, implor-
ing the blessmg of Allah for my jour-
ney* Many times I turned my head
to see them again ; at last they dis-
appeared in the fog, and I could dis-
tinguish only the domes of Samar-
cand, feebly lighted by the rays of
the moon/'
The journey home was marked by
fewer dramatic incidents. Yamb^ry
had to cross the country of Bokhara,
but avoiding the capitid, he arrived
af^er three days at E^rsld, the second
city of ihe kiianat in extent and com*
mercial relations. It contains six
caravansaries and a well-supplied
market, where are seen very remark-
able articles of native cutlery^ which
are largely exported into central Asia,
Persia, Arabia, and even into Turkey.
These fine blades, richly damaskeened,
the handles covered with incrustations
of gold and silver, are far superior to
the best products of Sheffield or Bir-
mingham. YambSry's new companions
advised him to use such funds as he
had lefl, in purchasing knives, needles,
and glass-ware, the exchange of which
would secure a pilgrim the means of
existence among the nomad tribes.
Our traveller thought it best to follow
this prudent counsel, and add, as he
gidly remarks, ^^the profession of
merchant to that of antiquary, hadji
and mollah, without prejudice to a
crowd of not less important functions,
such as bestowing benedictions, holy
breathings, amulets, and talismans."
The caravan passed through Bok-
hara without disturbance; the rigor
with which the emir enforces the police
regulations rendering all the roads
frort^ across th^ desert perfectly secure,
not only for caravans, but even for
individual travellers. Yambery could
hardly contain his joy In crossing the
frontier: at cverv step he approached
ihe West: lie was about to revisit
Persia, the first stage of civilization,
the object of his ardent^esires. Other
members of the caravan were not less
impatient , these were Iranian slaves,
returning to their own country. One
of them, an old man, bent under the
weight of years, had been to Bokhara
to pay the ransom of his son, the only
support of his family^ the price
demanded was fifty ducats, and the
poor father had exhausted his re-
sources in the payment " But," said
he, '< better to fear the staff* of the
beggar than to leave my son in chains."
Another of these unhappy men greatly
excited Yambery's compassion ; his
wasted features, and hair prematurely
white, proved sufficiently his ^uffer-
uigs f eight years previous, aTurcoman
raid had carried away his wife, his
sister and his six children ; the unfor-
tunate man pursued them, vunly
sought them in the two Khanats of
Khiva and Bokhara ; when at last lie
discovered the place of their captiv-
ity, his wife, his sister and two children
had perished under the rigors of
slavery Of the four who remained
he was able to ransom only two ; the
others having become men, their mas-
ter exacted so heavy a ransom that
the unhappy father was unable to raise
the sum.
These instances give but a fkint
idea of the scourge which has for
centuries depopulated the north of
Persia and neighboring countries.
The Turcomen Tekkes number to-day
more than fifleen thousand mounted
plunderers, whose only 'Occupation
consists in organizing a system of vast
brigandage, to decimate families and
ravage hamlets. The travellers crossed
whole districts desolated by war and
exactions of all sorts; the laws ere
powerless to repress disorders, a bribe
suffices to exculpate one from the modt
odious crime; therefore every one
speaks with admiration *jf Bokhara,
whtise emir is regarded as a model of
justice and wisdom. An inhabitant of
Audkuy acknowledged tiiat his com-
patriots envied the happiness of being
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A PreUndM Dervish in Turkestan.
401
sabject to the sceptre of Mozaffar ed
Din, and added that the Eoiopeazu
would be preferable to the present
Hussulmaa chiefs.
Meanwhile, the joamej was long,
and Vambery saw with anxiety his
little package of merchandise diminish.
He hoped to obtain assistance at
Herat; bat unfortunately, when they
arrived in this city, the key of central
Asia, it had just been put to sack by
the Afghans. The fortifications and
houses were only a heap of ruins, the
citadel trembled, half demolished upon
its crumbling base , some few inhiGib-
itants here and thera showed them^
selves , the celebrated bazaar^ which
had stood so many sieges, aJone
offered some. animation, but the shops
were opened timidly, the remembrance
of the foray still terrifying the people.
Moreover, the custom-house system, es-
tablished by the rapacity of the Afghans,
promises little prosperity either to
commerce or industry , an article of
fui' which has been purchased for 8
francs, pays 3 francs tax ; they levy
one franc upon a hat of the value of
two francs, and so of every thing else.
"When we add to that, for articles
brought from distant provinces, the
rights already collected in intermediate
districts, we see how much the mer«
chant must raise his price in order to
realize anything^
In a city so ravaged, the trade
of a dervish is not lucrative ; no one
asked Vambery for his holy breathing,
his cutlery and pearls were exhausted ;
liis travelling companions, very differ-
ent from Hadji Bilal, lent him no help-
Only one young man named Ishak, re-
mained fmthful to him. Every morn-
ing he begged the food for the day, and
prepared the frugal repasts of our
trayeller, whom he regarded as his
master, and served with affbction&te
respect.
In order to neglect nothing which
might enable him to continue his jour-
n^, Vambery resolved to apply to the
Viceroy of Herat, Serdar Mehemmed
Yakoub, the son of the King of
Afghanistan. The haUs of the palace
VOL. 111. 26
were filled with servants and soldiers ;
but the large turban of the pretended
dervish, and the hermit-like air which
long fatigues had given him, were let-
ters of recommendation which opened
all doors. The prince, not more than
sixteen years old, sate in a large easy
chair, surrounded by high dignitaries.
Yamb^ry, faithful to his character,
went directly to him, and sat by his
side, pushmg aside the vizier to make
himself a place. This behavior ex-
cited general hilarity. Serdar Mehem-
med regarded the stranger attentively,
then rose suddenly, and cried, half-
laughing, half-bewildered : ^ You
are an Englishman, Til take my
oath !" He approached our traveller,
clapping his hands like a child who
has made a happy discovery : ^' Say,
say " added he, " are you not an Eng-
lishman T* In the presence of this in-
nocent joy, Vambery had half a mind
to discover himself, but remembering
that the fanaticism of the Afghans
might yet expose him to great perils,
he resolved not to raise the mask which
protected him. Takmg, then, a serious
air : "That will do," said he to the
prince, " have you then forgotten this
proverb • * He who even in joke treais
a true believer as an infidel, makes
himself worse than an infidel P Give
me rathec something for my bene^c^
tion, that 1 may have the means of pur-
suing my journey.** Vambery's look,
and the maxun which he so appropriate-
ly recalled, put the young viceroy out of
countenance. He stammered some
excuses, alleging the singular physiog-
nomy of the stranger, which was not
of theBokhariottype. Vamb^T^ hast-
ened to reply that he was a native of
Stamboul ; be showed to Serdar Me-
hemmed and to the vizier his Turkish
passport, spoke of an Afghan prince
resi^ng in Constantinople, and succeed-
ed in completely effiicing the impres-
sion which he had at first) made.
The 15th of November, 1868, the
grand caravan which was going to
Meshed, left Herat, taking with it oar
traveller. It comprised not less
than two thoasand persons, at least
Digitized by CjOOQIC
402
A Pretended Dervish in Turkestan,
half of whom were Afghans, who^ in
spite of the most frightful misery, had
undertaken, with theif families, a pil-
grimage to the tombs of the Shiite
saints. In proportion as Yamb^ry
approached drilization, he let fall little
bj little the veil of his incognito, and
let it be understood that in Meshed he
should find powerful protectors, and
financial resources which would enable
him to recompense the services of his
companions. The doubtful light which
surrounded him furnished inexhausti-
ble matter for conjecture, and gave
rise to some lively discussions, which
very much amused Vamb^rj. At
last, twelve, days after leaving Herat,
the dome of the mosque, and the
tomb of Iman-Riza, gilded by the first
rays of the sun, announced the ap-
proach to Meshed. The sight caused
Ihe European deep emotion, his dan-
gerous exploring expedition was finish-
ed, and he had no further need o? dis-
^ise. In passing the gates of the
sity he forgot the Turcoman, the
iesert, the Tebbad, to think of the
happiness of seeing friendly faces, and
of speaking fit lus ease of Europe.
He passed successively through Me-
shed, Teheran, and Constantinople,
where he bade adieu to Oriental life ;
then through Pesth, where he left his
Turcoman companion, the faithful
Ishak, who had followed him even to
Europe , and the 9th of June, 1864,
he arrived in London.
Singular force of habit . Yamb^ry
had BO identified himself with the
character of a learned effendi, he
was so impregnated with Asiatic man-
ners and customs, that this son of
Germany found himself ill at ease in
England. ^ It cost me," says he , *^ iu-
eredible difficulty to accustom myself
to my new life, so different from that
which I had led at Bokhara some
months previous. Everything in
London seemed strange and novel;
I one would have said that the re-
membrances of my youth were a
dream ; only my travels had lefl upon
my mind a deep impression. Is it as-
tonishing that sometimes in Regent
street or in the saloons of the
English aristocracy I felt myself
as embarrassed as a child, and
that oflen I forgot everything around
xhe to dream of the profound solitudes
of central Asia, of the tents of the
Kirghiz and the Turcomen ?**
Yamb^ry's book paints in vivid
colors the real condition of central
Asia; it contains curious and char-
acteristic details regarding the three
khanats of Turkestan (Khiva, Bok-
hara^ and Khokand), on the particu-
lar manners of each people, the com-
merce and industry of the cities. We
follow there the slow but continuous
progress of the Russian government,
whose ambition is excited by the
riches of these fertile provinces. It
advances with persevering obstinacy
toward the conquest of Turkestan,
the only country which is wanting
to-day to the immense Asiatic king-
dom dreamed of, four centuries ago,
by Ivan Yasilievitch. Since that
period the czars have never lost an
opportunity to extend their influence
in the Orient Russia maintains with
the khanats regular and active com-
mercial relations ; her exportations
into central Asia were valued in
1850 at twenty-five millions of francs,
and her importations from thence at
not less than thirty-three millions.
England, whose possessions in India
approach Turkestan, has not taken so
deep root there , she understands less
the tastes, and submits less to the ex-
igencies, of the Tartar populations. At
the same time, the protection which
she gives the Afghans, the declared
enemies of the Khivites and Bokha-
riots, gives her a part to play in the
events which arc preparing, and which
the taking of Tashkend by Russian
troops wiU perhaps precipitate.
Central Asia is destined to be ab-
sorbed by one or other of the rival
powers which every day embrace her
more closely. WiU she be Russian or
English? that is the only form the
question takes to-day.
Persia and Turkey, tottering them-
selves, cannot protect her. The grand
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Pretended Dervish in Turheetan,
403
contest) commenced centuries ago, be-
tween the two hostile civili^tionS)
between the sword of Mohammed and
the cross of Christ, to-daj touches
its tenn. Of the different oriental
tribes, these endeavor to reyive them-
selves by the contact of our arts and
sciences, those intrench themselves be-
hind their mountains and their deserts ;
but these powerless barriers -cannot
hinder European activity from reach-
ing them. Thev are, moreover, con-
demned to inevitable ruin hj barba-
rism, superstition, and fatalism, which
form the basis of their character and
their creeds, the populations, bent
under an implacable despotism, con-
sider even the encroachments of
Europeans as a benefit ^ their faith,
moreover, delivers them without de-
fence to misfortune, to t3rrann7, to the
joke of the «tranger, for it persuades
them that an inflexible destiny, against
which the will of man is powerless,
rules the lot of individuals and na-
tions, '^ Who can prevail agamst the
Nasib ?** said to Yamberj an unfortu-
nate man whose wife and children
had been carried off. ^It was writ-
ten!" replied the Mussulmans when
their most beautiful provinces were
snatched from them.
The European race, on the cdn-
trarj, energetic and indefatigable,
makes all obstacles 3rield before it;
its science and industry transform
nature into a dodle instrument ; diffi-
culties stimulate its courage : ^ This sea
I will crois,^ It cries ; **I will level this
mountam; this people, imputed invin-
cible,! will subjugate." Fromantiquity
it had raised upfbn its flag this proud
device, which made the grandeur of
the Roman world : <' Audaces fortuna
juvat" Afterward, Christianity, m
elevating minds, and pouring upon
all hearts sentiments of tenderness
and charity heretofore uoknown,
brought new elements to this expan
sive force. It showed Grod respecting,
even in their errors, the liberty of
men ; it showed the sacrifice of Jesus,
this Son of the Most High come upon
earib to suffer all griefs, yet volunta-
rily powerless to save man without
his concurrence and his own partici-
pation. This noble morality not only
regenerated consciences, it developed
individual action, made known the
valae of the hidden force which we
call the will, and contributed largely
to the social and political progress of
the western nations. At the same time,
it is true, the Christian dogm^ preached
resignation in sufferings, but this pious
resignation resembles as little the
oriental indolence as the calm of death
resembles that of strength and health.
Such are the causes of European
supremacyi The Asiatics, not less
gifted by nature, have stifled, under
the double influence of fisitalism and a
sensual morality, the germs of civiliza-
tion which might have given them a
durable life and glory. To-day, as
we learn from the intrepid traveller
who has penetrated into the very
heart of Turkestan and returned
again safe and sound, everyth'ng
among them is in decay; their cities
and institutions, alike, offer nothing
but ruins.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
404
Vheanmeted; or, Old 2%ome£0y« Ibin.
From The Lua^,
UNCONVICTED} OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.
CHAFTEB I.
** Mb. Thornelet presents his com-
pliments to Mr. John Kavanagh, and
would feel obliged if he would call in
Wimpole street 4his evening at seren
o'clock* Mr, Thomelej wishes to
have Mr. Kavanagh's professional
assistance in a matter of business,
'* 100 Wlmpole street, CavendiBh Bqnare,
»' Oct. 83, 185- "
The above note lay amidst a heap
of letters awaiting my return from a
pleasant mountaineering tour amopg
alps and glaciers, perpetual snows, and
ice-bound passes* Tes, it had been
in every sense of the word a delightful
excursion, a real holiday to me, — me,
a dusty, musty, hard-working lawyer,
living in chambers, poring over parch-
ments, and deeds, and matters dull
and dry to all, save them whom those
thiDgs concerned, — ^me, a middle-aged
bachelor, a solitary man, with little of
kith or kin left to surround my dying
bed or follow my old bones to tiieir
grave. It was a renewal of youth and
early days to climb those mountains,
to face those majestic peaks, to scale
thooe rugged passes, and feel the fresh
' clear air fanning my brow as I raised
it to God's heaven above, whilst all
that was of the world worldly seemed
10 lie beneath my feet. My two
months' holiday and repose from la-
bor, when I packed my modest port-
manteau, locked up my papers, left
my rooms to the care of clerk and
laundress, and took my ticket at Lon-
don Bridge for Dover or Boulogne,
bound for Chamouni, Unterwalden, or
tlie Simplon, — ^these eight weeks of
pure enjoyment were the oasis in the
desert of my life. But now, for this
year at least, it was over* I Vas back
to busy life again ;, to work and daily
duty ; to my calf-bound volumes, my
inky table, my yellow sheets inscribed
with the promises of one said parly to
another said party — how soon to be
broken, God only knew — or the bine
folio pages stating how this said man
IS to buUy that said fellow man, and
how there is to be war between two
Christian beings, not to the knife, but
to the bar, the judge; jury, prison, and
future ruin of one or the other fellow
heir to the great inheritance of a
hereafter. I had returned to it all —
this turmoil of strife and struggle, out
of which quagmire I got my daily
bread, like hundreds of others cruising
in the same barque on the sea of life ;
and my table was heaped with the
business correspondence that once
more was to induct me into my ordin-
ary avocations There were commu-
nications from old clients about affairs
of long standing, and familiar to me as
my morning shave ; and letters from
new clients promising fresh labor and
new grist to the mill , but I scanned
them all with the same feeling of
weariness and disgnst-H^asting many
a regretful thought to the sceaes I had
left behind me, — inclined to throw
business, law, and clients wholesale
and pell-mell into the Red Sea. It
was in this frame of mind that I opened
the above note , but as I read it, my
ennui and lassitude gave place to tlie
keenest interest and curiosity. That
old Thorneley should send for me
professionally, when I knew for cer-
tain that all his affairs were completely
in the hands, and he entirely under
the thumbs, of my highly-respected
brother lawyers Smith and Walker,
was enough to rouse one from a mes-
menc sleep. Old Thorneley; who
Digitized by CjOOQIC
DneonvicUd,' (fr^ Old TAorneie^i Heirs.
405
lived like a hermit, never meddling
with anything nor anybody ; whose
last intentions were supposed amongst
us in Lincoln's Inn to be hermeticallj
sealed up in a certain tin box, lodging
at Messrs. Smith and Walker's ; whose
frugal hous&>keeping and simple taste
coi^d involve him in no pecuniary
trouble, — ^what could he want with the
professional advice of one who was
almost a stranger to him, whose stand-
ing in the law was of much later date
and whose clientage much less dis-
tinguished than that of the firm above
mentioned, and who had been his legal
advisers during his whole lifetime?
Again I referred to the note —
** Oct. 23 ;" — ^the interview was asked
for tliat very evening I looked at
my watch — it was half-past six ^ the
hour named, seven. Tired with travel
and hungry as a hunter, I was little
inclined to leave my cosy fire, my
tender steak, my fragrant cup of
bohea, my delicious plate of buttered
toast, and face the raw air and miz-
zling rain of an autumnal evening at
the beck of a man whose hand I had
never shaken^at whose table I had
never sat, and whose foot had never
crossed my threshold. But curiosity
and interest prevailed at last, and
these were induced by two motives.
1. Thorneley was a millionaire — ^a
man whose name Rothschild had not
scorned on 'Change, and whose breath
had once fluttered the money-markets
of Europe. 2. And a far more power-
ful one, — ^he was the uncle of Hugh
Atherton. O Hugh, best of friends, ^
thou man of true and noble heart, if
these pages ever meet your eyes, and
you look back through the dim vista
of intervening years, bear witness how
mournfully I stand by the grave of
our buried affection, opened on this
night, how tenderly I touch the firag^
ments of our wrecked friendship I and
from your heart, O lost comrade and
brother, believe that, whatever of pain
lay between us two, severing our lives,
no thought disloyal to you ever crossed
my soul or shook the fealty of my
honor and reverence. Hastily I d^
spatched the meal, made a few changes
in my dress, threw myself into the
first hansom, and knocked at 100
WLmpole street, at five minutes past
seven.
I was ushered at once into Mr.
Thorneley's study — ^a comfortably-
furnished room, lined with well-stocked
bookcases, and hung with neatly-
framed engravings of first-rate excel-
lence. He was sitting reading beside
a cheery fire when I entered, and on
a table near him stood fruit, biscuits,
and wine. I had not seen him for
many months; and as he rose to re-
ceive me, the light of the shaded gas •
lamp fallmg upon his head and face
revealed to me how aged and broken
his appearance had become in that
period of time. Then I remembered
him as a hale, hearty old man, strong
of limb, straight and square about the
shoulders, carrying himself with the
air of an old soldier, gaunt, upright,
stern, unbending and unbent. Now,
before me stood a bowed infirm figure,
with trembling hands and tottering
feet, with thin pinched features and
sunken eyes. Little as I knew the
man, and little as I liked what I knew
or had heard of liim, I was touched to
see what a wreck he looked of his
former outward self. Involuntarily I
stretched oat my hand to him, and ex-
pressed my regret at seeing him look
so ill. He bowed, and touched my
hand with the tips of his fingers, whicli
were clammy and cold. Then he mo-
tioned me in silence to a chair on the
opposite side of the fire to where he
sat, and resumed his own seat.
"You are somewhat late, sir," ho
said querulously, glancing at me from
beneath his shaggy brows ; the same
keen searching glance I remembered
of old — the ghuice of a man who has
made money.
" But five minutes, Mr, Thorneley, '
I replied ; ** and that I think you will
excuse when I tell you I have crossed
the Channel to-day, and only arrived
home about an hour aga"
" Have you dined ? Allow mc to
order you something'
Digitized by CjOOQIC
406
Vnconvieted; or. Old Thamde^g Heim.
** Nothing, thanks- I took my nsnal
meal after a journey — ^a meat tea;
and, though despatched in haste, it
sufficed for mj requirements ^
" At least,** he said more court-
eously, '^jou will take a glass of
winer*
** With pleasure, sir, after we have
finished the business iu which I under-
stand you require my assistance."
He saw that I wished to come to
the point at once ; and drawing his
chair near to mine, he fixed his pierc-
ing gray eyes upon my countenance.
I returned his gaisa steadily enough ;
and he then shifted uneasily, so that
his countenance was turned sideways
to me.
"You are aware, Mr. Eavanagh,
that my family solicitors have been,
and stiU are, Messrs. Smith and Wal-
ker , and no doubt you are surprised
why T should now require other pro-
fessional aid than thetre> Tour curi-
osity and speculative faculties, if you
possess such, must have been on the
qui vtve since you got my note. Eh,
sir?"
There was a covert sarcasm in the
old man's voice which vexed me.
" Every movement of Mr Thomeley's
must be a matter of general interest,"
I said, with equal satire
**Ha, ha, ha! Very good — given
me back in my own kind, — ^tit for tat
Like yon all the better for it, Mr.
Kavanagh, — a sharp lawyer is a good
thing in its way Well, you've not
repudiated the curiosity, so I'll satisfy
it I sent for you to make my WiRf*
and again he turned on me those
shrewd glittering eyes, as if enjoying
the amazement I could not entirely
suppress
**But I thought—" I stammered;
•* surely, sir, your own lawyers are the
fittest persons ; it is against etiquette.
Indeed, sir, Fd rather not have any
thing to do with it"
" You will be pctidy sir," he said
rudely.
" It is not a question of payment,
Mr. Thomeley ; simply, you place me,
I foresee, in an awkward position with
regard to a firm with whom I am on
the most friendly terms. But of
course they are acquainted with your
desire of having my services P*
"Of course £ey are nothing of the
sort. If you are squeamish in the
matter, I can get another man to do
my business, and ihey^ not be a
bit mora enlightened on the subject
Whomsoever I employ must be bound
to inviolable secrecy during my life-
time» Let us understand each other,
Mr. Eavanagh: I sent for you be-
cause I knew you to be a discreet
man, on whose prudence after my
death I could rely. But I do not
choose that Smith and Walker should
know any thing of this transaction.
You can do as you please in the mat-
ther,but you must make your decision
now"
I gave a rapid glance at my posi-
tion with all the care time would al*
low ; and one consideration outweighed
every thing else, — ^I take heaven to
witness it! — ^the thought that Hugh
Atherton's interests, which I felt to be
DOW involved, would be safer in my
hands than in those of any other man ;
and I replied, << So be it, Mr. Thome-
ley ; you may command my services."
If I had known what was coming ; if
in mercy one shadowy vision of that
miserable ftiture had been vouchsafed
to me ; if but a ray of light had illu-
mined my darkened sight, I had shaken
the dust off my feet, and left that doom-
ed house never again to cross its
threshold.
Thomeley rose and pushed a small
writing-table towards me, on which
was placed the printed form of a will
to be filled in.
" Are you ready ?* he asked.
« I am.'*
He bent forward, with his hand
shading his mgged brow^ his eyes
fixed intently on the fise and spoke in
low distinct tones. I listened almost
breathlessly ; and as I listened, I felt
the cold sweat breaking out upon my
forehead. And then I made the wilL
Yes, Grod help me I I made the will,
for I saw it was inevitable.
Digitized
byGoo^k
TMcorwicted; or^ Old TkorMk/^g Heirg.
m
^ We must haTe witneBseS)** I said
when it was finished. «
Mr. Thoraelej rang the belL « Tell
Thomas I want him here, and come
back jonTself." The two men return-
ed in a few moments,-— coachman and
footman ; and before those two, with
unshaken hand, with a face of rigid
firmness, Gilbert Thomelej wrote his
name ; the servants affixed their sig-
natares, and the deed was done.
When we were alone I rose to de-
part, and bade him good-nighU As I
left the room I looked back at the old
man. He had sunk in his chair, and
his face was buried in his hands,
bowed and bent beside the fire, with
his thin graj locks straying over his
forehead, as if some bitter blast had
swept over him and left him desolate ;
— ^thus I saw him for the last time on
earth.
I left that house with a heavy secret
locked in my breast, with a weight on
heart and brain, and heeded not the
blinding, drizzling rain as I bent my
^tsteps rapidly homeward, longmg
only to reach my quiet chamber, where
I might commune with myself and be
stilL I am not an inveterate smoker ;
but when I want to think out a knotty
point, when I wish to obtain a clear
view of any difficult question, I can
quite appreciate the aid which a good
cigar afibrds one. This night I was
dazed, bewildered, and mechanically I
sought my old friend in my breast-
pocket. I stopped beside the window
of a large chemist's shop at the comer
of Yere street and Oxford street to
strike a light, when some one hastily
passed out of the shop and ran full
against me.
"Kavanaghr "AthertonP The
man of all men in the world to meet
that night ! What fatality was it that
was hedging me in and fencing me
roimd, without any agency of my
own?
" Who woiild have thought of seeing
you here ?" he exclaimed as he grasp-
ed my hand. ** I had no idea you had
returned even.**
<• I came back this very evening.''
"Only this evening I and whither
away so soon, old fellow ?"
I muttered something about busi-
ness.
<< Business! Come, I like that You
have changed your nature, John, if
you go after business the first evening
of your return from Switzerland. Why,
I didn't suppose you would have stir-
red if my old uncle yonder had sent
for you to make his will, leaving me
his sole heir." And he laughed his
old hearty joyous laugh, which had
been music to me from the time when
I fought Ills first battle for him at
Rugby. Now it filled me with an un-
accountable dread ; now it fell on my
ear as the knell of times which were
never more to come back. So near
the truth too jis he had been, talking
in his own thoughtless, light-hearted
way. What spell was over us all that
fatal evening? Perhaps — I think it
must have been so— all the dark sha-
dows which were gathering over my
soul revealed themselves in my coun-
tenance, for I saw him look at me
with the kind solicitous look that
never became a manly face better
than his.
^Tll tell you what it is, dear old
John," he said, putting his arm within
mine ; " you are looking terribly hip-
ped about something or another, and
any thing but the man you ought to
look, atler such a jolly outing as
you've just had. Come, I'll go home
with you, and we'll have a prime
Manilla, a steaming tumbler, and a
cosy chat together ; and if that doesn't
send the blues back to the venerable
old party from which they are gener-
plly supposed by all good Christians
to come, why, as Mr. Feggotty hath
it, ' I'm gormed I' " And again that
fatal influence stepped in, making me
its agent to bring upon us the inevi-
table To be ; and putting his friendly
hand from off my arm, I said, '^ No,
Hugh, not to-night ; I have need to bo
alone. Indeed I am too tired to be
good company even to you."
** Well, good-night then, my friend ;
ni betake me to mine uncle, and see
Digitized by CjOOQIC
408
Unconvicted; or^ Old Thorwiief^t Heir$.
how the old man U getting along this -
damp weather. Lister said he should
look in^ 80 we can tramp home toge-
ther. But I won't be shirked by 70U
to-morrow, Master Jack, — don't think
it ; and I shall bring somebody to fetch
the Swiss toy I know you have got
packed away for her somewhere in
your knapsack. Good-night, good-
night."
We shook hands, and he turned
down Vere street. An impulse, —
blind, unreasoning, — seized me a min-
ute afterwards to call him back and
ask him to come home with me ; and
I followed quickly upon his footsteps.
The eyening was very dark, and the
rain beat btindingly in one's face, so
that it was difficult, with my near
sight, to distinguish his figure ahead
amidst the numerous other foot-pas-
sengers. After a few moments I gave
up tibe chase, half angry with myself
for haying been the sport of a sudden
fancy. As once more I turned round
to retrace my steps, a woman passed
me at a hurried pace, and as she
passed she almost stopped and gazed
intently at me. A thick veil prevent-
ed my seeing her face, and m no way
was her figure familiar to me; but
the gesture with which she stared at
me was remarkable, and for a moment
a matter of wonder ; then I forgot the
circumstance, and rapidly made my
way home, thinking of the strange
revelations I had just heard ; thinking
of Hu^ Atherton and our chance
moeting; thinking of the days past
and the days to come, — of much and
many things which belong to the story
I am telling, — of the time when I was
a boy again at school, senior in my
form and umpire in all pitched battles
and the petty warfare boys wage with
one another, when that little curly-
headed, blue-eyed fellow, with his
cheeks all aglow and his nostrils big
with indignant wrath, had come to me,
a great burly clumsy lad of sixteen,
and laid his plaint before me :
'^ Please, Kavanagh, the fellows say
Fm a coward because I won't lick
Tom Overbory. Will you tell them
to leave me in peace ?«-4)ecanfie I
worCt lick him." •
" Why not, spooney T*
" Because I don't wish to."
^^That won't go down here, you
know, Atherton ; you must give your
reasons."
^'He's got something the matter
with his right arm, and he can't hit
out. He'd have no chance against
me. I know all about it, but the other
fellows don't, and they think he can't
fight ; he bade me not tell any one.
That's why they are always at him to
make him pick quarrels. They set
him on at me ; but I won't fight him,
not for the whole school, masters and
alL"
Such was Hugh Athertcm as a boy ;
such was he as a man, — ever generous
and noble-hearted. I thought of him
as then, I thought of him as now, re-
memberinfif all our long friendship, our
close intimacy, with the weight of that
dread secret upon me, and with the
indescribable sense of coming evil
clinging to me. I wished I had yield-
ed to his request, and allowed him to
accompany me homg ; I wished I had
persevered in going after him; in
short, I wished anything but what
then was. Were those desires troub-
ling me a taste of the vain, futile,
heart-bitter wishes which the morrow
was to bring forth? So, with the
cold wind whistling round me, and
scattering the dead leaves across the
desolate square, where stood the house
wherein I dwelt, the rain beating
against my face, and the sky above
black and lowering, I reached iny
home, wet and weary.
Methodical habits to a man brought
up to the law, who has any pretence
of doing weU in his profession, become
like second nature ; and when I had
divested myself of my wet garments,
I took out my journal and made an
entry as usual of the date, object, etc.,
of my visit to Mr. Thomeley ; and
then I wrote out a brief memorandum
of the same, whlc^ I addressed to
Hugh Atherton in case of my death,
and caitefiilly locked it up with some
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or, Old TTtomelet^s Heirk.
409
▼ery prirate papers of my own, about
which he already had my inslractioos.
This done, I smoked a cigar, draok a
tambler of hot brandy-«nd-water, and
went to bed, thoroughly tired out.
Bat I coald not sleep. For hours I
tossed restlessly from side to side;
now and then catching a few moments'
repose, which was distarbed by the
most horrible and distresang dreams.
Toward morning, I suppose, I must
at last hav^e Mullen into a deep slum-
ber — so profound that I nerer heard
the old laundress's hammering at the
door, nor the arrival of my clerk, nor
the postman's knock.
At last I awoke, or rather was
awakened. The day had advanced
some hours; all traces of last nighfs
ram seemed to have vanished, and the
sun shown full and bright in at the
windows. Beside my bed stood Hardy,
my old clerk.
" God bless you, sir, I thought you'd
never wake I"
" I wish I never had, for I am aw-
fully tired. How are you. Hardy?
and how is all going on P'
" Quite well, sir, thank you ; and I
hope you're the same. We've wanted
you badly enough. There's that Wil-
liams, he's been here almost every day,
teasing and tormenting about having
his mortgage called in; and Lady
Ormskirk, she called twice, and seemed
in some trouble. Then there was a
queer young chap from the country with
a long case about some inheritance ; in
short, sir, if you had been at home we
might have been no end busy — ^what
with the old ones and what with the
new ;" and Hardy cast a sigh after the
possible tips and fees of which my ab-
sence had deprived him.
'^ Well, I'll see to it all as soon as I
have dressed and had some breakfast.
I suppose they've brought it up, and
also the hot water?"
" Some time ago, sir ; you slept so
late that I ventured to come in."
"All right. I shallbe ready directly."
Hardy still lingered, and I knew
by his face there was some news
combg.
" There's a fine to-do at Smith and
Walker's, sir, this morning. I just
met their head-clerk as I was coming
here."
I sprang up in bed as if I had been
shot, the old fancies and dread of the
previous night returning with full force.
"Smith and Walker's!" I cried;
" what is the matter there ?"
*^ Well, sir, I couldn't quite make
out the particulars, he was in such a
hurry ; but old Itfr. Thomeley's been
found dead in his room this morning,
and they suspect there has been foul
play. Mr. Griflaths — that's the clerk
— was going off to Scotland Yard.
It's a terrible thing, an't it, sir, to be
hurried off so quick ? and none of the
best of lives too, if one may believe
what folks say. It*s shocked you, sir,
I see ; and so it did me, for I thought
of Mr. Atherton and what a blow like
it would be to him."
Whiter and whiter I felt my face
was getting, and a feeling of dead sick-
ness seized me. The man whom I
had seen and spoken with but such
few short hours since lay dead! the
secret of whose life I possessed, know-
ing what I now knew of him, and what
had been lefl untold hanging like a
black shadow of doubt around me ; he
was gone from whence there was no
returning, — ^ho was standing face to
face with his Creator and his Judge !
By this time Hardy had left the
room, and I proceeded hastily to dress
myself, feeling that more was coming
than I wotted of then, and that the
fearful storm which was gathering
would quickly burst.
Scarcely was I dressed when I
heard a loud double-knock at the
office-door, and directly after Hardy's
voice demanding admittance. I open-
ed my door.
" Sir, there is a police-officer who
wishes to see you immediately."
I went out into the sitting-room. A
detective in plain clothes was there;
I had known the man in another
business formerly.
"What do you want with me,
Jones ?*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
410
Peace*
"You have heard of Mr. Thome
ley being found dead, sir?'
^ Tes — mj clerk has just told me.
AThat did he die of?*
"' He was poisoned, Mr. Eava-
nagh.''
I felt ihe man's eyes were fixed on
me as if he could read in mj soul and
see the fearful dread therein. I
could have hurled him from the
window.
^Who is suspected?" I asked as
calmly as my parched tougue would
let me speak.
The man did not answer my ques-
tion.
^ You were with him last evening,
sir, were you not?^
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed,
completely thrown off my guard;
" they surely don't suspect me P*
"Not that I'm aware of, sir; but
your evidence is necessary, since you
were one of the last persons who saw
him alive."
" But not the last," I said, still blind
to the fact pointed at " Mr. Ather>
ton, his nephew, was with him after I
left I met him going there at the
comer of Vere street"
There was a peculiar look on the
man's countenance — of compassion for
me, I had almost said.
"Mr. Eavanagh, sir, I had rather
have cut off my right hand than that
you should have told me that, for
you've both been kind gentlemen to
me and mine. Mr, AJtherton is
arretted an suspicibsorbed into the threadbare crimson
velvet, except the little head ever
rolling restlessly from side to side
with eyes gleaming like fire-fiies.
" ADd then he would Ulk,
Te godfl ! how he would talk !*^—
What treasures of wit, humor, an-
ecdote, analysis, and broad generalizar
tion poured bxm that horn of plenty.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Hffo Pictures of lAft in France tfefare 1848.
415
Ilia mind stored with the prints of
nearlj half a centuiy of philosophic
research and observation of men and
things! His voice varied with his
words from grave to gaj, and now
and then came long peals of shrill
laughter, more derisive perhaps than
mirthful. "That is our manT said
Maurice proudly, after describing
such an evening; that evening per-
haps when his own attractions eclipsed
the master's brillianc7 in the estima-
tion of one who saw him for the first
time — ^M. de Marzan, a former pupil
of Lamennais, who revisited La
ChSnaie on the 18th of December,
1832.
M. F^li was in one of his most de-
lightful moods, recoanting the experi-
ences of his late Italian journey, and
drawing out in his genial waj the
keen observations of the young men
about him — of aU excepting poor
Maurice, who stood silent among the
hopeful, eager talkers, painfully con-
scious of himself and distrustful of
others, we must confess, with all
affectionate B3rmpathy for our he-
ro. But in his reserved mien, in
his expressive southern eyes and
intellectual face, there was a magne-
tism that won completely M. de
Marzan's attention from the de-
lights of conversation, and as soon
as the evening ended, he obtained
an introduction through Elie de
Kertauguy, a handsome, gifted youth
from Lower Brittany, passionately
devoted to Lamennais, and compas-
sionately attentive to Gu^n, re-
garding him, as did most of the in-
mates of La ChSnaie, as a refined
but very inefficient member of their
circle* •
Not so Marzan, who in twenty-four
hours had thawed Maurice's reserve,
won his confidence, seen his journal,
heard the circumstances of his unre-
quited love for Mile, de Bayne, and
laid the foundation of a friendship
that lasted unbroken to the day of
Gu^rin's death. What days, and
nights too, of rapture these two young
poets used to spend together, guided
by their older and more experienced
friend, Hippolyte de La Morvonnais
(a frequent visitor at La Chdnaie),
who had been to Grasmere to visit
Wordsworth, and come home imbued
with veneration for "Les Lakistes".
(The Lake Poets). There came to be
a mania among the three friends for
describing in homely language the
simplest domestic details, which they
considered it a triumph in art to be
abie to give in a rhythm so dubious
that none but the initiated could tell
whether it was meant for prose or
verse.
Even at this early period, Gu6rin
gave evidence of the peculiar strength
and weakness of his style, the vague-
ness and looseness of his verse, the
faultless harmony of his prose, which
is as pure as air, free from the least
touch of provincialism or mannerism;
and yet, in the simple fervor of its
revelations of the secrets that nature
poured into his attentive ear, we are
reminded of the sweet pipings of the
Ettrick Shepherd, as dear old (Christo-
pher North interprets them to us.
Through him we see and hear trees
wave and waters fiow, birds sing and
winds sigh in the woods, and without
being disturbed by moral inferences
and philosophical conclusions. And
surely, when beauty comes to us so
pure and fresh and untarnished, she
may be left to teach her own lessons,
which come to us so softly too from
her lips.
The months that Maurice spent at
La ChSnaie were not especially fruit-
ful to him, except in the sad experi-
ences that tended to develop his
moral strength. But for Morvonnais
and Marzan, he would have remained
quite unappreciated, for Lamennais,
who gave the tone to the household,
was too much ^ absorbed in his apoc-
alyptic social visions "* to be conscious
of the jewel that glittered before his
eyes. Lamennais was a logician, a
philosopher, a passionate and fanatical
woricer. Gu4rin was a man of ex-
• Salnte-Beaye.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
416
TWo Pietures of Life in France before 1848.
quisite artistic perceptions, but dreamj,
undecided, deficient in vigor. Odin and
Apollo, — sledge-hammer and chisel, —
thanderbolt and sunbeam, are not more
unlike in use and significanoe. M.
F^li offered nothing but pitymg ten-^
derness, which Maurice accepted in"
dumb veneration. No wonder that,
with the life at La Chdnaie, all in-
timate intercourse between them
ceased.
But it is a matter for surprise that,
with all his powers of fascination, La-
mennals inflicted (so far as we can
learn the circumstances of the case)
no permanent injury upon the faith of
any one of his companions at La
Chenaie. Lacordaire, Gerbet, Mont-
alembert, and Bohrbaoher became re-
nowned champions of the church.
Gombalot, who had adored Lamennais,
burst forth into a storm of invectives
against him (as is the wont of disap-
pointed idolaters), and then exclaimed,
^^ Alas I I have wounded that heart
into which I could have poured tor-
rents of love 1" Morvonnais and Mar-
zan were ardent believers; Elie de
Kertauguy and Gu6rin died Catholics.
In short, Lamennaifl had devoted the
prime of life to the church, and in
those years had uttered words of wis-
dom never to be unsaid or forgotten.
In spite of himself he must always be
an eloquent advocate of the faith he
deserted, a powerful enemy of the
cause he espoused.
The time was already drawing near
when the asylum should be closed to
Maurice where he had found, in spite
of disappointment and frequent de-
pression, a happy, congenial home.
On Easter Sunday, Lamennais cele-
brated his last mass and gave com-
munion to all the little circle. " Who
would have said" (we quote from
Sainte-Beuve) "to those who clus-
tered round the master, that he who
had just given them communion,
would never administer it again to
anyone ; that he would refuse it for-
evermore ; and that he would soon
adopt for his too true device an oak
shattered by the BtonOi with the proud
motto: / break but bend notf A
Titan's device, a la GapanieT*
Early in the autumn of 1833, the
Bishop of Bennes ordered the dissolu-
tion of Lamennais' religious comma*
nity, and the pupils were removed to
Flogrmel, where they continued Uieir
studies under the supervision of M.
Jean de Lamennais. M. Fell dis-
banded his iitde army with the dig-
nity of a defeated general, and then
'threw himself single-handed again in-
to the fight. He changed his patri-
cian name to F. Lamennais, and de-
manded of democracy (says one of
his biographers), aa he had demanded
of the church, a wand- stroke that
should free the world at once from
suffering and oppression. His success
may be judged by the political history
of France in the last sixteen years.
In religion he adopted ^ Christianitme
legislatey^ whatever that may be*
^If," said he, ^men feel bo irresis-
tibly impelled to unite themselves to
God that they return to Christianity,
let no one suppose that it can be to
that Christianity which presents itself
under the name of Catholicism.'*
In the revolution of '48 he thought
he saw the birth of liberty; in the
" Coup d'Etat" he received its deatii-
blow in his own person. Baffled on
every side, he betook himself to litera-
ture, and translated the ** Divina Com-
media ;'' then ^ feeling within hun no
life^ustaining^ thought," he died in his
seventy-third year, afier an illness of
a few weeks, leaving these words in
his will: **' I will be buried among the
poor, and like the poor. I will have
nothing over my grave, not even a
stone; nor will I have my body car-
ried into any church.'' They laid
htm in P^re la Chaise, and no word
of blessing was uttered over his grave.
Poor Lamennais! What magnificent
possibilities were shattered in his fall!
And Maurice, what were his emo-
tions when the door of La Chenaie
dosed behind him ? — the << littie parar
disc" he called it, but then, po<ur soul,
* Liiautiiio.
Digitized by LjOOQIC
Two Pictures of Life in France before 1848.
417
anything that had escaped him for ever
seemed to have been paradise. He suf-
fered all that must be endured bj
those who have mistaken personal in-
fluence for a divine attraction* The
novitate on which he had entered at
La ChOnaie with a certain reluctance,
galled him beyond endurance at Ploer-
mel. *^ I would rather run the chance
of a life of adventure than be garrotted
by a rule/' he said, and so he went out*
into the world again, feeling like a thing
let loose in the universe, and by the
blessing of Providence was received
into the home of his unfailing friend,
Hippolyte de la Morvonnais, who lived
most delightfully on the coast of Brit-
tany, at a place called Le Val dc
TArquenon,
Two months of simple country life,
and of intercourse with Morvonnais,
and with his wife, who exercised over
Maurice the noblest and sweetest in-
fluence, gave him renewed strength to
battle with life again. In the follow-
ing extract from his journal, describing
the last walk at Le Val, we see with
what tenacity he clung to the past,
and with what sadness he encountered
the future: "Ten o'clock in the
evening. Last walk, last visit to the
sea, to the cliffs, to the whole grand
scenery that has enchanted me for two
months. Winter is smiling upon us
with all the grace of spring, and giv-
ing us days that make birds sing and
leaves burst forth on the rose-bushes
in the garden, on the eglantine in the
woods, on the honeysuckle climbing
over rock and wall. About two
o'clock we took the path that winds so
gracefully through flowering broom
and coarae cliff grass, skirting along
wheat-fields, bending toward ravines,
twisting in and out between hedge-rows,
and at last boldly ascending the loftiest
rocks. The object of our walk was a
promontory that commands the Bay of
Quatre-Vaux A hundred feet below
us shone the sea, breaking against the
rocks with sounds that passed through
our souls as they mounted to heaven.
Toward the horizon the fishing-boats
unfurled against the azure sky their
VOL. IIL 27
dazzling sails, and as our eyes turned
from this little fleet to the more numer-
ous one that sailed singing nearer to us,
an innumerable crowd of sea-birds fish-
ing gaily, and gladdening our eyes with
the sight of their bright plunuige and
graceful movements over the water —
the birds, the sails, the lovely day and
universal peace gave to the sea a festal
beauty that fiUeii my soul with glad
enthusiasm in spite of the sad thoughts
I had brought with me to our promon-
tory ; and then I looked with all ray
soul at headlands, rocks, and isl-
ands, trying to imprint them on my
memory and carry them away' with
me. Coming home I trod religiously,
and with regret at every step, the
path that had so often led me to such
beautiful thoughts, in such sweet com-
pany. The path is so charming when
it reaches ihe coppice, and passes on
among high hazel trees, and a thick,
bushy hedge of boxwood I Then
the joy that nature had bestowed upon
me died away, and the melancholy of
parting took possession of me. To-
moiTow will make of sea, and woods,
and coast, and all the charms I have
enjoyed, a dream, a floating thought
to me; and so, that I might carry
away from these dear places as much
as possible, and as if they could give
themselves to me, I besought them to
engrave their images upon my soul, to
give me something of themselves that
could never pass away ; and I broke
off branches of boxwood, bushes, and
luxurious thickets, plunging my head
into their depths to breathe in the wild
perfumes they exhale, to penetrate into
their very essence, and speak as it
were heart to heart.
"The evening passed as usual in
talking and reading. We recalled the
happiness of past days ; I traced a
faint picture of them in this book, and
we looked at it sadly, as at some dear,
beautiful, dead face."
One more passage from his journal
and we will leave Maurice de Gucrin
in Paris. Two years from the follow-
ing date he was a fashionable man of
the world, capable of vicing in con-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
418
Of Dreamers and Workers,
versation with those maryels of wit
and brilliancj, the talkers of Paria ;
but we have to do with him only as
the baniRhed Tecluse, the exile from
La ChCnaie*
"Paris, Feb., 1834.
** O God ! close my eyes, keep me
from seeing all this multitude, whose
presence rouses in me thoughts so bit-
ter and discouraging. As I pass
through it, let me be deaf to the sounds,
inaccessible to the impressions that
overwhelm me when I am in the
crowd ; set before my eyes some image,
some vision of the things I love, a
field, a valley, a moor, Le Cayla, Le
Val, something in nature ; I will walk
with eyes fastened upon these dear
forms, and pass on without a sense of
suffering.''
From the Montb.
OF DREAMERS AND WORKERS.
NsjLBLT all men are bom cither
dreamers or workers ; not perhaps only
the one or only the other, but one of
these two points is the centre of their
oscillation. Like a pendulum, they
can move only so far toward their op-
posite, some more, some less ; but, like
the pendulum, they invariably return
to their centre. Do we not all know
some man with abstracted eye, h'gk,
retreating forehead, rather refined and
oflen slightly attenuated frame and
features, and placidly resolute in de-
meanor, who has held the same posi-
tion in the opinion of his fellow-men,
or, it may be, has occupied the same
bench on the Sunday quietly for twenty
years or more ? He is a specimBn of
the extreme type of dreamers— ven-
erative, mystical, and benevolent ; but
to all appearance practically useless,
helpless, and inert. Viewed physio-
logically, these men are chiefiy fair-
haired and of the nervous lymphatic
temperament ; sometimes this is com-
bined with the bilious temperament,
and in such cases (to some of which
we shall have more particularly to
allude) they become remarkable cha-
racters. It has been said that the
religion natural to dreamers is a mild
rbrm of Buddhism ; but this is pro-
bably because most Buddliists are
dreamers and mystics in the highest
degree. One thing is certain, dream-
ers are in politics either conservative
or Utopian, and in religion are little
disposed either to reject what they
have been taught or to influence others
to do BO. It tney have been educated
as Catholics, mild and devout Catholics
they live and die ; if as Protestants,
they are unusually gentle and tolerant,
and oppose alike reforms that would
be innovations, and innovations that
would be reforms. A man who lives
by faith, thus resting on the invisible,
has at times an apparent resemblance
to a dreamer It is not our object in
this paper to point out the distinction,
wide as it indeed is. Dreamers are
the subject of wonderful anecdotes
about their absence of mind: it is re-
lated of them that they forget their
meals, start on a journey without their
hats, walk with their eyes wide open
over precipices, ride on their walking-
sticks, and are surprised when toll is
not demanded of them for their charger.
There is no occasion to believe all
these preposterous tales, but no doubt
there are many very curious and per-
fectly well-authenticated cases of ab-
straction of mind so entire as to cause
catastrophes both painful and ludicrous.
To these men their real life is their
dream, their working-day is only their
interruption and annoyance. They are
in heart mystics, and only need a cer-
tain activity of brain and speech to
proclaim themselves as such. They
possess great store of happiness within
themselves, owing to their peculiarity
of caring less than others for those
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Of Dreamen and Worker^.
419
substantial and golden rewards which
cause the unrest of the world. They
love the unseen and mysterious better
than the visible and sensuous, and
would in general barter any amount
of distinct and limited reality for in-
definite prospects ; so that the single
sti'eak of wan and dying light, which
sleeps on the edge of the dark horizon,
is more precious to them, as suggest-
ing Infinity, than any view which
could be offered of noble cities or fer-
tile plains. Almost all things are to
them symbolicaL No action is in
their thought simply what it seems to
be ; but 3iere is about every deed
peiformedy circumstance encountered,
or season passed, a secret sense of
omen or prescience, of brightness or
of shadow. Light becomes a senti*
ment calling up images of correspond-
ing radiance and beauty, but especially
perhaps that early morning light which
seems, while yet sleeping, to float in
on the world, as opposed to the fading
colors of departing day. Darkness,
again, sometimes lends a sense of
peril; but more often is peopled by
spirits — a realm of shadows and sha-
dowy delights, all called into being,
moved, governed, and colored by the
dreamer in his dream. The many
gradations between brightness and
gloom have each their especial fasci-
nation for dreamers, who are in this
respect as discriminative and fanciful
as the Jews, who, in olden times, dis-
tinguished two kinds of twilight : the
doves* twilight, or crepusculum of the
day, and ravens' twilight, or the cre-
pusculum of the night. In truth, their
tendency is to behold all actual things
as illusions, and to consider the spirit-
ual and unseen world as the only
true one : thus, in the cloudy mantle
of constant reverie they hide all the
ills and infirmities of humanity, and
slumber in the " golden sleep of hal-
cyon quiet apart from the everlasting
storms of life/' For when a man can
sit calmly on an uncomfortable pole,
like the Indian mystic, and say ^ I
am the Universe, and the Universe is •
me," he has atjtained to the greatest
conceivable height and perfection of
dream-Ufe. From the age of Plato to
our own times dreamers have been
bom perpetually among the sons of
men. St. John is claimed by them as
being the most profound and loving
mystic ever given to the world. There
have been countless others ; we need
not add a list of names; those of
Swedenborg, Boehmen, and Irvmg,
will occur to the memory as represent-
ing one class of dreamers. These
leaders are, as one might predict, re-
garded with the extreme veneration
characteristic of the order. Indeed,
of some it may be chronicled, as it
was of the ancient deities, Bud-
dha, etc., ^ Once a man, now a God !"
In general, dreamers have tenant-
ed onr madhouses rather than filled
our prisons; if, however, they do
commit crimes, they are serious
ones. Religious and political assas-
sinations have been commonly the
fruits of mad dreamers. In the ranks
have been numbered many holy men,
and as a rule they have influenced
mankind rather by the example of
their life and the teaching of their pen
than by busy practical action. Only
certain professions and occupations
are suitable for dreamers. In the
olden times they were poets, shep-
herds, prophets, soothsayers, diviners,
alchemists, rhabdomantists.* In these
days they are by rights clergymen,
authors, poets, philanthropists, and,
j^losophers. If they enter trade
they commonly end in the Gazette ; and
placed in positions of authority, where
severity of discipline has to be ex-
ercised, they are uniformly unsuccess-
ful ; in situations ortrust, they are in-
variably single-hearted and faithful,
but in e^ry place and at all times
they are the most frequent victims of
fraudulent representations and impu-
dent imposture. A certain number of
the priesthood among all nations, gen-
tle, speculative, and saintly men,
♦ /5a/?cJof , a rod ; men who andertook, aod
in certain unenlightened regions do »tiil under-
take, todlBcover welle of water, veins ot miner-
ala, or hidden treasures of money and jewels,
lU means of divining-rods.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
420
Of Dreamers emd Workers.
have been of this order; weaving
their work and their dreams together
into a fair fabric of many colors, which
if it seems to ordinary ejes shadowy
and unsubstantial as the mist, is yet,
like the air, elastic, solid, and capable
of resisting a very heavy pressure.
Idealists are, however, rarely formid-
able in action unless the bilious is
largely transfused in their tempera-
ment. They then become mission-
aries and martyrs; patriots, revolu-
tionists, fanatics; they head revolu-
tions, plan massacres, overthrow mon-
archies, and shatter creeds. Peter
the Hermit, John of Leyden, are ex-
amples of this order.
The workers t)om into the world
are widely different in temperament
and disposition, and antagonistic in
principles, sentunent, and action. They
consist botb of those who work with
their hands alone, and of those who
work up .into a practical form the re-
veries and speculative schemes of the
dreamers. Physiologically viewed,
the extreme type of the worker ex-
hibits most frequently the bullet-shaped
head, square jaw, muscular, thick neck,
large chest development, and elemental
hand, commonly also the sanguine,
sanguine-nervous, or sanguine-bilious
temperament, They have an irresist-
ible propensity to do, to acquire, to
conquer or invade ; they are fertile in
resource, opulent in stratagem, full of
quarrel, and essentially aggressive.
A contest is to them an occasion of
inexplicable delight; and naturally
dedicated to action, they are as unable
to conceive of disappointment as the
other class are to resist that which is
or seems to be their destiny. They
become engineers, manufacturers, mer-
chants, inventors, might]^ hunters,
soldiers, sailors, pioneers, emigrants,
rough-riders, pugilists, smugglers,
aeronauts, acrobats, and celebrated
performers in travelling circuses and
menageries, lion-tamers, snake-charm-
ers, rat-catchers, burglars, thieves, and
highwaymen. They are gamekeepers,
and devote iheir lives to circumvent
and strive in mortal strife with poach-
ers ; or they are poachers, and spend
their days and nights in plotting
against and harassing and threatening
* the gamekeepers. As clergymen they
are most hard-working, zealous and
excellent, but also the most quarrel-
some and intolerant When they
come on to. the earth as younger mem-
bers of the aristocracy, who may
neither dig, trade, nor fight in the ring,
and have not the wherewithal to keep
racehorses and hunters, they enter the
army or navy, and there in times of
peace, when no legitimate outlet pre-
sents itself for the expenditure of these
. energies, they form a very insubordi-
nate and turbulent item of the popuhi-
tion. The lower classes of the work-
ers who cannot get work, then crusade
against the upper classes, who are iu
the same predicament ; and we see the
result in the perpetual placarding in
some journals and newspapers of ^ de-
plorable blackguardism in high life.'*
Three parts out of five, or even a
larger proportion, of the Anglo-Saxon
population are composed of workers
as opposed to dreamers; and the
seething unquiet mass of humanity
known and described by some writers
as our '^ dangerous classes " is almost
entirely recruited from their ranks.
Many centuries ago they were vikings,
pirates, and border robbers; they
scoured the seas, made raids, reived
the cattle, and levied black-mail ; anon
they were crusaders, for though Peter
the Hermit was a dreamer, his follow-
ers were workers ; subsequently they
destroyed monasteries; and in these
days they have made railroads and
abolished the corn-laws. But, never^
theless, the men who firstbuilt churches,
and dwelt in monasteries, and discov-
ered the mysterious agency by which
the engine was to do its work, were
not workers, but dreamers, and wen<
reviled in their day as visionaries and
enthusiasts. Where a dreamer would
have been an alchemist, amodem work-
er finds his mission to be a gold-digger ;
where one is a shepherd, the other will
be a hunter or trapper: — ^the firet
works that he may retire to dream.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Mitedlany.
421
£he seoond dreams how he shall arise
and work.
The dreamers among men select as
mates the workers among women, or
ore (perhaps more often) selected bj
them, and vice versa. It is the old
eternal law of nature — the duality
pervading all things, types, and
classes, man and woman, positive and
negative, matter and spirit, reason and
faith ; and, in spite of the gentle scorn
which dreamers cherish for workers,
and the undisguised contempt with
which workers regard dreamers, so
they will continue to exist side by side
until the day comes when the worker
can work no more, and the dreamer
shall have dreamet' 'br the last time.
MISCELLANY.
The Old Church at Chelsea, England^—
Mr. H. n. Bumell read a paper before
the British Archseological Society lately,
on the Old Church of Chelsea. The
chancel, with the chauntries north and
south of it, are the only portions of an-
cient work left. The north chauntry,
called the Manor Chauntry, once con-
tained the monuments of the Brays,
now in very imperfect condition, hav-
ing been destroyed or removed to make
space for those of the Gervoise family.
There remains, however, an ancient
brass in the floor. Of the south, or
3Iore Chauntry, he stated that the mon-
ument of Sir Thomas More was re-
moved from it to the chancel ; and the
chauntry had been occupied by the
monuments of the Georges family, now
also removed, displaced, and destroyed.
Mr. Blunt showed that, notwithstanding
the current contrary opinion, founded
on Aubrey's assertion, the More monu-
ment is the original one for which Sir
Thomas More himself dictated the epi-
taph. Mr. Bumell, the architect of the
improvements effected subsequently to
1857, spoke positively as to the non-ex-
istence of a crypt which conjecture had
placed under the More Chauntry. The
foundation of the west end of the
church before it was enlarged in 1666,
he ibund west of Lord Dacre's tomb.
On the north side of the chancel an
aumbrey, and on the south a piscina
was tound, coeval with the chancel
(early fourteenth century). The arch
between the More Chauntry and the
chancel is a specimen of Italian work-
manship—dated 1528— a date confirm-
ed by the objects represented in the
carved ornaments, those objects being
connected with the Roman Catholic
ritual. It is a remarkably early instance
of the use of Italian architecture in this
country. In a window of this chapel,
then partly bricked up, was found in
the brickwork in 1858 remains of the
stained glass which once filled it. The
body of Sir Thomas More was, accord-
ing to Aubrey, interred in this chapel,
and his head, after an exposure of four-
teen days, testifying t# the passers-by on
Londoh Bridge the remorseless cruelty
of Henry VIII. and his barbarous insen-
sibility, was consigned to a vault in St.
Dunstan^s Church, Canterbury. It was
seen and drawn in that vault in 1715. —
JReader,
New Artesian Well in Paris, — ^A third
artesian well is now being added to the
two which Paris' has already. Already
the perforation has reached the depth
of eighty-two metres, being twenty
metres below the sea-level. Before
reaching this point, considerable difii-
cultics had to be overcome in the shape
of intermediate sheets of water, which
form a series of subterranean lakes.
The first of these was kept in its bed
by means of a strong iron tube driven
j>eq)endicularly through it ; that which
followed received wooden palings, and
the subsequent stratum being clay, the
masonry was continued without difii-
culty to about ^yq metres above sea-
level. But at this point a layer of
agglomerations was reached, which let
a great deal of water escape. It thus
became necessary to have again recourse
to pumps : those employed were in the
aggregate of 20 horse-power. Owing
to the bad nature of this stratum, it
was resolved to protect the perforation
by a revetement of extraordinary thick-
ness; and in order that the well might
preserve its diameter of two metres not-
withstanding, the upper part has had
to be widened in proportion, so as to
Digitized by CjOOQIC
422
Jti$ceUany,
give it the enormous width of four
metres at the top. After this labor
the work of perforation was continued
through a stratum of pyrolithic lime-
stone. At the depth corresponding to
the level of the sea, they reached a
layer of tubular chalk, all pierced with
large holes, forming so many spouts, as
thick as a man^s thigh, througn which
water poured into the well with in-
credible velocity. While the pumps
were at work to get rid of this water, a
cylindrical revetement of bricks was
built on a sort of wheel made of oak,
and laid down fiat at the bottom of the
perforation by way of a foundation,
and the intermediate space between
this cylinder and the chalk stratum
was filled with concrete, 47,000 kilos,
of which were expended in this opera-
tion. As soon as the concrete might
be considered to have set, or attained
sufiicient consistency, the brick cylin-
der was taken to pieces again, and the
perforation continued to the pressure
point, where a new sheet of water has
been reached, requiring ingenious con-
trivances. — Artisan,
Neu> Irish Coal Fossils. — ^Through the
labors of Professor Huxley, Dr. E. P.
Wright, and Mr. Brownrig, some very
interesting fossils from the Castlecomer
coal-measures of Co. Kilkenny, Ireland,
have been brought under the notice of
ffeologists. The opecimens consist of
fish, msects, and amphibian reptiles.
Three out of the five forms of these
amphibians are undoultedly new to sci-
ence, and, in all probability, the re-
inaining two also. Tlie first, and most
remarkable genus, Professor Huxley
has named " Ophiderpeton,'*^ having re-
ference to its elongated, snake-like
form, rudimentary limbs, peculiar head,
, and compressed tail. In outward form
Ophiderpeton somewhat resembles Siren
lacertina and Amphiuma, but the ven-
tral surface appears covered with an
armature of minute, spindle-shaped
plates, obliquely adjusted together, as
m ArchcE^osaurus and Photidogaster,
The second new form, which he names
Lepterpeton^ possesses an eel-like body,
with slender and pointed head, and sin-
gularly constructed hourglass-shaped
centra, as in ThecodotUosaunis, The
third genus, which Professor Huxley
names lehtliyerpeUm^ has also ventral
armor, composed of delicate rod-like
osbicles; the hind limbs have three
short toes, and the tail was covered
with small quadrate scutes, or appar-
ently homy scales. The fourth new
amphibian Labyrinthodont he appro-
priately names Keraterpetony a singular
salamandroid-looking form, but minute
as compared with the other associated
genera. Its highly ossified vertebral
column, prolonged epiotic bones, and
armor of overlapping scutes, determine
its character in a remarkable manner.
A paper has been read before the Royal
Irish Academy upon the subject, and,
in the course of the discussion which
followed. Professor Haughton said he
had Professor Huxley's authority for
stating that the coal-pit at Castlecomer
had within a few months afforded more
important discoveries than all the other
coal-pits of Europe. — Geological Maga-
zine,
The 'Aecommodation-Power of the Eye.
— ^The manner in which the human eye
alters its focus for the perception of ob-
jects at various distances nas always
been a diflScult problem for physiolo-
gists and physicists. The literature of
medical science is full of dissertations on
this subject, yet very little, if anything,
is positively known of the exact means
by which the alteration is achieved.
There appears to be now a tendency
among ophthalmolo^sts to believe that
the effect required is produced by an
alteration of the form of the crystalline
lens of the eye, which becomes less or
more convex as occasion demand s. Th is
view has just received a rather strong
condemnation by the Rev. Professor
Haughton, of Trinity CoUpge, Dublin,
in some remarks published in the
" Dublin Quarterly Journal of Science."
Speaking of the alteration of form in
the lens, he says: — **Even this must
take place on a far greater and more
important scale than anatomists have
as yet suspected. The change amounts
to the addition of a double convex lens
of crown glass having a radius of a
third of an inch. Anatomists have not
as yet discovered a mechanism for
changing the shape of the lens sufficient
to produce these results. The lens
should almost be turned into a sphere,
and I know of no ciliary muscles capa-
ble of effecting so great a change."—
Popular Science Eeview,
Petrolevm as a Substitute for Coal, —
Some recent experiments with petrole-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
MUceUany,
428
tim oil used for heating water, gaveTo-
sults fipom which it was estimated that
petrolenm had more than three times
the heating effect of an equal weight of
coal. Mr. Richardson's experiments at
Woolwich, however, gare an evapora-
tion of 13'96 to 18-66 lb. of water, by
one pound of American petroleum ; 9*7
lb. of petroleum being burnt per square
foot of grate per hour. With shale oil
the evaporation was 10 to 10^ lb. of
water per pound of fuel. The evapora-
tive power of good coal may be taken,
for comparison, at 8 to 8} lb. per pound
of fuel. Taking into account the saving
of freight due to the better quality of
the fuel, and the saving of labor in
stoking, it is possible that at some
future time mineral oil may supersede
coal in some of our ocean steamers. —
Frith of Forth Bridge. — Parliamen- -
tary sanction has been obtained for a
bridge over the Frith of Forth, of a
magnitude which gives it great scientific
interest. It is to form part of a con-
necting-link between the North British
and Edinburgh and Glasgow Railways.
Its total length will be 11,755 feet, and
it will be made up of the following
spans, commencing from the south
shore : — ^First, fourteen openings of 100
feet span, increasing in height from 63
to 77 ft. above high-water mark ; then
six opening3 of 150 ft. span, varying
from 71 ft. to 79 ft. above high water
level ; and then six openings of 175 ft.
span, of which the height above high-
water level varies from 76 to 83 ft. ,
These are succeeded by fifteen openings
of 200 ft, span, and height increasing
from 80 ft. to 105 ft. Then come the
four great openings of 500 ft. span,
which are placed at a clear height of
135 ft. above high-water spring tides.
The height of the bridge then decreases,
the largo spans being followed by two
openings of 200 ft., varying in height
from 105 to 100 ft. above high-water;
then four spans of 175 ft., decreasing
from 102 to 96 ft. in height ; then four
openings of 150 ft. span, varying in
height from 95 to 91 feet ; and lastly
seven openings of 100 ft. span, 97 to 93
feet in height. The picra occupy 1,005
feet*in aggregate width. The main
girders are to be on the lattice principle,'
built on shore, floated to their position,
and raised by hydraulic power. The
total cost is estimated at £476,543. — En-
gineeriTVff^ Jan. 5.
Origin of the Diamond. — Contrary to
the usual opinion that the diamond has
been produced by the action of intense
heat on carbon, Herr Goeppert asserts
that it owes its origin to aq[ueou9 agen-
cy. His argument is based upon the
fact that the diamond becomes black
when exposed to a very high tempera-
ture. He considers that its Keptunian
origin is proved by the fact that it has
often on the surface impressions of grains
of sand, and sometimes of cirstals,
showing that it has once been soft.
The Purijieation of Coed- 0a«.— An im-
portant essay on this subject has been
written by Professor A. Anderson, of
• Queen^s College, Birmingham. It re-
flates chiefly to the methods discovered
by the author for the successful removal
of bisulphide of carbon and the sulphu-
retted hydro-carbons by means of the
sulphides of ammonium. By washing
the gas with this compound, a very
large proportion (nearly 35 per cent^
of the sulphur impurities are removeu,
and the illuminating power of the gas,
so far from being diminished, becomes
actually increased. Professor Anderson
records several carefully conducted ex-
periments, all of which prove the truth
of the conclusions at which he has ar-
rived. His method is now in operation
' at the Taunton and other local gas-
works, and is highly spoken of by those
^ who have given it careful consideration.
Paraffine in the Presentation of Fres-
coes. — In Dingier* 8 Journal et Bulletin de
la SociStS Chimique it is stated that pa-
raflSne may be used with advantage for
the above purpose. Vohl coats the pic-
ture with a saturated solution of paraf-
fine in benzole,and,when the solvent has
evaporated, washes the surface with a
very soft brush. Paraffine has this ad.
vantage over other greasy matters — it
does not become colored by time.
Welsn G^oW.— During the year 1864,
we learn from statistics only recently
published^ there were five gold-mines
working m Merionethshire, In these
2,836 tons were crushed, from which
2,887 ozs.of gold,valued at £9,991, were
obtained. This is in excess of the quan-
tity obtained in 1868, which was only
552 ozs.; but it is considerably less than
the production of 1862, when 5,299 ozs.,
. having a value of £20,390, were ex-
tracted.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
421
jfiscettany*
A New Train- Slgnallhg AppiratuB. —
Suadry meclianical contrivances and
improvements in pliUosopliical appara-
tus have been exhibited at the scientific
gatherings of the present season in Lon-
don, attracting more or less of attention,
according to their merits and utility.
Mr. Preece's train-signalling apparatus
for promoting the safety of railway-
travelling, can hardly fail of being in-
teresting to everybody. It is in use on
the South-western Railway, and if prop-
erly used, accidents from collision ought
never to happen; it has the advantage
of being applicable to any number of
stations, which is of importance, con-
sidering how stations are multiplying
in and around the metropolis. Mr.
Preece has a very simple and complete
method of communication between the
signalman and switchman. The latter,
on being informed that trains are wait-
ing to come in, operates on the lever-
handles before him, there being as many
handles as lines of converging railway ;
and these handles are so contrived, that
on moving any one to admit a train, it
locks the others ; so that if the switch-
man should pull at any one of them by
mistake, he cannot move it. He is thus
prevented from admitting two trains at
the same time upon one line of rails,
and thus one of the most frequent oc-
casions of railway accident is avoided.
And besides this, safety is further pro-
moted by a series of small signal-discs,
which start up before the switchman's
eyes at the right moment, and give him
demonstration that he has given the
right j)ull at the right handle.
Action of Liquid Manure on certain
Soils. — Some recent researches on this
point, conducted by Professor Voelcker,
Avcre alluded to by Dr. G. Calvert in his
Canton lecture before the Society of
Arts. In some respects Dr. Voelcker's
conclusions differ from those of Mr. Way.
They are briefly as follows : (1.) That
calcareous, dry soils absorb about six
times as much ammonia from the liquid
manure as the sterile, sandy soil. (2.)
That the liquid manure in contact with
the calcareous soil becomes much rich-
er in lime, whilst during its passage
through the sandy soil it becomes much
poorer in this substance. (3,) That the
calcareous soil absorbs much more pot-
ash than the sandy soil. (4) That
chloride of sodium is not absorbed to
any considerable extent by either soil,
(p.) That both soils remove most of the
phosphoric acid from the liquid. (6.)
That the liquid manure, in passing
through the calcareous soil, becomes
poorer, and in passing through the
sandy soil becomes richer in silica.
The Value of 8&wage,—Thia import-
ant question, which has bten so ably
discussed by Baron Liebig in his vari-
ous works upon Agricultural Chemis-
try, had a paper devoted to it by Dr.
Gilbert at a late meeting (February 1st)
of the Chemical Society. After enter-
ing into the details of hid subject, the
author draws the following general con-
clusions : 1st It is only by the liberal
use of water that the r^se matters of
lar^ populations can be removed from
their dwellings without nuisance and
injury to health. 2d. That the dis-
charge of town sewage into rivers ren-
ders them tmfit as water supplies to
other towns, is destructive to fish, causes
deposits which injure the channel, and
emanations which are injurious to
health, is a great waste of manurial
matter, and should not be permitted.
3d. That the proper mode of both puri-
fying and utilizmg sewage-water is to
apply it to land. 4th. That, consider-
ing the great dilution of town sewage,
its constant daily supply at all seasons^
its greater amount in wet weather, when
the land can least bear, or least requires
more water, and the cost of distribu-
tion, it is best fitted for application to
grass, which alone can receive it the
year round, though it may be occasion-
ally applied with advantage to other
crops within easy reach of the line or
area laid down for the continuous ap-
plication to grass. 6th. That the di-
rect result of the general application of
town sewage to grass land would be an
enormous increase in the production of
milk (butter and cheese) and meat,
whilst by the consumption of the grass
a large amount of solid manure, appli-
cable to arable land and crops general-
ly, would be produced. 6th. Tnat the
cost or profit to a town of arrange-
ments for the removal and utilization
of its sewage must vary greatly, accord-
ing to its position and to the character
of the land to be irrigated ; where the
sewage can be conveyed b^ gravitation
and a sufficient tract of smtable land is
available, the town may realize aprofit ;
but, under contrary conditions, it may
have to submit to a pecuniary loss to
secure the necessary sanitary advan-
tages.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
New PubUcixUom.
425
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
The Peikcifleb of Biologt. By Her-
bert Spencer. New York: Apple-
ton & Co. 1866, Vol. I. 12mo. Pp.
475.
We have omitted the long list of
works of which Herbert Spencer is the
author, works of rare ability in their
way, but essentially false in the philo-
sophical principles on which they are
based. Mr. Herbert Spencer is naturally
ODC of the ablest men in Great Britain,
far superior to the much praised Buckle,
and equalled, if not surpassed by John
Stuart Mill, now member of Parliament.
We have heretofore considered him as
])clongizig to the positivist school of.
philosophy, founded by Auguste Comte,
and the ablest man of that school ; able,
and less absurd than eyen M. Littr6. But
in a note in the work before us he dis^
claims all affiliation with Positivism,
declares that he does not accept M.
Comte^s system, and says that the gen-
eral principles in which he agrees with
that singular man, he has drawn not
from him, but from sources common to
them both. This we can easily believe,
for in the little we have had the patience
to read of M. Oomte's unreadable works
we have found nothing original with
him but his dryness, dulness, and weari-
somcness, in which if he is not original,
he is at least superior to most men. Yet
we have not been able to detect any
essential difference of doctrine or prin-
ciple between the Frenchman and the
Englishman, and to us who are not pos-
itivists, M. Oomte, M. Littr6, George H.
Lewes, Herbert Spencer, John Stuart
Mill, Miss Evans, and Harriet Martineau
belong to one and the same school.
It IS but simple justice to Herbert
Spencer to say that he writes in strong,
manly, and for the most part classical
English, and has made himself master
of the best philosophical style that W6
have met with in any English or Ameri-
can writer. He understands, as far as
a man can with his principles, the phi-
losophy of the English tongue, and
writes it with the freedom and ease of
a master, though not always with per-
fect purity. He must have been a hard
student, and evidently is a most labor*
ious thinker and industrious writer.
But here ends, we are sorry to say, our
commendation. It is the misfortune,
perversity, or folly of Herbert Spencer
to spend his life in attempting to obtain
or a€ least to explain effects without
causes, properties without substance,
and phenomena without noumena or
being. In his Principles of PhUoaophy^ he
divides the real and nnreal into the
knowable and the unknowable, with-
out explaining, however, how the hu-
man mind knows there is an unknowa-
ble; and to the unknowable he relegates
the principles, origin, and causes of
things ; that is, in plain English, the
principles, origin, and causes of things,
are unreal at least to us, and are not
only unknown, but absolutely unknow-
able, and should be banished as subjects
of investigation, inquiry, or thought.
Hence the knowable, that to which all
science is restricted, includes only phe-
nomena, that is to say, the sensible or
material world.
Biology, which is the subject of the
volume before us, is the science of life,
but on the author's principles, is neces*
sarily confined to the statement, descrip-
tion, and classification of facts, or phe-
nomena of organic as distinguished trom
inorganic matter. He can admit on his
philosophy no vital principle, but must
explain the vital phenomena without it,
by a combination, brought about no-
body knows how, of chemical, mechan-
ical and electric changes, forces, action,
and reaction — as if there can be changes,
forces, action, or reaction where there is
no relation of cause and effect 1 But
after all his labor, and it is immense, to
show what chemical, mechanical, and
electric changes and combinations, bi-
nary, tertiary, etc., are observed in a liv-
ing subject, he explains nothing ; for life,
while it lasts, is neither mechanical,
chemical, nor electrical, but to a certain
extent resists and counteracts all these
forces, and the human body falls com-
pletely under their dominion only when
It has ceased to be a living body, when
by chemical action it is decomposed,
jtnd returns to the several elements from«
"which it was formed. Mr. Spencer de-
scribes very scientifically the entire pro-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
426
New PuSUcatums.
cess of assimilation ; but what is that
living power within that assimilates the
food we. eat and converts it into chyle,
blood, and flesh and bone? Tou see
here a principle operating of which no
clement is found in mechanics, chem-
istry or electricity, or any possible com-
bination of them. The muscles of my
arms and shoulder may operate on me-
chanical principles in raising my arm
when I will to raise it; but on what
mechanical, chemical, or electric prin-
ciples do I will to raise it ? Tha^t I
will to raise it, and in willing to do
so perform an immaterial act, I know
better than you know that " percussion
produces detonation in sulphide of ni-
trogen," or that ** explosion is a pro-
perty of nitro-mannite," or ** of nitro-
glycerine."
The simple fact is that the physical
sciences are all good and useful in their
place, and for purposes to which they
are fitted; but they are all secondary
sciences, and without principles higher
than themselves to give dialectic vali-
dity to their inductions, they are no
sciences at all. ff There is no approach
to the science of life in Herbert Spen-
cer^s Biology ; there is only a painfully
elaborate statement of the principal ex-
ternal facts which usually accompany
it and depend on it. • Indeed, we had
the impression that our most advanced
physiologists, while admitting in their
place chemical and electric forces as ne-
cessary to the phenomena of organic
Ufe, had abandoned the attempt to ex-
pound the science of physiology on
chemical, electric or mechanical princi-
ples, or any possible combination of
theuL' Even Dr. Draper, if he makes
no great use of it in his physiology,
recognizes a vital principle, even an
immaterial soul, in man. We had also
the impression that the medical pro-
fession were abandoning the chemical
theory of medicine, so fashionable a few
years ago. W^ may be wrong, but as
far as we have been able to keep pace
with modern science, Mr. Spencer is a
quarter of a century behind his age.
The chapter on genesis, generation,
multiplication, or reproduction, is as
unscientific as it is unchristian. We
merely note that the author insists on
metagenesis as well as parthenogenesis,
that is, that the offspring may differ in
kind from the parents, and that there
are virgin, or rather, sexless mothers.
Some years ago, in conversing with a
scientific friend, I ventured to deny
this alleged fact, on the strength of the
theological and scriptural doctrine that
every kind produces its like. He laugh-
ed in my face, and brought forward
certain well-known facts in the repro-
duction of the aphid or cabbage-louse.
I assured him that if he would take the
pains to observe more closely he would
find that his metagenesis and partheno-
genesis are only different stages in the
entire process of the reproduction of the
aphid. Of coarse he did not believe a
word of it ; but a few days afterwards he
came and informed me that he had seen
his friend. Dr. Bumham of Boston, a
naturalist of rare sagacity, who told
him that naturalists were wrong in
asserting metagenesis in the case of
aphides. ** I nave," said he, " been
making my observations for some year^
on these little oiganisms, and I find
that what we have taken for metagenesis
is only the different stages in the pro-
cess of reproduction, for I have discov-
ered the young aphid properly formeil
and enveloped in the so-called virgin
or sexless mother." The naturalist i.s
dead, but his friend, my informant, is
living.
We have no space to enter into any
detailed review of this very elaborate
volume. It contains many curious ma-
terials of science, but the author rgects
creation, generation, formation, and em-
anation, and adopts that of evolution.
Life is evolved from various elements
which are reducible to gases, and, upon
the whole, he gives us a gaseous sort of
life. His theory seems to be that of
Topsy, who declared she didn't come,
but growed. We cannot perceive that
Mr. Herbert Spencer has made any se-
rious advance on Topsy. The universe
is evolution, and evolution is growth,
and he must say of himself with Topsy,
"I didn't come, I growed." At any
rate, he must be classed with those old
philosophers who evolved all thing^s
from matter, some from fire, some
from air, and some from water, and
made all things bom from change
or corruption; or rather, with Ep-
icurus, who evolved all from the
fortuitous motion, changes, and com-
bination of atoms. Those old philo-
sophers were unjustly ridiculed by Her-
mias, or our recent philosophers have
less science than they imagine. Verily,
there is nothing new under the sun, and
false science only traverses a narrow
Digitized by CjOOQIC
New PttbUeatums.
427
circle, constantly coming round to the
absurdities of its starting point. Yet
Herbert Spencer^s book has profited us.
It has made us feel more deeply than
ever the utter impotence of the greatest
man to explain anything in nature,
without recognizing God and creation.
The CimisTiAiT ExAMiKBa. May, 1866.
The first volume of the new series
of this periodical is completed in the
present number, and, we suppose, is a
fair specimen of the way in which we
may expect to see its programme carried
out On the whole, our expectations
are quite well satisfied, particularly with
the present number. The first article,
"The Unitarian Movement," is an ex-
pose of the view taken by the con-
ductors of the infiuence which the Uni-
tarian movement is expected to exert
upon the future destiny of Christendom
and the civilized world. The Unitarian
movement is supposed to represent the
generally diffused and accepted theo-
logy of the mass of thinking persons in
the Protestant world, especially of those
who give tone to literature, and are
most active in promoting science, art,
culture, civilization, and process in
general. The Catholic Church is a sect,
because separated from the scientific
and progressive movement. The Uni-
tarian denomination is a useful little
institution in a small way, but is not
expected to absorb other bodies into
itself. Hather it and they are exoectcd
to coalesce into a more universal K>rm of
organization, which will be the New
Christendom or Church of the Future.
The principal difficulty we find in
the ingenious theories of our Unitarian
friends is, that they assume a great
deal, and prove but little. They as-
sume to be in advance of all the
world in intelligence, science, liberality,
etc., and quietly ignore the whole mass-
ive, colossal fabric of Catholic theology.
The truth is, the Unitarian idea, so far
as it is an idea, and in the way in which
any considerable class of Unitarians re-
present it, is not, and cannot become,
the dominant idea of that portion of
the scientific or civilized world which
has disowned allegiance to the supreme
authority of divine revelation. Nor
can it be shown that the Catholic idea
will not win again the control partially
lost over the intellectual realm. Either
the human race has a purely natural
destiny, or a supernatural one. If
the former, a Trinitarian or Unitarian
Church, a Past, Present, or Future
Church, is not necessary. The State
and Society are the highest and all-suf-
ficient organization of the race. If the
latter, there must be a divinely insti-
tuted organization, possessing contin-
uity of life and fixedness of laws, from
the origin of the race. Our friends
must admit more or give up more.
They are on a road now which will in-
fallibly bring them face to face with
the Catholic Church. We look with
hope to see some of the boldest and
most consistent thinkers of the Uni-
tarians come through into the Catholic
Church by this road, and interpret the
genuine rationalism of Christian doc-
trine to their own people much better
than we can do it. Dr. Brownson has
really demonstrated the whole problem
from their own axioms and definitions,
if they would but attend to him. But
the good Doctor, unfortunately for
them, has travelled over the road in
seven-league boots, so fast and so far,
that it will take at least twenty-five
years for his ancient compeers to come
up with him.
In the review of "Tischendorff's
Plea for the Genuineness of the Gos-
pels," Dr. Hedge has given us an essay
marked with his sound and solid schol-
arship. It is a valuable contribution to
sacred literature, and we would gladly
see volumes of the same sort from his peu.
The sketch of that singular and gifted
person, Francis .Newman, the brother of
Dr. Newman, has great interest. It tells
us something we are very glad to know,
and could not easily have found out
without the help of the .writer. These
are always the most interesting and
valuable articles in reviews. The au-
thor cannot help giving a few passing
cuts at Dr. Newman. Dr. Newman
seems to annoy a great number of peo-
Ele very much. They seem vexed that
e should be a Catholic, and yet extort
from even the unwilling so much hom-
age to his genius. The ** Independent "
calls him renegade and apostate, and
Bishop Coxe's very inharmonious organ,
misnamed the " Gospel Messenger," calls
him " detected thietV* with similar epi-
thets. The " Church Journal " tries to
make believe that his letter to Dr.
Pusey is a "wail of despair." Our
Unitarian friend is too much of a gen-
tleman to indulge in such boorish de-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
428
New Publications.
mcanor, but still be cannot suppress a
well-bred sneer. " What has Dr. New-
man ever done for God's humanity?
Has the oppression of the English
masses ever weighed upon his heart?
Has he ever lifted up his voice in behalf
of our down-trodden little ones ? Has
he ever thought of saving men from the
great hell of iterance and superstition,
or are these the safeguards of his pre-
cious faith ? We have a right to judge
of that faith by its fairest fruit. Expme
Dr. Newman's conversion seems, in
the eyes of Protestants, to have such a
tremendous moral weight, and to carry
such a force of argument in it for the
truth of the Catholic Church, that they
are obliged to deny in ' some plausible
way either his intellectual or moral
greatness, in order to escape from it.
Does not the author of these sentences
know well, that if the Catholic Church
and her clergy were taken away from the
masses and the poor, they would perish
in ignorance and vice while he and his
companions were discussing their plans
and estimates for the church of the
paulo-post future ? Does he not know
that Dr. Newman and a multitude of
other gifted men like him are preach-
ing and working every day among the
poorest of the people, while Unitarian
clergymen are ministering to select and
intelligent congregations? Does ho
know what St. Peter Claver did for the
negroes, and can he point to any Pro-
testant who has done the like? A
little more of Dr. Newman's own con-
scientiousness in « speech would do no
harm to some of his critics.
The article on "Bushnell onYicarious
Sacrifice" is ably and fairly written,
and all the writer's positive views are
compatible with Catholic doctrine. He
commits the gresLt faux pas, howevej, of
ignoring all the post-reformation theo-
logy of the Catholic Church, and speak-
ing as if theological science were con-
fined to Protestants. He appears aUo
to be unaware that Catholic theologians
commonly teach, after St. Augustine,
that God was not bound by his justice
to exact condign satisfaction as the
condition of pardoning sin, but was
free to pardon absolutely. It was more
glorious both for God and man that
this pardon should be accorded as the
fruit of the noblest and most perfect act
of merit possible, rather than given
gratuitously.
*^ An American in the Cathedrala of
Europe " is an article full of the genuine
and pure sentiment with which Mr.
Alger's writings abound, and without a
word to mar the pleasure a Catholic
would take in readmg it
The notices of Dr. Hall and of the
University of Michigan have each their
interest and value, and the literary
criticisms are, as usual, in good taste.
The Apostleship op Praykr. By the
Rev. H. Rami^re, of the Society of
Jesus. Translated from the latest
French edition and revised by a
Father of the Society. 12mo, pp.
893. John Murphy & Co., Baltimore.
1866.
A most excellent and thorough trea-
tise on prayer. The spirit and intention
of the rev. author are best gained from
a perusal of the introduction, which
warms one's heart and gives a new and
stronger impulse to every hope and de-
sire which the Christian reader may
have for the greater glory of God. TVo
cannot, however, entirely agree with the
gloomy and discouraging view which
IS taken of the success of Christianity in
the world. Christianity is not, nor has
it ever been, a failure ; and it is some-
thing to which wo cannot subscribe
when the author attributes " apparent
barrenness" to the incarnation, and
"comparative uselessncss" ^o the prec-
ious blood of our Lord Jesus Christ,
Neither do we think it suffices to answer
the infidel, " Who hath aided the Spirit
of the Lord, or who hath been liis coun-
sellor and taught him ?" when he points
us to the great portion of the world yet
unchristianized. And if prayer be good,
both individual and associated ; if it
be absolutely necessary, as it is in the
Christian economy; if it be, as it were,
the soul which gives life to every work
of the Christian ; still we do not imag-
ine that of all the means of grace this
alone deserves our earnest thought or
demands our undivided attention.
"We are not called upon, in any sense,
to apologize for Christianity. It is not
worthy of us as men of strong faith to
treat of religion as though it were a
subject that needed to bo excused in
the face of the unbeliever, or which
humbly supplicates the notice of tlie
philosopher and the statesman. The
truly great minds which have not pro-
fessed Christianity have sought rather
Digitized by CjOOQIC
TShw PMicaUans.
429
to excuse the world for not submitting
to the force of its arguments and to the
charms of its beauty. Christianity is
no failure, if there b^ anything which
deserves the name of success. What
other institutions can compare with it
for actual and permanent success ? The
propagation of the faith, its preserya<
tion, and its enormous diffusion, may
well put all past, present, and future
worksof man to the blush. What else
is it now, but the great fact of the
world's history and of the world's pres-
ent advanced and civilized state ? We
are not a petty, insi^ificant sect of
thinkers, nor a despicable school of
philosophers, seeking a momentary ac-
knowledgment from the great unchris-
tian world. On the contrary, Christian-
ity rules the world; and all that is
great and noble in humanity, all that
has sanctified the past, sustains the
present, and inspires hope for the fu-
ture ; all that is free, civilized, and en-
lifrhtened in society, depends now for its
lif^, as it has received its seed, from the
divine power and light of the Christian
faith. Truly, we must pray, and that
"without ceasing," for those who are
not of the fold of Christ, and for the
coming of the kingdom of God upon
earth; and any one who peruses the
work before us will feel the depth of
this obligation ; and if he has any real,
practical desire for the salvation and
sanctification of man, will not fail to
be stimulated to constant and earnest
prayer. But have we reflected, as well
as we might, that before men will pray
to God they must first believe in him ?
The man of enlightened faith prays
naturally ; the ignorant and the super-
stitious are noted for their want of con-
fidence in prayer. Prayer is the union
of the soul with God, and the better
God is known, the better is the heart of
man pre]7ared for the influences of the
Holy Spirit^. "Whosoever shall call
upon the name of the Lord shall be
saved. But how shall they call on him
in whom they have not believed ? Or
how shall they believe him of whom
they have not heard ? And how shall
they hear without a preacher?" We
may urge our faithful Christians to pray
for the conversion of the world, and we
may mourn that they do not pray for
this end more than they do ; but what-
soever arms God has placed at our dis-
posal for conquering the world unto
himself, we, like good soldiers of Jesus
Christ, must use them with alacrity,
with zeal, an(}, above all, with that spirit
of sacrifice which out holy faith alone
has the powei to inspire. WMlst we
need not neglect the upostolic manner
of preaching the word of God, we
should also lay to heart the oft-repeat-
ed and wise admonition of the Holy
Father to make diligent use of the
providential means of the press, to dil-
fuse the knowledge of the Christian
faith, and promulgate the saving priii
ciples of strict Christian morality, and
thus prevent defection fix>m the congre-
gation of the just, and enlighten them
that sit in the darkness and in the
shadow of death. The people need
more light, more instruction. Themasses
among non-Catholics are very ignorant
of religion. They are living upon only
the poor remnants of Catholic taith and
tradition which have been left to them
by the ruthless hand of the despoiler.
None have felt this more than the
clergy and enlightened laity of our own
country, where religion is thrown upon
its own merits for support and progress,
and where the hold upon the ancient
Christian tradition is so slight ; hud it
is a happy augury for the conversion of
the American people that these senti-
ments are be^ning to have a practical
and encouraging result. We must make
the truth known, for it is that which
enlightens man. And Christianity is
truth. There is no form of truth so
broad, so exalting, so truly progressive,
so noble and so tree. Men will accept
it when you make it known to them —
accept it with joy, aad a reverent en-
thusiasm. The tone of our remarks
must not be misunderstood as attribut-
ing to the spirit of the work before
us any want of appreciation of the great
needs of which we have spoken, or that
wo think the rer. author displays a
want of confidence in the power of
Christian truth. On the contrary, we
have seldom met with a book so urgent
in earnestness and so fall of faith. We
can only say, in conclusion, God send
the church '^many moro such zealous
souls as the P^rc Rami^e, now that the
harvest is so full and the laborers are
so few.
Repobt ov the Trial op Dr. W.
H. Stokes, Physician, and "Mary
Blbnkinsop, Sister Superior, of
Mount Hope Institution, before
THE Circuit Court for Baltimore
Digitized by CjOOQIC
430
New PMieations.
CoTTNTT. Reported by Eugene L.
Djdier. 8to pamphlet, pp. 202. Bal-
timore : Kelly & Piet. 1866.
The famous Mount Hope case, which
was brought to trial in February last,
ended in a yerdict for the defendants,
and we have here a full report of it.
We trust the projectors of this magnifi-
cent /£«««? are abundantly pleased with
the fruite of their endeavors, although
they seem to have forgotten that, fail-
ing to sustain their indictment, the
odium they sought to fix upon others
would be sure to recoil upon them-
selves. Hence we think that popular
judgment will incline to the belief
that the only conspiracy in the case (if
there be any) was upon the part of the
prosecution. The fact that an attempt
was made to deprive the defbndants of
a plea secured to them by positive law
would rather favor this opinion. We
should be happy to believe that sect-
arian prejudice had nothing to do in
founding this accusation ; but the ani-
mus which prompted it will soon be
apparent to any one who wiTl take the
' trouble to read the charge. The esti-
mable and pious ladies, whose life of
sacrifice in the interests of religion and
humanity has compelled the admira-
tion of the world, are deemed unfit to
undertake their office of charity because
they are women I because they are re-
ligious and governed by a foreign
priest I This tolls the whole story, and
simply means that ladies of the Catho-
lic religion, who choose to unite in a
religious order for the purpose of re-
lieving human suffering, are unworthy
of public sympathy or confidence. We
strongly doubt if all the testimony
sought to be introduced on the trial,
could it have been admitted, would
have materially changed the result.
To say nothing of the equivocal char-
acter of that evidence, as coming from
persons but recently inmates of the in-
stitution, and whose perfect competen-
cy to testify is far from certain, we
know the proneness of those living
under the government and direction of
others to deem themselves the objects
of harsh treatment and neglect. There
is not an establishment of such persons
in the country, not even a common
boarding-school, against which similar
charges are not constantly made. The
well-known character of these admi-
rable sisters and their unwearied efforts
to do good— for the most ^art far re-
moved from human recognition or ap-
plause — afford a strong presumption
that the management of their asylum
will stand the test of rigorous scrutiny.
A case not wholly unlike the present,
got up in a similar spirit, in *Boston,
some years since, under the Know-
Kothinff regime, is doubtless still fresh
in public recollection. Affairs directed
to the same end as this of Mount Hope
are got up from time to time, but they
serve only to arouse feelings which had
much better lie dormant where they
cannot be eradicated, and invoke a
spirit entirely opposed to the plainest
(uctates of Christian charity.
The report of the trial appears to be
very complete, and we commend it to
those who are at all acquainted with
the circumstances of the case, or have
felt any interest in its result.
Christian Missions : Their Agents and
Their Results. By T. W. M. Marshall.
2 volumes. New York: Sadliers,No.
81 Barclay street. Reprint from an
English edition.
It is somewhat late to notice this
valuable work ; but, as the publishers
have recently sent ns a copy, we take the
occasion to recommend it to all who
are desirous of knowing what has been
accomplished both by Catholic and
Protestant missionaries.
Mr. MarshalPs work has attained a
high reputation abroad, and has been
translated into several European lan-
guages. It is very thorough, and its
statements are backed up by a vast
array of citations, chiefly from Protest-
ant writers. Catholic missions form a
beautiful and attractive page of eccle-
siastical history. Their great success
and abundant fruits are demonstrated
beyond a cavil by the author, as they
have been many times before. The ma-
jority of Catholics are too indifferent to
the great work of missions, and ought
to take a deeper interest in them than
they do.
The very signal failure of Protestant
missions as a whole is also proved, by
Mr. Marshall, in such a way that their
advocates cannot rebut his evidence.
Nevertheless, we think there is an un-
necessary amount of satire levelled at
the missionaries themselves, and too
dark a shade given to the picture of
their labors, l^y of them are certain-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
New PiMieaHans.
431
ly men who, if they were Catholic mis-
sionaries, would honor their calling,
and who undertook their hopeless task
from high and worthy motives. They
have accomplished but little, yet their
labors have not been altogether without
results. The same may be said of the
Russian missions. The particular facts
stated by Mr. Marshall concerning the
low state of a large part of the Russian
clergy, the violent means used for enforc-
ing conformity to the Russian Church,
and the imperf^t instruction given to
the ostensible converts, are indubitable.
Yet we believe there are other facts also
to bo taken into the account, which tell
on the other side, and are necessary to a
perfectly correct view of the true state
of the case. A perfectly just balancing
of all the accounts would prove most
conclusively that the Catholic Church
alone is adequate to the task of suc-
cessfully propagating Christianity. Mr.
Marshall has gone very far toward suc-
cess in his effort to make this balance,
and has written with the most perfect
honesty of purpose. Some of his de-
ductions may be open to criticism, and
his array of facts and testimonies may
admit of further completion ; but the
general result which he has reached
cannot be substantially set aside or al-
tered. One particular jportion of his
work is just now especially valuable,
to wit, the estimate ne has furnished
from Protestant writers of the vast su-
periority of Oriental Catkolict over Ori-
ental Schismatics in the Levant
"We recommend this learned and ex-
cellent work to all intelligent readers
as the best and most complete of its
kind which has yet appeared.
The Story op Kennett. By Bayard
Taylor. 12mo., pp. 418. New York:
Hurd & Houghton. 1866.
This is an American story as truly as
the Waverley novels are Scotch. It has
done for Pennsylvania and the Quaker
traditions what Hawthorne has for Mas-
.ftacbusetts and Puritan life and tradi-
tion, and Cooper for Western New York
and the fading reminiscences of Indian
and frontier iQe. The book is redolent
with the sweet aroma of pastoral life,
and that healthy temper and character
which 'are the certain ihiit of honest, in-
dependent, and successful frugality and
toil.
We are grateful to the masters of po-
etry and romance who will seize and
perpetuate the fleeting memories of our
beautiful and noble past, and save for
our children those traditions of danger,
daring, labor, love, and self-sacrifice
which colored with mystery and beauty
the dreams and aspirations of our child-
hood. Mr. Taylor is a man of whom
we are proud. His experience as a
traveller renders his writings more dis-
tinctively American, while they are en-
tirely free from any narrowness or pro-
vincialism. 'He deserves the success
which follows his literary labors. The
book is handsomely got up, as such a
book ought to be.
Agnes. A Novel. By Mrs. Oliphant.
New York : Harper & Brothers.
This is an artistic, highly-finished
story, intensely truthful to nature, yet
sufficiently idealized to give the mind
the enjoyment of appreciating a wor!c
of art. The authoress makes some very
fine points. The contemplation of the
"Visitation" in the Pitti gallery by the
lonely young wife is a beautiful touch
of nature, such as only a woman could
have made.
iNSTRTJCnON AJO) CaTECHISM FOR CON-
FEssio:7. To be used by children
preparing to receive the Sacrament
of Penance. 82mo., pp. 24. New
York- D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1866.
We are sure that this little book
will prove as useful in every re-
spect as the rev. author could de-
sire. There has been an undoubted
want of some such aid to the ordinary
catechism, and every pastor under
whose notice it may come will not
fail to welcome it and avail himself
of it We like it because it is short, to
the point, and written in good plain
English.
Good Thoughts fob Priest akd
People. Translated from the Ger«
man. By Rev. Theodore Noethen.
12mo. Albany. Nos. 1 and 3.
These are the kind of books which
we earnestly desire to see among the
good Catholic books which every fami-
ly ought to have and read. The clergy
will also find these "Good Thoughts"
admirably adapted to their wants, as
famishing suggestive matter for aer-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
432
New Publications.
mons and parochial iosfractions. Its
l}rice, however, will, we fear, defeat its
usefulness in part by confining it to a
comparatively limited circulation.
Mat Carols and Hymns and Posses.
By Aubrey de Vere. 1 vol., 32mo.,
gp. 232. New York : Lawrence Ke-
oc. 1866.
Of the two parts comprised in this
welcome little volume, the longest, and,
to our taste, by all odds the best, is
that originally published in London
under the title of "May -Carols." It is a
serial poem, devoted i)artly to the praises,
of the Blessed Virgin, and in a subordi-
nate degree to the thoughts of natural
beauty suggested by the most joyous and
poetical month of the young year. If it
reminds us frequently of "In Memori-
am," the resemblance cannot be charged
as a plagiarism, and at most is only su-
perficial. There is a Tcnnysonian curt-
ness of phrase, a pregnant significance
and neatness of expression in many of
the lines, which are equally rare and re-
freshing in devotional poetry. Charm-
ingly delicate in execution, and pro-
foundly religious in sentiment, Mr. De
Vere's " Carols" are a valuable addition
to Catholic literature, and will add no
little renown to the author's reputation '
as a poet. The ^' Hymns and Sacred
Poems " have a value of their own for
the thoughts which they contain,
though we cannot accord them the
same praise which we cheerfully render
to the first and larger portion of Mr.
Kehoe's tastefully printed little volume.
In Memoriam op Rt. Rev. John B.
FiTZPATRiCK.' Boston : Patrick Don-
ahoe. 1806.
A neatly executed pamphlet, contain-
ing an account of the funeral obsequies
of the late distinguished and beloved
bishop of Boston, and three funeral dis-
courses : one by Archbishop McCloskey
at the interment, another by Bishop De
Goesbriand at the Month^s Mind, and a
third by the well-known and eloquent
Father Haskins of Boston, delivered in
one of the parish churches. The friends
of the deceased prelate will find in it a
valuable and pleasing memento of the
departed.
The History of Ireland, prom the
Earliest Period to the English
Invasion. By the Rev. Geoffrey Keat-
ing, D.p. Translated from the origi-
nal Gaelic, and copiously annotated
by John O^Mahony, with a map blow-
ing the location of the ancient clans,
and a Topographical Appendix. 8vo.,
pp. 746. New York : James B. Kirker.
1866.
This is a new edition of a translation
of Dr. Keating's Histonr of Ireland,
published in this city a few ycai*s ago.
The original work as it came from the
pen of Dr. Keating has met with both
praise and censure from Irish scholars.
Bome critics have thought the learned
author placed too much faith in the
legends of the ancient Irish. The work,
even if a portion of it must be classified
as "doubtful," is a valuable record of
the deeds of Ireland^s chiefs when she
was a nation. The notes of the trans-
lator are voluminous and critical, and
help to throw much light upon passages
which, to the ordinary reader, are ob-
scure, ♦
We regret that the publisher has seen
fit to leave out the " map showing the lo-
cation of the ancient clans" of Ireland,
which appeared in the first edition pub-
lished by Mr. Haverty. From the word-
ing of the title-page, one would expect
to find it in its proper place. But it is
not there.
Maxwell Drewitt. A Novel. By F.
G. Trafford. Harper & Brothers.
This is an Irish tale, exceedingly well
written, and just and manly in its tone
and sentiment
L. Kchoe announces the early pub-
lication of "Christine, and other
Poems," by George 11. Miles, Esq. The
volume will be brought out in a supe-
rior style of binding and typography,
worthy of the high merit of the poeti*y.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
From Jakcb 0*Kahb, New Tork. Betsey Jane Ward,
(better half to Artemus) her Book of Qoaks wiUi
a hull Akkownt of the Ooartship and Martdge tn
A 4 Said Artemus, and Mister Ward's CuttlnK-u;>
with the Momon fere Seeks wlUi Piktuni drawcl
by MrB. B. Jane WarxL 12mo, pp a] 2.
From tlje Axrricam News Compasy. Doctor Kemp.
The Story of a Ufe with a Blemish. 8vo, nam-
plileU
Prom D, k J. Sadlteb St Co., New York. No«. IS,
14, is, 16, and 17 of D*Artaod's Lives of the
Popes.
From the offioeof tlie AvB Maria, Notre Dame, In-l.
Specimen sheet of the Golden Wreath for the
month of May, composed of dally conaideratloni
on the Triple Crown of our Blessed Lady'« Ji>vs
sorrows, and glories. With Uymns set to Music
for May devotions.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
TDL. nX, NO. 16^-JULT, 1866.
[QBIOQfiJL]
THE NEAREST PLACE TO HEAVEN."^
Thesb are some places in this
vorld nearer to heaven than others.
I know of a place which I think is the
nearest Whether 70a may think so
I do not bow, hut I wonld like 70a
to see it and judge for 7oarself.
Please to go to France, then to Paris ;
then take a walk a little distance out^
aide of the Barriere de Vau^rard,
and 70a will come to a small village
called Iss7. When 70a have walked
about five minntes along its narrow
and straggling street, which is the
continuation of the Boe de Vaorigard,
70U win see on 7our left a high, ngl7
stone wallf and iP I did not ask jaa to
pull the jangling beU at the porter's
lodge and enter, 70U might pass b7
and think there was nothing worth7
of 7our notice about the place* You
8a7 70U have not time to stop no Wy that
vou haice an appointment to dine at the
H6tel des Princes, in Paris, but that
some other time 70U will be most
happ7, etc Wait a moment, perhaps
I ma7 be able show 70U something
quite as good as a dinner, even at the
Hotel dea Princes. Bing the belL
VOL. m. 28
The sturd7 oaken door seems to open
itself with a click. That is the wa7
with French doors ; but it is the por-
ter's doing. When he hears the bell,
he pulls at a rope hanging in his
lodge, which communicates with the
lock of the door. You are free to
enter. 60 in. But 70U cannot pass
be7ond the porter's lodge without giv*
ing an account of 70urself. You can-
not get into this heavenl7 place without
passing through the porter's review,
an7more than 70U can get into the
real heaven without passing the scm-
tin7 of St. Peter. I hope 70U are able
to satiBf7 the "Eht b'en, M'sieu'?"
of good old pere Hanicq, who is porter
heie. He is a phre^ joa understand,
b7 the title of affection and respect,
and not b7 virtue of ordination. You
ma7 not tiiink it worth 70ur while to
be over humble and deferential in 70ur
deportment towards porters as a gen-
eral rale ; but I think 7on ma7 be so
now ; for, if I do not mistake, 70U are
speaking to a venerable old man who
will die in the odor of sanctit7. Pere
Hanicq is not paid for his services,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
484
The Nearest Place to Heaveru
troublesome and arduous as you would
very sooa find his to be if you were
porter even here. He is porter for
the love of God. You see he does
not stop making the rosary, which is
yet unfinished in his hand, while he
talks to you. He does not recompense
himself by that business either, as
shoemaker porters, tailor porters, and
the like eke out their scanty salaries ;
but it enables him to find some well-
earned sous to give away to others
poorer than himself. You say this
lodge is not a very comfortable place,
with its cold brick fioor. It is not.
Neither is that narrow roost up the
step-ladder a very luxurious bed.
Right again, it is not. But the Fere
Hanicq is not over particular about
these things. Besides, he is not worse
off in this respect than the hundred
other people who live in this place
nearest to heaven. Indeed, most of
them have a much narrower and
drearier apartment than his. Now
that yoU have said a pleasant word to
the good old soul, (for he dearly loves
a kindly salutation, and it is the only
imperfection I think he has,) you may
pass the inner door, and you observe
that you are in a square courtyard, a
three-story irregularly shaped building
occupying two sides of it ; stables and
outhouses a third, and the street wall
the fourth. Before you go further, I
would advise you to look into one of
those tumble-down looking outhouses.
It looks something like a rag and
bottle shop. It is a shop, and the
Almoner of the poor keeps it Here
the residents of these buildings may
find bargains in old odds and ends of
second-hand, and it may be seventy
times seventh-hand furniture, either
left or cast off by former occupants.
Here the Almoner, — that voluble and
sweet tempered young man in a long
black cassock, — disposes of these ar-
ticles of trade, enhancing their value
by all the superlatives he can remem-
ber, for the benefit of certain old
crones and hobbling cripples, whom
perhaps you saw on the right of the
courtyard receiving soup and other
food from another young man in a
long black cassock, who is the Al-
moner's assistant. You don't know it,
perhaps, but I can tell you that the
Almoner's assistant, as he ladles out
the soup and divides the bread and
meat, is mentally going down on his
knees and kissmg the ragged and
worn-out clothes of these old bodies
whom he helps, for the sake of Him
whom they represent, and who will
one day say to him: "Because you
did it unto the least of these my
brethren, you did it unto me."
Now you may go into the house,
after you have been struck with the
fact how completely that high stone
wall shuts out the noise of the street.
You say, however, that you hear a
band playing. Yes ; that comes from
an " Angel Guardian " house over the
way, like Father Haskins's house in
Boxbury, Massachusetts (there ought
to be angels, you know, not far off
from the nearest place to heaven),
where the " gamins," as the Farisians
call them, — the " mudlarks " or " dock
rats," as we call them, — are taken
care of, fed, clothed, instructed, and
taught an honest trade, also for the
love of Him who will one day say to
the Fere Bervanger and to Father
Haskins what I have before said about
the Almoner's assistant.
Well, here is the hqjise. This is
the first story, half underground on
one side, and consequently a little
damp and dingy. Here to the right
is the Frayer HalL This has a wood-
en floor, (a rare exception,) wooden
seats fixed to the wainscoting, and
here and there a few benches made
of plain oak slabs, which look as if
they had lately come out of one of our
backwoods saw-mills. A large cruci-
fix hangs on the wall, and a table is
near the door, at which the one who
reads prayers kneels. The "ninety-
nine others kneel down 'anywhere on
the bare floor, without choosing the
softest spot, if there be any such.
Those portraits hanging around the
walls represent the superiors of a
community of men who are entrusted
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Nearest JHace to Heavtn.
435
mth the goardianship of this place
nearest to heaven. The most of those
facesy as 70a see, are not very hand-
some, as the world reckons huidsome,
but I assure 70a they make up for
that by the beauty of their souls. The
mornmg prayers are said here at half-
past five the year round, followed by
a half hour's meditation, and the even-
lug prayers at half-past eight. The
hundred residents come here too just
before dinner, to read a chapter of the
New Testament on their knees, de-
voutly kissing the Word of Grod before
and after reading it; and then each
one silently reviews the last twenty -
four hours, and enters into account
with himself to see how much he has
advanced in that particular Chnstian
virtue of which his soul stands the
most in need. It is a good prepara-
tion for dinner, and I would advise
you to try it, even if you cannot do it
on your knees. It is a perfect toilette
for the souL Here also you will find
the afbre-mentioned hundred people at
half-past six o'clock, just before sup-
per, listening to a short reading ou
some spiritual subject, followed by a
sort of conference given by the Supe-
rior, or head of the house, so full of
unction and sweet counsel that it fairly
lifts the heart above all earthly things,
and seems to hallow the very place
where it is spoken.
Turn now to the left;. That door
in the comer opens into a chapel
dedicated to St. Francis of Assisi.
Here the Pore Hanicq and the few
servants of the house hear mass
every morning, and begin the day
with the beat thought I know of, the
thought of God. Keepmg stiU to the
left you pass into the Becreation
Hall; and if this be recreation day,
yon will see congregated here the
liveliest and happiest set of faces that
it has ever been your good for-
tune to meet in this world. Billiards,
backgammon, chess, chequers, and
other games more simple and amus-
ing in their character, are here ; and
I can teU you that they are like a
group of merrj children playing and
amusing themselves before their heav-
enly Father. You might pass the re-
creation* days here for many a year
before you would hear an angry
word, or a cuttmg retort, or witness a
jealous frown or a sad countenance.
Notice that smiling old gentleman
with a bald head capped by the black
calotte. That is the Pere T . He
is very fond of a game of billiards,
and I know he loves to be on the win-
ning side; the principal reason of
which, however, you may not divine,
but I know : it gives him a chance to
pass his cue to some one who has
been beaten, and obliged to retire.
And many learn by that good old
father's example to do the same
kind and charitable act ; and, take it
all in all, I am inclined to think this
room is not much further off from
heaven than many other places about
this dear old house.
Of course everybody is talking
here, except the chess-players, and
at such a rate, that it is quite a din ;
but hark ! a bell rings : all is instant-
ly silent, the games are stopped, the
very half-finished sentence is clipped
in two, and each one departs to some
assigned duty. They are taught that
the bell which regulates their daily
exercises is the voice of God, and
that when he calls there is nothing
else worthy of attention. I have no
doubt thev are right : have you ?
There is one other place to visit on
this ground floor, the Refectory. A
long stone-fioored hall with two rows
of tables on either side, and one at
the upper end where sits the head of
the house, a high old-fashioned pulpit
on one side, the large crucifix on the
wall, and that is the Refectory. It
looks dark and cold, and so it is;
dark, because the windows are small
and high ^ and cold, because there is
no stove or other heating apparatus —
a want which may also be felt in the
other rooms you have visited; and
as the wmdows are left open for air
some time before these rooms are oc-
cupied, it must be confessed there is a
rarity and keenness about the atmos-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
436
The NeareH Place to Heaven,
phere, and a degree of temperature
about the cold stones ia mid-winter,
which are not pleasant to delicately
nourished constitutions. No conversa-
tion ever takes place in the refectory
CKcept on recreation days, or on the
occasion of a visit from the Arch-
bishop of Paris. At all other times
thefe is reading going on from the
pulpity either from the Holy Scripf^
ture or some religions book, which
enables the listeners to free their
minds from too engrossuig an atten-
tion to the more sensufd business of
eating and drinking: not that their
plain and frugal table ever presents
very strong temptations to gourman-
dize!
As you are American, and accus-
tomed to your hot coffee or strong
English black tea, with toast, eggs,
and bee&teak for breakfast, I fear
the meal which these hundred young
men are making off a little coldi;/n or-
dinairey well tempered with colder wa-
ter, and dry bread, during the short
space of twelve minutes, (except dur-
ing Lent and on other fiist days, when
they do not go to the refectory at aJl
before twelve o'clock,) will appear ex-
ceedingly frugal, not to say hasty.
You observe, doubtless, that short as
is the time allotted to breakfast, near-
ly every one is reading in a book
while he is eating. Do you wish to
know the reason? I will tell yoii.
It is not to pass away time, but to
make use of every moment of time
that passes. None in the world are
more alive to the shortdess and the
value of time than the hundred young
men before you. Every moment of
the day has its own aUotted duty ; and
when there is an extra moment, like
this one at breakfast, when two things
can be done at once, they do not fail
to make use of it They take turns
with each other in the duty of waiting
on the tables, except on Good Friday,
when the venerable Superior, and no
less venerable fathers, who are the
teachers of these young men, don the
apron, and serve out tiie food proper
in quantity and quality for that day.
Now that you have seen the first
story, you may *' mount,*' as the French
say, to the second. If you have not
been here before, I warn you to obtain
a guide, or amidst the odd stairways
and rambling corridors you may lose
your way. This is the chapel for the
daily Mass. It is both plain and clean,
and you will possibly notice nothing
particular in it save the painted beams
of the ceiling, the only specimen of
such ornament, I think, in the whole
house. It is there a long time, for this
is a very ancient building, having onoe
been the country-seat of Queen Mar-
garet of Anjou ; and this little chapel
may have been one of her royal recep-
tion-rooms for all you or I know.
Hither, as I have said, come the
young Levites to assist at the daily
sacrifice. I believe I have not told
you before that this is a hoyse of re-
treat fix)m the world of prayer and of
study for youthful aspirants to the
priesthood of the Holy Church. I do
not know what impi*essiqn it makes
upon you, but the sight of that kneeling
crowd of young men in their cassocks
and winged surplices, absorbed in
prayer before the altar at the early
dawn of day, when the ray of the
rising sun is just tinging the tops of
the trees with a golden light, and the
open windows of the littie chapel ad-
mit the sound of warbled music of
birds, and the sweet perfumes from the
garden just below, enamelled with fiow-
ers,is to me a scene higher than earth
often reveals to us of heaven's peace
and n^t devotion in God. Mass is
over now, and you may go, leaving
only those to pray another half hour
who have this morning received the
Holy Communion.
A]\ these rooms which yon see here
and there, to the right and to the left,
are the cells of the Seminarians, about
eight by fifteen feet in sLm, and large
enough for their purposes, though cer-
tainly not equal to your cosy study at
home in America, or to the grand salon
joa have engaged at the H6tel des
Princes. As you are a visitor, perhaps
youmaygoinandlookatone. Thereis
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Necarest Plaeg to ffeaveru
437
no viBidng each other's rooms among
the joung men themselves at any time,
save for charity's sake when one is ilL
An iron bedstead, with a straw bed, a
table, a choir, a crucifix, a vexing old
clothes-press, whose drawers won't
open except by herculean efforts, and
when open have an equally stubborn
fashion of refusing to be closed; a
broom, a few books, paper, pen and
ink, a pious picture or statue, and you
have the full inventory of any of these
rooms. As they need no more, they
have no more: a rule of life tliat might
make many a one of us far happier
than we are, tortured by the care of a
thousand and one things which con-
sume our time, worry the mind, and
are not of the slightest possible utility
to ourselves, and the cause, it may be,
of others' envy and discomfort. I am
aware that, as you pass along the cor-
ridors, you think it is vacation time,
or that every one is absent just now
from their rooms, all is so silent. But
wait a moment* Ah! the bell again.
Presto! Every door flies open, and
the corridor is alive with numbers of
the young men going off to a class or
to prayers. Now that they are gone,
Suppose you peep into* one of the
rooms again; that is, if some new-
comer, not yet having learned the rule
to the contrary, has left the key in his
door. Ah I ho was just writing as the
bell rang; the pen is yet wet with ink.
Pardon ! I do not intend that you shall
read what he has written, but you may
see that he has actually left his paper
not only with an unfinished sentence,
but even at a half formed letter. That
is obedience, my friend, to the voice of
God, which I have already told ycAi is
recognized in the first stroke of that *
belL I suppose you may read the in-
scription he has placed at the foot of
his crucifix, since it is in plain sight.
'^ I sat down under the shadow of my
Well-Beloved, whom I desired, and his
(hut was sweet to my palate." (Cant,
ii. S.) Yes, you are right. It is a
good motto for one who has sacrificed
every worldly enjoyment for the sake
of that higher and pnrer joy, the love
of Jesus crucified. Tou are noticing,
I perceive, that everything looks veiy
neat and clean, that the bed is nicely
made, and what there is, is in order.
They have tidy housekeepers, you say,
here. So they have, and a large num-
ber of them, too,*-one to each room —
the Seminarian himself.
I think you may "mount" another
stairway now — when you find it — to the
^ third story. I just wish you to step
into that door on the right. It is the
Chapel of St Joseph; and if you hap-
pen to enter here afler night prayers
you will see a few of the young men
kneeling before the altar, over which
is a chfiLrming little painting represent-
ing the Blessed Virgin and St Joseph
holding the Child Jesus by the hand.
They come to pay a short visit in
spirit to the Holy Family before retir-
ing to rest "Beautifiil thought!"
I believe you. I see your eyes are a
little dimmed by tears. What is the
matter? **0h! nothing; only I was
thinking that by coming up a few more
steps in this house, one has mounted a
good many steps nearer heaven."
Not ready to go ? Oh I I understand,
you wish to pay a little visit yourself
to the Holy Family. Good. Now,
along this corridor, around this comer,
down that stairway which seems to '
lead nowhere, — take care of your
head ! — through those doors, and you
are in a much larger chapel. All fin-
ished in polished oak, as you see, with
a bright waxed floor. The seminari-
ans sit in those stalls which run along
the whole length of either side of the
chapeL Here, on Sundays and festi-
vals, they come to celebrate the divine
offices of the Church. I wish you
could hear them responding to each
other in the solemn Gregorian chant.
Listen ; they are singing, and only to
and for the praise of God, for no
strangers are admitted, so there is no
chance for the applause of men. Pos-
sibly you may be sharp-eyed enough
to note those mantling cheeks and de-
tect the thrill of emotion in their
voices as the swelling chorus fills the
whole builduig with melody. Truly,
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77m Neareit Place to Heaven
I wonder not that you are moYed, for
the soDg of praise rises amid the clouds
of grateful incense from chaste lips,
and from pure hearts given in the
flower and spring-time of life to Grod
alone. I can teU you, that whether
dieir Yoices are singing the mournful
cadence of the Kyrie, the exultant
sentences of the Gloria, the imposing
chant of the Credo, the awe-struck ex-
clamations of the Sanctus,or the plaint-
ive refrain of the Agnus Dei; or
whether they respond in cheerful
notes to the salutations of the sacrific-
ing priest at the Altar, one other song
their hearts are always singing here :
^Lsetatus sum in Kis qua dicta sunt
mihi, in domum Domini ibimus'* — ^I
was glad when they said unto me, we
will go into the house of the Lord. A
heavenly joy is fillhig their ardent
souls, moved by the grace of the Holy
Ghost, and is reflected from their
countenances as the sunlight sparkles
on the ripples of a quiet, shaded lake,
when its waters are gently, stirred by a
passing zephyr wafted from the wings
of Grod's unseen angel of the winds.
Now you may go out into the gar-
den. A charming esplanade directly
behind the house you have visited.
Well-kept gravelled walks stretch here
and there through a glittering parterre
of flowers of every hue and perfume.
A pretty fountain sends its sparkling
drops into the air in the centre of a
basin stocked with gold-fish, which are
very fond of being fed with bread-
crumbs from the hand of saintly old
Father C . You do not know the
Pere C you say. Then you may
envy me. I know him. ShaJl I tell
you what he said to me one day?
"Tenez, mon cher, on doit prier le ,
Bon Dieu toujours selon le premier
mot de Toffioe de None, ^Mirabilia,' et
non pas selon le premier mot de Tierce,
^ Legem pone.' " God bless his dear
old white head! it makes my heart
leap in my bosom to think of him.
Where were you? Oh I yes, beside
the fountain. On each side of the
gaiden is an avenue of trees and in
one comer a little maze, hiding a
pretty statue of the Blessed Virgin at
whose feet that Almoner of the poor
has placed a little charity-box, thinking
doubtless^ and not without reason, that
here, hidden by the trees and clo^e
shrubbery, some one, you for instance,
might Uke to do something with a holy
secrecy which shall one day find its
reward from the Heavenly Father of
the poor, openly. So I will just turn
my head while you put in a donation
fitting for an American who has a
suite of rooms at the H6tel dcs Princes.
I know you are loth to leave this pretty
spot. I have had equal difficulty in
dragging you away from the other
places to which I directed your steps ;
but you have not seen all. Come
along. Cross the garden. Here, be-
hind the large chapel is a curious
grotto all inlaid with shells, floor^ walls
and roof. This is the place where
Bossuet, Fenelonand Mr. Tronson held
some conferences about a theological
subject which need not take up your
time now. Turn up that winding
walk to the left, and you see a little
shrine dedicated to Our Lady, to which
the young men go to celebrate the
mondi of May ; and it is a quiet little
nook where one may drop in a moment
and forget the world. The world is
not worth remembering all the tune,
you know. As you pass to the middle
of the garden again you notice a long
archway, built under a high wall.
Before you enter it please first notice
that fine terra-cotta statue of the Vir-
gin and Child near it, and take off
your hat in passing, as all do here.
This archway passes under a road,
which is screened froih view by high
walls on either side, which also pre-
vent the grounds you are in from be-
ing seen from the road. I have often
thought about that high-walled road
running through the middle of this
place nearest to heaven. How many
of us pass along our way of life, stony,
toilsome, dry and dusty, like this road,
and are often nearer heaven and hea-
venly company than we think; and
how many others there are we know
and love, whose road runs dose beside,
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The Nearest Place to Heaven,
439
if not at times directly throajgh the Par-
adise of the Church of God on earth,
and know it not Oh ! if they did but
once suspect it, bow quickly would they
leap over the wall!
Now you are through the archway.
Directly before you is a magnificent*
avenue of trees, all trimmed and clip-
ped as it pleases this methodical peo-
ple, and here is a fine place for a walk
in recreation. The semmarians recre-
ate themselves, as they do all other
acts, as a duty and by rule. One hour
and a quarter after dinner, ten minutes
at half-past four, and an hour and a
half after supper appears to suffice,
although I am airaid it is rather a
short allowance. Silence is the rule
during the other twenty-one hours out
of the twenty-four, flnd broken only by
duty or necessity. How do you like
it? Be assured it is profitable to those
who are desirous of living near to God.
Recollect what Thomas ^ Kempis says
in his ** Imitation of Christ :" " In si-
lentio et quiete proficit anima devota''
— ^In silence and quiet the devout soul
makes great progress. You observe
also that the reverend teachers of these
young men ate taking recreation with
them. Yes; and in this as in every
other duty of this life of prayer and
of study they snbject themselves to
the same rule that they impose on
others. Example, example, my friend,
is the master teacher, and succeeds
where words cannot. They have
learned beforehand in their own school
the lessons of chastity, obedience, pov-
erty, patience, meekness, humility and
charity, of silence, and every other
Christian mortification of our way-
ward senses which they are called
upon to teach here. They have a
novitiate ac^ouiing this house, called
the ^ SoHtude/' and their motto is in-
scribed over the little portal in the
stone wall wUch separates the two
enclosures. This is it, " O beata Sol-
itude! O sola Beatitudol There' is
a short sentence, my friend, which will
serve as a subject of meditation for
you, for a longer time than you im-
a^e. Look at the F^ M j the
reverend superior. What gentleness
of soul beams from that kindly counte-
nance! It makes one think of St
Philip Neri. Ah! and there is the
P^re P , with a face like St, Vin-
cent of Paul, and a body like nobody's
but his own, all deformed as it is by
rheumatism. I don't ask you to kiss
the hem of his cassock for reverence
sake, for that might wound his humili-
ty, and he might moreover knock you
down with his crooked elbow, but if
you could see what place the angels
are getting ready for him up in heaven,
I think you would wish to do so. And
all the otliers, old or young— s^bowed
with age or strong of arm and firm in
step — ^you will find but little difference
in them. They are all cast in about
the same mould, of a shape which only
a life, and a purpose of life such as
theirs could form. You would like to
know what that young man is about,
would you, running from one knot of
talkers and walkers to another, saluting
them, and saying something to each ?
Listen; he is repeating the password
of the house. The password? Even
so. And is it secret?' Yes, and a
secret too. It is the secret of a holy
life, the holy life to be led here, and
not to be forgotten, where it is the most
likely to be, in the dissipation of recre-
ation. Lay it up to heart, for it will do
you good. "Messieurs, Sursum corda !*'
This building on your right as you
come out of the archway is a ball-court.
If you will step into the " cuisine," as
a sort of wire cage is called, in which
you can see without being in the way,
and the irregular roof of which serves
admirably to cause the ball to come
down crooked, and "hard to take,"
you may see some good ball-pkiying ;
and if you know anything about the
game, 1 am sure all will ofier at once
to vacate their places and give up the
pleasure of pla^-ing to please you.
Somehow, these seminarians are al-
ways seeking to please some one else.
Fraternal charity, which prefers the
happiness of others to its own, is culti-
vated here to such a degree, that I tell
you agam you will not find a place
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440
The NeoTUi Place to Heaven.
nearer heaven; where cnarily is made
perfect and consammated in Grod.
Turn down now to the left for a
few steps, and look to the right An-
other beautiful avenue. The trees
branching from the ground rise up and
mingle together on all sides so as to
form a complete arch. ' A builduig at
the end. Yes ; that is the place of all
places in this lovely enclosure the
most venerated by aU who come to
pass a part of their lives in dear old
Issy. It is the chapel of Lorette.
Walk up the avenue and examine it.
It luB^ facade, as you see, of strict
architectural taste. I know tliat you,
being an American, would very soon
scrape the weatheivbeaten stones, paint
up the wood-work, and put a new and
more elegant window in front, if you
were in charge. Perhaps it might im-
prove it, perhaps not. Standing as it
does alone, out there in the midst of
extensive grounds, it makes you think
of the Holy House of Loretto in Italy,
of which you know' something, I sup«
pose, and of which, indeed, the little
chapel inside is an exact copy, and
hence has obtained its name. J^ft me
say a word about it before you go in,
for no one is expected to break the re-
ligious silence which the young levites
here are taught should reign about the
tabemade where reposes the sacred
and hidden presence of Jesus Christ
in the Holy Eucharist. It is this
chapel, especially dedicated to his own
dear and blessed mother, 'that they
have chosen for his dwelling-place
among them, as her home at Nazareth
was also his. It is what you might
expect The Mother and the Son go
together. A childlike and tender de-
votion to her whom he chose for the
human source of his incarnate life,
through which we are elevated and
bom anew unto Grod, cannot be sepa-
rated from the profound act of adora-
tion which humanity, nay, all creation,
must pay to him who is her Son, the
lirst-bom of all creatures. His mys-
terious incarnate presence is with us
always in the Holy Eucharist, and will
be, as he promised, unto the consum-
mation of«the world; and the^ncst,
by the power of his own divine word,
is its human source. You remember
the saying of St Atignstine: <^0
venerable dignity of the priest, in
whose hands, as in the womb of the
Virgin, the Son of Grod is incarnate
every day !"
Enter. On the wall to your left,
just inside the outer door you see this
inscription *
" UIc Verbum carofactam est, et habltarlt in nobis.'**
On the wall directlv opposite, this :
Sta Tenerabandns,
Qui allnnde ut stares veneris,
Lauretanam Dclpane domom admiratonu.
Anrasta tote est,
Toto tamen ChrlBtiano orbe angosto,
Factus est Homo.
Abhrcviatum igttiir SBternI patrls Terbom
Hocoe In angulo«^um angelis adora ;
SUet hlc et loqoaci silentio :
BeatiD qulppe virglnis matris slniu.
Cathedra dooentls est.
Audi verbum abecondltam, et quid slbi vellt atten Je.
Vcnera^re domum filii hominla,
Scholam Christi,
ConabaU VerbL" t
The door on the rignt leads into the
sacristy, where the priest puts on his
vestments. On the panel of this door
you read :
•» Sanctiflcamlnl omnes minlstrl altaris.
Munda slnt omnia." X
On the wall over the door is this in
scription around a heart :
" Quid volo nisi nt ardcat?— S. Luo. kiL 49." $
Opposite the sacristy door is the
door of the chapel, but I wish you to
read the other inscriptions on these
walls before you enter there. There
are two more in this entry- way :
"lUc Maria, Patrls 8ponsa, de Spirltu Sanoto
conoepit." B
* "Here the Word iras made flesh, and dwelt
amongst us."
t ** Stand In awe, ye who have come liither from
afar to admire the Lorettan house of the Mother of
God. The whole Is bat narrow and strait : however,
the whole Christian world Is bat narrow in which the
God made man suffered stridtness. Wherefore, adore
with the angels the straitened word of the Eternal
Father. He is silent here, but with an eloquent si-
lence. For the bosom of the Blessed Virgin Mother
is the seat of Wisdom. Hear the Hidden Word, and
listen attentively to what he wUls of thee. Venerate
the house of the Son of Man, the school of Christ, the
cradle of the Word."
$ " Be ye holy, all ye ministers of tne altar. Let
all things be pure and clean.**
f '* What will I bat that it bum ?**
I " Here Mary, the spouse of the Fatlier, ooDodved
of the Holy Ghost."
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The Neartst JPIace to Heaven.
441
"8Ue;
Hue <»«»^n^ dum omnia
allerent,
Omnlpotens wnuo
de r«gallbus
Bedlbttf adreuH ;
Vel aeternum eteml
Fatrifl Yerfoom
Sllolt;
Vel otiofo Deam adorttt tilentlo." *
In an adjoining room are several
others, among which I think the fol-
lowing are worthy of jour notice :
" filgnnm manitun apparnlt tn terrft.
AnmbU« ooDimerdfum. admirBbile inysterlam,
JESUS YIVENS IN MARLL
VJOIITB, TIDKTK. AJX>RATIfi.
Vnrm
Ad iemplum DomlDl. ad incarnatlonls yerbl
cubicolum,
Ad miGtaarlnm la quo habitat Dominus.
Et de quo, at spoosus, procedlt de thalamo lao.
ViDsn
AncUIani, Patris sponaanif Vlrglnem Del matrem,
Adas flllam, SpiritUB Sanctl sacellam,
Mariam totias Trlnitatls domlcUiam,
Angelo Duntiante effectani.
Adoratb
Jesam habitantem In Matre,
rt imperatorem in regno, ut pontiflcem in templo,
Ut sponaam In thalamo.
IIIc reqales, hie gloria, hie summa laas conditorla :
Uic habltabo quoniam elegi.eam." t
" Omnes
Famellcl, accedlte
ad escafi :
Domus heec abandat
l»aniba»." t
"Hlc
Saptentla
MIscalt Tinum,
Posnit meneam,
Paravit omnia.
Oul bibunt,
Non Bltlent ampllus ;
Qui edunt,
Nunquam esurient;
Qui epulantur,^
Vivent In sternum.
Biblte ergo et Inebrlamini,
Oomedlte et satarablmlni ;
ElAudite cum gaudio anlmas vestras
In voce confessionls et epulatlonls
Sonus est epolaatis." ^
* " Keep silenee: for hither, while all things were
In silence, the Almighty Word leapt down from
heaven from his royal throne. Here the Eternal
Word of the Eternal Father became silent, and adores
Ood in tranquil silence."
t " A great sign appeared on the earth, a lovely
anion, a wondrous mystery, Jesus living in Mary.
Come, see. adore. Gome to the temple of the Lord,
to the cradle of the incarnate Word, to the sanctuarv
in which the Lord dwelleth. From which he goeth
forth as a spouse f^om his brioal chamber. See, by
the annunciation of the angel, a handmaiden made
spouse of the Father, a virgin the Mother of Ood, *a
diaughter of Adam the shrine of the Holy Ghost,
Mary, the resting-place of the whole Trinity. Adore
Jesus dwelling in Kla mother, as an emperor on his
throne, as a priest in the temple, as a spouse in lils
chamber. Here is the rest, here the glory, he^-e the
supreme praise of the Creator. Here will I dwell, be-
cause I have chosen her."
t "O all ye of the family of Ood, draw new to
the banquet. This house Is full of bread."
% "Here the divine wisdom mingleth her wine,
spreadeth her table, and maketh aU things ready.
They who drink shall not thirst any more. They
''Omnes
Sitentes, venlte
ad aquas ;
Locus iste seaturit
Fontlbtts." ♦
"Hlc
Fons fontium,
Et acerviis trltld,
CURISTUS,
Unde sumunt angeli,
Keplentur sanctl.
Eatiantur universi.
Uic
Ager fertiUa
Et congregatio aquamm,
^ MARIA,
(Jnde, velut de qaodam
Divinitatis oceano.
Omnium emanant
Flumina gratiarum."
Tu es Chrlstl bonus odor.
Accede; ■
Caminus Marise
Altare thymiamatum est,
Caminus charltatis,
Ct\jus ostium
Ilostes non exdpit,
Bed hostlas amorls.
Hue vota, hue corda, vlatores.
Hue pectora." X
Before yon look at the real chapel
for which this building was erected,
Tust step out of that door opposite to
the one by which you entered. A lit-
tle cemetery. Here repose, in simple,
humble graves, the bodies of the de-
ceased superiors and directors of the
congregation of St. Sulpice, in whom
and whose seminary you have shown
so much interest during this visit un-
der the guidance of your humble ser-
vant. Here, in this little cemetery,
beneath the shadow of the sacred
chapel they have loved so well, in the
very home, as it were, where so many
holy souls have lived, and learned the
lessons of perfection, and where, Grod
grant, many more such may yet live
and learn the same, they have laid
themselves down to rest from their
who eat shall never hunger. They who feast shall
live for ever. Drink, therefore, and be inebriated.
Eat and be filled. Pour forth your souls with Joy in
the songs of thanksgiving and rejoicing. There is a
sound as of one feasting."
♦ ** All ye who thirst, come ye to the waters. This
place gushes with fountains.'
t "Here is. the fount of fountidns, and heap of
wheat, Christ; of which the angels partake, the
Baints are replenished, and the whole universe is
satiated. Here is the fruitful field and meeting of the
waters, Mary ; whence, as trom a kind of ocean of
divinity, flow out the streams of all graees."
X " If thou art the good odor of Christ, draw near.
This chamber of Mary is the altar of incense, the home
of charity, whose door recelveth not enemies, but the
victims of love. Hither, ye wayfarers, bring your
TOWS, your hearts, and your affections.**
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442
7%e Nearest Place to Heaven,
labors, peacefiilly resigning themselves
to the common fate ; jet privileged in
this, that their dust mingles with
earth hallowed by the footsteps of
saints. I should like to write an in-
scription for the door of that cemetery.
It is this, "Et mors, et vita vestra
absconditffi sunt cum Christo in Deo,"
for never in the history of Christian-
ity, do I think, have men realized
like them, in their lives and in their
death, so fully thoge words of St
Paul
Return now to the entry and pass
within those gilded doors. This is
the chapel. The walls are frescoed,
OS you see, and in imitation of the
walls, now defaced, of the original
chapel at Loretto. There is a pretty
marble altar and tabernacle where re-
poses the Holy of Holies ; and above
the altar is a grating filling up the en-
tire width of the chapel, on which are
attached a large number of silver and
gilt hearts, little remembrances left by
the departing seminarians at their be-
loved shrine of Jesus and Mary. Be-
hind the grate you can discexn the
statue made many hundred years
ago, and sent to this chapel as a gift
from the Holy House at Loretto in
1855. I know that your American
taste will not be gratified by the ap-
pearance of either the statue or its
decorations ; but — America is not all
the world. Keep that in mind, and. it
may save you a good deal of interior
discomfort, whether you journey in
other lands, or never stbr from home.
Now I leave you, for I know you
are tired of sight-seeing and want a
moment of' repose — and, may I not
also add, a little time to pray here ?
The seminarians are coming in to
make their daily visit, for it is a
quarter to five o'clock. Oh ! sweetest
moments of the Issian's day! Here
he comes and kneels at the feet of
Jesus and Mary, and drinks in those
silent lessons which reveal truths to
the heart that no man can teach. Here
the soul is ravished away for a while
from earth and all its carking cares,
anxieties, temptations, and afflictions,
and reposes peacefully in the loving
embrace of its God. " Here," indeed,
" is the home of charity, whose door
receiveth not enemies, but the vic-
tims of love. Hither you may bring
your vows, your hearts, and your
affections." Remain you, then, and
pray awhile with them ; for of a truth
vou are with the congregation of the
just, and not far off from heaven.
[OEIOIVAL.]
A MAY BREEZE.
As fragrant blooms by blushing orchard shed,
When spring's advancing season ripens fast, .
Oh ! such the blossoms which the heart has fed
With all the dewy sweetness of the past.
But like those winds whose stormy passage sweeps
The wailing trees, yet leaves fair fruit behind,
Life's changing scenes, which man still hourly weeps.
Pledge fruit, than blooms more constant and more kind.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
l^icaHvieted ; or, (Hd ITtamekj^s. Heirs.
443
From the Lamp.
UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELETS HEIRS.
CHAPTEBU.
\naoB n mvucxDATOUY ahd bstbobpkctitz.
Befobb resnming the thread of my
narratiyol must leeds go hsLck a little,
and see in what relation the different
people who are to plajthe principal
parts in this true history stand to one
another.
I have said that Hugh Atherton and
I had been friends from the time we
were boys at school, he being some
£yq years my junior. He and Lister
Wihnot were nephews^on their mother's
fiide, of old Gilbert Thomeley, and,
as every one supposed, his nearest rela-
tires. They were both orphans ; both
brought np and educated by their unde,
and both were given to understand that
they would equally inherit his immense
fortune at hie death. But Thomeley
had made hi^ money by the sweat of
his brow, — ^begmning by sweeping his
master's office, and ending by lK3ing the
possessor of some million of money, —
and he did not choose, as he said, to
leave it to two idle dogs* He had
worked, and so should they: they might
choose their own profession or business,
and he would do all that was requisite
to forward them in life; but work in
one way or another they should. Hugh,
guided very much by my advice, went
to collie, and then read for the bar.
His career at Oxford had not been a
farilllant one, but he had passed his
"great go" very creditably, and taken
his bachelor's degree with fair honor
to himself. Then he came to London,
took chambers in the Temple, and set
himself down to read with steady ear-
nestness of purpose ; an;er a while he
was called to the bar and his first
brief was held for a client of mine. ■ It
was a righteous cause, and he gained
it by his straightforward grappling with
the evidence, his simple yet manly elo-
quence. At the time when the events
happened which are now recorded, and
cast one great lasting shadow over his
Hfe and mine, he was in very fair prac-
tice. But one thing I ever noticed
about him, and it was that he was al-
most invariably retained for the defense.
I don't think he could have conducted
a case for prosecution; I don't think
he could have stood up and pleaded
for the conviction of any poor wretched
miserable criminal shivering at the
bar, brought thither by what crushing
amount of degradation, want, or luring
temptation to sin God only knew, —
Gdd only, in His infinite mercy, would
remember. Do you recollect iha,t por-
trait in one of Mr. Dickens's works of
the barrister, who was always retained
at the Old Bailey by great criminals,
and who never refused to defend them,
guilty or not guilty^ — that man, with
the unpoetical name of Jaggers, who
used to wash his hands after coming
from the court or dismissing a client ?
Well, that man always reminded mc
of Hugh Atherton ; and when I read
the book, I did homage to my friend in
his person. You don*t see at first
what Mr. Dickens is driving at, nor
the whole of his conception in the char-
acter of Jaggers ; but after a while it
bursts upon you what a raft he must
have been for the poor drowning
wretches going to their trial to catch at.
With a fund of good common-6en8e,a
dear head, and sound judgment, Ather-
ton possessed what gave such a charm
to him and won so many hearts, — the
boyish lightheartedness which clung to
him ; vnith his genial manner, his kindly
words and deeds. He had his faults —
he was passionate and hot-headed, ob-
stinate in his likes and dislikes ; but he
Digitized by CjOOQIC
444
Unconvicted; or^ Old Tkomele^s Heirs,
had what few young men of his age
could boast, a freedom from vice, a
guilelessness of soul, which in the midst
of all the corruption, the temptations,
and snares of London life, carried him
through unscathed. J neyer knew but
one other who was like him in that re-
spect, — ^though indeed I have heard
that such have been, but are now gone
to their grave, — who, with the brave
undaunted heart of a thoroughly Eng-
lish youth, carried within him the mark
of innocence, and wore it stamped upon
his open brow. Ho is thousands of
miles away now, and these lines may
never reach him ; but those who love
him and long for his return will recog-
nize the son and brother whose woirth,
perchance, we never fully knew until
the parting came.
Of Lister "Wilmot I had seen com-
paratively but very little. He was a
weak puny lad, unfit for roughing it in
a public school, and had therefore re-
ceived his education from private tutors
and governors. Through his unclfe's
interest he obtained a civil appointment
in one of the government-offices, *and
though fond of dress and amusements, I
never heard much harm of him,beyond
an inclination to extravagance, which I
imagined old Thomelcy knew well how
to keep in check. Yet, I don't know
how it was, I never liked Wilmot.
Hugh was fond of him, and very anx-
ious that he and I should be friends ;
certainly it was not Wilmot's fault that
a greater amount of cordiality did not
exist between us. He was very agree-
able, very civil, very amiable, very at-
tentive to me ; but I could not bear
him. I often took myself severely to
task for this unreasonable antipathy ;
and I decided it could only be because he
was such a contrast to Hugh in every-
thing that I did not take to him. Not
that I pitched their relative goodness,
and drew conclusions against him ; as
I said before, I knew no harm of him,
but sim ply I did not like him. A story
went about that his mother (Thornc-
ley's sister) had made a very unhappy
marriage, and died soon after her son's
birth. What had become of his father
no one ever seemed to know ; and if
Wilmot did, he never named him.
About a year before the story opens
Hugh Atherton was engaged to be
married. Let me relate all this very
clearly, very calmly ; it is needful I
should ; and while I write, let me think
only, as before heaven I have ever
tried to think, of the interests of two
beings who always were and always
will be dearest to me on earth.
A client of mine left me at his death
the joint guardianship with his wife of
an only daughter. Shei was heiress to
a considerable fortune; blest with a
mother who was none of the wisest of
guides for a young girl who was beau-
tiful, high-spirited, and gifled with no
ordinary intellect. I fuMlled my dead
friend's trust with all flie care, vigil-
ance, and tenderness in my power. I
watched Ada Leslie grow up into girl-
hood, and from girlhood into woman-
hood, — for I was a young man in years
when that charge was committed to
me, though old in character, and old
and grim in looks, — I saw her beauty
of lace and form unfold, her winning
gracefulness become more graceful and
more winsome ; I marked the powers
of her mind and intellect develop, and
all the noble qualities of her heart re-
veal themselves in a thousand ways.
I watched her with the solicitude of a
father, with the affection of a brother ;
I never thought of myself in any other
light with regard to her ; but her con-
fidence in me became rery precious,
her companionship very sweet
One day I took Hugh Atherton with
me to Mrs. Leslie's, and in that first
visit I foresaw how all would end ; it
was but the precursor of many more
visits, and after a while they both told
me how things stood between them.
There was no difficulty. Money, in
the mother 8 eye, was all that was need-
ed to make a good match, and Hugh
was well enough off now, and likely to
be a rich man in the future; money
was all that Gilbert Thomeley requir-
ed for hifi nephew's future bride, and
Ada Leslie's fortune was ample, even to
his sordid mind. I knew she could havo
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Vheanvieied ; or. Old Thamele^i Heirs.
445
no worthier man for hnsband than Hugh
Atherton. I knew — ^ah, who should
know better? — ^that he could find no
woman worthier of his tenderest love
and honor than mj ward; and so J
bade God to bless them and sonctifj
their union. If for a while my life was
somewhat mo^ lonely than it had
seemed before; if a few years were
added to thought and feeling, and I
began then more solemnly to realize
wimt a gray old bachelor I should ap-
pear to Hugh's little children when
they climbed about my knee, — well, it
was but a foolishness that was quickly
buried down deep in my heart and
would never more rise to the surface.
And Hugh's full tide of happiness and
her deep but tender joy soon kindled
bright again in the chambers of my
soul a light that for a time had been
very dim ; and I learnt the best lesson
life can teach us, and which in more
ways than one is intimated to us by the
words, " It is more blessed to give than
to receive." They would have been
married before this, but Ada's father
bad specified his wish that she should
not marry until she was twenty-one,
unless her guardians judged it other-
wise expedient, and she was desirous
of abiding by that decision. She would
be of age the third of this coming De-
cember, and after Christmas the wed.-
ding was to take place.
I noticed there was something pecu-
liar in their manner of mentioning to
me the day they had fixed on for their
marriage. It was the day before I
started on this last trip to my favorite
Swiss mountains; we had all gone
down to Kew by water, and we were
strolling about the gardena enjoying
the cool of the evening air after a day
of unusual sultriness. Mrs. Leslie,
TVilmot, and I, were walkmg together,
whilst the other two went away by
themselves. We had not spoken very
much — ^at least I had not, for many
thoughts were busy within me. Pre-
sently Ada came back alone, and put-
ting her arm in mine she drew me
aside into a little shady walk where
the trees met overhead and the air
was laden with the perfume of th®
lime-blossom. In the last summer of
my life, at eventide I shall see that
narrow pathway with its leafy cover-
ing, and smell those fragrant trees ;
I shall hear the nightingale's note as it
sang to me (so I thought) the refrain
of a simple ballad I had often heard
my mother sing in early childhood.
" Loyal Je send dunmt la vie."
^ Dear friend," said Ada, looking
up into my face with her soft, kind,
brown eyes, so truthfol and sincere,
^ Hugh and I have been speaking of
the future;" and the bright warm
color came into her cheek, and the long
golden lashes fell as she spoke.
<<Yes, Ada, that is right. What
says Hugh ?"
• ^< He says we had better settle when
it is to be. You know I am of age in
December, and he thinks of af^er
Christmas ; and do you know he wants
it t9 be on the day but one after the
Epiphany ? because he says — ^that
funny old Hugh! — that it is ^ur
birthday; or if it isn't, that it ought to
be; and insists on it. However, he
has set his mind on it He wanted to
come and ask you, for I said I would
not have it fixed untU you had been
asked. And then I thought I would
rather come myself."
The kind eyes were looking at mc
again, just a little anxiously, I Uiought.
For a moment there seemed to be a
choking sensation in my throat. I
turned my head away, and the evening
bird sang out. once more, clear and
silvery in the cahn still air,
" Loyal J« serai dunmt la rle.**
^Liaten, Ada; do you hear what
the nightingale is singing ? She is bid-
ding me say < Grod bless you both ! '
Let it be when Hugh thinks best. Gro
and tell him sa"
She took my hand and pressed it to
her lips ; there was a warm tear on it
when she let it go. I turned aside
and walked away for a little while by
myself. Then I went back to them,
and we left the gardens.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
446
Unconvicted; or, Old TTiomelef^s Heirs.
Hugh and I walked home together
that night; and as we parted at his
door he told me all was settled be-
tween him and Ada, very gently, very
softly, as if he were breaking some
news to me. There was no need. I
bade him God speed with my cheeriest
voice, and told him the heartfelt truth
— ^that to no other man would I have
trusted her with such perfect trusL
I had happy letters from them both
whilst I was abroad. Hugh had taken
a very pretty house some ten miles
from town ; workmen were busily en-
gaged in alterations, fittings-up, and
decorations, whilst he and Ada were
full of the furniture and all those nu-
merous etceteras which help to make
the home such a one as should be pre-
pared to receive a fair young bride.
Mr. Thomeley had behaved veiy
liberally to his nephew, and given him
carte blanche in the matter of the ex-
penditure ; if his nature were capable
of loving any human being, I think
he was fond of Hugh Atherton, and I
urn quite sure that Hugh, in his gene-
rous oversight of all that mXist have
jarred upon and shocked his mind^ was
sincerely and gratefully attached to his
uncle, who, he of^en said to me, had
acted a father's part by him. Thus,
amidst much sunshine and little shade,
all was hastening on toward the con-
summation of their union, and as the
new year tided round it was to find
them man and wife.
And now I must relate a circum-
stance which happened about a fort-
night before I started for the Continent.
I had been dining at the house of my
married sister, who lived at Highgate.
She was one of those ladies who are
very fond of collecting about them the
heterogeneous society of all the non-
descripts, hangers-on, and adventurers >
who are only too willing to frequent
the houses of those gifted with a taste
for such companionship. With good-
nature verging, I oft^i told her, on ab-
solute idiotcy, she could not be made
to see how eccentricity of manner,
person, or conversation was often but
the veil thrown over a character too
stained or doubtftil to be revealed in
its proper light. It is true that in
many cases her hospitality was re-
warded ; equally true that in the major-
ity it was abus^ ; and my brother-in-
law, good man, suffered severely for
it in the matter of his pocket
To return: amongst the various
guests I met at dinner that evening was
one man who strangely riveted my at-
tention, aided by &e feeling so well
known to most people, that I had some-
where or other seen him before, but in
other guise, and when a much younger
man. His manner was quiet and re-
served, but scarcely gentlemanlike ;
and I noticed that in many of the little
convenances of society he was quite
at a loss. I judged him to be about
fifty or fifty-five years of age, his hair
was grey, and he wore a thick beard
and moustache ; at first I took him for
a foreigner untQ I heard him speak,
and then I perceived the broad Irish
accent betraying his nationality in a
most unmistakable manner.
« Who's your Irish friend, Elmor ?*'
I asked of my sister when I got her
quietly in the drawing-room after din-
ner.
"Which one do you mean, John?
There's the O'Callaghan of Callaghan,
who sat by me at dinner ; and there's
Mr. Burke, who writes those spirited
patriotic articles in the JEmerald- Green
Gazette ; and there's Phelim O'Mara,
the author of Gems---^^
" I know them all, my dear."
" Then who can you mean, for there
isn't another Irishman here ? These
three wouldn't have been asked toge-
ther — for they are all of different poli-
tics, and I have been on thorns all the
evenmg lest they should get into a dis-
cussion — ^but I couldn't well avoid it ;
for you know — '^
Again I was obliged to use a bro-
ther's delightful privilege and be rude,
for Elinor, though an excellent woman
and a pattern wife, was ^iflcursive in
conversation, and I sawner husband
trying to catch '•her eye for some pui^
pose ; so I said :
" Yes, I know all about it— there's
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Uncanmcted; ar^ Old Thomde^s Heirs.
447
Henry looking for you. The man I
mean sat opposite to me ; grey beard
— there he is, standing by Montague."
''Oh I hef he is my last treasure*
trove: he's not Irish, my dear; he's
half French and half English* An
author, but very rich; has trayelled
all over the world. Here/' beckoning
to him, " Mr. de Yos, allow me to in-
troduce you to my brother, Mr. Kava-
nagh."
O Elinor, you good blmd soul, your
Frenchman was no more French and
no more English than the man in the
moon, though certainly I am not ac-
quainted with the nationality of that
gentleman. I saw it in two minutes.
We talked commonplaces for a little,
till some one came up and asked me
if it were true that Atherton was en-
gaged to my ward, Miss Leslie. I
answered in the affirmative.
" You know Mr. Atherton very
well then, I conclude," said De Vos.
*' I have known him from a boy ; no
one knows him better than I."
" How very interesting P' he said ;
and I could not make out whether his
tone was earnest or satirical, for his
face betrayed nothing. " I have heard
of Mr. Atherton from a &iend of mine
in Paris."
" Ah ! that little enthusiastic Gircaud,
I dare say," replied I ; for I knew all
Hugh's friends, and ho was the only
one I could think of as being in
Paris.
" Yes, from Gkeaud ;" and he was
turning away. j
" How is he ?" I asked, meaning
Gireaud ; " have you seen him lately ?"
" No, not lately — ^that is, three or
four months back."
This was strange; it was only a
month since the Frenchman had lefl
England, only three months since wo
had first made his acquaintance, and be
had been in England all the time. I
felt suspicious; I often did towards
my sister's friends, by reason of divers
small sums borrowed in past times by
them from me, and kepttn memoriamj
I suppose. I thought I would pursue
the inquiry.
" Did you know M. Gireaud when
he was in England ?"
"No abroad — in Paris;" and he
changed color and shifted uneasily on
his feet.
" Did he succeed in tracing out the
evidence in that celebrated cause he
was conducting ?" I continued pertina-
ciously.
" I really don't know ; excuse me—
how very warm this room is I I will
go into the balcony and see if it is pos-
sible to get a little air ;" and he turned
on his heel and left me.
" So so," thought I, " you wanted
to fasten yourself upon me with tho
dodge of knowing my friends, did you ?
It won't do, my fin^ fellow ;" and I de-
termined to give my brother-in law a
hint that his wife's '^ last treasure-
trove" would need watching. But I
found no opportunity ; and when I
inquired for Mr. do Vos later in the
evening, I heard he had gone away,
feeUing very unwelL Said I to myself,
" He'll be worse when he meets* me
again." I little recked the words then,
or what they might import.
It was a beautiful August night
when our party broke up ; and resist-
ing my sister's wish that I should sleep
there, I determined to enjoy a moon-
light walk home, smoke a cigar, and
think over a difficult case I had just
then in hand. My nearest way into town
from Elinor's house was down Swain's
Lane and round by the cemetery ; it
was a lonely, ghostly kind of walk,
not tempting on a dark winter's night ;
but with a brilliant harvest^moon over-
head, a stout stick, and myself stand-
ing six feet without shoes, I feared
neither man nor ghost. The tomb-
stones looked white and ghastly enough
in the bright moonlight, and the trees
cast their heavy shadows across my
path, whilst their tops were stirred
by a gentle soughing breeze. I had
passed the cemetery, and was rapidly
nearing the end of the lane, which
turns into the high-road by the Duke
of St Alban's public-house, of omni-
bus notoriety, when I fancied I heard
the sound of voices pitched high, as if
Digitized by CjOOQIC
448
Unconvicted; or^ Old Tkamde^i Heirs.
in some angiy dispute. I took out
mj watch ;; it was just upon twelve
o'clock. Drunken revellers, I thought,
turned out of the inn. Swain's Lane
winds about until you are close upon
the road, and then there is a straight
piece with fields upon either side. I
looked ahead as I came to this latter
bit, but there was no one to be seen,
aldiQugh the voices sounded closer find
closer. I was walking on the iuif
beside the road, so that my footsteps
falling upon the soft grass were inau-
ilible. I passed a gate leading into a
field, and then I became aware thait the
Toices w(jre close to me on the other
side of the hedge. Not caring to be
seen lest I should get drawn into some
drunken row, I stooped mj head and
shoulders, inconveniently high just
then, and was in the act of passing
swiftly on when a name arrested me.
" I tell you Hugh Atherton never
shall many that girl !"
« And /tell you he twTZ/ You let
every chance slip by you, you poor
spiritless fooL He'll marry her, and
come in for the best share, if not the
whole of Gil Thomeley's money.*^
There was no mistaking the brogue
of my Irish Anglo-Frendi acquaint-
ance of this evenmg — ^my sister's " last
treasure-trove, the talented author,
the rich man.** Bat the other voice,
whose was it ? It sounded strange a;t
first; then light began to dawn upon
me. I knew it — ^ycs, surely I knew
it. Ha, by Jove 1 Lister Wilmot ! —
it must be Lister Wilmot's.
They were speaking again, quite
unconscious of their auditor on. the
pther side of the hedge.
"You are the biggest fool, and a
scoundrel too, coming here, ^m^g ■
my footsteps, and following meaoout
just to bring ruin upon me with your
confounded interference 5 going' there
too, and meeting the very man you
ought to avoid, that lawyer feUow,
Kavanagh ; why, he'll scent you out
in less than no timei." (Much obliged
to you, Mr. Wilmot, thought I, for
your involuntary tribute to my shrewd-
ness : it has been . deserved this time
at any rate.) *•' You mnst'leave Lon-
don at once— to-morrow, do you hear ?
—-or I'll whisper a certain affair about,
which may make this quarter of the^
world unpleasant to you."
**T\l not stir without that fifty
pounds. You blow upon me, and I'll
blow upon you in a quarter you
wouldn't care to have those small bits
of paper shown that I've got in my
pocket-book here."*
The remark seemed to have been
untimely.
" Scoundrel P shouted the other
voice I believed to be Wilmot's, and I
heard them close together and struggle.
At the same moment I leaped the
gate, determined to make sure of their
identity ; but with singul&r ill-luck I
caught my foot against the topmost
bar, and fell with no small force my
whole length on the other side. The
noise and sight of me disturbed the
combatants, and before I could rise or
recover myself, they had separated,
and fied in opposite directions across
the field. Pursuit was a vain thought.
I had twisted my ankle in the fall,
and for a few moments the' pain was
unbearable ; when I could put my
foot to the ground b^th fugitives were
out of sight. There was nothing left
for me but to hobble back, gain the
road, and seize upon the first empty
cab returning to London to con (rey me
to my chambers. ^
I mentioned the adventure to
Atherton on the following morning,
and my conviction that Lister Wil-
mot was one of the two men.
"It is impossible," replied Hugh;
" Lister was with me last evening till
eleven o'clock, and then he went home
to bed."
" Did you see him home ?" I asked.
" Yes, and went in . with him ; saw
him undressed, and ready to get into
bed. He was not well, poor fellow.
One of his bad colds ;seemed to be
threatening him, and he was very out
of spirits. I am afraid he's exceeding
his allowance, and ^getting into debt
He asked me to lend, him twenty
pounds for It month."
y
Digitized by CjOOQIC
//
UnccnvieUd; or, Old Thamele^s Heirs,
449
" Which of course you didn't do ?"
" Which of course I did, and told
him he was heartily welcome to it;
but I wished he'd draw in his expen-
ses, for I was certain if Uncle Gil-
bert heard of his being in difficulty,
there would be no end to pay. I'll
get him to make a clean breast of it
some day soon to me, and see what I
can do to help him and set him right.**
So like Hugh, with his generous
impulses ever ready to do a kindness.
" Well, but it is very odd« I could
have sworn it was Lister in the field ;
as for the other feUow. why there is
not the smallest shadow of a doubt
about him. If I hadn't recognized
his brogue, why, the words of his com*
panion pointed him out as the De Yos
of the dinner-party. Do you know
such a man, Hugh?" and I gave a
graphic description of him.
Hugh shook his head.
^ Don't know such a bird as that,
Jack. Can't think who it can be, nor
what they both meant. The 'girl,'
indeed I Did they mean Ada, for-
sooth ? rd like to punch their skulls
for daring to name her. I say, let's
go to Lister s at once and ask him if
he knows a man answering to the
name De Vos."
We drove to Wilmot's lodgings in
the Albany — ^he affected aristocratic-
bachelor neighbofhoods — and found
him over a late breakfast, looking
very pale and haggard. Hugh at^
tacked him in his straightforward
blunt manner.
" What did you go up to Highgate
for, last night. Lister, when I thought
you were going to bed ?"
Wilmot's fork fell on the floor and
he stooped to pick it up before an-
swering. Then he looked up with an
air of the greatest astonishment.
'^ Go up to Highgate last night 1
I ! Are you mad, Hugh ?"
" I heard your voice last night in a
field close by the Highgate RcMui, or I
never was more mistaken in my life,"
I said.
He turned his face to me: there
was the most unaffected surprise and
VOL. m. 29
bewilderinent written on it as he
stared at me.
" Are you out of your senses too ?'
he asked at last witli a lond laugh.
" Why, Hugh saw me into bed almost.
You must have been wandering, or
Mr. Craven's" (ray brother-in-law)
" wines were too potent for your sober
brain."
I was completely at a nonplus.
" Do you know that Mr. de Vos
is in England?" I said, resolved to
try another ^ dodge."
"Who is Mr. de Vos?" was the
answer, given in the most uncon- '
cerned tone.
Hugh broke in: "Tell him all
about it, John."
I did so, relating word for word
what I had heard, with my eye fixed
upon his face. He never flinched
once, and there was not the smallest
embarrassment in his look or manner.
" You were of course entirely mis-
taken," he said; **I never left my
room last night aflcr Hugh went
away. Of this Mr. de Vos I know
nothing — ^not even by name."
There was nothing for it but to be
satisfied, and yet somehow I was not
I suppose my old dislike of Wilmot
got the better of me and made me
distrustful. Then such dear — such
precious interests had been called in
question — were perhaps in danger;
and I could not rid myself of the
great anxiety which oppressed me.
The next move was after De Vos.
He had utterly and totally disap-
peared by the time I had obtained his
address from my sister and hunted
out the wretched doubtful sort of
lodgings he had inhabited near Lei-
cester Square. So the affair died a
natural death, and I left England for
the Continent Could I but have
foreseen what my return would bring
forth!
CHAFTEB in.
ram day arib toi wsoDora
It was all true— *dreadfully, awfully
Digitized by CjOOQIC
450
Unconvicted; or^ Old Tkomde^s Heirs.
true — and no hideous dream. Gilbert
Thomeley was dead — ^poisoned, mur-
dered; and Hugh Atherton was in the
hands of justice, suspected, if not ac-
tually accused, of the murder. When
I came back, sick and giddy, to con-
sciousness, there was old Hardy bend-
ing over me with a face blanched al-
most as white as my own must have
been, and Jones the detective standing
by, the deepest concern written on his
countenance. Do you know what it
is, that "coming to," as women express
it, after a sudden mental blow has
prostrated you and hurled you into
the dark oblivion of insensibility ? I
daresay you do. You know what the
return to life is ; what the realization
of the stunning evil which has befallen
you. But God help you if you re-
member that your last words when
conscious criminated the friend you
would willingly die to save. God
help you if you know you must be
forced into admitting what you had
rather cut out your tongue than utter,
and which in your inadvertence or
brainless stupidity you let pass your
lips. I say again, heaven help you,
for it is one of the bitterest moments
of your life.
As the physical indisposition wore
off, and the whole situation of affairs
became clearer to my scattered senses,
the remembrance of what I had done
was maddening.
«0h, blind fool," I cried, "not to
see, not to know what I was doing !
Jones and Hardy, I call you both to
witness most solemnly that I believe
as firmly, as entirely in Mr. Atherton's
innocence as I do in an eternal life to
come. I charge you both, that, what-
ever testimony you may be forced to
give, whatever miserable words have
been wrung from mc — I charge you
both, by all you hold most sacred, to
give evidence likewise that I believe
him innocent"
"We wUl, sir," said the two men
gravely.
Then a desperate idea seized me,
and I motioned Hardy to leave the
room.
'< Jones," I said, when the clerk was
gone, " you are a poor man, I know,
and have many children to provide for.
Grct me off attending the inquest, and
I will write you a cheque on the spot
for any sum in reason you like to
name."
"Bless your heart, sir, it an't in
my power. Inspector Jackson has
been in Wimpole street investigating
it all ; and I know your name's booked
as one of the principal witnesses.
You'll liave your summons this even-
ing for to-morrow, as safe as I'm here."
" Where is Mr. Atherton ?" I asked.
"Inspector Jackson took him to
Marylebone street, sir. He'll go be-
fore the magistrate at two o'clock.
They won't get his committal, though,
I expect until after the inquest ; there
is not sufficient evidence; but we're
getting it as fast as we can."
"Yes," I said in the bitterness of
my heart ; " and if I had known your
errand Acre, I'd liave flung you down
the stairs before you should have had
access to my rooms."
"You can't be sorrier than I am,
Mr. Kavanagh. I believe, like you,
that he's an innocent man : but every-
thing looks against him at present.
The housekeeper's evidence is enough
to hang him."
"The housekeeper! What, Mrs.
Haag?"
" Yes, sir, that's her name, I believe.
She's only half English, or married a
foreigner, or something of the sort.
But I think she must be foreign, for
she has a mighty broad accent. Yes,
indeed, sir ; and if I may make bold
to say it, — ^I don't know what your
friendship for Mr. Atherton may lead
you to do, — ^but it's of no use your not
saying where you saw him last night,
for she saw him go in and come out of
that shop, and she heard him address
you, sir, by name."
A light flashed across me. That
was the woman 1 had met in Yere
Street. I. didn't know the housekeep-
er by sight, but I had often heard both
Atherton and WUmot speak of her.
Wilmot! — another light.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or. Old ThomeUitfB Hdrz.
451
*• Did you know that Mr. Thomele/s
other nephew was with him last night?
He met Mr. Atherton in Wimpole
Street,"
" Yes, sir, and left nearly an Hour
before Mr. Atherton went away."
*< Still, why is he not suspected as
much as the other?"
^^He had not been traced in and out
,of a chemist's shop ; he had no dispute
with his uncle ; he was not heard to
make use of threcUening words. I can't
tell you more, sir ; and I must he go-
ing. I have done what need be done .
here. Mr. Kavanagh, believe me I
am acting only in my official capacity;
and rd rather, sir, have been at the
bottom of the sea than engaged in this
affair. But I mustn't forget the mes-
sage, sir."
" What message ?"
*' From Mr. Atherton. He wanted
to write or to send for you to come ;
but they wouldn't let him. You see,
sir, wc know you are an important
witness against him, and Jackson —
he's a sharp one — wouldn't have him
communicating with you. Poor gen-
tleman I he was stunned-like at first
when he was told. Then when he
saw me, * Jones,' said he, * you go to
Mr. Kavanagh; tell him what has
happened. Tell him I'm an innocent
man, so help me God! I wouldh't
have hurt a gray hair of the old man's
head. But I was angry with him, I
confess.' Then we warned him not
to say anything which might criminate
himself, so he only bent his head rever-
ently, and said again, ' My Grod, Tiiou
knowest I am innocent' Then he
turned to me suddenly and caught my
arm. * Tell Mr. Kavanagh to go at
once to Mrs. Leslie's, and see that the
news doesn't come upon them too sud-
denly. ToXiYiimlL trust to himJ Those
were his words, sir, two or three times,
— < Tell him I trust to him.'"
O Hugh! my poor Hugh; you
might trust me then ; you might have
trusted me always. But you didn't.
A world of damning doubt and evi-
dence rose up between us, and it
seemed to point at me as your worst
enemy, and never more agiiin would
you place confidence in me; never
more would the perfect trust of friend-
ship draw us together, and make our
interests one.
Ay, and that too had been one of
the despairing thoughts which rushed
across my mind as the truth of what had
happened forced itself upon me. Ada !
What if such news were carried sud-
denly, inconsiderately to her ears ?
What if such an awful, unlooked-for
blow fell, crushing the bright hopes
and darkening the radiant happiness
of her young life? I tell all this in a
bewildered way now ; I was far more
bewildered then. I was mad. There
was the remembrance of the last even-
ing, — ^my interview with Thomeley,the
strange secret still ringing in my ears,
the chance meeting with Hugh, and
what was to come of it; and the pres-
ent tidings, — the old man dead, Hugh
arrested and accused of murdering
hun ; and I in my blindness had helped
to corroborate the worst testimony
against him. All this was rushing
through my brain; and then, above
all, the thought of Ada Leslie — ^and
the last thought roused me to action.
" Gro back, Jones, to Mr. Atherton ;
tell him I am going off immediately to
Mrs. Leslie's, and that he may trust
to me in that. And stay, has he got
legal assistance ?"
" No, sir ; I fancy he thought you'd
see to all that. He didn*t seem to
think how it might be with your hav-
ing to give evidence."
" You'd better go to Smith and
Walker's, and see ono of the partners.
They must watch proceedings for him
to-day."
" They can't, sir ; they are to watch
on the part of the Crown."
" On the part of the Crown ! — ^whose
management is that?"
" I believe they offered and wished
it They feel bound to discover the
murderer of their late client; they
couldn't act for the man accused of
murdering him."
"True — too true. I'll send Hardy
to Mr J^errivale ; he is a great friend
Digitized by CjOOQIC
452
Unconvicted; or^ Old Thomde^i Hetrt.
of his — I can trust him. Tell Mr.
Atherton what I saj, and what has
I been done."
" Verjr good, sir ;" and Jones with-
drew.
It took me less than an hour to
reach Hyde-Park Gardens, where
Mrs. Leslie and mj ward dwelt ; and
on the road I resolyed as well as I
could how to break the news. Pray
Heaven only to give her strength to
bear it ! I was shown into the dining-
room, for I had asked to see Miss
Leslie alone. There were the sounds
of music up-stairs, and I heard Ada's
clear thrilling voice singing one of the
beautiful German songs I knew, and
that he loved so well. Presently her
light step was on the threshold, and
she burst gaily into the room.
" Oh, Hugh, how late you are !" and
then she stopped suddenly, seeing it
was I — only L But shQ came for-
ward in a moment with a kind eager
welcome, a welcome back to England,
laughing and blushing at her mistake.
" I heard the street-door open, and ran
down at once ; for Hugh said he
would come early to take me out this
morning, and I thought it was he. Oh,
but I am so glad to see you, dear Mr.
Kavanagh. But how dreadfully ill
you are looking — what is the mat-
ter?*'
Perhaps she saw my own misery,
and the unutterable pity and tender-
ness for her which filled my heart,
written in my face; but a change
passed over her countenance.
^ What is the matter ?" she repeated
in a breathless sort of manner.
"Hugh sends his love," I said;
hardly knowing, indeed, what words
were passing my lips, or that I was
really " breaking it " to her ; — ^ his
dear love ; he is quite well, but some-
thing prevents Imn from coming to you
to-day."
\ ** To-day I" She repeated the same
word afler me, still in a breathless
way ; and her large eyes were fixed
on me as in mute agonized appeal
against what was coming.
" Something very important^-very
painful — has happened to detain him.
Mr. Thomeley died very suddenly last
night.'*
I stopped, and turned away. Hea-
ven help me ! I could not go on, with
those eyes upon me. There was (Xic
deep-drawn sigh of relief.
«Is that off/"
Was it not better to tell the truth
to her at once ? After all, he was in-
nocent I acknowledged that with all
the loyalty of my soul — so would she ;
and that thought would bear her up.
Yes, it would be best to tell her. I
took her hand, and led her to a chair.
" Ada, it is not all ; can jou bear
the rest P' Her white trembling lips
moved as if assenting, but I could net
hear the words. " Thomeley died very
suddenly — ^was found dead. It is
thought he has been poisoned. I
don't know the partacnlars — I have
only just heard of it. Hugh was with
him late last night ; it is necessary he
should be examined to^-day by a ma-
gistrate."
Again I paused, praying that the
truth might dawn upon her — that I
might not have to stab her with the
terrible revelation. But— dreading,
fearing, as I could see she was — ^no
shadow of the reality seemed to cross
her mind.
" Where is Hugh now ?•* at last she
asked w^ith startling suddenness.
"O Ada, my poor child! try to
bear it. Hugh is as innocent as you
are of this fearful crime ; but he has
been arrested."
The words were said — she knew all
now. To my dying day I shall never
forget the awful change which passed
over her face. She did not faint or
scream, but she sat there motionless,
rigid, white as a marble statue. I
took her hand ; it was icy cold, and
lay passive in mine.
^ Ada, for Grod's sake speak to mc !
Shall I call your mother to you ?"
Her stillness was frightiiiL There
was some water on the sideboard, and
I poured oQt some and brought it to
her, almost forcing the glass between
her set teeth. At last she swallowed
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Uticonvicted ; or^ Old Thomdeffs Hstrs.
453
some, and then heavy sighs seemed to
relieye both heart and brain.
" I must go to him/' she said at last
in a hoarse whisper.
" You cannot, Ada^ — at least not to-
day; they would not suffer it. Be-
sides, my dearest child, he has need of
all his firmness and presence of mind,
and the sight of you would only un-
nerve him. Let him hear how brave-
ly you are bearing it ; let him think of
you as believing that our Father who
is in heaven wiU defend the innocent."
" I do, I do," she said, the hot tears
slowly welling from her eyes, and fall-
ing in burning drops upon my hand —
and upon my heart. They were blessed
tears of relief. " But you too will do
your utmost for him. You are his
dearest friend, and he would have full
confidence in whatever you did. Go
to him at once ! — why do you stay
here?" she continued more vehe-
mently ; " why are you not with him,
helping and defending him ?"
Could I tell her the truth now?
Could I undeceive her and say I have
done as much and perhaps more to
condemn him than any one — that I
should have to bear witness against
him ? Could I tell her this, with her
eyes looking into mine in such unut-
terable anguish, with her little hand
placed in mine so confidingly, and
with the thought of him before me ?
I could not. I said all should be done
for him that was in the power of mor-
tal man to do, and I promised to send
messengers constantly to keep her fully
infoimed during the day of all that
passed; Before going I asked her if
I should tell her mother ; but she re-
fused — she would rather do it hereelf.
"Tell him," were her last words,
" that my heart is with him, and my
love^-oh I my dearest love !"
" Write it, Ada," I said, " it is better
he should have that message direct
from you."
So 1 left her, beaiing her little note
to him, poor fellow. How precious it
would be, that tiny missive, coming
from her loving band and faithful
heart.
It was just upon one o'clock when I
arrived at my chambers, and at two
Atherton was to be taken before the
magistrate. There was no fresh news ;
so I decided upon going at once to
Merrivale's office, and seeing him if
possible before he went to the police-
court. I met him on the stairs re-
turning to his office.
" I have just been with poor Ather-
ton," he said ; and he looked very
grave. " Come in here ; I was going
to send for you. By the bye, have
you been to the Leslies ? he is most
anxious about that. I don't think he'll
be calm enough to think for himself
until he knows all is right in that
quarter."
" I have a note from Miss Leslie
for him,"
« All right. Give it to me ; I'll
enclose it, and send it at once."
Merrivale despatched the messen-
ger, and then locked his room door.
" The case is dead against him," he
said as ho sat down -, " and he knows
it now, poor fellow, — ^he knows it"
" He is innocent," I said ; " I could
swear he is innocent !"
" Yes, so I think, and so do others ;
but the evidence against him is fright-
fully strong. That woman, Mrs. Haag,
will make a most criminating state-
ment of wliat occurred last night."
" I don't know the particulars,— tell
me what they are P*
" You ought to be able to throw con-
siderable light upon it," said Merri-
vale, unheeding my question. " You
were with poor old Thomeley last
night, it seems. Just tell me all that
passed. In fact, I ought to know
every thing. I hear too that you are
to be summoned as witness against
Atherton. How is that ?"
I then related to him how I had
gone to Wimpole street at Mr. Thorne-
ley's request about a matter of busi-
ness ; the hour I had left him ; my
meeting with Hugh ; his wish to come
home with me, and my refusal; the
meeting also with the woman, and
the conclusions which I had drawn
from it.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
454
Unconvicted; or, Old Thamde^s Heirs.
"What was the nature of the busi-
ness with Mr. Thomelcj ?*
I replied that my wonl of honor was
passed to keep it secret
" Had it any bearing upon the un-
happy catastrophe, either directly or
indirectly ?"
" No ; none that I could see.'*
"Would it affect Atherton or his
prospects ?**
I could not answer further, I re-
plied; but in no way could it touch
him either for good or evil in the pre-
sent unfortunate affair. Mcrrivale was
fairly at a nonplus.
" Now," said Mr. Merrivale, " I will
tell you what passed after you went
away, as I learut it from Atherton;
and whatever further light you can
throw upon the mystery, which is my
business now t6 sift to the bottom, well,
I think, Kavanagh, you are bound, by
all the ties of your long friendship
with that poor fellow now under ar-
rest, to speak out openly to me."
I felt Merrivale's sharp searching
eyes upon me ; but the time to speak
had not come, and I could in no way
scinre Hugh by breaking silence — at
least I did not see that I could. After
a short pause, Merrivale continued :
"Atherton tells me that when he
reached his uncle's house, he found
his cousin, Lister Wilmot, had just ar-
rived ; and they both went to Thome-
ley's room together, Wilmot said to
him on the way, 'I must get some
money to-night out of the governor, if
possible, for I'm dreadfully hard-up.
I've had to dodge three duns to-day ;
and therell be a writ out against
me to-morrow as sure as I'm alive, if
he doesn't fofk out handsomely.' Ath-
erton asked him what he called hand-
somely, with a view, I imagine, to
helping him himself if he could ; but
WUmot mentioned a sum so large that
there could be no further thought of
his doing so. They found the old man
unusually preoccupied and taciturn.
Nevertheless, ia spite of unfavorable
circumstances, Wilmot broached the
subject of his difficulties to him, and
abruptly asked for 500^ Thomeley
was furious ; and it seems, curiously
enough, tliai he turned his fury upon
Atherton;- accused him of leading
Wilmot astray, of teaching him to be
extravagant ; of making a tool of him
for purposes of his own ; in short,
making the most unheard-of accusa-
tions against poor Atherton, and throw-
ing the entire blame on him. Ather-
ton says he felt convinced that some
one must have been carrying false
stories to his uncle, or in some way
poisoning his mind against himself;
but knowing how broken in health he
was, he tried at iiist to soothe him, and
quietly contradict his assertions, and
Wilmot indorsed all he soUdy distinctly
stating that his cousin was entirely
free from all blame in the matter, and
that it was his own extravagance
which had brought him into difficul-
ties ; and much more to the same
effect. And now comes the terrible
part. Thomeley only waxed wrother
and more wroth ; swore at Atherton^
and told him be miglit pay lib cousin's
debts for him ; and if he couldn't out
of his own money, he might get his
future wife's guardian to advance him
some of hers ; and that if Wilmot had
looked half-sharp ho might have mar-
ried the girl himself. As it was, he
dared say she would marry Kavanagli
in the end. You may suppose this
vexed Atherton not a little ; his blood
was up, and he spoke out hot and an-
grily to his uncle, telling him amongst
other things that ho would bitterly re^
pent on the morrow what he had said
last night. He tells me he distinctly
remembers the words he used. In the
heat of the dispute — ^he thinks it must
have been just at the moment he said
this — ^the housekeeper came in with
the tray. It seems that Thomeley
always took bitter-ale the last thing
at night, with hard biscuits. Almost
directly aft«r he had spoken Atherton
repented having got angry with the
old man, remembering what his tem-
perament was i and as a sort of pro-
pitiatory action, went and fetched him
his glass of ale from the table. Gil-
bert Thomeley took it from Atherton'a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or, Old ThomeLy's Ifeirs.
455
hand, and — drank it. There was poi"
son in that glass of ale /"
I sat confronting Merrivale, dazed,
sickened, dumbfounded. J^ow I knew
the fall weight of the evidence I should
be forced to give. Now I knew, when
everything was revealed, tiie cry that
would go up from Hugh's heart against
me. But I never swerved from my
allegiance to him ; I never thought him
guilty — ^no, not for the brief shadow of
an instant.
After a while Merrivale continued,
** Whoever put in that fatal drug, and
whatever it was, the effects must have
taken place subsequent to Atherton's
leaving Wimpole Street. He says
that Wilmot went away very shortly
after his uncle drank the ale,receivmg
a very cold good-night from the latter;
and that after in vain trying to reason
with Mr. Thorneley, and bring him
into good-humor again, he also lefl
him,-^he old man utterly refUsing to
shake bauds or to part friends. The
poor fellow seems to feel that bitterly ;
he 13 terribly cut up at remembering
that the last intercourse with his uncle
should have been unfriendly. No; I
could venture my oath he is innocent ;
liis sorrow at Thorneley's deatJi cannot
ba put on. Howeverj tlie end of it
all is, that Mr. Thorneley went to bed
last night directly -after Atherton
went away ; and this morning when
the servant went into his room as usual
at half-past six, to call him, and see
whether he wanted anything before
getting up — ^he kept to his old early
hours as much as possible, I fancy—
the man found him dead in his bed.
The housekeeper was roused, and they
sent off directly for a doctor. When
he came, he declared his suspicion that
he had died from the effects of poison,
and demanded what he had taken last.
He had touched nothing since the bit-
ter-ale ; the glass had not been wash-
ed, and traces of strychnine were found
in the few drops lefb in the tumbler.
Smith and Walker have called in Dr.
Robinson since then ; and he with this
doctor who first saw the corpse are
making a vost-mortem examination
now. The contents of the stomach, to
make sare of everything, are to be sent
to Professor T for analysis. When
the inspectors arrived from Scotland
Yard, the housekeeper immediately
volunteered her evidence of what I
have related to you. Putting all these
facts together," continued Merrivale,
looking over his notes, " coupled with
the evidence you will be forced to give
of where you met him, I apprehend
the whole case to be dead against poor
Atherton. Yes, the entire thing will
turn upon that visit to the chemist in
Yere street; if we can dispose of that
satisfactorily, I shan't despair. At
present it is the most criminating to my
mind, and will just damn him with the
jury at the inquest."
" What account does he give him-
self of going to the chemist's ?"
'^Simple enough, to any one who
knows him as you and I do, and who
would believe a man who never yet
lied,—- >who is, I think, incapable of a
lie to save his own life. He says he
went in to purchase some camphor; he
lias been taking it lately for headaches ;
the bottle was found in his coat-pocket;
but there was also found a small empty
paper labelled ' Strychnine,' with the
Verestreet chemist's name upon it. Of
that paper he most solemnly denies all
knowledge, and I believe him; but
how will the jury dispose of such cir-
cumstantial evidence?"
'* No expense must be spared in de-
fending him, Merrivale," I said ; " draw
on me to the last farthing for whatever
is wanted."
'* None shall be spared. I have
written to Sir Richard Mayne, whom I
know very well, asking for a certain
detective officer whoso experience I
can rely on from past dealings ; and if
the dastardly wretch lives who haa
done this deed, and thrown the brunt
of it on Atherton, he or she shall be
hunted down and brought to justice.
I must be off now. The proceedings
to-day will be but nominal. I will
come round by your office on my way
back. What we have to do at present
is to gidn time. For t^ we must pre-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
456
Unconvicted; or. Old Thomdey^s Heirt*
pare all the contrarj evidence in our
power against to-morrow. By the
way, see Wilmot as soon as you can,
and bring him back with you/'
I returned home ; wrote a few words,
as comforting and encouraging as I
could, to Ada, and despatched a mes-
senger with the note ; then I went to
the Albany and asked for Ligter Wil-
mot. He was out ; had been summon-
ed to the police-court to be present at
the inquiry. I left; my card, with a
pencilled injunction to come on to me
the moment he returned; and then,
impelled by a horrible fascination, I
took my way toward Marj-lebone street,
longing, yet dreading, to see and hear
— my heart aching for a sight of the
manly form and noble face of him to
whom my soul had cleayed as to a
brother.
There was a dense crowd outside
the gates of the courtyard and round
the private door through which the
magistrates enter, when I arrived there.
With my hat slouched over my brows,
I made my way through with difficulty
to theidodr of the court where the pro-
ceedings were going on, — the noise
and din of the crowd buzzing about
me, and scraps of talk which goes on
in such places and among such people
as collect there, reaching me in broken
snatches.
« Who'd ha' thought he'd a done it?
such a nice-looking chap as er is."
"Yer see, it's the money as he
wanted. The old man was mortal
rich ; they sjiy the Bank of England
couldn't 'old 'is money. Yes, the gowld
did iL"
" Pisen ! Ah, he'd be glad of pisen
hisself now. What's that feller say-
in' ? Oh, that's the lawyer wot's de-
fending hun. He'll have tough work,
he will."
" Remanded ! — that's the way ; why
can*t they commit him at once ? Gi vin'
folks all the trouble to come twice afore
they knows what to do with un."
"'Ere he comes. Now, six-footer,
who pisened the old man ?"
And then came groans and hisses as
the mob were made to open and divide
themselves, whilst policemen cleared
the way for the prisoner — yes, it had
come to that — the prisoner I — to pass
to the van waiting for him. I looked
up as he advanced, — ^we were almost
of the same height, he and I ; taller
perhaps by some inches than the ma-
jority around, who were mostly women,
— and our eyes met. O God I shall I
ever forget the look he gave me?
Pale and calm and firm, he passed on
— his Doble brow erect, his clear eyes
shining with the light of conscious in-
nocence ; with the whole expression of
his countenance subdued — hallowed, I
might say — with the sorrow and trouble
which had befallen him. On he came,
heedless of the hisses and jeers of the
fallen degraded herd who pressed
round ; heedless of the jibes and groans
uttered by the companions of those for
whom, more tlian likely, his genial
voice had been raised in defence,
in pleading against the justice they
deserved, but which he had never
merited. Oa he came, unmindful of
everything that was going on about
him, as if his spirit were faraway, com-
muning with that unseen Presence
that was never absent from his mind.
I lifted my hat and stood bareheaded
as he paseed into that dark dismal van
that was polluted with the breath, con-
taminated by the touch, of men whose
hands were dyed by the blackest
crimee.
When il had driven off I turned
away and hailed a passing cab. Just
as I was stepping into it I was arrested
by the sound of a voice near me.
"He's safe to be condemned, as
shuro as yer name's Mike."
It was an Irish voice. I bounded
back. Disappearingrapidly, threading
in and out of the now-dispersing crowd,
were the high square shoulders, the
gray locks and beard, the swaggering
air of Mr. de Vos, the " treasure -trove,"
the hero of Swain's Lane. He was
gone before I was fully aware of his
identity.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Vhcanmeted; or, Old Thomele^s Heir$.
457
CHAPTEB IV,
▲ QLIXICBR OF LIGHT.
A POPULAR writer of the day says
tbero is this to be observed in the
physiology of every murder, " that
before the coroner's inquest the sole
object of public curiosity is the mur-
dered man; while immediately after
that judicial investigation the tide of
feeling turns; the dead man is hur-
ried and forgotten, and the suspected
murderer becomes the hero of men's
morbid imaginations." If this be true
— as it is — ^in the generality of cases,
there arc also exceptions in which
just the contrary takes place. So
was it now. Amidst the hue and cry
which an^c against Hugh Atherton,
the suspected murderer of his uncle,
Gilbert Thomeley, the murdered
man, was almost forgotten. The an-
nouncement in the morning papers of
the inquest to be held that same day
following the discovery of the murder
was hailed but as an acceleration of
the justice which was to hunt him
down to a felon's death. Three exe-
cutions had taken place during that
summer in London, and they had but
whetted the public appetite. Like a
wild beast that had tasted blood, it
ravened and hungered for more ; it
could not sicken at the sight of a hu-
man creature, a fellow-man, strung up
like a dog, strangled like an animal;
it could not shudder to behold the
quivering limbs, the covered face,
the convulsed form, as it swung from
the gibbet. They had become used
to the sight, famOiar with the whole
scene in its awful solemnity ; but they
were far from satiated ; and eagerly
did the public voice clamor for an-
other victim on whom to gloat their
inhuman eyes. Ah ! that is a fearful
responsibility which England has
taken upon herself in these public ex-
ecutions — in baring to such a gaze as
that which is fastened upon the small
black-draped platfoim outside the
walls of Newgate the solemn, awful
spectacle of a creature going to meet
his Creator, of an immortal soul pass-
ing into the dread presence of its
God ! Much has been said for, much
agamst, those exhibitions of public
justice; I doubt if a true view will
ever be arrived at until the question
has been considered as one vitally
affecting England as a Christian na-
tion.
Hugh Atherton was a suspected
man, and the press did its work well
that morning in trying to criminate
him. Already in those brief four-and-
twenty hours his name — the name of
One incapable of hurting the tiniest in-
sect that lay across his path — ^had be-
come a byword and a reproach in the
mouths, not of many, but of multi-
tudes, throughout the length and
breadth of the land. /
Gilbert Thorneley had been a rich
man— ia notedly rich man — a million-
aire ; and we may not touch the rich
with impunity. He had not been a
good man nor a useful man, nor phi-
lanthropic ; none had loved him, not a
few had hated him, many had dis-
liked and dreaded him; but he was
rich — he had wealth untold, and it did
wonders for him in the eyes of the
world after his death. Yet withal ho
was forgotten, comparatively speak-
ing, whilst the interest of the public
was riveted upon his supposed-to-be-
criminal nephew. The scanty evi-
dence elicited at the police-court was
twisted and turned against him by in-
genious compilers of leading-articles,
and only one journal ventured to raise
a dissenting voice in his favor. It
was a paper that had vindicated
many. a man before; that had done
for accused persons what perhaps
their poverty would not permit them
to do for themselves, — in ventilating
facts and clearing up evidence with
the care and eloquence of a paid
counsel. It was a paper hated by
many in authority, by big wigs and po-
tentates, and was to many country
magistrates a perfect nightmare ; nev-
ertheless its influence told largely
upon the public mind and led to the
rooting out of many an evil.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
458
UnconvieUd; or^ Old 71iomelsi/s Heirs.
The inqaest on Gilbert Thorneley
was appointed for two o'clock, and 1
was cited to appear as one of the wit*
nesses. I had gone late the evening
before to Hyde-Park Gardens with
all the tidings that oould be gathered,
and lefl poor Ada more calm and com-
posed than could almost have been
hoped for. Still, what her fearful
grief and anxiety was, heaven only
knew ; for her only thought seemed to
be that Hugh should hear she was
keeping up bravely for his sake.
After the inquest, I promised to try
and obtain that she should see him:
But I went away, haunted by her
poor pale face, her heavy sleepless
eyes, her look of suppressed anguish ;
haunted by an overwhelming dread of
the morrow ; haunted by the vision of
a future laden with sorrow and suffer-
ing for us all* And at last the morn-
ing dawned of the day which would
bring forth such important results,
and affect the fate of Hugh Atherton
so very gravely. I went early to
Merrivalc's office, and found him full
of business and very anxious. Lister
Wilmot had never appeared ; and re-
peated messengers sent to the Albany
only brought back word that he had
not been home since he went to the
police-court the preceding day. He
had neither dined nor slept at home.
Smith and Walker were savage
and taciturn, refusing all information,
although their clerk let out that Wil-
mot had been there several times;
and Merrivalc's hopes were all cen-
tred in the detective he was employ-
ing, but who had not been seen since
he had received his instructions..
The hours wore round, and at
twelve o'clock I was to be at the
Leslies'. As I left Mr. Merrivale's
office in Lincoln's-Inn Square, a man
bowed to me in passing. It was
Jones the detective. A sudden
thought struck me, and I turned back
after him.
^ Jones," I said, " do you happen to
know a Mr. de Yos, who lodged some
two months ago at No. 13 Charles
street, Leicester Square P'
" No, sir ; not by that name. What
is he like ?"
I described him ; but he shook liis
head.
" I don't recognize him, sir ; but, if
you'll allow me, I'll make a note of it.
Have you any particular reason for
wishing to hear about him ?'
"Yes; and I should be glad to
know anifthing you can gather con-
cerning the man."
" rU be on the look-out, sir." And
Jones touched his hat and went off.
The old butler came to the door in
Hyde-Park Gardens, and in answer
to my inquiries informed me that
Miss Leslie was " very middling
indeed, and that Mr. Wihnot had just
been there."
«Mr. Wihnot!"
"Yes, sir; he wished partiklar to
see Miss Ada — which he did, sir,
and her ma too : very nice gentleman
he seems, and terrible cut up about
his poor uncle and his cousin. A shock-
ing thing, sir, for you to have to wit-
ness against Mr. Atherton."
Against Mr. Atherton ! Then it
had reached here — tliis news, these
tidings — that I was to help to con-
demn the man I loved best on earth !
What was known in the servants'-hall
had no doubt been discussed in the
drawing-room, and Ada must now
fuUy be aware of what I had found no
courage to tell her yesterday. How
had •he received the intel%ence?
what was she thinking of it — of me ?
Beflecting thus, I followed Kings into
the library, and found Mrs. Leslie
alone. Now that lady and I never
got on as amicably as we might have
done ; joint guardians seldom do, es-
pecially when they are of opposite
genders ; and this I say with no sort
of reflection upon the fairer sex,
simply mentioning it as a fact which,
during a long le^ course of experi-
ence, has come before me. / consid-
ered Mrs. Leslie frivolous, weak, and
extravagant^ very unlike her child,
very far from fit to be instrusted with
the sole guidance of a mind -such as
Ada's. But I kept my own couosel
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or^ Old ITunmeU^s Heirs,
459
on the subject, and tried hj action
rather than words to counteract and
shield Ada from evils arising from
her mother's foolish conduct. She
thought me very uncompromising,
very particular and rigid in my no-
tions, often perhaps very crusty and
disagreeable, nor spared she any
pains to conceal her thought. That I
did not mind; for Ada trusted me
implicitly in all things, and it was
all I cared for. This nioming there
was a stiffness and less of cordiality
than ever in Mrs. Leslie's manner of
receiving me.
" How is Ada ?" I asked.
" She passed a very restless night,
{)Oor dear, very restless ; and is fit for
nothing this morning. Indeed^ I am
almost in the same state myself, I
have been so terribly upset by this
affair, and my nerves are very deli-
cate. Most trying too ! I have had
to put off our rSunion musicale for
next Thursday, and the Denison's
dinner-party for to-morrow. I can't
think how Hugh came to do it — for of
course he must have done it, though
Ada won't hear a word against him."
. " He did n(?< do it, Mrs. Leslie! Ada
is right, as she always is."
"Ah ! well, so Lister Wihnot tried
to make me believe ; but then he says
everything is against poor Hugh, and
that even you feel obliged to give evi-
dence against him. I must say, John
Kavanagh, that I think it very strange
of you to have volunteered to give
evidence. Wilmot was explaining it
all to us, and said you couldn't help
yourself; for the first words you had
said to the policeman when he came
to you criminated your friend."
A glimmer of light was beginnmg
to dawn in my mind ; but its ray was
very faint and dim as yet ; and after
all it might only prove a will-o'-the-
wisp. Still I would not lose it if pos-
sible.
"Wilmot told you that, did he?
Does Ada know ?"
"Yes; she vras here when he came.
He toM us everything that had passed
ail that had been said by his uncle the
last evening he saw him alive. He
mentioned a great deal which had been
kept back — ^purposely I suppose, and
for some motive we don't understand
now, but which will come out by and
by, no doubt," said Mrs. Leslie with a
burst of spite in her voice.
" Would you have the goodness to
send word to Ada that I am here ?" T
said very stiffly.
"Oh I I forgot. She desired her
kindest regards when you called, but
she could not see you this morning.
She will write."
I looked at her, and something con-
vinced me she was telling a lie. I got
up very quietly and rang the bell.
^' Let Miss Leslie know I am here.
Kings."
"Yes, sir.'* V
Then IMrs. Leslie's anger broke
forth. How dared T presume so far —
take such a liberty in her house ! I
forgot myself; I was no gentleman,
but a meddling, interfering man, dis-
appointed and soured because I ha\
not secured Ada and her fortune for
myself. She had seen it all ahng. So
she raved on — so I let her rave ; and
when she ceased I answered her :
Ji " If I have taken a liberty in giving
"an order under your roof and to jour
servant, I beg your pardon. But this
is no time to stop at trifles or considera-
tions of mere etiquette involving no
real breafli of good breeding. So long
as your daughter is a minor I shall
hold myself responsible for the tmst
her dead father confided to me con-
jointly with yourself; and, so help me
God, I will perform the sacred duty
to its utmost limits and regardless of
human respect ! There is foul play go-
ing on around us, and some influence
— ^I know not yet whoso— is at work
to undermine the happiness of us all.
There is bitter need that no fatal mis-
understanding should arise between my
ward and myself; that no subtle repre-
sentations of interested persons should
shake the reliance upon my integrity
and honor, which hitherto Ada has
placed in her father's friend. A life
more precious to her than her own, and
Digitized by CjOOQIC
460
Unconvicted; ar^ Old Tkomdey's Heirs.
dsar to me as a brother's, is at stake;
and I foresee, though dimly and darkly,
that it imports far more than perhaps
we dream of now to keep everything
clear between us in our several rela-
tions with each other. At any rate I
will allow no foolish fancies, no weak
pride, to stand between your daughter
and myself, her legal guardian and sole
trustee**
I spoke very sternly, and purposely
laid a stress upon my last words, know-
ing the woman with whom I was deal-
ing, and the full weight they would
have with her. Nor was I mistaken.
She burst into a feeble querulous fit
of crying; and the servant returning at
that moment with a message from Ada
asking me to go up-stairs, I left Mrs.
Leslie to her reflections.
My ward was in her little morning-
room. She was writing at the table,
and the room was partisdly darkened,
as if she could not bear the foil sun-
light of that bright autumn day. There
were birds and flowers and music
around her; but the birds had hushed
their song, the flowers drooped their
heads, as if missing the careful hand
tliat tended them ; and the music that
generally greeted one there was silent.
Oh ! when would she sing again ? I
felt something about my feet as I ad-
vanced towards her, and heard a pite-
ous whine I looked down ; it was a
little rough shaggy terrier,-^Hugh's
dog. Poor Dandie I He recognized
me, and looked for one with whom he
was so accustomed to sec me.
** I sent for him," said Ada, lifting
her weary wan face as I stood beside
her. " I fancied he would be happier
here — less lonely ; but he is not — ^he
wants kim,"
The dog iseeniod to unoerstand her;
for he came and, putting his forepaws
upon her knee, laid his head upon them,
and looking toward me whined again.
She laid her cheek down upon his
rough head and caressed him.
"Not yet, Dandie,— iiot yet. We
must be patient, doggie, and 'he will
come to us again."
It was a few moments berore I could
speak; but time was hastening on
apace. Whilst I stood by the fire
thinkmg how best to begin the subject
I had at heart, Ada came and laid her
hand on my arm.
"I have been wishing for you; I
thought you would never come."
Then her mother had told a lie ; but
I said nothing.
" Lister Wilmot has been here this
morning, talking a good deal." She
stopped and hesitated.
To help her, I said, " Yes ; so your
mother tells me."
She looked at me inquiringly. " Has
she told all that passed — all that he
said?" '
" She told me a great deal ; but I
would rather hear everything from
yotu My child, don't hesitate to con-
fide in me. You don't know how it
may help to clear matters up, which
seem to be so fearfully complicated
now."*'-
I think she understood me, for she
sighed wearily, and I heard her mur-
mur to herseUi " Poor mamma !"
" Lister was very kind this morn-
ing, and was in dreadful trouble alx>ut
— him. He said he had thought of
me more than any one, and would
have come yesterday, but had so much
to arrange and see to."
And then Ada went on to relate
what passed, a great deal of which I
had gathered from Mrs. Leslie.
" Tiierc is one thing,'* she concluded,
" which I did not and would not be-
lieve. He says you have volunteered
to give evidence against 7«'»i," (it
seemed as if she could not bring her-
self to mention Hugh by name ;) " but
I said it could not be, — that there
must have been a mistake. TVliat is
the worst of all is, that since Lister
was here, mamma persists in saying
he is guilty; somehow, though his
words defended, his tone and manner
implied he thought his cousin guil-
ty."
^•Ada, it is true I shall have to give
evidence which may help to criminate
Hugh; but it is more than equally
false that I ever volunteered to bear
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or^ Old Thomdeffs Heirs,
461
witness against him. You were right ;
never believe tV."
Then I told her how it was, and
how I had shrunk from letting her
know it before.
"And now, my child, I must go.
You know the inquest is to take place
this afternoon, and I have to be there ;
but first I must return to Merrivale's,
and settle manj things with him."
" You will come back to me after-
ward/'
" Surely; as soon as it is over.'*
** Do you think he will be present ?"
" I trust not j oh ! I trust not ! But
perhaps he will wish to watch the pro-
ceedings himself, as well as Merrivale.
God be with you, Ada, and good-bye I"
I was on the threshold of the door
when she called me back.
" I am very foolish, guardian, not
to have said it before ; but I could not
— and yet I ought and must."
Her hand was resting on a well-
worn morocco case. I knew it well —
it was Hugh's likeness, and a faint
color tinged her white cheeks ; but she
mastered the shy feeling, whatever it
was, and looked clearly and earnestly
at me.
" Something was said by Lister
Wilmot of what had dropped from
poor Mr. Thonrcley the last night of
his life about }ou and me. I don't
know why he should have repeated it ;
but as it is, I wanted to ask you not
to mind it ; at least, not to notice what
may be said by others — ^by my mother.
I only fear lest anything of the kind
being said should come between us,
and destroy our confidence in one
another, because we underetand each
other so well — ^you and I and Hugh,"
— how linger ingly she spoke his name I
— ^**and we have no secrets between
us that all three may not share. And
I have feared lest this worse than
foolishness, dragged out publicly,
should change anything in our inter-
course, or prevent you from acting,- as
hitherto^ a parent's part toward a fa-
therless girl."
^'Nbthingy Ada, can change me to-
ward you ; and when people think of
you and then of me, they will not heed
the childish babble that may go about."
"Thunks, guardian."
" Worse than foolishness !" — I said
the words over to myself many times
as I drove back to Lmcoln's Inn ; and
in the, hazy distant future I saw a
weary wayworn pilgrim slowly toiling
along life's lonely road, who, looking
back to this past year come and gone,
would still repeat, " Worse than fool-
ishness !"
I found Merrivale in deep confer-
ence with a mean-looking little man
with a short stubbly head of hair that
bristled up like a scrubbing-brush, and
of a melancholy cast of countenance,
as if accustomed to view life darkly,
through the medium of duns and such-
like evils to which man is heir. His
eyes were the only redeeming point
about him, and they really were two
of the sharpest, most intelligent orbs I
ever saw in my life. They lighted
upon me the moment I entered the
room, and seemed to take in my whole
exterior and interior person with a
knowingncss that was perfectly alarm-
ing.
" This is the gentleman, I suppose,
sir, who was with the defunct party
the night of the murder," said a won-
derfully soft voice.
" Yes ; Mr. Kavanagh. — ^This is In-
spector Keene, the very clever officer
I mentioned to you, Kavanagh."
I acknowledged Mr. Keenc's salute
with becoming deference.
"Have you any news?" I asked.
"Well, sir," with a quick cautious
glance at ISIcrrivale, "I have and J
have not. Befoi*e I say anything fur-
ther, I should be glad to ask the gen-
tleman a few questions, Mr. Merrivale,
if agreeable."
" By all means," I answered.
He put mo through a sharp cross-
questioning on every point with which
the reader is acquainted, making rapid
notes of all my answers and remarks.
Then he sat silently scraping his chin
and gnawing his nails for some min-
utes. At last he looked up suddenly.
'* The funeral, I understand, is fixed
Digitized by CjOOQIC
462 Our Molhtn't Call.
for next Taesday, and after that is over « Good-day, gentlemen. I will call
the WiU is to ha read. Perhaps that on you, Mr. Merrivale, to-morrow. }
may throw some light on the ^bject.* think I am on the scent,"*
I could not for the life of me repress " Come," said Merrivale, "we must
a start, and Inspector Keene made a be oflT, or we shall be late."
mental note of it, I knew
TO BS COXTISUKD.
[ OBIOIK AL. ]
OUR MOTHER'S CALL.
CoifE home, O weary wanderers, from error's tangled maze,
My mother-heart yearns sore for you in all your troubled ways.
Fve rest, and fooi^ and shelter, for all the earth can hold —
Then hasten, weary wanderers, home to the single fold.
I am the Master's gamer, which ever yieldeth more,
The more the needy millions receiving from my store ;
No numbci's can exhaust me; no beggar at my gate
For rest and food and shelter, shall ever have to wait.
If in mine inner chamber the Master seems to sleep,
While fearful storm and peril are out upon the deep.
My lightest tone will call him to rescue of his own
For his dear children's haven I am, and I alone.
Almighty wisdom made me the home upon the rock —
The Saviour's fold of safety to all his ransomed flock.
My door is ever open, and they who enter in.
Find rest from all their wanderings, and cleansing from their si*].
One thing, and but one only, the Master doth demand.
That they who seek shall find him as he himself hath plannc; 1 ;
Beneath my lowly portal shall bow each haughty head,
And to my narrow pathway return each wandering tread.
I cannot lift the lintd^ nor widen out the posts j
Far every stone was fashioned hy him^ the Lord of hosts.
My Mastery and thy Master if thou wilt hear his voice
And in his pleasant pastures for evermore rejoice.
Can human handcraft ever compete in skill with him,
Whose throne is in the heavens amid the cherubim ?
Then cease your idle toiling another home to itiise ;
lie on my fair proportions toiled all his mortal days.
When out of depths of darkness he called the glorious sun
In all its dazzling splendor, he spoke and it wa^ done ;
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Use and Abuse of Beading.
463
His sweat and blood were both poured oat that he might fashion me
His sun to souls in darkness till time no more shall be.
Hold it no light offending that jou can turn aside,
And scorn in wilful blindness the Saviour's spotless bride.
He who hath full dominion unchecked o'er all the earth,
Made me the mighty mother of tlie blest second-birth.
*
Coaie, weigh ye well the value of his three and thirty years,
And number o'er the treasure of all his prayers and tears.
And count ye out the life-drops that flowed from his ciefl side.
And learn the wondrous bounty with which he dowered his bride.
Rich-dowered for your salvation, ye dearly bought of earth !
By his dying, and my living, oh I weigh salvation's worth,
And in the single shelter his mighty love hath given.
Learn the dear will that maketh the blessedness of heaven.
Genevebvb Sales.
SASTSBTIDS, 186<i»
(OUGIXAL.]
USE AND ABUSE OF READING.*
We have been much interested in
the grave and earnest essay on the
abuses and dangers of reading, by P.
Toulemont, in that excellent periodi-
cal, the ** Etudes," so ably conducted
by fathers of the Society of Jesus,
and we would translate and present it
to the readers of the Catholic
World in its integrity, if some por-
tions of it were not better adapted to
France than to the United States ;
yet much which we shall advance in
this article is inspired by it, and we
shall make fi*ee use of its ideas, facts,
authorities, and arguments.
This is a reading age, and ours is to
a great extent a reading country.
The public mind, taste, and morals are
with us chiefly formed by books, pam-
phlets, periodicals, and journals. The
American people sustain more jour«
nals or newspaper than all the world
♦ " Appel aux Consciences Chrctlcnnes centre
les abu3 et les dangers de la lecture/' P. Toaleinont.
Ktudes ReUgietises, UUtoriques e( Llteralres. Tome
b, N. S.
beside, and probably devour more light
literature, or fiction, or trashy novels
than any other nation. Reading of
some sort is all but universal, and the
press is by far the most efficient gov-
ernment of the country. The govern-
ment itself practically is little else with
us than public sentiment, and public
sentiment b both formed and echoed
by the press. Indeed, the press is not
merely "a fourth estate," as it has
been called, but an estate which hoA
well-nigh usurped the functions of all
the others, and taken the sole direction
of the intellectual and moral destinies
of the civilized world.
The press, taken m its laigest sense,
is, after speech — which it repeats, ex-
tends and perpetuates — the most power-
ful influence, whether for good or for
evil, that man wields or can wield ; and
however great the evils which flow
from its per\'erston, it could not be an-
nihilated or its f^edom suppressed
without the loss of a still greater good,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
464
Uke and Abuse of Reading,
that is, i^estrained by the pablic author-
ities. In this country we have es-
tablished the regime of liberty, and
that regime, with its attendant good
and evil, must be accepted in its prin-
ciple, and in all its logical consequen-
ces. If a free press becomes a fear-
ful instrument for evil in the hands of
the heedless or ill-disposed, it is no
less an instrument for good in the
hands of the enlightened, honest, and
capable. The free press in the mo-
dem world is needed to defend the
right, to advance the true, to maintain
order, morality, intelligence, civiliza-
tion, and cannot be given up for the
sake of escaping the evils which flow
from its abuse.
Yet these evils are neither few nor
light, and are such as tend to enlarge
and perpetuate tliemselves. Not the
least of the evils of journal ism, for in-
stance, is the necessity it is under in
order to live, to get readers, and to
get readers it must echo public opinion
or party feeling, defend causes that
need no defence, and flatter passions
already too strong. Instead of cor-
recting public sentiment and laboring
to form a sound public opinion or a
correct moral judgment, its conductors
arc constantly tempted to feel the pub-
lic pulse to discover what is for the
moment popular, and then to echo it,
and to denounce all who dissent from
it or fall not down and worship it;
forgetting if what is popular is erro-
neous or unjust, it is wrong to echo it,
and if true and just, it needs no special
defence, for it is already in the ascend-
ant ; and forgetting, also, that it is the
unpopular truth, the unpopular cause,
the cause of the wronged and oppress-
ed, the poor and friendless, too feeble
to make its own voice heard, and which
has no one to speak for it, that needs
the support of the journal. When
John the Baptist sent two of his dis-
ciples to our Lord to ask him, '< Art
thou he that is to come, or are we to
look for another?" our Lord said : ^ Go
andtellJohn • . . that the blindsee,
the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed,
the deaf bear, the dead rise again, the
poor have the gospel preached to
them." Here was the evidence of
his messiahship. **They that arc
whole need not a physician, but they
that are sick.'*
This is not all: needing to be al-
ways on the popular side, the press
not only plants itself on the lowest
general average of intelligence and
virtue, but it tends constantly to lower
tliat general average, and hence be-
comes low and debasing in its influ-
ence. It grows ever more and more
corrupt and corrupting, till the public
mind becomes so vitiated and weak-
ened that it will neither relish nor
profit by the sounder works needed as
remedies.
In the moral and intellectual sci-
ences we write introductions where)
we once wrote treatises, because the
publisher knows that the introductions
will sell, while the elaborate treatise
will only encumber his shelves, or go
to the pastry-cook or the paper-
maker. Not only do thejoumaLs flatter
popukr passions, appeal to vitiated
tastes, or a low standard of morals,
but books do the same, and often in a
far greater degree. The great mass
of books written and published in
the more enlightened and advanced
modem nations are immoral and hos-
tile not only to the soul hereartcr,
but to all the serious interests of tii!s
life. A few years since the French
government appointed a commission
to investigate the subject of colpor-
tage in France and the commission
reported after a conscientious examl*
nation that of nine millions of works
colported eight millions were more or
less immoral. Of the novels which cir-
culate in the English-speaking world,
origmal or translated, one no| im-
moral and possible to be read with-
out tainting the imagination or the
heart is the rare exception. Under
pretence of realism nature is oftener
exhibited in her unseemly than in her
seemly moods, and the imagination of
the young is compelled to dwell on
the grossest vices and corraptions of
a moribund society. Chastity of
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Vie omd Abvm of JBeading.
465
thonghty iimooenee of heart, puritj of
imaginalaoD, cannot be preserved bj
a diligent reader even of the better
dasB of the light literature of the
day. This literature so yitiates the
taste^ BO oormptfl the imagination,
and 80 sulliea the heart, that its read-
ers can see no merit and find no rel-
ish in works not highlj spiced with
vice, crime, or disorderlj passion*
The literary stomach has been so
weakened by vile sthnulants that it
cannot bear a sound or a wholesome
literature, and such works as a
Christian would write, and a GhrisU
ian read, would find scarcely a mar-
ket, or readers suffidently numerous
to pay for its publication.
It is boasted that popular litera-
ture describes nature as it is, or
society as it is, azid is therefore true,
and truth is never immoral. Truth
truthfully told, and truthfully receiv-
ed, is indeed never immoral, but even
truth may be so told as to have the
effect of a lie. But these highly
spiced nove]fr-*which one can Imrd-
ly read without feeling when he has
finished them as if he had been spend-
ing a night in dissipation or dolMtuch-
ery, and with which our English-
speaking world is inundated — ^are
neither true lo nature nor to society.
They give certain features of society,
but really paint neither high life nor
low life, nor yet middle life as it is.
They rarely give a real touch of na-
ture, and seldom come near enough
to truth to caricature it. They give
us sometimes the sentiment, some-
times the affection of love with a
touch of truth — but« after all, only
truth's surfiioe or a distant and dis-
torted view of it. They paint better
the vices of nature, man's abuse or
perversion of nature, than the virtues.
Their virtuous characters are usual-
ly insipid or unnatural; nature has
depths their plummets sound not, and
heights to which they rise not
There they forget that in the actual
providence of God nature never exists
and operates alone, but either thnmgh
demoniacal influenoe descends below,
▼OL. ui. 80
or through divine grace rises above
itself. They either make nature viler
than she is or nobler than she is.
They never hit the just medium, and
the views of nature^ society, and life
the young reader gets from them, are
exaggerated, distorted, or totally false.
The constant reading of them renders
the heart and soul morbid, the mind
weak and sickly, the affections capri-
cious and fickle, the whole man ill at
ease, sighing for what he has not, and
incapable of being contented with any
possible lot or state of I^, or with
any real person or thing.
Beside hockB which the conscience
of a pagan would pronounce immoral,
and which cannot bo touched without
defilement, there are others that by
their fiUse and heretical doctrines tend
to undermine faith and to sap those
moral convictions without which society
cannot subsist, and religion is an empty
name or idle form. Tho eountiy is
flooded with a literature which not
only denies this or that Christian mys-
tery, this or that Catholic dogma, that
not only rqjocts supernatural revela-
tion, but even natural reason itself.
The tendency of what is regarded as
the advanced thought of the age is not
only to eliminate Christian fiuth from
the intellect, Christian morality from
the heart, Christian love from the soul,
but Christian dvilication from society.
Tiie most popular literature of the day
recognizes no God, no Satan, no heaven,
no hell, and either preaches the wor-
ship of tho soul, or of humanity.
Christian charity is resolved into the
watery sentiment of philanthropy, and
the Catholic veneration of t^e Blessed
Virgin lapses, outside of the church,
into an idolatrous worship of femininity.
The idea of duty is discarded, and we
are gravely told there is no merit in
doing a thing becamse it is our duty ;
tiie merit is oolyin domg it from love,
and love, which, in the Qiristian sense,
is the fulfilling of the law, is defined
to be a sentiment without any relation
to the understanding or the oonscience.
Not only the authority of the church
iB rejected in the name of humanity
Digitized by CjOOQIC
«S6
Use and Ahi$$ of Beading.
bjthe graver part of popular Uterature,
but the aathoritj of the state, the
sacredness of law, the inviolability of
marriage, and the duty of obedience of
children to their parents, are discarded
as remnants of social despotism now
passing away* The tendency is in the
name of homanity to eliminate the
church, the state, and the family, and
to make man a bigger word than God.
In view of the anti*religioas, anti-
moral, and anti-eocial doctrines which
in some form or in some guise or other
permeate the greater part of what is
looked upon as the living literature of
the age, and which seem to fetch an
echo from the heart of humanity, well
might Pope Gregory XVI., of immor-
tal memory, in the grief of his paternal
heart exclaim, ^ We are struck with
horror in seeing with what monstrous
doctrines, or rather with what prodigies
of error we are inundated by this del-
uge of books, pamphlets, and writings
of every sort whose lamentable irrup-
tion has covered the earth with male-
dictions I"
" There doubtless are men," as Pere
Toulemont says, ^ who have veiy litde
to fear from the most perfidious artifices
of impiety, as, prepared by a strong
and masculine intellectual discipline,
they are able to easily detect the most
subtle sophisms. No subtlety, no four c2s
metier, if I may so speak, can escape
them. At the first glance of the eye
they seize the false shade, the confo-
sion of ideas or of words ; they redress
at once the illusive perspective created
by the mirage of a lying style. The
fascinations of error excite in them only
a smile of pity or of contempt
** Yes, there are such men, but they
are rare. Take even men of solid
character, with more than ordinary in-
struction, and deeply attached to their
faith, think you, that even they will
be able always to rise from the read-
ing of this literature perfectly unaf-
fected? I appeal to the experience
of more than one reader, if it is not
true afler having run over certain
pages written witi^ perfidious art, that
we find ourselves troubled with an in-
describable uneasiness, an incipient
vertigo or bewilderment? We need
then, as it were, to give a shake to
the soul, to force it ta throw off the
impression it has received, and if we
neglect to assist it more or less vigor-
ously, it soon deepens and assumes
alarming pn^ordons. No doubt,
unless in exceptional circumstances,
strong convictions are not sapped to
their foundation by a single blow, but
one needs no long experience to be
aware that this sad result is likely to
follow in the long run, and much more
rapidly than is conmionly believed,
even with persons who belong to the
aristocracy of intelligence.
<' This will be still more the case if
we descend to a lower social stratum,
to the middle classes who embody the
great nmjority of Christian reaiders.
With these mental culture is very de-
fective, and sometimes we find in them
an ignorance of the most elementary
Catholic instruction that is really as-
tounding. What, at any rate, is undeni-
able, is that their faith is not truly en-
lightened either in relation to its object
or its grounds. It ordinarily rests on
sentiment far more than on reason.
They have not taken the trouble to
render to themselves an account of the
arguments which sustain it; much less
stiUare they able to sdve the difficulties
which unbelievers suggest against it.
Add to this general absence of serious
intellectual instruction, the absence not
less general of force and independence
of character, and the position becomes
frightful. In our days it must be con-
fessed the energy of the moral temper-
ament is singularly enfeebled, and.
never perhaps was the assertion of the
prophet, arnne caput languidum, the'
whole head is sick, more true than
now. Robust and masculine habits
seem to have given place to a sort of
sybaritism of soul, which renders the
soul adverse to all personal effort, or
individual labor. See, for example,
that multitude which devours so greed-
ily the first books that come to hand.
Takes it any care to control the things
which pass beforo its eyes, or to ron-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Use and Abute of Beading,
467
der to itself any account of them by
serious reflection ? Not at alL The
attention it gives to what it reads is
very nearly nuU, or, at best, it is en-
grossed far more with the form, the
style, or the term of the phrase, than
with the substance, or ground of the
ideas expressed. The mind is ren-
dered, so to say; wholly passive, ready
to receive without reflection any im-
pression or submit to any influence."
The great body of the faithful in no
countcy can read the immoral, hereti-
cal, infidel, humanitarian, and social-
istic literature of the age without more
or less injury to their moral and spir-
itual life, or without some lesion even
to their faith itself; although it be not
wholly subverted. Can a man touch
pitch and not be defiled? It is pre-
cisely the devouring of this literature
as its daily intellectual food, or as its
literary pabulum, that produces that
sybaritism of soul, that feebleness of
character, that aversion to all manly
effort or individual exertion without
which robust and masculine virtue 19
impossible.
There is certainly much strong faith
in the Catholic population of the
United States, perhaps more in pro-
portion to their numbers than in any
of the old Catholic nations of Europe ;
but this strong faith is found chiefly
amongst those who have read very
little of the enervating literature of
the day. In the younger class in
whom a taste for reading has been
cultivated, and who are great consumers
of "yellow covered Hterature," and
the men who read only the secula
and partisan journals, we witness the
same weakness of moral and religious
character, and the same feeble grasp
of the great truths of the gospel com-
plained of by P^re Toulemont To a
great extent the reading of non-Catho-
lic literature, non-Catholic books, peri-
odicals, novels %nd journals, neutral
izes in our sons and daughters the
influence of Catholic schools, acade-
mies, and colleges, and often efiaces
the good impression received in them
The pre'F^ence of such a literature,
so erroneous in doctrine, so false in
principle, and so debasing in tendency,
must be deplored by Catholics, not only
as injurious to morals, and too oflen
fatal to the life of the soul) but as ruin-
ous to modem civilization, which is
founded on the great principles of the
Catholic religion, and has been in great
part created by the Catholic Church,
chiefly by her supreme pontiffs, and
her bishops and clergy, regular and
secular. The tendency of modem
literature, especially of journalism, a
very modem creation, is to reduce our
civilization far below that of ancient
gentilism, and it seems hard that we
who under God have civilized the bar-
barians once should have to begin our
work anew, and go through the labor
of civilizing them again. Our non-
Catholic countrymen cannot lose Chris-
tian civilization without our being com-
pelled to suffer with them. They drag
us, as they sink down, afler them. This /
country is our home and is to be the
home of our children and our child-
ren's children, and we more than any
other class of American citizens are
interested in its future. It is not, then,
solely the injury we as Catholics may
receive from an irreligious and im-
moral literature that moves us ; , but
also the injury it does to those who
are not as yet within the pale of the
church, but between whom and us
there is a real solidarity as men and
citizens, and who cannot suffer with-
out our suffering, and civilization itself
suffermg, with them.
As men, as citizens, as Christians,
and as Catholics, it becomes to us a
most grave question — ^What can be
done to guai^ against the dangers
which threaten religion and civiliza^
tion from an irreligious and immoral
literature ? This question is, no doubt,
primarily a question for the pastors of
the church, but it is, in submission to
them, also a question for the Catholic
laity, for they have their part, and an
important part, in the work necessary
to be done. There can be no doubt
that bad books and irreligious journals
are . dangerous companions, and^ the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
4G8
Use and Abuse of Reading.
most dangerous of all companions, for
their evil influence is more genial and
more lasting. Plato and most of the
pagan philosophers and legislators re*
quired the magistrates to intervene and
suppress all books judged to be im-
moral and dangerous either to the in-
dividual or to society, and in all mo-
dem civilized states the law professes
cither to prevent or to punish their
publication. Even John Milton, in his
*' Areopagitica," or pica for unlicensed
printing, savs ho denies not to magis-
trates the right to take note how books
demean themselves, and if thej offend
to punish them as an/ other class of
offenders. English and American law
leaves every one free to publish what
he pleases, but holds the author and
publisher responsible for the abuse-
they may make of the liberty of the
press. In all European states tflero
was formerly, and in some continental
states there is still, a preventive cen-
sorship, more or less rigid, and more
or less effective. Formerly the civil
law enforced the censures pronounced
by the church, but there is hardly a
state in which this is the case now.
Whatever our views of the civil
freedom of tho press may be, ecclesi-
astical censorship, or censorship ad-
dressed to tho conscience by the
spiritual authority, is still possible, and
both proper and necessary. The act
of writing and publishing a book or
pamphlet, or editing and publishing
a periodical or journal, is an act of
which the law of Grod takes account
as much as any other act a man can
perform, and is therefore as folly
within the jurisdiction of the spiritual
authority. So ako is the act of read-
ing, and the spiritual director has the
same right to look after what books
his penitent reads, as after what com-
pany he keeps. The whole subject
of writing, editing, publishing, and
reading books, pamphlets, tractates,
periodicals, and journals, comes within
the scope of the spuritual authority,
and is rightly subjected to ecclesiasti-
cal discipline. In point of fact, it is
so treated in principle by heterodox
communions, as well as by the.
church. The Presbyterians are even
more rigid in their discipline as to
writing and reading than Catholics
arc, though they may not always
avow it. The Methodists claim the
right for their conferenoes to pre-
scribe to Methodist communicants
what books they ought not to read,
and seldom will you find a strict
Methodist or Presbyterian reading a
Catholic book. It is much the same
with all Protestants who belong to
what they call the church as d^tin-
gnished from the congregation— <v
distinction which does not obtain
among Catholics, for with ns all bap-
tized persons, not excommunicated, be-
long to the church. Th^ is no rea*
son why the church should not direct
me in my reading as well as in my as-
sociations, or discipline me for writing
or publishing a lie in a hook or a news-
paper as well as for telling a lie orally
to my neighbor or swearing to a &lse-
hood in a court of justice*
But when the church, as with us, is
not backed in her censures by the civil
law, when her canons and decrees have
no civil effect, the ecclesiastical author-
ity becomes practicaUy only an appeal
to the Catholic conscienoe, and while
her censures indicate the law of con-
science in regard to the matters cen-
sured, they depend on our conscience
alone for their effectiveness. Henoc
our remedy, in the last analysis, as
P^re Toulemont implies, is in the ap-
peal to Christian consciences against
the dangerous literature of the day ;
and happily Catholics have a Chns-
tian conscienoe, — ^though sometimes in
now and then one it may be a little
drowsy — that can be appealed to with
effect, for they have faith, do beHeve
in the reality oi the invisible and the
eternal, and know that it profiteth a
man nothing to gain the whole world
and lose hu own soil. The church
declares by divine constitution and as*
sistance the law of Ood which governs
conscience, and when properly in*
stmcted by her, the Catholic has not
only a conscience, bat an enlightened
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ute aaiid Ahue of Beading.
469
conscience, and knows what is right
and what is wrong, what is useful and
what is dangerous reading, and can
always act intelligently as well as con-
scientionsly.
P^re Tonlemont shows in his essay
that it is not reading or literature that
the church discourages or condemns,
hut the abuse of literature and its em-
ployment for purposes contrary to the
law of God, or the reading of Tile,
debasing, and corrupting books, pe-
riodicals, and journals which can only
taint the imagination, sully the purity
of the heart, weaken or disturb faith,
and stunt the growth of the Christian
virtues. The conscience of every
Christian tells him that to read im-
moral books, to familiarize himself
with a low, vile, corrupt and corrupt-
ing literature, whatever may be the
b^uty di its form, the seductions of
its style, or the 'charms of its dicta-
tion, is morally and religiously wrong.
Pore Toulerftont shows by numer-
ous references to their bulls and briefs
that the supreme pontiff have never
from the earliest ages ceased to warn
the faithful against the writings of
heretics and infidels,orto prohibit the
reading, writing, publishing, buying,
selling, or even keeping impure* im-
modest, or immoral books or publica-
tions of any sort or form, as the civil
law even with us prohibits obscene
pictures and spectacles. It was to
guard the faithful against improper
and dangerous reading that St Pius
the Fifth established at Borne the
congrogation of the Index ; and that
publications by whomsoever written
judged by the congregation to be
unsafe, likely to corrupt faith or mor-
als, are still placed on the Index.
Nothing is more evident than that the
church, while encouragmg in all ages
and countries literature, science, and
art, has never allowed her children the
incdscriminate reading of all manner
of books, pamphlets, tractates, and jour*
nab. Thero aro writings the reading
of which she prohibits as the careful
mother would provent her innocent,
thoughtless child fix>m swallowing poi-
son. Her discipline in this respect is
accepted and fdt to be wise and just
by every man and woman in whom
consdenee is not extinct or fast asleep.
Even the pagan world felt its neces-
sity as does the modem Protestant
world. The natural reason of every
man accepts the principle of this dis-
cipline, and asserts that there axe sorts
of reading which 'no man, learned or
unlearned, should permit himself. The
Christian conscience once awakened
recoils with instinctive horror frcxn
immoral books and publications, and
no one who really loves our Lord
Jesus Christ can take pleasure in read-
ing books, periodicals, or journals that
tend to weak^ Christian faith and
corrupt Christian morals, any more
than the pious son can take pleasure
in hearing his own father or mother
traduced or calumniated; and what
such publications are, the Catholic, if
his own instincts fail to inform him,
can always learn from the oastors of
his church.
The first steps toward remedying
the evils of the prevailing immoral
literature must be in an earnest appeal
to all sincere Christians to set Uieir
faces resolutely against all reading,
whatever its form, that tends to sap
the great principles of revealed truths,
to destroy &ith in the great mysteries
of the Gospel, to subvert morality, to
substitute sentiment for reason, or feel-
ing for rational conviction, to ruin the
family and the state, and thus under-
mine the foundaUona of civilised so-
ciety. This, if done, would erect the
Christian conscience into a real censor-
ship of the press, and operate as a
corrective of its licentiousness, without
in the least infringing on its freedom.
It would diminish the supply of bad
literature by lessening the demand.
This would be much, and would create
a Christian literary public opinion, if
I may so speak, which would become
each day stronger, more general, more
effective, and which writers, editors,
publishers, and booksellers, would find
themselves obUged to respect, as poli-
tidana find themselves oUtged to treat
Digitized by CjOOQIC
470
Use and Abuse of Beading,
the Catholic religion with respect,
whenever thej wish to secure the votes
of Catholic citizens. Fidelitj to con-
science in those who have not yet lost
the ffdtb, and in whom the spiritual
life is not yet wholly extinct, will go
far toward remedying the evil, for the
movement begun will gather volume
and momentum as it goes on.
The next step is for Catholics to re-
gard it as a matter of conscience to de-
mand and sustain a pure and high-
toned literature, or ample, savory, and
wholesome literary diet, for the pub-
lic Beading, in modem civilized com-
munities, has become in some sort a ne-
cessary of life, a necessity, not a lux-
ury, and when we take into consider-
ation the number of youth of both
sexes which we send forth yearly from
cur colleges, academies, private, paro-
chial, conventual, and public schools,
we cannot fail to perceive that it is,
and must be a growing necessity in
our Catholic community ; and we may
set this down as certain, that when
wholesome food is not to be had, peo-
ple will feed on unwholesome food, and
die of that which they have taken to
sustain life. But if people, through
indifference or negligence take no heed
whether the food be wholesome or
unwholesome, or through a depraved
appetite prefer the unwholesome be-
cause more highly spiced, yery little
wholesome food will be offered in the
market. Many complaints are heard
from tame to time of our Catholic press,
because it does not give us journals of
a higher order, more really Catholic
in principle, of higher moral tone, and
greater intellectual and literary merit
£ven supposing the facts to be as
these complaints assume, the com-
plaints themselves are unjust. The
editors and publishers of Catholic jour-
nals edit and publish them as a lawful
business, and very naturally seek the
widest circulation possible. To secure
that, they necessarily appeal to the
broadest, and therefore the lowest aver-
age of intelligence and virtue of the
public they address. They who de-
pend on public sentiment or public
opinion must study to conform to it, not
to redress or reform it. The journals
of every country represent the lowest
average intelligence and virtue of the
public for which they are designed.
The first condition of their existence is
that they be popular with their own
public, party, sect, or denomination.
Complaints are also frequently heard
of our Catholic publishers and book-
seUers, for not supplymg a general li-
terature, scientific and philosophical
works, such as general readers, who
though good Catholics, are not parti-
cularly ascetic, and wish to have now
and then other than purely spiritual
reading, and also such as scholars and
scientific men seek, in which the eru-
dition and science proper are not mar-
red by theories and hypotheses specula-
tions and conjectures which serve only
to disturb faiUi and stunt the growth of
the spiritual life. Bilt these complaints
are also unjust. The publishers issue
the best books that the market will
take up. There is no demand for
other or better books than they pub-
lish; and such books as are really
needed, aside from bibles, prayer-
books, and books for spiritual reading,
they can publish only at their own ex-
pense. They are governed by the
same law that governs editors and
publishers of newspapers or journals,
and naturally seek the broadest, and
therefore in most respects the lowest
average, and issue works which tend
GonstanUy to lower the standard in-
stead of eleva^g it. The evil tend-
ency, like rumor, crescit eundo.
There is no redress but in the ap-
peal to Christian consciences, since
the public now fills the place of pat-
rons which was formerly filled by
princes and nobles, bishops and mo-
nastic or religious houses. The matter
cannot be left to regulate itself, for the
public taste has not been cultivated
and formed to support the sort of read-
ing demanded, and will not do it from
taste and inchnation, or at all except
from a sense of duty* The great ma-
jority of the people of Prance are
Catholics, yet a few years ago there
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Use and Aiute of Beaddng.
471
were Parisian joamals hostile to Cath*
olics, that circulated each firom 40,000
to 60,000 copies daily, while the daily
circuhktion of all the Catholic joumaJs
and periodicals in all France did not
exceei 25,000. It should be as much
a mutter of conscience with Catholics
to open a market for a sound and
healthy literature as to refrain from
encouraging and reading immoral and
dangerous publications. We gain
heaven not merely by refireuning fiom
evil, but by doing good. The servant
that wrapped his talent in a clean nap-
kin and hid it in the earth was con-
demned not because he had lost or
abused his talent, but because he had
not used it and put it out to usury.
The church attaches indulgences to
doing good works, not to abstaining
from bad works.
The taste of the age runs less to
books than to reviews, magazines, and
especially to newspapers or the daily
journals. People are too busy, in too
great a hurry, for works of long breath.
Folios and octavos frighten them, and
they can hardly abide a duodecimo*
Their staple reading is the telegraphic
despatches in the daily press. liong
elaborate articles in reviews are com-
mended or censured by many more
persons than read them, and many
more read than understand them, for
people nowadays think very little
except about their business, their
pleasures, or the management of their
party. Still the review or magazine
is the best compromise that can be
made between the elaborate treatise
and the clever leader of the journal.
It is the best literary medium now
within reach of the Catholic public,
and can meet better than any other
form of publication our present literary
wants, and more effectively stimulate
thought^' cultivate Ihe understanding
and the taste, and enable jas to take
our propier place in the literature and
science of the country. But here again
conscience must be appealed to, the
principle of duty must come in. ^ Few
men cair^ write and publish at 'their
own expense a magazine of high_char-y
acter, of pure literaiy taste, sound
morals, and sound theology, able in
literary and scientific merit, in genius,
instruction, and amusement, to com-
pete successfully wiUi the best maga-
zines going, and there is at this mo-
ment no public formed to hand large
enough to sustain such periodical, and
even the men to write it have in some
sort to be created, or at least to be
drawn out It must be for a time
supported by men who do not want it
as a luxury or to meet their own liter-
ary tastes, but who appreciate its
merits, are aware of the service it may
render in creating a taste for whole-
some instead of unwholesome reading.
That is, it most be sustained by per-
sons who, in purchasing it, act not so
much &om inclination as from a sense
of duty, which is always a nobler, and
in the long run, a stronger motive of
action, than devotion to interest or
pleasure; for it is in harmony with all
that is true and good, and has on it
the blessing of heaven* It is precisely
because Catholics can act from a sense
of duty that we can overcome the evil
that is ruining society.
No doubt we are here pleading, to a
certain extent, our own cause, but we
only ask others to act on the principle
on which wo ourselves are acting.
The Catholic World is not pub-
lished as a private speculation, nor with
the expectation of personal gain. Our
cause is what we hold to be here and
now the Catholic cause, and it is from a
sense of duty that we devote ourselves
to it. We are deeply conscious of the
need for us Catholics in the United
States of a purer and more' wholesome
literature than any which is accessible
to the great majority, and than any
which can be produced outside of the
Catholic community, or by other than
Catholics. We need it for ourselves
as Catholics, we need it for our coun-
try as a means of arresting the down-
ward tendency of popular literature,
and of iufluencing for good those who
are our eountrymen, though unhappily
not within our communion. There is
nothing personal to us in the cause
Digitized by CjOOQIC
472
Vie ca/kd Abuse of Reading.
we serve, and it ia no vnotQ oun than
it is that of every Catholic who has
the ability to serve it. IP we plead
for oar magazine, it is only as it is
identified with the Catholic cause in
our countiy, and we can be as disin-
terested in so soliciting support for it
as if it was in other hands, and we so*
licit sui^rt for it no farther than it ap-
peals to the Catholic conscience. We
have seen the danger to the country,
and the destruction to souls threatened
by the popular literature of the day,
and we are doing what we can in our
unpretending way to commence a re-
action against it, and give to our Amer-
ican public a taste for something bet-
ter than they now feed on. "We can-
not prevent our Catholic youth who
have a taste for reading from reading
the vile and debasing popular litera-
ture of the day, unless we give them
something as attractive and more
wholesome in its place, and this cannot
be done without the hearty and con-
scientious cooperation of the Catholic
community with us.
Catholics are not a feeble and help-
less colony in the United States. We
are a numerous body, the largest reli-
gious denomination in the country.
There are but two cities in the world
that have a larger Catholic population
than this very city of New York, and
there are several Catholic nations hold-
ing a very respectable rank in the Ca-
tholic world, that have not so large,
and upon the whole so wealthy a Ca-
tholic population as the United States.
We are numerous enough, and have
means enough to found and sustain all
the institutions, religious, charitable,
educational, literary, scientific, and ar-
tistic needed by a Catholic nation, and
there is no Catholic nation where Ca-
tholic activity finds fewer ** lets and
hindrances" from the civil government
We are free, and we have in propor-
tion to our numbers our full share of
infiuence in public afiairs, municipal,
state, and national ; no part of the po-
pulation partakes more largely of the
general prosperity of the country, and
no part has suffered less from the late
lamentable civil war. We have our
Church organized under a regular hie-
rarchy, with priests rapidly increasing
in numbers, churches springing up all
over the land, and Catholic emigrants
from the old world pouring in by thou-
sands and hundreds of thousands. Wc
are numerous enough and sti*ong
enough inall religious, literary, and
scientific matters, to suffice for our-
selves. There is no reason in the
world, but our own spiritual indolence
and the torpidity of our consciences,
why we should continue to feed on the
unwholesome literary garbage provid-
ed for us by the humanitarianism and
pruriency of the age. We are able to
have a general literature of our own,
the production of genuine Catholic
taste and genius, if we will it, and at
present are better able than the Ca-
tholics of any other nation ; for our
means are ample, and the government
and civil institutions place no obstacles
in our way, which can be said of Ca-
tholics nowhere else.
Our Catholic community is lai^ge
enough, and contains readers enough,
to sustain as many periodicals as aro
needed, and to absorb large editions
enough of literary and scientific works
of the highest character to malce it an
object with the trade to publish them,
as well as with authors to write them.
Works of imagination, what is called
light literature, if conceived in a true
spirit, if they tend to give nature a nor-
mal development, and to amuse with-
out corrupting the reader, ought to find
with us a large public to welcome and
profit by them. What the people of
any Catholic nation can do to provide
for the intellectual and sesthetic wants
of a Catholic people, we Catholics in
the United States can do. If we are dis-
posed to set ourselves earnestly about
it with the feelmg that it is a matter
of conscience.
And we must do it, if we mean to
preserve our youth to the church, and
have them grow up with a robust faith,
and strong and masculme virtues, to
keep them clear from the humanita-
rian *8en<jmentality which marks the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Use €a%d Ahiee ofSeadin^.
473
age and the country. Universal edu-
cation, whether a good or an evil, is
the passion of moiem society, and
must be accepted* Indeed, we are
doing our best to educate all our chil-
dren, and the great mass of them are
destined to grow up readers, and will
have reading of some sort. Education
will prove no blessing to them, how-
ever carefully or rel^iously trained
while at sdiool, if as soon as they
leave the school, they seek their men-
tal nutriment in the poisonous litero-
ture now so rife. No base companions
or vicious company could do so much
to comipt as the sensation novels, the
humanitarian, rationalistic, and im-
moral books, magazines, and journals,
whiclLi as thick as the firogsof Egypt,
now infest the country. Our children
and youth leave school at the most cri-
tical age, and a single popular novel,
or a single sophistical essay, may undo
the work of years of pious training in
our colleges and conventual schools.
Parents have more to apprehend for
theur children when they have finished
their school terms than ever before,
and it is precisely when they have left
school, when they come home and go
out into society, that the great^t
dangers and temptations assail them.
From their leaving school to their set-
tlement in life is the period for which
they most need ample intellectual and
moral provision m literature, and it is
precisely for this period that little or
no such provision is made.
Hence the urgency of the appeal to
Catholic consciences first to avoid as
much as possible the pernicious litera-
ture of the age, and second to create
and provide to the utmost of our abi-
lity, good and wholesome literature for
the mass of our people, such a litera-
ture as only they who live in the com-
munion with the saints, drink in the
lessons of divine wisdom, and feast
their souls on celestial beauty, can pro-
duo&««« secular literature indeed, but
a literature that embodies all that is
pure, free, beautiful and charming in
nature, and is informed with the spirit
of Catholic love and truth— « robust
and manly literature, that cherishes all
God's works, loves all things, gentle
and pure, noble and elevated, strong
and enduring, and is not ashamed to
draw inspiration from the cross of
Christ It will require much labor,
many painful sacrifices to work our
way up from the depths to which we
have descended, and our progress will
be slow and for a long time hardly per^
ceptible ^ but CathoHo faith, Catholic
love, Catholic conscience, has once
succeeded when things were more des-
perate, transformed the world, and can
do so again. NoQung is impossible to
it It is your faith thkt overcomes the
worid. Leo x.said when the press was
first made known, ** The art of prints
ing was invented for the glory of God,
for the propagation of our holy faith,
and the advancement of knowled^."*
•Decree of Leo X.
ofLatenm.
Session 10 of the Council
Digitized by CjOOQIC
474
EuginM d$ Guirin's LetUn from Paris.
Tnnilaied from tlM fnaek,
EUGfems DE GUilRIN'S LETTERS FROM PARIS.
Ik the following |>aper we propose
to fill as far as possible the hiatus
which occurs between the seventh and
eighth books of Mile, de Guerin's
journal, giving such details from her
letters as will satisfy the curiosity
that many of her readers must have
felt concerning the visit she made to
Paris at the time of her brother's wed«
ding.
In a letter to M. Paul Juemper,
dated March 15, 1838, Guerin de-
scribes his fiancee, with more accurar
cy perhaps than ardor, and yet there
can be no doubt that the marriage
was one of love and congeniality. '
In the latter part of his life Maurice
appears to have concealed his deepest
emotions as successfully as he had re-
vealed them in earlier years.
^ 1 find myself on my return better
in health, and full of hope for the fu-
ture. What does that mean ? What
novelty is this ? Nothing but the most
common event in the world, one
which takes place every day in every
country — ^namely marriage, here, in
Paris, to a child who was bom for
me, eighteen years ago, six thousand
leagues from Paris, in Batavia I She
is named Caroline de Gervain, has
great blue eyes that light up her deli-
cate face, a very slender figure, a foot
of oriental minuteness — ^in short (with-
out any lover-like vanity), an exqui-
site and refined ensemifhy that will suit
Su very welL Her fortune is in
dian trade : not large now, but with
every prospect of development. The
contracts are drawn up and every-
thing is in order ; we are only await-
ing > the arrival of some documents
from Calcutta, indispensable to the
celebration of a marriage, to tie the
last knot. If you leave in May, you
will be here in time to stand by the
death«bed of my bachelorhood, and
to see me cross the Rubicon."
M]le. de Grervain lived with her
aunt, MUe. Martin-Laforet, in a pa-
viUion in the Rue Cherche-Midi, and
it is from this charming Indian house
that Eugenie's first Parisian letter is
dated.
TO M. DE GUiniN.
Paris, Oct. 8, 1838.
Ohl how I slept in the little piak bed
bealdo Caroline t I wished to write to
yon, dear papa, before gcAng to bed, bat
they woola not let me, and they said too
that the mail would not go out before
this morning, so that you would get tho
letter no sooner. I snonld have written
to you at each relay if it had been poesiblo,
for I said to myself: ''Now papa and
Euphxaaie, Mimi and Eian. are thinking
of the traveller." How I thought of you
all ! you followed me the whole way. At
last I am here, out of the way of dust,
diligences and the annoyanoee of travel-
ling, and welcomed and cosseted enough
to compensate a thousand times over lor
the four long days of fatigue. I should
like to tell you everything, but there
are so many, many things;— how I left
you, and bowled away towards PaziB» and
met them all and fell into a dozen arms.
Why weren't you on the Place Notre
Dame des Victoiree when, just as I was
driving off in a caTtiage with Charlea» I
saw Maurice and Caro and Aunt running
and calling me, and kissing me, one
through one window and another through
the other ? Oh 1 it was so nice 1
No one ever entered Paris more pleas-
antly. We went as last as weoonld to Buo
du Cherche-Midi, talking, laughing and
questioning. " How is papa t and his leg ?
is he as well as he was last year?" Mau-
rice, poor fellow, cried as he looked at me,
and talked of you all, Miml, Eian. every-
body, th^ all love you and ask after you.
When I came down vtairs, I distributed
your iettersy and then came break&st,
which was very welcome to me. Half
through breakfast, Auguste entered, a lit-
tle surprised that I had arrived so early,
and full of kind inquiries for you alL . .
Digitized by CjOOQIC
EvgifM de GiuMvfi L9U9n fnfm ParU
475
I thongfat I Bhotdd Teach Paris ffroond
to powder, and here I am as fresh as if
I had jost stepped oat of a bandbox.
The dost was suffocating during the
thirty leagues of that tiresome Soiogne,
and the rumbling was like thunder on
the paved road from Orleans to Paris. It
was impossible to sleep that night, but
during the others I took nans, and even
ilept Beveral hours^but oh 1 the difference
of sleeping in a roee^»lored bed, and in a
diligence, tossed and Jerked about 1 It
was droAdful in the Sologne, where we
went at a snail's pace, but fortunately it did
not rain — then the passengers have to
get out sometimes and push the wheels.
After breakfast I went to mass at St.
Snlpice, and then to the Tuileries when the
king was absent. It was very grand and
regal; the throne is superb, and with
" my mind's eye" I saw Louis XIV. and
Napoleon. There were a great many yisit-
018, English people, ana some brothers
from the Christian schools. A friend of
Maurice's had got us entrance tickets for
^yesterday, and as I don't often have a
chance to see palaces, I was glad to get
Qood-br, dear papa ; to^y I say only
two words of greeting. Maurice embra-
ces you all as he embraced me yesterday.
This is for Mimi and Eran. I send much
love to Euphrasie from myself and from
Maurice, who is delighted to know she is
at Le Cayla. All sorts of kind messages
to the parsonage and above all to the
gimblette maker,— 4hey were very wel-
come and every one liked them. They
asked me if Augustine had nown tall and
if she was mischievous, and i said yes and
no ;— yes for the height, you understand,
— she is all virtue since her first com-
municm.
M. Angler came to bid me welcome, and
we are aJready acquainted ; he looks good
and is good. M. d'A. is coming this evening.
I must leave you, dear papa. Keep well,
— ^take care of yourself; and don't be un-
easy about your traveller, who has but
one trial, that she cannot see you, and
knows you are two hundred leagues
away. Two hundred leagues! but my
thoughts ran every instant to Le Cayla.
We are in such a quiet placd that I think
myself in the country, and I slept without
waking once imtil six o'clock. Tell
Jeanne-Marie and Miou that everyone
aaks after them. My compliments to the
whole household and to all who are inter-
ested in me
Bat this charming picture had its
torong side, only revealed by Eagenie
to Mile. Louise de Bayne, and to the
cousin with whom she lived daring part
of her stay at Paris, Professor Aoguste
Baynaud. There was a worm at the
heart of the bud, and she knew too
well that it must wither without bloom-
ing. At the very meeting in the Place
Notre Dame des Yictoires, which she
described so gaily in the letter to Le
Cayla, the sight of Maurice's pallor
aroused her anxiety, an anxiety that
increased daily and marred the pleas-
ure to which she had looked forward
for months with ardent longing* '^ At
the time of his marriage,'' says M.
Barbey d'AureviUy, an intimate friend
of both brother and sister, '' Maurice
was ahready attacked with the disease
of which he died a short time after.
He already felt its first sufferings its
first illusions and early symptoms,
which made his style of beauty more
than ever touching ; for among imagin-
ary heads he had that beauty which
we may attribute to the last of the
Abencerrages. Now what others did
not see in the joy and excitement of
that day, she saw, with those sad, pro-
phetic eyes that see everything when
they love !"
" I want for nothing, my friend," she
wrote to Louise de Bayne ; '^ they love
me and treat me most cordially at my
future sister-in-law's, and here my
kind cousin and his wife vie with each
other in friendly attention. My sister-
in-law gets my dresses, gives me a
pink bed, and a jewel of an oratory
next my room, where one would pray
for mere pleasure. Oh I there is
enough to make me happy, and yet I
am beginning to weary of it, and to
say that happiness is nowhere. Write
to me ; tell me what you are doing in
the mountains. I am waiting im-
patiently for news from Le Cayla. I
long to hear about them all, and to see
them in thought. Write to Marie
sometime, it will please her, and papa
too, who loves you, you know, but do
not speak of Maurice's health, for I
say nothing to them on the subject,
thinking it useless to alarm them when
the trouble may pass off."
This was the one uneasiness that dis-
turbed her enjoyment in Paris, '' the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
476
Eugenie de GhUnn*8 laUvn from Paris.
drop of wormwood with which God
wets the lips of his elect, that thej be
robust in rirtue and suffering/' as
d'Aureviiiy said
TO MICE. DB MAISTRE.
Oct. 23.
I have seen many ohorcbes, new and
old, and I prefer the old. Notre Dame, Saint
Eustache, Saint Hoch, and others whose
names I forffet, please me more than the*
Madeline with its pagan form, without
belf^ry or confessionals, expressive of an
unbelieving age ; and Notre Dame de Lo-
rette, pretty as a boudoir. I like churches
that make one tbink of God, with vaulted
roofs leading to contemplation^ where one
neither sees nor hears people. I am per-
fectly contented in TAbbaye^ux-Bois^ a
simple lltUe church that reminds me of
the one at Andillac. I go there because
it is in our parish, and then, too, I've found
an excellent priest there, gentle, devout,
and enlightened, a disciple of M. Dupan-
k>up. I should have Uked to go to him,
but they told me that he lived at a distance,
and I must have everything within my
teach, for I am still like a bird just
let out of a cage, hardly daring to stir ;
I should have lost myself a hundred
time sin one quarter if I had not always
had a companion. However, I have
scoured Paris thoroughly in every direc-
tion ; first mounting the towers of Notre
Dame, whence the eye reaches over the
immense city and takes in its general
plan, after which they took me to the In-
valides, the Louvre, and the Bois de Bou-
logne. The dome of the Invalides, Notre
Dame, and the picture galleries, struck me
most. You ask for my impressions of
Paris—it is all admirable, but nothing as-
tonishes me. At every step the eye and
mind are arrested, but in the country, too,
I paused over flowers, grass, and wonder-
ful little creatures, ^ery place has its
wonders— here those of man, there those
of God, which are very beautiful, and will
not pass away. Kings may see their
palaces decay, but the ants will always
have their dwelling places. Having made
these reflections I will leave you, siid work
en a dress. . . .
TO MLLB. LOUISB DE BATNB.
, All Sahits' Day, 1888.
. I do not send you news. I
ought to write to you of what goes on
within and around me, that vou might
know my life, and it would be charming to
write so, but time flies like a bird and car-
ries me off on its wings. In the morninff :
church, breakfast, a little work ; in the
afternoon : a walk or drive, dinner at five
o'clock, conversation, music— the day is
gone, and nine and ten o'clock come to
make us wonder where it went. We go
to bed at ten, just like good country folk.
In that and many other things I follow
my usual habits, and live in raris as if I
were not there. Good by, the bell is ring-
iven o'clock. Here I am, pen in
hand, sitting by the fire, with the piano
sounding, people reading, Pitt (our Criquet)
asleep, and memories of von mingling
with all these things in this Paris salon,
. .^ . It is not apropos, but I take my
recollections of things as they come, and I
must not fail to tell you what pleasure you
gave me at the Spanish museum of paint-
ing where I met you. It was you, Louise :
a head full of life, oval face, arch expres-
sion, and your eyes looking at me, your
cheeks that I longed to kiss. I was so
charmed with the likeness that I passed
by sgain to see my dear Spanish maiden.
Certunly there must be something
Spanish about you, for I see you in St.
Theresa, and in this noble and beautiful
unknown
The museum amused, or rather interest-
ed me extremely, for one does not get
amusement from beautiful things, or
among wonderful works with ascetic faces
such as compose this museum of painting.
And what shall I tell you of the mummies,
the thousand fantastic and grotesque Egyp-
tian gods— cats and crocodiles— a paradise
of idoiatiy that no one would care to enter ?
I looked long at some doth four or five
thousand years old, and at a piece of musU n
and a little skein of thread, all framed under
jlasB — ^how many sffes have they been
n existence? I should never end if I were
learned and could describe these curiosities
and antiquities by the thousand — ^Etruscan
vases, exquisite in form and color, that
look as if they were made yesteiday . The
ancients certainly possessed the secret of
eternal works.
This is my life, seeing and admiring,
and then entering into myself, or going m
search of those I love to toll them all
that I see and feeL If I oould I would
write to you forever, which means very
often, and what should I not scribble?
what do I not scribble t Enow that I am
writing in the midst of musicians, under
Maurice's eye as he sits laughing over my
oumal, and adds for its embdlishment
the expression of his homage to the ladies
of Rayssac It was he who noticed that
picture first and pointed it out to me. He
knows what gives me pleasure and leads
me to it.
. We always go out together when the
weather Is good, sometimes to the Tuil-
eries, Bomet&es to the Luxembourg ; but
I like the TuUeries best wilh its pretty
things-HBCttlpture, flowers, children play-
f^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
EfngtnU d$ Cfuirin'i L$ttm from Paris.
477
iDg aboat» Bwaas in a badn, and looklair
down on it all the royal eh&teaaillamlned
hy the Mtting ean. I begin to know mj
way about a little in the streets and gar-
den8» and I look upon it as a great triumph
to be able to go to r Abbaye-aux-Bois alone^
which is a great oonTenlenee, foi I can go
to week-day mass without trouUing any
one, whicih was a restraint upon me. One
can go about here as safely as in Albi or
Oaillac. Ther had ftightened me about
the dangers of Paris, when there are really
none except foft imprudent or cnsy people^
No one speaks to any person going about
his own buslnesBL In the erening it is
diflerent. I would not go out alone then for
the world, especially on the boulevards^
where they say the devil leads the dance.
We pass through sometimes returning
Crom Mma (Baynaud's, and nothing has
ever struck me except the Ulumination of
gas in the cafSs, running along the streets
like a thread of fire. I annoyed a Parlsiaa
by saying that the glow-worms in our
hedges were quite as eflbctlTe. "Biade^
moiselle, what an Insult to Paris I" It
made us laugh, as one does laugh Bome>
times at nothing. Now I am going to the
concert ; I want to know what niusio is,
and tell you my impressions.
TO u. D£ oufenr.
Paris, Nov. 6, 1888.
Never was a day more charming, for it
began with Grembert's arrival, and it ends
with a letter to yoa, my dear papa. . .
The wedding day is fixed for the 15th.
Last Sunday the bans were published for
the last time at rAbbay&anx-Bois. . .
You aiA if I have evei^hing I need, and
if I am satisfied in eveyy respect with my
Parisian life. Tes, dear papa, in every
sense, and especially for this reason, that
I admire the care and assistance that Prov-
idence bestows upon us in all places. I
have never been struck so fordbly with the
abundant aids to piety anywhere as in
Paris ; every day there are sermons in one
place or another, assodations and benedio*
tions. If the devil reigns in Paris, perhaps
Ood is served there better than in other
places. Oood and evil find here their ut-
most exfmssion ; it is Babylon and Jeru-
salem in one. In the midst of all this, I
lead my customary life, and find in mv Ab-
bey everything I need. M. Legrand is a
friend of I'Abb^ de Rividres, holy and seal-
ous like him, and full of kindness. He
provides me with books and with kind and
gentle advice ; it will not be his &ult if I
don't improve very mudL One can save
one^s soul anywhere. . .
Our ouarter of Cherehe Midi is charm-
ing. M. d'AursviUy calls it Trouve Bon-
heur, an appfoprlate name to Htm Mau-
rice is concerned. He will be happv, as
happy as h€^ can be— at least evetything
looks hopeful. He could not be allied to
better souls. Caroline is an angel ; her
pure, tender soul is full of pietv. You
will be pleased with her, and with Maurice
too, who <mly does thinga slowly, as his
fashion is ; but there is much to thank God
for in such conduct, which is very rare
among young Parisians. M. Bnquet speaks
very highl v of him ; he will bless the mar-
riage, much to our gratificaUon. The great
day, which is to open a new life to our
Maurice, engrosses us in a thousand ways.
He is the most peaceful person concerned,
and regards his future and all these affkirs
with admirable 9ang'frtrid. M. Buquet
says the fellowship is worth nothing to
him, and that he will find something else
for him ; so you see he is established in
the good nest Providence has provided for
him, without troubling yon.
Have I told you everything, and made
you see thoughts, words, and actions, just
as you like? Eran is reading the paper
and warming himaell Everybody sends
you kisses, and Caro her filial aflbction.
Yon would do well not to gc to Bayasac
when it is cold or rainy. Advice given, and
bulletin finished, I throw my arms around
your neck, and pass on to Mimi.
You dear Mimi, I thank you more than
I can express for your night letter, written
in defiance of sleep. Poor Mimi, plagued
and busy, while I play the princess in
Paris i This thought comes to me often
in the day, disturbing my repose a little,
my gentle gwietude. I say to mvself that
our time is difierentlv employed, but I help
you in my heart. We are as well as pos-
sible here and at Au^uste's. Don't let
Euphrasie leave you, I l)eg and beseech ;
you would be too lonely wUhout her gaiety
and kindness. I put both my arms around
her to keep her. M. le Cnr4 is very good
to come and amuse papa : it is an act of
friendly charity that I shall not forget
Bemember me to him and to Mariette.
Also to Augustine, Jeanne-Marie, the shep-
herd, Paul, and Gilles, and thank them all
for their compliments. Good-by, with a
kiss fkcm Maurice, Gaio and mysdf.
TO THB SAXB.
Nov. 7, 1888
I shall write to you every day until I re-
ceive letters from home, that you may see
that I do not forget vou, dear inhabitants
of Le Cayla. The whirlwind of Paris will
not blow me away yet awhile. That re-
mark of pax>a's made me laugh, and showed
me that ne does not know me yet. I am
very sure that you, Mimi, had no such
idea. I have told you that I lead the same
life here as at Le Oayla, and with this ad.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
478
JSugenie de Guhin^s Leiten from Paris.
vanta^, that theie is nothing to worry me,
for I have a church witMn reach, and en-
tire liberty. We are all busy with spiritoal
matters now— our ladies with theirs and I
with mine. Maurice is consigned to Son-
day, M. Buquet's only free day. All is
going on well in this respect, and Caroline
is BO edlMng that she seems to be follow-
ing in Aumrs footsteps. In this too I ad-
mire the workings of Providence in nsing
this marriage as an occasion of salvation.
It is beautif al to^lay, one of those fine
days so rare in Paris, where the sky is al-
most always pale and doudless. This
struck me at first, but now I am used to it
as to other things that I see. I am used
to carriages, and am no more afraid of thdr
mnniag over me than of Gilles' cart. We
shall go in the sunshine to see Mme. Lam-
arlidre Augoste, and I don't know whom
besides^ for there is no end to visits when
one is once in train. In going to see our
cousin at M. Laville's, Erembert and Blau-
rioe met M. Lastic, who is living in Paris.
It is astonishinff how many acquaintances
one meets In the great world where one
thinks one's self unknown.
Indians visit here, Indians without end.
A friend of ]Caurice*s, H. Le F^vre came to
spend the evening ; a nice little young man,
who looks very gentle and refined. He
asked me when I was going to see my ffood
friend De Maistre ; he is a friend of U.
Adrien's, who is at present wandering
anud the snows of Norway, so that he can
not come to the wedding. We shall mus-
ter pretty strong, though only the incUs-
peniabU will be there.
. . 18th. We have just come from the
Pantheon, a church passed over from Qod
to the Devil, from St. Genevieve to the he-
roes of July, and to Voltaire and Rousseau.
It is an adn^ble work of art, however ;
the interior, the dome, and the crypts,
gloomy, secluded, buried beneath vaults
and only lighted here and there with lamps,
are quite effective. The imagination would
easUj take fright in this darkness of death,
or of glory if you choose, for all the dead
are illustrious there, as in the Elysium of
.which Voltaire and Rousseau are the gods.
In the depths of the crypt stands the statue
of Voltaire, smiling apparently at the glory
of his tomb, which is decorated with ma^
nificent emblems. That of Rousseau Is
more severe — a saroophsffus, from which
a hand is thrust forth, beariug a tordi,
" that illumines and ever shall illumine the
world,'' according to our guide, who was a
cicerone as brilliant as the lantern he car-
ried. The summit of the dome is at a pro-
digious elevation, twice the hdght of the
steeple of Ste. C^e. Paris is seen beau-
tifully firom there, but the picture needed
sunlight and there was none. Good-bv ;
to-morrow at this time Kauiice will be
married at the Mayonlty , and day after to-
morrow in church.
16th. Yesterday was the grand and
solemn di^, the beautiful day for Maurice,
Caro and all of us. We only needed you,
papa, and Mimi, to complete our happinesi,
as we all said with sincere regret. You
would have been delighted to see this fam-
ily festival, the most beautiful I ever wit-
nessed. Everything went smoothly, the
weather was soft and pleasant, and God
seemed to smile on the marriage, so suita-
bly it was conducted, and in such a Chris-
tian manner. How pretty Caro was in her
bridal dress, and wreath of oranee flowers
under her veil i la Bengali 1 and Maurice
looked well too. H. Angler was so charm-
ed that he wanted to paint them in dinrch,
kneeling on their crimson Prie-Dien. 'Die
church displayed all its grandeur, and the
organ plapng during mass was very good.
M. Bnquet blessed the marriage, and said
mass, awsisted by M. Legrand. Many of the
hwm monde were present, and a dozen car-
riages stood berore the church doors.
Soeur dTversen was to be there. M. Lau-
richais, confessor to our ladies, in short aU
the friends and relations united their
prayers and ffood wishes during the cere-
mony. I send M. Buquet's discourse, which
every one thought perfect. Why can't I
add to it his kindly voice, and the look of
joy and emotion with which he spoke to
Maurice, whom he loves sincerely.
You will like to know, papa, how every-
thing passed ofFon the memorable day, and
I like very much to describe it, for it seems
as if you would be able to share our pleas-
ure, and see your children in church, at
dinner and at the evening party. The din-
ner was charming, like every thing else,
each course served eWantly ; fish, meats,
dessert and wines. The turkey, dressed
with our truffles was king of the feast.
We drank freely and mernly of Madeira
and Constance, and it all seemed like the
marriage of Cana. I sat between Auguste
and M. d' Aurevilly, very charming neigh-
bors, and we talked and laughed veiy
pleasantly, though Augusto scolded me
for having no poetry, which he felt disposed
to read, and we had never thought of
writing ; there's something bettor for Caro,
which comes from the heart and will be
unfailingly hers every day. How modest
she was in church, and how pretty she
looked in the evening 1 She was quite the
queen of the occasi<»L A dozen ladies
came, sdl very elegant, and I don't know
how many men, friends of Maurice's.
They were very gracious, and asked me
to dance; jw^dance/ M. leOuri had
bettor take holy water and exorcise me. I
danced with my groomsman, Charles; it
was de rigtieur, and I could not decline
without bdng conspieaousp and playing
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Euginie de Guirin's Zetienfram Paris.
479
the not vmj amiiBfaig part of wall-flower.
Aag^Bte performed £U patexoal duties ad-
mirably. He begs me to say a word of
commendatioxi for him, and I might well
say a hundred in praise of his fziendship
and devotion to n&
The friend referred to in the fol-
lowing letter, and with whom Mile, de
Gu^rin left Paris early in the Decem-
ber of 1838, was the Marie to whom
she wrote the two delightful letters, in-
troduced into the sixth and seventh
books of her journal. Mme. la Ba-
ronne Henriette Marie de Maistre was
the sister of M. Adrien de Sainte Ma-
rie, a friend of Gu^rin's, and her inti-
macy with Eugenie had its first founda-
tion in ceremonious notes written about
Maurice when he was' ill with a fe-
ver at Le Cayla in 1837. Mme. de
Maistre soon became endeared to Eu-
genie by her fascinating powers of
attraction, and also by her mental and
physical sufferings, for sufferers be-
longed to the *• dove of Le Cayla" by
natural right.
TO liLLE. liOnSE DE 3UTNE.
Paris, Dec. 1, 1838.
M. de Frigeville is the most gracious,
amiable, and obliging of men. At
length I found oat his address, and sent
my x>arcel with a little note, which he
answered at onoe, and followed in person
the next day. The good man had taken
infinite pains to find me and ended by
applying to the police — a last resource
that amused ns a good deal. We cannot
profit by the acquaintance even now, or
by his ofi^rs of politeness " for anything
in his power," as he expressed himself to
our ladies, fori was out when he came , —
the fates are against me. Mile. LaforSt
thought him very agreeable and exquis-
itely courteous. I send this little notice
of him for you, dear friend, and make use "
of the chance to write to you up to the
last moment.
I am going to the country, to another
Rayssac, for Les Coynes is among the
mountains; — shall I find another Louise
there? Bhe is a little like you, I think ;
but, my friend, you will always be my
friend. I will write to you from there if
you like. Whom and what shall I see?
Everything looks very attractive, and yet
I go forward with timidity to meet these
unknown and known. Pity my wander
ing life, dragged from place to place ; — no,
do not pity me. for it is the will of heav-
en, and all we have to do is to follow the
hand that leads ns without reasoninfi;:
that alone sustains and consoles us, tea(3i-
ing us to turn all things to account for
heaven. 1 am less attracted to the world
than ever ; there is more calmness and
' happiness within Sister Clementine's door
than in any place in the world. I went
to see her yesterday, but she was to he in
retreat until Mondav, much to my regret,
for I love to see ana listen to these good
religious, these souls set apart from the
world. . . I should like to send you
something channing and worthy of Paris,
but channing things are rare everywhere ;
so rare that 1 have none to spare to4ay.
However, I did see the outside of Ver-
sailles ; — ^the king was expected, so they
shut the gates on us. Did I tell you of
this, and of our roifol wrath ? perhaps I
did in mv last letter.
• I should have described the concert to
vou this morning, if Maurice, who was to
have been my escort, had not been taken
ill j list as we were going , — ^pain instead
of pleasure, no uncommon change in life.
His little wife, quite crimson with emo-
tion, began to nurse him and make much
of him, and all grew calm under her gen-
tle influence. I hope Maurice will be
happy with her, — t do not know any
wcman like her in disposition, heart, or
face. She is a foreigner, and I study her,
that I may adapt myself to her, and enter
into her feelings if she cannot into mine.
There must be mutual concessions of
taste and ideas among us all, to ensure
affection and family peace : — ^that you see
everywhere, but we shall have no difficul-
ty with one so amiable and generous.
There is not a day when I do not receive
proofs of affection from my charming for-
eign sister. They always speak of her
to us as the Indian. Mme. Lamarli^re
thought her very charming ;— pretty and
well dressed. To^ay a bulletin of the
visit and her toilette is at Qaillac, and I
am sure that it is all over town by this
time that the Indian wore a dress of gate
antique, a black satin shawl, trimmed
with blond and lined with blue, a lace
collar, and a black velvet hat with ostrich
plume, " overwhelming heaven and earth,"
as Mme. Lamarli^re says
Good-by, my dear. I kiss you and say
love me, think of me, believe me, write to
me, talk of me. Love to you all.
One word more; I like to talk to you
best because we seem to understand each
other. I will say good-by soon, for two
o'clock is striking and I have an appoint-
ment in my chapel at rAbbaye-aux-Bois,
for I wish to put my conscience in order
before going away. I do not know to
whom I shall have recourse in the country,
so far from anv church. Fortunately, we
Digitized by CjOOQIC
480
Euginie de Gutrin's LeUen frwn Doaris.
are to spend ChriBtmas at Nevere, and I
ahall ti7 to grow calm, for I am not bo to-
da^r. I tell you this because you are alone
with Pulclieri6, whom nothing sarprises.
Pray in the chapel at Rajssac for your
poor friend, the Parisian, who will repay
joa as well as she can. Good-by, good-
by; till when? . . .
to xllb. db batnb.
Chbistuas Eye, Nevbus, 1888.
I have only time to date my letter, doar
friend, for the bells are calling me to mid-
night mass. I listen to their clashing peals,
and think of the pretty little tinkle oi the
Andillac belL Who would have said last
year that I should be so fur away 1 but so
God leads us to things unforeseen. Tm
coing to the cathedral to pray for all whom
I love, and so for you.
Two days since those lines— two days of
festival, prayer, offices^ and letters written
and received, without preventing me from
being with you, mv dearest. Our heacts
can fuways be togetner before God, and we
cannot meet in a better way or in any
other way for a long time. I shall not be
at Le Gayla before the fine weather comes,
and we can have flowers and sunshine to
show our Indian ; far enough we are from
that season, as I see by the white earth
and pallid sky, all snowy and cold.
How you would love my friend, dear
Louise I She is so good, so charminff and
attractive, and of such a high order of
mind, that I keep congratulating myself
upon possessing her friendship and affec-
tion. . .
Her father takes the best of care of me,
and even comes to my room to see if I have
a good fire when I say my prayers. He is
afraid this cold climate may hurt me, and
said laughing one veiy cold dav, *'Tho
southern flower will be frozen,'^ Good,
holv man 1 I love him very much, and he
makes me think of your father in his mode
of thought and culture. He has read
everything, azui he writes too ; some selec-
tions from his wprks, that he was kind
enough to read to me, might have been
written by a Benedictine. He knows Car-
melites, Trappists, charitable orders, every
one in short who is learned or religious.
Charles the Tenth loved him and saw him
often ; if he had only listened to him 1
Travellers from Goritz come here, among
others a M. de Ch , who comes and ffoes
for the exiles, from St. Petersburg to Vien-
na and sometimes to Spain, from one court
to another. He charms us with stories of
his adventures, and I never saw a man
more agreeable, handsome, witty or culti-
vated. He is a learned geologist, and col-
lects specimens^ goes down into volcanoes
and domesticates himself among ruins.
He lived a week in Sallnst's room at Pom*
pell, drove about the streets in his carriage,
entered the theatre, made excavations
under the very eyes of the Duchess of
Beny,and saw a thief whom the lava had
caught while he was stealing a purse, at
which we laughed, and remancea that in-
iquity is sooner or later discovered. Ihavo
seen hia cabinets of natural history, miner-
alogy, and antiques, and also the borders
of Cicero's dining-hall exquisitely painted
with a dehcacy inimitable or unimitated.
To all these ^fts, M. Oi nnites those
of a good Christian; he turns all his
studies and disooveriea to advantage for
the faith, and proves that science and faith,
geologv and G eneeis, are of one accord. If
yon think me very learned, rememb^ that
rve seen Paris, and that Paris siiaipeos
one's wits ; however, most of this I have
acquired in the neighborhood of Les Co-
ques.
TO ULLB. UABIB DB GUtRIN.
Nbvsbb, January 13.
We return to Paris early in January,
and shall be introduced to the grandeurs
of the world. Hitherto I have known only
amiable, pretty simplicity ; now come bar-
onesses, duchesses, princesses, and as many
clever people as I choose. It will amuse
me like a picture-gallerv, for the heart
finds no place among such scenes, Ikr less
the soul. God and the world do not agree.
Ah me I how little they think of heaven
amid all this rush and sparkle ! So says
my friend, who knows the world and is
detached from it.
M. d'AureviUj) in his unpublished
reminiscences of Mile, de Gudrin, gives
a graphic description of her as she ap-
peared in the Parisian world, where
DO doubt she was subjected to a close
scrutiny as the sister of the elegant
and gifted Maurice de Gu^rin.
*«We can affirm,*' he eays, **that
never did creature of worlcUy attrac-
tions appear to us so sweet and lovelj
as this charming fawn, reared like St. >
Grenevieve among pattours, • •
« Drawn from her country home,
brought in state like a princess into
the intimidating light of lustres, she
came without embarrassment or awk-
wardness, with a chaste, patrician self-
possession, that showed in spite of
fortune's wrongs for what class in so-
ciety she was bom. Without ever
having been there, she was Jiwfcurjr
Saint Germain, Byron tells us in his
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Uugjiie de Oujrin's Letters fram Fans,
481
memoir that he witnessed the introdno-
tion of Miss Edgeworth into London
society, and that she made him think
of Jeanie Deans. But the country
girl of Lo Cayla was the desoendaat
of the fairest falcon-bearers who ap-
pear in the mediceval chronicles, gloved
with buckskin, corseleted with ermine,
and wearing a train. . . This was
what we admired, this was what im-
pressed the world, astonished at her
who did not wonder at them. If, in
speaking of such a woman, I dared to
use an expression debased to theatrical
uses in our tunes, I should say that she
had a great success wherever she went.
Women whispered together about her
genius for expression and the feeling
revealed in her letters; but no one of-
fered her the prying importunities so
coarsely mistaken sometimes for hom-
age. They did not call her interest-
ing or amusing, as the world says, pat-
ting a proud cheek with its awkward,
familiar hand. They respected her.
The world treated her as a woman of
the world, for that is what it hol<Js in
highest esteem; but she knew that she
was not so. She knew that there was
a second meaning in the world's lan-
guage that escaped her, as she said
once with her accent in a letter, but
what observer would have guessed it
in seeing her? Excepting now and
then a charming swallow-glance, pierc-
ing the tapestry and seeking the wall
at Le Cayla covered with honeysuckle
and wall-wort, who would have doubt-
ed that this tranquil maiden was a wo-
man of the world, capable of pleasing
it, and of ruling it too, had she thought
it worth hep while ? .
MIle.de Gu^riri had one of those im-
aginations that are easy to live with.
She did not offend common people,
those sensitive, coarse souls to whom
the least distinction causes terrible
pain, and who push their way every-
where, even in the country. They
handled with their rough touch tliia
divine opal with its vaporous shades,
as indifferently as the mock ivory
counters on their card-tables. Though
Bhe did not resemble a sphinx, this
VOU III. 81
lovely maiden with her lingering smile,
there was perhaps in her placid regu-
larity the immovability of the sphinx,
and immobility suits all things. It
lends a mystery to nature, and takes
from human beings the puppet-like
gesticulation tliat ever mars the lofty
Sidera Vkdtum,
And now we will return to Eugenie's
letters, dated once more from Paris,
where she was staying with the Baron-
ess de Maistre, and seeing the world
in a more brilliant light than in her
visits to the Rue Cherche-Midi, and at
the house of "Auguste and Felicit6 ;"
but it never dazzled her eyes, no mat-
ter how brightly it shone and glittered*
f
TO H. DE GUlOUN.
Pabis, Jan.20, 1839.
You have had a line from me almost
every day, dear papa, but I will write more
at length to-day.
The good General called here as soon as
he heaiS of my retom from Neven ; but to
tell the truth his visits are not entirely for
me, for he finds Caroline so pleasing, that
I think our Indian has her fall share of the
kind old gentleman's friendship. - One day
he came when she was dressing a doll in
Indian fashion, for the little De Maistres,
andhearas so delighted that he insisted
on worEmg himself, and wished to stay till
the end of the toilette, which wasonlaek-
ily interrupted by visitors. The Marqtds
Mt us, but Garo wrote to him the next day
that the Indian lady was ready, and would
be charmed to be presented to him, so
the good man came, passed the afternoon
with us, and offered to take us today to
M. Aqoado's museum of painting. We
shall go, for it is said to be very bcAUtiful,
and aSterward we are to see the interior
of the Palais Royal. There is nothing we
may not expect of the good Marquis, and
we owe a great deal of pleasure to Palch^
rie, who has already received my acknow.
ledffments. I send a jmckage to Bayssao
with thls^e.
We have no want of friends in Paris,
dear papa. How can I say enough of the
perfect family I have just left, who are un»
tiring in their friendships and kindness 1
I am engaged, to go to-morrow, Saturday,
to a large andel^ant party at M. de Neo-
ville's,* but I shaQ give up my place to
Eran, who will go with Mme. de Maistre.
There will be a sort of reunion of beau^
ties of every country— RngHah, Q^muLD,
* Ex-Minister to Cliarles X. ,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
482
EugmU^de QuhM% :Lmw% ftim Paris.
Spftnisli,^ and the ' loTel j " ambaaaadrasB
horn the United States. 'Twill be a
pretty eight for anyone who likes society/
Dat 1 refuse as often as possible. How-
erer, I cannot help going to M. de Neu-
Tille's, for he has been so jnadoos to
Eiembert. I have seen the Saronessde
Yaox, Henry Vth's Joan of Arc, who,
in 1830, ssked an officer of the Rorsl
Guard to rout Philip, herself .and her
sword at their head. She is a man-
woman in figure and energy. Now she is
devoted to God, visiting prisons and ex«
hortiog those who are condemned to death.
With all this she has a charming simpli-
city. I am to make other acquaintances^
whom I shall describe to you. All this
does not prevent my thinking of Le Cayla
very, very often, and lon^g impatientlv
for the month of M^ ,"— -I shall eo with
Brembert at the beginning of Lentlf I can.
Mmes. de Maistre and de St. Marie beg to
be remembered to you. " They think Caro
charming, as fascinating as possible," said
Henriette» and indeed she was radiant the
evening they saw her. She is prettier
than befofe her marriage, and she Is an
excellent little wife, as devoted to Maurice
a* he is to her. They are happy, and Mau-
rice is mosi exemplary ; a hundred times
better thaa l«0l year, as he says himself.
His ooikfideno0 in me is unchanged and we
talk very intimately ,"— he longp to se^ you^
and thinks very often of Mimi ; — ^we
shall all be glad to meet at lie Cayla Sa^
turday I shall think of you, Mimi, at St.
Thomaa Aquinas', where we are^ hear
TAbb^ Dnpanlonp,* who is also to give
the Lenten instructiona • There is no
lack of teaching in Paris, but the well
taught are very rare ,"— the more one sees
of the world, the more glaring i4)peara
the ignoianee of essential things, tour.
dTversea comes now and then to see
ua; she has^ mentioned to me Mma
L , who would like to know us, but
we know, so many people already, that.
I've lost all desire for new aequamtSAces.
Our whole time slips away in dressing
and reeeivinff or making visits, so that
one can hardly read or work at ali The
Lastics have been here, Mma Reaaudi^re,
the Bairys, an English family who like
Maurice very much, and an ii|finity of
other people whom I do not know even
by nflwaa Then the De Maiatres and the
aoquaintaneeethey make for me ; — ^you see
I have more tltfin I need.
Oh 1 how I shall rest at Le Gayla« I
idiaU feel the contrast so much, passing
from the whirlwind of Paris to the calm (S
the fields^ from the rolling of eaniageato
the little rumble of carts, fromi Paris noi»<
eg to the flsfikling of our hens .^^it all
• Kow Xgr* DaptBloap, Blsbop of Orlesni.
seems to me very charming without think^
ing of you and Mimi .'—how I longtokisa
you I They treat me yerj well here, and
I am spoiled by everybody. My health is
ffood, so dto't be anxious about me. How
aoes Winter treat you in the new parlor?
Better no doubt than it did in the hall.
" Is Wolff banished from the parquet Y'
Maurice asks. Passing from parlor to
kitchen, tell me how lul our people are.
I'm sorry about the partridge.
May 9th.— We heard M. de Bavignan
Sunday at Notre Dame It is cArious to
see this assemblage of men, a sea of people
overflowing the immense cathedral to list-
en to one voice — ^but such a voice ! From
time to time some stricken soul, some
young man in doubt or conviction, seeks
the orator as a. confessor. Then too they
rush to see plays, and Mile. Rachel draws
at least as great a crowd to the theatre as
M. de R. does to the cathedral. I'm not
suriwised at the enthusissm of the Csstraia
aboat this young marvel. She is ugly,
though, at least so I am tdd by those who
have seen her off the stage. Alasl the
profanity of my words in Lent I
TO H. DB oir^m.
Pabib> March and April, 1889.
This bit of a letter, will tell you» dear
|pa, that I am with my poor invalid
lend, waiting for M. Dupanloup, and
that catching ught of an ink-stand, I am
going on wiSi my writing at the expense
of the sacristy. But I will put a sous in
the box for my Ink, and my paper too, as
I mean to steal a sheet to go with these ,*
if we are left alone long enough. Now
and then a peaceable abb^ or sacristan
passes through, glandng at us, and looking
rather astonished at my office improvised
in the sacristy. But M. D.'s name protects
us, and we need only mention him to get
asafia«onduet ...
Never was there such a holy week— «»-
tinual agitation and running about. An-
cUllac iabetter than Paris for recollection ;
but God is everywhere and in all things,
if we know how to find Him. Poor dear
papa, I have prayed well for you in these
beautiful monuments of Notre Dame, St.
Roch^ and others that we have visited. I
thought of yon in the simple little chapel
of AndiUac I suppose they used the new
diapel for the tomb, or Paradise^ ss they
call it here.
Was there ever such a piece of scrib-
bling as this letter— beffun, left, begun
affain, in so many places? Now I am at
Maurice's, after sitting fiv« hours for my
portrait* which M< Angler kindly insists
oa painting for you, and for your sake, I
have aubmitted. IXsar papa, my painted
■elf will go with Eran, who has had his
likeness taken too, and, happier than I am.
mend.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Da^Dreams.
4B8
ifl to see yon and Idas yon, and talk to you
of Pazia, and many, many other things.
My absence is to be prolonc^ed more than
I BQuposed, but how coold I refuse these
good friends a request they had such a
right to ask? They will be gratefal to
yon, I assure you.
I shall bring you the little book of poet-
ry that you care for so much ; — ^it is now
in the hands of Count Xavier, which will
be its greatest glory, I have been pre-
sented to this celelvated and charming
man, who was very kind and gradons;
he loves his cousin, and under her patron-
age I could notbut bewellrec^ved. We
found him alone in his room, reading the
office of Holy Week ;— he must be reli-
gious, beinff a worthy brother of his Bro-
ther Joseph. Thus he is consoled for his
great griefs, for the death of his three
children at cdghteen or twenty years of age.
The same evening, they took me to the
great Valentino concert of eighty mnsl-
dans. I had been there once before. There
is much more to be seen here, but one
might spend a thousand years in Paris,
and leave many things unseen. I value
more the knowledge of persons than of
things.
I am uneasy about your health, how-
ever weU Mimi may take care of you;
be very careful of yourself.
Good-by, dear papa» good-by, dear Mi-
mi.. I have no time to write to you. Mau-
rice sends to papa M. de Luzerne's refec-
tioTU upon the Gospels. Good-by to all.
I send a waistcoat to Pierrll and an
apron to Jeanie ; to you and all everything
tnat can reach your hearts. Thank M.
Angler for his kindness, when you write
to Maurice. My portrait must be finished
at Le Cayla, for I found it impossible to
have a sitting to-day. I do not- want to
leave you, and yet ^ood-by. I will write
to you ftom Nevers. Erembert will be
much pleased to see you again ; I see al-
ready the happy day of arrival.
April 2d, in the evening.
And herd we must leave Eng^e.
Eight days later she resumed the
journal at Nevers and MtrotQ that
wonderful eighth book, so pathetically
expressive of the pain of waiting —
fit prelude of the coming tragedy^.
From Once a Week*
DAY-DREAMS-
Call them not vain and false day-dreams we see
With spirit'^vision of our quicker youth ;
Thoughts wiser in the world's esteem may be
Less near the truth.
When against some hard creed of life we raise
Our single cry for what more pure we deem,
Tis oft the working oat in later days
Of some oid dream !
Dream of a world more pure tlian that we find '
Sad is the wak'ning, but not dull despair,
While we can feel that we may leave behind
One bright ray there*
Let us work up then to our young idealj
Nor weep the present nor regret the past,
Till the soul, struggling 'twixt earth's false and real,
Reach heaven at kst*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
484
27ie Christian Schools of Jbzandricu^Onjen,
From The Doblin Beview.
THE CHRISTIAN SCHOOLS OF ALEXANDRIA— ORIGEN.
^ The scliolar next comes to the
more strictly ethical part of Origen's
teaching. The preliminary dialectics
had cleared the ground, and to a certain
extent replanted it ; physics made the
process more easy, pleasant, and com-
plete ; but the great end of a philoso-
phic life was etliics, that is, the mak-
ing a man good. The making of a
man good and virtuous seems now-a-
days a simple matter, as far as theory
is concerned, and so perhaps it is, if
only theory and principles be consid-
ered ; though morality is an extensive
Ecience, and one that is not mastered
in an hour or a day. But in Origeii's
day a science of Christian ethics did
not exist. The teaching of the Scrip-
ture and the voice of the pastors was
sufficient, doubQess, for the guidance
of the faithful ; but science is a differ-
ent thing. Such a science is shad-
owed out to us by the scholar in the
record we are noticing. St. Thomas,
the great finisher of scientific Chris-
tian ethics, embraces all virtues un-
der two great classes, viz., the theo-
logical and the cardinal. The whole
science of morality treats only of the
seven virtues included under these
two divisions. The master's teaching
comprehended, of course, faith, and
hope, and charity; indeed, it would
be more correct to say that these
three virtues were his whole ultimate
object; but the scholar says little of
them in particular just because of this
very reason, and also because they
were bound up in that piety which he
mentions so often. But it is a most
interesting fact that the virtues, and
the only virtues, mentioned in the
summary of Origen's moral teaching
given by St. Gregory, are precisely
the four cardinal virtues, prudence,
justice, fortitude, and temperance.
The classification dates, of course,
from the Stoics, but the circumstance
that the framework laid down by a
father in the beginning of the third
century was used and completed by
another father in the thirteenth, gives
^ the early father an undoubted claim
to be considered the founder of Christ-
ian ethics. And here we lay our
hands on one of the earliest instances
, of heathen philosophy being made to
hew wood and carry water for Chris-
tian theology. The division of vir-
tues was a good one ; all the schools
pretended to teach it ; but the distinc-
tive boast and triumph of the Chris-
tian teacher was that he taught trus
prudence, true justice, fortitude, and
temperance, "not such," says the
scholar, "as the other philosophers
teach, and especially the modems,
who are strong and great in words;
he not only t^ed about the virtues,
but exhorted us to practise them;
and he exhorted us by what ho did
far more than by what he said.**
And here the scholar takes the oppor>
tunity of recording his opinion about
" the other*' philosophers, now that be
has had a course of Origen's training.
He first apologizes to them for hurt-
ing their feelings* He says that, per-
sonally, he has no ill-will against
them, but he plainly tells them that
thmgs have come to such a pass,
through their conduct, that the very
name of philosophy is laughed &U
And he goes on to develop what ap-
peared to him the very essence of
their faults, viz., too much talk, and
nothing but talk. Their teaching is
like a widely-extended morass; once
set foot in it, and joa can neither get
out nor go on, but stick fast till yoa
perish. Or it is like a thick forest ;
the traveller who once finds himself
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Tiie Christian Schools of Alexandria, — Origen.
485
in it has no chance of ever getting
back to the open fields and the light
of day, but gropes about backward
and forwaixly first trying one patli, then
another, and finding they all lead
farther in, until at last, wearied and
desperate, &e sits down and dwells in
the forest, resolving that the forest
shall be his world, since all the world
seems to bo a forest This is, per-
haps, one of the most graphic pictures
ever given of the state of mind, so
artificial, so unsatisfied, and yet so
self-sufficient, brought about by a spe-
cious heathen philosophy, and the
effect of enlightened reason destitufb
of revelation. The scholar cannot
heighten the strength of his descrip-
tion by going on to compare it, in the
third place, to a labyrinth, but the
comparison brings out two striking
features well worthy of notice. The
first is, the innocent and guileless
look of the whole concern from the
outside ; " the traveller sees the open
door, and in he goes, suspecting noth-
ing." Once in, he sees a great deal
to admire, (and this is the second
point in the labyrinth-simile ;) he sees
the very perfection of art and ar-
rangement, doors afler doors, rooms
within rooms, passages leading most
ingenionsly and conveniently into
other passages ; he sees all this art,
admires the architect, and — thinks of
going out. But there is no going out
for him ; he is fast. All the ai*tifice
and ingenuity he has been admiring
have Been expended for the express
purpose of keeping in for ever those
foolish peqple who have been so un-
wary as to come in at the open door.
" For there is no labyrinth so hard to
thread," sums up the scholar, ^<no
wood so deep and thick, no bog so
false and hopeless, as the language
of some of these philosophers." In
this language we recognize another of
of the characteristic feelings of the
day — ^the feeling of profound dis-
gust for the highest teachings of
heathenism from the moment the soul
catches a ray of the light of the Gos-
pel In Origen's school the confines
of the receding darkness skirted the
advancing kingdom of hght, and those
that sat in the darkness to-day saw it
leaving them to-morrow, and far be-
hind them the morrow a^r that ; and
all the time the great master had to
be peering anxiously into the dark-
ness to see what souls were nearest
the light, and to hold out his hand to
win them too into the company of
those that were already sitting at his
feet In such days as those, sharp
comparisons between heathen wisdom
and the light of Christ must have
been part of the atmosphere in which
the catechumens of the great school
lived and breathed ; there was a real-
ity and interest in them such as can
never be again. And yet the master
was no bigot in his dealings with the
Greek philosophies. "He was the
first and the only one," says his schol-
ar, '* that made me study the philoso-
phy of Greece." The scholar was to
reject nothing, to despise nothing, but
make himself thoroughly acquainted
with the whole range of Greek phi-
losophy and poetry ; there was only
one class of writers he was to have
nothing to do with, and those were
the atheists who denied God and
God's providence; their books could
only sully a mind that was striving
after piety. But his pupils were to at-
tach themselves to no school or party,
as did the mob of those who pretend-
ed to study philosophy. Under his
guidance they were to take what was
true and good, and leave what was
false and bad. He walked beside
them and in front of them through
the labyrinth; he had studied its
windings and knew its turns ; in his
company, and with their eyes on his
" lofty and safe" teaching, his scholars
need fear no danger.
This brief analysis of part of St.
Gregory's remarkable oration will
serve to give us some idea of Origen's
method of treating his more learned
and cultivated converts, of whom we
know he had a very great many. It
will also have admitted us, in some
sort, into the interior of his school,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
486
7%e Christian Sehods of Alexandria.^ Origeiu
and let as bear the qoeBtion in debate
and the matters that were of greatest
interest in that most influential centre
of Christian teaching. It does not, of
coarse, deal directly with theology, or
with those great controversies which
Origen, in a manner, rendered pos-
sible for his pupils and successors of
the next century. The scholar, in-
deed, does go on now to speak of his
theological teachings ; but he describes
rather his manner than his matter,
and rather the salient points of cha-
racteristic gifls than the details of his
dogmatic system. As this is precisely
our own object in these notes, we need
only say that St. Gregory, in the con-
cluding pages of his farewell discourse,
sufficiently proves that the great end
and object of all philosophic teaching
and intellectual discipline in the school
of his master was faith and practical
piety. To teach his hearers the great
first cause was his most careful and
earnest task. His instructions about
Gk>d were so full of knowledge and so
carefully prepared that the scholar is
at a loss how to describe them. His
explanations of the prophets, and of
Holy Scripture generally, were so
wonderful that he seemed to be the
friend and interpreter of the Word.
The soul that thirsted for knowledge
went away from him refreshed, and
the hard of heart and the unbe-
lieving could not listen to him without
both understanding, and believing, and
making submission to God. ^ It was
no otherwise than by the communica-
tion of the Holy Ghost that he spoke
thus," says his disciple, " for the pro-
phets and the interpreters of the pro-
phets have necessarily the same help
from above, and none can understand
a prophet unless by the same spirit
wherein the prophet spoke. This
greatest of gifls and this splendid des-
tiny he seemed to have received from
God, that he should be the interpreter
of God's words to men, that he should
understand the things of Grod, as
though he heard them from God's own
mouS), and that through him men
should be brought to listen and obey.''
Two little indications of what we may
call the spirit of Origen are to be
found in this address of his papiL
The first is the great value he sets
upon purity as the only means of ar-
riving at the knowledge and com-
munion of God. We know what a
watchword this ^ union with Grod" was
among the popular philosophers of the
day. To attain to it was the end of all
the Neo-Platonic asceticism. It was
Origen's great end as well ; but he
taught that purity alone and the subju-
gation of the passions by the grace of
God will avail to lead the soul thither,
atid that no amount of external re-
finement or abstinence from gross sin
will suffice to make the soul pure in
the sight of Gk)d. The second is, his
devotion to the person of the Son, the
ever-blessed Word of God. The
whole oration of the scholar takes the
form of a thanksgiving to ^ the Master
and Saviour of our souls, the first-
born Word, the 'maker and ruler of
all thing|." He never misses an op-
portunity all through it of bursting
into eloquent love to that *^ Prince of
the universe;" he cannot praise his
master without first praisiog him, or
ascribe anything to the powers of the
earthly teacher without referring it
first of all to the heavenly Giver. He
had leaiTied this from Origen, the pre-
decessor, unconsciously certainly, bat
in will and in spirit, of another Alex-
andrian, the great Athanasius. And
here again error was bringing out Uie
truth, for unless the Gnostics and the
Neo-Platonists had been at tiiat veiy
time theorizing about thei]^ demioi^
and their emanations, we should pro-
bably have missed the tender devotion
and repeated homage to the eternal
Word which we find in the words of
Origen and his disciple.
Theodore, or Gregory, as he had
been named in baptism, had to thank
his master and to praise him, and he
had, Moreover, to say how «orry he
was to leave him. He concludes his
speech with the expression of his re-
grets. He is afraid that all the grand
teaching he has received has been to
^ Digitized by CjOOQ IC
The Christum SchoeU of JJexandruL—Oriffen,
487
a gr^t extent thrown away upon him.
He is not yet pradent, he is not just,
he is not temperate, ho has no fortitude,
abis, for his own native imbe<»Iit7!
Biit one gift the master has given him
he has made him love all these virtues
with a love thai knows no bounds;
and he has made him love, over and
above them all, that virtue which is
alike their beginning and their consnm*
mation — ^the blessed virtue of pietj,
the service and love of God. And
now, in leaving him, he seems to be
leaving a garden full of useful trees
and pleasant fruits, full of green grass
and cheering sunshine. And he there-
upon compares himself, at considerable
length, to our first parents banished
from Paradise. '^ I am leaving the
face of God and going back to the earth
from whence I came ; and I shall eat
earth all mj days, and till earth-^an
earth that will produce me nothing but
thorn and briers now that it is depriv*
ed of its good and excellent tending."
He goes on to liken himself to the
prodigal son ; and yet he finds himself
worse than he, for he is going awaj
without receiving the " due portion of
substance," and leaving behind every-
thing he loves and cares for Again,
he seei&s to be one of thai* band of
Jewish captives that hang up their
harps on the willows and wept beside
the rivers of Babylon. ** I am going
out from my Jerusalem,'' he says, " my
holy city, where day and night the
holy law is bemg smnouneed, where are
hymns and canticles and mystic
speech ; where a light brighter than
the sun shines upon us as we discnsa
the mysteries of Grod, and where our
fanc^^ brings back in the night visions
of what has occupied us in the
day; I am leaving this holy city,
wherehi God seems to breathe every-
where, and going into a land of exOe :
there will be no singing for me ; even
the mournful flute will not be my
solace when my harp is hung on the
willows; but I shall be woiking by
river-sides and making bricks; the
hymns I remember I shall not be al-
lowed to sing; nay, it may be that
my very memory will play me false,
and my hard work will xnake me forget
^em.** The yonthlnl heart, that has
left a cloistered retreat of learning
and pi^, where masters have been
loved, studies enjoyed, and God ten-
derly served, will test these words by
itself, and read in their eloquent punt*
ing another proof diat nature is the
same to-day as yesterday. Gregory
the wonder-worisier was truly a schohur
to be proud of, but the master's pride
must have been obliterated in his emo-
tion when he listened to such a de-
scription of his school as this.
But the scholar, after all, wiD leave
with a good heart. *^ There is the
Word, the ele^less guardian of aU
men." He puts his trust in him, and
in the good seed that his master has
sown ; perhaps he may come back
again and see him yet once more, when
the seed shall have sprung iq> and pro-
duced such fruits as can be expected
from a nature which is barren and
evil, but which he fhtiys God may
never become worse by his own fiiult^
^ And do thou, O my beloved master
(ci^AT^ «60aA^),arise andsendus forth
with thy prayer ; thou hast been our
saviour by ^j holy teachiugs whilst
we were with thee ; save us still by
thy prayers when we depart Give us
back, master, give us up into the
han^ of him that sent us to thee,
Gtxl ; thank him for what has befallen
us ; pray him that in the future he
may ever be with us to direct us, that he
may keep his laws before our eyes and
set in our heart that best of teachens
his divine fear. Away frcMu thee, we
shall not obey him as freely as we
obeyed bun here Keep praying that
we may find consdation in him for our
loss of thee, that he may send us his
angel to go with us ; and ask him to
bring us back to thee once more ; no
other consolation could be half so great."
And 80 they depart, the two brothers,
never again to see their master more.
They both became great bishops, Gre-
gory the greatest ; we find Origen writ-
ing to him, soon after his departure, a
letter full of afiection and ^xxl ooun-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
488
The ChnsHan Schaok of Akscandsriou — Origen.
eel ; and who can tell how much the
teaching of the catechist of Alexan-
dria had to do with that wonderfbl lif«
and nerer-djingrepntation that distin-
gaish Gregory Thaumaturgus among
all the saints of the church ?
Origen presided at Alexandria for
twenty years — that is to say, from 211
to 281. In the latter year he Icfl it
for eyer. During this period he had
been temporarily absent more than
once. The governor of the Roman
Arabia, or Arabia Petrasa, had sent a
special messeinger to the prefect of
Alexandria and the patriarch, to beg
that the catechist might pay him a
visit. What he wanted him for is not
recorded ; bat Petra, the capital of the
Roman province, was not so far from
the great road between Alexandria and
Palestine as to be out of the way of
Greek thought and civilization, and its
interesting remains of art, belonging
to this very period, which startled mo-
dem travellers only a short time past,
prove that it was itself no inconsider-
able centre of intellectual cultivation.
We may, therefore, conjecture that his
errand was philosophical, or, in other
words, religious.
The second time that Origen was
absent from Alexandria was for asome*
what longer space. The emperor Car-
acalla, a^r murdering his brother and
indulgmg in indiscriminate slaughter,
ill aU parts of the world from Rome to
Syria, had at last arrived, with his
troubled conscience and his well-bribed
legions, at Alexandria. The Alexan-
drians, it is well known, had an irre-
sistible tendency to give nicknames.
Caracalla's career was open to a few
epithets, and the unfortunate '^ men of
Macedon"made meny on some salient
points in the character of the emperor
and his mother. They had better have
held their tongues, or plucked them
out ; for in a fury of vengeance he let
loose his bloodthirsty bauds on the
city. How many were slain in that
awfbl visitation no one ever knew ; the
dead were thrown into trenches, and
hastily covered up, uncounted and un-
recorded. The spectre-liaunted em-
peror took special vengeance on the
institutions and professors of learning.
It would seem that he destroyed a
great part of the buildings of the Mu-
seum, and put to death or banished tlic
teachers. As for the students, he had
the whole youth of the city driven to-
gether into the gymnasium, and or-
dered them to be formed into a ^' Ma-
cedonian phalanx" for his army-— a
grim retort, in kind, for their pleasan-
tries at his expense. Origen fled be-
fore this storm. Had he remained,
he was far too well known now to have
been safe foi'/in hour. Doubtless 'obe-
dience made him conceal himself and
escape. lie took refuge in Cassarea of
Palestine, where the bishop, St. The-
octistus, received him with the utmost
honor; and, though he was yet only
a layman, made him preach in the
church, wliich he had never done at
Alexandria. When the tempest in
Egypt had gone by, Demetrius wrote
for him to come back. He returned,
and resumed the duties of lus post.
After this ho took either one or two
other journeys. lie was sent inlo
Greece, and visited Athens, with let-
ters fi*om his bishop, to refute heresy
and confirm the Christian religion. He
also stayed awhile at the great central
see of Antioch.
On his journey to Greece, he had
been ordained priest at Cocsarea, by his
friend St, Theoctistus. When he re-
turned to Alexandria, about the year
231, Demetrius, the patriarch, was
pleased to be exceedingly indignant at
his ordination. We cannot go into the
controvei^y here ; we need only say
that a synod of bishops, summoned by
the patriarch* decreed that he must
leave Alexandria, but retain his priest-
hood ; which seems to show that they
thought hejiad better leave for the
sake of peace, though they could not
recognize any canonical fault; for if
they had, they would have suspended
or degraded him. Demetrius, indeed,
assembled another synod some time
later, and did degrade and excommu-
nicate him. But by this time Origen
had left Alexandria, never to return
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Tlie Christian Schools of Jlexanchia. — Origen.
489
And was qnietiy liriBg at Csesarea,
We dare not pronounce sentence in a
cause that baa occupied so many learn-
ed pens ; but we dare confidently say
this, that it is impossible to proye Ori-
gen to have been knowingly in the
Wrong. We must now follow him to
CsQsarea.
If some Levantine merchantman,
manned by swarthy Greeks or Sy-
rians, in trying to make Beyrout,
should be driven by a north wind
some fif^ miles further along the
coast to the southwest» she might pos-
sibly find herself, at break of day, in
Sight of a strange-looking harbor.
There would be a wide semi-circular
, sweep of buildings, or what had once
been buildings; there would be a
southern promontory, crowned with a
tower in ruins ; there would be the
vestiges of a splendid pier ; and there
would be rows of granite pillars lying
as if a hurricane had come ofi* the
land, and blown them bodily into the
sea. An Arab or two, in their wliite
cotton clothes, would be grimly look-
ing about them, on some prostrate
columns ; and a stray jackal, caught
by the rising sun, would be scamper-
ing into some hole in the ruins. Our
merchantman would have come upon
all. that IB left of Caesarea of Pales-
tine. If she did not immediately
make all sail to JajQ&, or back to Bey-
rout, it would not be because the
place does not look ghostly and dis-
mal enough. And yet it was once
the greatest port on that Mediterra-
nean coast, and far more important
than either Jofia, Acre, Sidon, or even
Beyrout now. It owed its celebrity
to Herod the Great. Twelve years
of labor, and the expenditure of vast
sums of money, made the ancient
Turris Stratonis worthy to be re-
christened CfBsarea, in honor of Cfl&*
sar Augustus. Its great pier, con-
structed of granite blocks of incredible
size, afforded at once dwelling-places
and hostelries for the sailors and a
splendid columned promenade for the
wealthy citizens. The half-circle of
boiidingSy all of polished granite, that
embraced the sea and the harbor,
and terminated in a rocky promon-
tory on either side, shone far out to
sea, and showed conspicuous in the
midst the great temple of Caesar,
/Crowned with statues of Augustus
and of the Roman city. An agora,
a prsstorium, a circus looking out to
sea, and a rock-hewn theatre, were
included in Herod's magnificent plans,
and fittingly adorned a city that was
to become in a few years the capital
of Palestine. We^see its importance
even as early as the days immediate-
ly after Pentecost. It was here that
the Grentiles were called to the faith,
in the person of Cornelius the centu-
. rion, a commander of the legionaries
stationed at Caesarea. His house,
three hundred years later, was turned
into a chapel by St. Paulo, and must
therefore have been recognizable at
the time of which we write. It was
here that Herod Agrippa L planned
the . apprehension of St. Peter and
the execution of St. James the Great-
er; aud it was in the theatre hero
that the beams of the sun shone up-
on his glittering apparel, and the peo-
ple saluted him as a god, only to see
him smitten by the baud of the true
Grod, and carried to his palace in the
agonies of mortal pain. St. Paul
was here several times, and last of all
when he was brought from Jerusalem
by the fifty horsemen and the two
hundred spearmen. Here he was
examined before Felix, and before
Festus, in the presence of King
Agrippa, when he made his celebrated
speech; and it was from the harbor
of Caesarea that he sailed for Rome
to be heard before Caesar. For many
centuries, even into the times of the
crusaders, it continued to be a capital
and haven of great importance. Be-
tween 195 and 198, it was the scene
of one of the earliest councils of the
Eastern Church, and, as the see of
Eusebius, the founder of church his-
tory, and the site of a celebrated lib-
rary, it must always be interesting in
ecclesiastical annals. But perhaps it
would require nothing more to make
Digitized by CjOOQIC
490
The ChrMan Sehoob of Alexandria* — Origm*
it a place of note in oar cjes than the
fact that when Qrigen was driven
from Alexandria, in 2d^l, he trans-
ferred to Cessarea not the Alexan*
drian school, it is true, but the teach-
er whose presence and spirit had
contributed so mudi to make it im-
mortaL
Ceesarea, indeed, was at diat dme a
literary centre only second to Alex-
andria or Antiobh. It was in direct
communication with Jerusalem by an
excellent military^ road, and wi^
Alexandria by a road that was longer,
indeed, but in no way inferior. It
was not &r from Berytus both by
land and sea. ' Like Caphamaom and
Ptotemais, but in a yet higher degree,
it was one of Herod the Great's mod-
el cities, in which he had embodied
his scheme of Grecianizing his coun-
try by the influence of splendid Greek
art and overpowering Greek intellect.
It was also the metropolis of Pales-
tine. St. Alexander, bishop of Jeru-
salem, Origan's feQow-student, was
the intimate friend of Theoctistus,
bishop of Gesarea; and it is clear
that bishops, or their messengers,
from the cities all along the coast, as
for as Antiodh, and even the distant
Cappadocia and Pontus, were not un-
freqnent visitors to liiis great rally-
ing-point of the church and the em-
pire.
When Origen, therefore, left Alex-
andria and took up his abode in a
city that was in a manner the dimm-
ished counterpart of one he had aban-
doned, he did not find himself in a
strange land. St. Theocdstus *re-
ceived him with delight. It was not
long before he journeyed the short
distance to Jerusalem, to renew his
acquaintance with St. Alexander ; and
these two bishops were only too glad
to put on his shoulders all tJ^e charges
that he would accept **They re-
ferred to him," says Eusebins, ^on
every occasion as their master ; they
committed to him alone the chaige of
mterpretmg and teadiing Holy l^ip-
tnre and everything connected with
preaehing the Wonl of God in ^
dinreh.*' From the way in which the
historian joins the two bishops togeth-
er, it would appear that Ga^area was
a common school for the two dio-
ceses, and a sort of ecclesiastical
seminary whither the clerics from
Jerasalem came, as to a centre where
learning and learned men would
abound more than in ruined and fall-
en iBlla. It is certain, however,
that Origen, in a short time, was
teaching and writing as fiist as at
Alexandria. His name soon began
to draw scholars. Firmilian, bishop
of so distant a see as Coesarea
of Cappadocia, one of the most stir-^
ring minds of his age, who had con-
troversies on his hands all round the
sea^oast to Carthage in one dlrec*
tion, and Rome in ^e other, was a
friend of Theoctistus. It is possi-
ble that he knew Origen also, perhaps
from having seen him at Alexandria,
but more probably from having met
him when Origen travelled into
Greece. At any rate, he conceived
an enthusiastic liking for him. Noth-
ing would serve him but to make
Origen travel to bis own far-off pro-
vince to teach and stimalate pastors
and people; and, not long afterward,
we find himself in Judaea, that is, at
Caesarea, on a visit to Origen, with
whom lU is stated to have remained
" some time," for the sake of ** better-
ing himself" in divinity. And, as
£usebius sums up, '^not only those
who lived in the same part of the
world, but velry many others from dis-
tant lands, left their country and cama
flocking to listen to him." We need
not mention here again the names
Gregory and Athenodorus.
The position now occupied by Ori-
gen at GiBsarea was, therefore, one of
tiiie highest importance. He was no
longer a private teacher, or even aai
authorized master teachii^in private ;
he was no less than the substitute for
the bishop himself. In the Eastern
Church, indeed, the custom by whi^
no one but the Bishop ever preached in
the church was not so strictly observed
as it was in the West; but if a pres-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
17te Christum Schools of Mexandria, — Ortffen,
491
bjter did reociye* the commissioii of
]HreachiDg, it was always wit-h the un-
derstanding that what he said was ^d
on behalf of the pontiff, whose presence
in his chair was a guarantee for its or-
thodoxy. When Origan, therefore, on
the Lord's day, after the reading of the
holy Grospel, stood forward from his
place in the presbytery, and began to
explain either the Gospel text itself or
some passage in the Old Testament
which also had formed part of the li-
tuigieal service, it was well understood
that he was speaking with authority.
And this is the first light in which we
should yiew his homilies.
It would be saying little to say that
Origen's homilies and commentaries
(for we need not distinguish them here)
marked an era in the exposition of
Scripture. They not only were the
first of their kind, but they may be
said to have created the art, and not'
only to ha^e created it, but, in certain
aspects, to have finished it and to have
become like Aristotle in some of his trea-
tises, at once the model and the quarry
for future generations. It may be true,
as of course it is, that he was not ab-
solutely the ^rst to write expositions of
Scripture. The splendid eloquence of
Theophilus of Antioch had already
been heard on the four Grospels, and
his spirit of interpretatiim seems to
have had much more affinity for Ori-
gen's own spirit than for that of the
school of his own Antioch two centu-
ries later. Melito had written on the
Apocalypse, but his direct labors on
Scripture were only an insignificant
part of his voluminous works, if, indeed,
they were not all rather apologetic and
hortatory than explanatory. The Mo-
saic account of the creation had occu-
pied a few fathers with its defence
against Gnostic and infideL But we r
know from Origen's o¥m words that
he had read and used ^ his predeces-
sors,^ as he calls them. And yet we
«may truly say that he is the first of
commentators, not only because no one
before him had dared to undertake the
whole Scripture, but on account of his
novel and regular method. He is
turned by one great authority, Siztus
Senensis, ^ almost self-taugtyt," so lit^
tie of what he says can he have glean-
ed trom others. But in estimating how
much Origen owed to those before him,
we should lose a valuable hint towards
understanding him if we forgot Cle-
ment of Alexandria and the great body
of tradition, oral and written, of whidb
the Alexandrian school was the head-
quarters. Wc know that the Alexan-
drian Jew, Philo, two hundred years
before Clement's lime, had written
wonderful lucubrations on the mystical
sense of Holy Scripture. The Alex-
andrian catechetical teachers, catching
and using the spirit of the place, had
always been Alexandrian in their
Scriptural teachings. Clement him-
self had commented on the whole of
die Scriptures in his book called the
** Hypotyposes." Origen entered into
inheritance. We see the spirit of the
time and plaee in those questionings
with which, in his early years, be us^
to puzzle his father. The unrivalled
industry that made him coUed; versions
of the saci'ed text from Sjrria, Asia,
and even the shores of Greece, must
have scrupulously sought out and ex-
hausted every source of information
and every extant document relating to
Scripture exposition that was at hand
for him in his own city. So that Ori^
gen, though in one sense the founder
of a school, was really the culmination
of a s^cs of learned men, and, by the
influence of his name, made common
to the universal church that know-
ledge and method which before had
been confined to the pupils that had
listened to the Catechisms.
Although, however, we may guess,
we cannot be certain how progress-
ively or gradually a methodical aoA
scientific exegesis had been growing
up at Alexandria ; and wo come up-
on the commentaries of Origen with
all the freshness of a discovery. Be-
fore him we have been accustomed to
writmgs like those of the apostolic &th»
ers: we have been reading apologies
of the most wonderful eloquence,
whose Greek shames the rhetoricianB,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
492
I7ic Christian Schools of Alexandria. — Orit/en,
or whose Latin has all the spirit,
eamestneesy and tenderness of new
language, but in which H0I7 Scripture
is at the most only summarized and
held up to view. Or, agam, we have
been listening to a venerable priest
crushing the heretics with the word of
God, or to a philosopher confuting
the Jews out of their own mouth.
Or, once more, we have heard the pa-
gan intellect of the world convinced
that truth was nowhere to be found
but in Jesus, that the writings of the
prophets were better than those of the
philosophers, and that the morality of
the New Testament cast far into the
sliade the sayings of Socrates. Splen-
did ideas, striking applications, telling
proo&, grand views, all these the
early fathers found in holy Scripture,
and all these they used in the exhor-
tations, apologies, or refutations that
were called for by the several necessi-
ties of their times. But sustained,
regular commentary, as such, they
have none, or, what is the same to us.
now, none has come down. The ex-
planation of words, the classification
of meanings, the distinction of senses,
the answering of difficulties and the
solution of objections — all this, done,
not for an odd portion of the text
' here and there, but regularly through
the whole Bible, is what distinguishes
the labors of Origen from those of all
who have gone before him, and makes
them so important for all who shall
come after him. In making acquaint-
ance with him we feel that we have
come across a master, with breadth
of view enough to handle masses of
materials in a scientific way, and with
learning enough never to be in want of
materials for his science. We see in his
Scripture commentaries the pressure
of three forces of unequal strength,
but each of them of marked presence,
the tradition of the church, the teach-
ings of tbe great school, and the needs
of his own times. To understand
him we must understand this press-
ure under which he wrote* The first
two forces may be passed over as re-
quiring no explanation. We must
dwell a little on the latter, for unless
we vividly realize the necessities un-
der which the Christian teacher in his
time la}', of meeting certain enemies
and withstanding certain views, we
shall be led to join in the cry of those
who exckiim against Orlgen's Scrip-
ture exposition as partly useless and
partly dangerous.
These necessities arose from two
phenomena that appeared almost with
the birth of Christianity, and which,
with a somewhat wide generalization,
we may call the Ebionite and the
Gnostic. No one can have looked
into early church history without be-
ing struck by the difficulty the church
seems to have had to free herself from
the tranmiels of Judaism. We need not
allude to St. Paul, and his Epistles to
the Galatians and to the Romans, and.
his various contentions with friend
and foe for the freedom of the Gospel.
The Epistle to the Hebrews, with its
thoroughness of dogmatic exposition
and its grand style, was also addressed
to the Judaizants. Nay, if Ebion
himself ever had an existence, it is
more than probable that he was teach-
ing at Jerusalem about the very time
at which the Epistle seems to have
been written and sent, if sent, to the
Christian .Jews of that city. It is
certain, however, that Alexandria
was one of the very earliest of the
churches which shook itself free, in a
marked n^anner, from the traditions
of the law. The cosmopolitan spirit
of the great city was a powerful nat-
ural auxiliary in a development which
was substantially brought about by
the Holy Ghost and the pastors of the
patriarchal see. The Hebrew ele-
ment hardly ever had such a footing
at Alexandria as it had at Antioch.
We can see in the writing of Justin
Martyr, (circa 160,) whose wide ex-
perience of all the churches make^
his testimony especially valuable, a.
picture of Christianity, young and ex-
uberant, with its face joyously set to
its destined career, and with the
swathing-bands of the synagogue ly-
ing neglected behind it. Justin had an
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Christian SehooU of Alexandria. — Origen*
Alexandrian training, and among his
many-sided glfls shone pre-eminent
that intellectual culture which was
the most effectual of the human wea-
pons that beat off the spirit of Juda-
ism. And in Clement himself there is
no trace cf any narrow formalism,
but, on the contrary, a grand, world-
embracing charity, that can recognize
the work of the Divme Logos in all
the manifold varieties of human wis-
dom and human beauty. So that
long before the time that Origen suc-
ceeded his master, the Alexandrian
church was free from all suspicion of
clinging to what St. Paul calls the
'^yoke of bondage;" and knew no
distinction of Jew or Greek. But
the party that had troubled the Apos-
tle, and spread itself through the
churches almost as soon as the
churches were founded, was by no
means extinct, eren at Alexandria.
Since the destruction of Jerusalem,
the Jews had become scattered all
over the empire. The great towns,
such as Antioch, Csesarea, and Alex-
andria, each contained a strong Jew-
ish community. At Alexandria they
were numerous enough to have a
quarter to themselves. Now, it is not
too much to say that many so-called
Jews and Christians in such a city
were neither Jews nor Christians, but
Ebionites ; that is, they acknowledged
the divine mission of Christ, which
destroyed their genuine Judaism, but
denied his divinity, which waa still
more fatal to their Christianity. The
consequences of such a state of things
to the interpretation of Scripture are
manifest. The law was still good
and binding. Jerusalem was still the
holy city, the chosen of God, and the
spiritual and temporal capital of the
world. St. Paul was denounced as
one who admitted heathen innova-
tions and destroyed the word of Grod.
Everything in holy Scripture, that is,
m the Old Testament and in the
scanty excerpts from the New, which
they admitted, was to be understood
in a rigorously literal sense ; and the
"• Clementines," once falsely attributed
to St. Clement of Rome, but now con-
sidered to belong to the second cen-
tury, and to be the work of an Ebionite,
are the only writmgs of the period in
which the allegorical sense is totally
and peremptorily denied. Ebionism
was not very consistent with itself,
and the Ebionites of SU Jerome's
time would hardly have saluted their
sterner brethren of the apostolic age ;
but the name may always be truly
taken to t3rpify those whose views led
them to hold to the " carnal letter' of
the Old Testament. They carried
the old Jewish exdusiveness into
Christianity. They considered the
historical parts of the Scripture to
have been written merely because
their own history was so important in
God's sight that he. thought it right to
preserve its minutest record. The
prophecies were only meant to glori-
fy, to warn, or to terrify themselves,
and had no message for the Gentiles.
Even the parables and figures that
occurred in the imagery of the in-
spired writer were dragged down to
the most absurd and literal significa-
tions. The adherents of Ebionism
were neither few nor silent in the
time of Origen.
But if the Ebionite party in Alex-
andria, and in the Church generally,
was strong and stirring, there was a
party not less important, perhaps, who,
in their zeal for the freedom of Chris-
tianity against the bonds of Judaism,
were in danger of gomg quite as far
wrong in a different direction. It is
always the case in a reaction, that
the returning force finds it difficult to
stop at its due mark. So it had been
wilii the reaction against the Ebionites,
and especially at Alexandria. There
was a body of advanced Christians
who did not content themselves with
not observing the law, but went on to
depreciate it It was not enough for
them to see the Old Testament ful-
filled by Jesus Christ, but they must
needs show that it never had much
daim to be even a preparation and a
type. It was full of frivolous details,
useless records, and absurd narrations
Digitized by CjOOQIC
494
The €ffiri$Han Sekods of Aleaandricu — OH gen.
Who cared for the minutUe about
Pharaoh's butler, Joseph's coat, or
Tobias's dog? Of what importance
to the world were the marchings and
counter-marchings, the stupid obstin-
acj and the unsavory morality of a
few thousand Hebrews? Who was
interested to hear how their prophets
scolded them, or their enemies des>-
troyed them, or their kings tyran*
nized over them ? How could it edify
Christians to know the number and
color of the skins of the tabernacles
or the names of the masons and
blacksmiths that built the Temple, or
the fact that the Jewish people con-
siderably varied their carnal piety by
intervals of stiU more carnal crime
and idolatry ? The state of things
represented by the Old Testament
had passed away, and they were of
no interest save as ancient history;
and therefore, it was absurd to treas-
ure up the Pentateuch and the Pro-
phets as if they were anything more,
and not rather much less, than the
rhapsodies of Homer and the trav-
els of Herodotus. In fact — and to
this conclusion a considerable party
came before long — ^the Old Testament
was certainly not divine at all ; at any
rate, it was not the work of the Father
of the Lord Jesus, but of some other
principle. And here the Gnostic in-
terest was at hand with an opportune
idea. Who could have written the
Old Testament but the Demiurge?
That primary ofishoot of the Divinity,
just, but ii6t good, (this was thebr
distinction,) can never have been more
worthily employed than in concocting
a series of writings in which there was
some skill, some justice, and very lit-
tle goodness. The Demiurge was cer-
tainly a handy suggestion, and the con-
signing of the Old Testament to his
workmanship made all commentary
thereon compressive into a very brief
space. Away with it all, for a farra-
go of nonsense, lies, and nuisances !
Of course, Neither of these parties,
when extremely developed, could lay
any claim to Christianity. But the
world of that day had in it Ebionites
and Gnosticsof every degree and every
changing hue of error. They were
not unrepresented in the very bosom
of the Church. Pious Christians might
be found who, strong in filial feeling
to their Jewish great-grandfathers,
would see in the records of the old
covenant nothing but a most interest-
ing family history, with delightfully
long pedigrees and a great deal of
strong language about the glory and
dignity of the descendants of Israel.
On the other hand, equally pious
Christians, and among them a great
majority, perhaps, of the Grentile con-
verts, would ccmsider it an extrava-
gant compliment to read in the house
^of God the sayings and dohigs of
such a very unworthy set of people as
the Hebrews. And the remaricable
&ct would be, that both these sets of
worthy Christians would begin with
the same fundamental error, though
arriving at precisely opposite conclu-
sions. That the Old Testament had a
literal meaning, and no other^ was the
starting-point of both Ebionite and
Gnostic The former concluded,
"therefore let us honor it, for we are
a divine race ;** the latter, "therefore
let us reject it, for what are the Jews
tons?**
It would not require many sentences
to prove, if our object in these notes
were proof of any sort, that Origen's
leading idea in his Scripture exposi-
tion is to look for the mystical sense.
His very name is a synonym for alle-
gory, and he is perhaps as often
blamed for it as praised. But even
blame, when outspoken and honest, is
better than feeble excuse ; and wafor^
tunately not a few of the great Alex-
andrian's critics have undertakeil to
excuse hitt for having suchaJean-
ing to allegory. The Neo-Platonists,
they say, dealt largely in myths, and
allegorized every tlmrg; somebody alle-
gorized Homer jist iSbout that time.
Now Orijgen was a Platonist. We
might answer, that Origen was above
bJH a Christian, and knew but very
Ltttle of Plato till he was thirty years
old; and that the Greek allegories
Digitized by Cj.OOQ IC
I%e Ckristian Schools of JJeasandrku — Ori^en.
495
were inyented bj a more deooious
generation for the pnrpose of veiling
the groBsness of the popular m7thok>*
g7 ; whereas the Christian allegory, as
introduced by St Paul, or indeed by
our Blessed Saviour, was a spiritual
and mysterious application of refd
facts. Others, again, offer the excuse
that Philo had aUegorized very mucby
and Origen admired Philo. This is
saying that allegory was very usual at
Alexandria, as we have said ourselves
when speaking of St. Clement But
it is not saying why allegory was
kept up so warmly m the school of
the Catechisms, or what was the radi-
cal cause that made its being kept up
there a necessity for the well-being of
the Church. This we have endeav-
ored to state in the foregobg re-
marks,
r When Origen, then, announces
his grand principle of Scripture
commentary, in the fourth book of
the De Principiis, we maybe excused
if we see in it the statement of an im-
portant canon, whereby to understand
much that he has written. He says,
" Wherefore, to those who are con-
vinced that the sacred books are not
the utterances of man, but were writ-
ten and made over to us by the inspira-
tion of the Holy Ghost, by the wUl of
Grod the Father of all through Jesus
Christ, we will ^deavor to point
out how they are to read them, keep-
ing the rules of the divine and apos-
tolic Church of Jesus Quist" This
is the key-note of all his exposition,
and derives its significance from the
state of opinions among those for
whom he wrote ; an^ a dispassionate
application of it to such passages as
seem questionable or gratuitous in his
writings, will explain many a difficul-
ty, and show how clearly he appre-
hended the woik he had to do. If
the Old Testament be really the word
of the Holy Ghost, as, he says, all
true Christians believe, then nothing
in it can be trivial, nothing useless,
nothing false. This he insists upon
over and over again. And, descend-
ing more to particulars, he states these
three oelebrated rales of interpre-
tation, which may be called, with
their development, his contribution to
Scripture exposition. They are so plain-
ly aimed at Ebionites and Gnostics, that
we need merely to state them to show
the connection.
His first rule r^^rds the old Law.
The Law, he says, being abrogated by
Jesus Christ, the precepts and ordi-
nances that are purely legal are no
logger to be taken and acted up to
literally,, but only in their mystical
sense. This seems rudimentary and
evident nowadays ; but at that peri-
od it greaUy needed to be clearly
stated and enforced.
His second rule is about the history
and prophecy relating to Jew or Gen-
tile that is found in the Old TAament
The Ebionite who kissed the Penta-
teuch, and the Gnostic who tore it up,
were both foolish because both igno-
rant These historic and prophetic de-
tails were undoubtedly true in their
letter ; but their chief use to the Chris-
tian Church, and the main object the
Holy Spirit had in giving them to
us, was the mystical meaning that lies
hidden under the letter. Thus the
earthly Pharaoh, the earthly Jerusa-
lem, Babylon, or Egypt, are chiefly
of importance to the Church from the
fact that they are the allegories of heav-
enly truths.
Origen's third canon of scriptural
exposition is this: ^ Whatever in holy
Scripture seems trivial, useless, or
false," (the Gnostics could not or
would not see that parabolic narra-
tives are most unjustly called false,)
" is by no means to be rejected, but
its presence in the divine record is to
be explained by the fact that the di-
vine Author had a deeper and more
important meaning in it than appears
from the letter. Such portions, there-
fore, must be taken and applied in a
spiritual and mystical sense, in which
sense chiefiy they were dictated by
Almighty Gt)d.''
These three rules look simple now ;
they were all-important and not so
simple then. It was by means of them,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
496
The Christum Schools of Alexandria, — Ori^fen,
and in the spirit which they indicate,
that the great catechist led his hearers
by the hand through the flowery paths
of Grod's word, and in his own easy,
simple, earnest style, so different from
that of the rhetoricians, showed them
the true use of the Old Testament.
We hope it is not a fanciful idea, but
it has struck us that, the difference of
circumstances considered, there are few
writers so like each other in their hand-
ling of holy Scripture as Orlgen and
St. John of the Cross. Both treat of
deep truths, and in a phraseology that
sounds uncommon — the one because
his hearers were intellectual Greeks,
the other because he is professedly
treating of the very highest points
of the spiritual life. Both use holy
Scripture in a fashion that is absolute-
ly startling to those who are accus-
tomed to rationalistic Protestantism, or
to what may be called the domestic wifc-
and - children interpretation of the
Evangelicals. Both bring forward, in
the most unhesitating manner, the mys-
tic sense of the inspired words to prove
or illustrate their point, and both mix
up with their more abstruse disquisi-
tions a large amount of practical mat-
ter in the very plainest words. From
communion with both of ihem we rise
full of a new sense of the presence and
nearness of the Spirit of God, and of
reverence for the minutest details of
his Word. Finally, both the Greek
father and the Spanish mystic inter-
pret the ceremonial prescriptions, the
history, the allusions to physical na-
ture, and the incidents of domestic life
«that occur in the Old Testament, as if
all these, however important in tl^eir
letter, had a far deeper and more in-
teresting signification addressed to the
spiritual sense of the spiritual Christ-
ian.
To illustrate Origen's principles of
Scripture interpretation by extracts
from his works would exceed our pre-
sent limits, however interesting and
satisfactory the task might be. Neither
have we space to notice his celebrated
division of the meaning of the text into
literal, mystical, and moral, a division
he was the first to insist upon formally.
To answer the objections of critics
against both his principles and his al-
leged practice would also be a dis-
tinct task of great length. • We must
content ourselves with having briefly
sketchedand indicated his spirit. There
are grave theological controversies too,
as }A well known, connected with his
name ; and on these we have had no
thought of entering. The purpose of
this and the preceding articles has not
been dogmatical, but rather biographi-
caL We have attempted to set forth
on the one hand the personal character
of this great man ; on the other, the
external circumstances by which that
character was influenced, and through
which it exercised influence on others.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perieo the Sad
497
TnuiBtoted ttom the BptniBh.
PEEICX) THE SAD; OE, THE FAMILY OF ALVAREDA.
CflAPTEE I.
Following the curve fonned byihe
f^ndeat walls of SeviUey encircling it
as with a girdle of stone, leaving on
the right the river and Las Delidas^
we reach the gate of San Fernando.
From this gate, in a direct line across
the plain, as far as the ridge of Buena
Vista, extends a road which passes
the rill upon a bridge of stone, and
ascends the steep side of the hilL To
the right of the road are seen the ruins
of a chapel. At a bird's-eje view
this road looks like an arm Mich
Seville extends toward the ruins as if
to call attention to them ; for though
small, and without a vestige of artistic
merit, they form a religious and his-
toric souvenir. Thej are an inherit-
ance from the great king, Fernando
in., whose memory is so popular
that he is admired as a hero, venerated
as a samt, and beloved as a king :
thus realizing, in one grand historic
figure the ideal of Ihe Spanish people.
Having gained the summit, the road
descends upon the opposite side into a
a little valley, through which runs a
narrow sti*eam, which has washed its
channel so dean that you will see in
it only shining pebbles and golden
sand.
Fording this stream, the road touches
on its right at a cheerful and hospi-
table little inn, and salutes on its left
a Moorish castle seated so haughtily
upon the height that it seems as though
tlie ground had risen solely to form a
pedestal for it. This castle was given
by Don Pedro de Castilla to Dofia
Maria de PadiUa, whose name it re-
tain^. The estate and castle of Dofia
Maria passed in time, as a pious dona-
tion, to the Cathedral of Seville, the
TOL. ui. 82
chapter of which has, in our days, sold
it to a private gentleman. The asso-
ciations passed for nothing, since a
little while afterward, the withered,
old, and furrowed Dofia Maria ap-
peared clothed in the whitest of lime,
and adorned with brilliants of crystal
Let us follow the road which ad-
vances, opening its way through the
palmettos and evergreens of some
pasture-lands, until it enters the vil-
lage of Dos-Hermanas,* situated in the
midst of a sandy plain, two leagues
from Seville.
One sees here neither river, nor lake,
nor umbrageous trees, nor rural houses
with gi-een blinds, nor arbors covered
with twining plants, nor peacocks and
Gkdnea fowls picking the green turf,
nor grand avenues of trees in straight
line^, like slaves holding parasols, to
provide a constant shade for those who
walk beneath. All these are wanting
here. Sad it is to confess it ! AU is
common, rude, and inel^ant, but in-
stead, one meets good and contented
faces, which prove how little those
things are needed to make happiness.
One sees, beside, flowers in the yards
of the houses, and at their doors gay
and healthy children, even more nu-
merous than the flowers, and finds that
sweet peace of the country, made up
of silence and solitude, an atmosphere
of Eden and the skv of paradise.
The village consists of houses of a
single story, arranged in long, straight,
though not paralldf streets, which open
upon the large, sandy market-place,
spread out like a yellow carpet before
a fine church, which lifts its lof^ tower,
surmounted by a cross, like a soldier
elevating his standard.
Behmd the church we shall find the
* Dofl-HenuuiM, two •IsUn.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
498
Perico the Sad,
oasis of this desert Supported by
the rear wall of the edifice is a gate,
opening into a wide and vast court,
which leads to the chapel of Saint
Anna, the patroness of the place.
Built Against the side of the chapel is
the small and humble dwelling of the
custodian, who is both singer and sa-
cristan of the church. In this enclosure
we shall see century-old cypresses,
thick foliaged and sombre ; the lilac, of
stem so slight and rapid growth, lavish-
ing leaves, flowers, and perfumes upon
the wind, as if conscious that its life
is short ; the orange, that grand seig-
neur, that favorite son of the soil
of Andalusia, to whom it yields a life
so sweet and long. We shall see the
vine, which, like a child, needs tlie
help of man to thrive and rise, and
which spreads its broad leaves as if to
caress the trellis that supports it. For
it is certain that even plants have
their individual characters from which
we receive different impressions. We
can hardly see a cypress without sad-
ness, a lilac without tenderness, an
orange-tree without admiration. Does
not the lavender suggest the thought
of a neat and peaceful interior ; and
the rosemary, perfume of holy night,
does it not awaken the wholesome and
sacred thoughts of that season ?
To the right and left of the place
extend those interminable olive plant-
ations, which form the principal branch
of the agriculture of Andalusia. The
trees being planted well apart from
each other give a cheerful air to these
groves, but the ground underneath, kept
so level and free from other vegetation
by the plough, renders them weari-
somely monotonous. At certain dis-
tances we encounter the groups of
buildings which belong to the estates.
These are constructed without taste or
synmietry, and we may go all round
them without finding the front. Tliere
is nothing imposing about these great
masses, or structures, except the towers
of their windmills, which rise above
the olives as if to count them. The
most of these estates belong to the
aristocracy of Seville, but they are
generally deserted because the ladies
do not lie to live in the country, and
are therefore as desolate and as empty
as bams, so that in these out-of-the-
way places, the silence is only broken
by the crowing of the cock, while he
vigilantly guards his seraglio, or by the
braying of some superannuated ass,
that, turned out by the overseer to
take his ease, tires of his solitude.
At the close of a b^autiinl day in
January, in the year 1810, might have
been heard the fresh voice of a youth
of some twenty years, who, with his
musket upon his shoulder, was walking
with a fii-m but light step along one of
the footpaths which are traced through
the olive groves. His figure was
straight, tall, and slight His person,
his air, his walk, had the ease, the
grace, and the elegance which art en-
deavors to create, and which nature
herself lavishes upon the Andalusians
T/idth- generous hand. His head,
covered with black curls, a model of
the beautiful Spanish type, he carried
erect and proudly. His large eyes
were black and vivid ; his look frank
and full of intelligence. His well-
formed upper lip, shortened with %a
expression of cheerful humor, showed
his white and brilliant teeth. His
whole person breathed a superabun-
dance of life, health, and strength.
A silver button fastened the snowy
shirt at his brown throat. He wore
a short jacket of gray cloth, short
trowsers, tied at the knee with cords
and tassels of silk, and a" yeUow silk
girdle passed several times around his
waist Leather shoes and gaiters of
the same, finely stitched, encased his
, well-formed feet and legs. A wide-
brimmed Portuguese hat, adorned with
a velvet band and silk tassels, and
jauntily inclined toward the left side,
completed the elegant Andalusian
This youth, noted for his active dis-
position, and for his impulsive and
daring character, was employed by the
superintendent of one of the estates to
act as guard during the olive gather-
ing. He sang as he went along :
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perieo the Sad.
499
** The way Ib short, my Btep is light,
I loiter not, nor do I weary ;
Thepath seems downward— easy trod,
When np the hill I climb to Mary.
" Bar. long the road, and oh 1 how steep !
My lingering fooUteps slow and weary ;
The monntainB seem oefore me piled
When down the hill I come ttom Mary."
Arriving at the paling which en-
closed tlie plantation the guard sprang
over it without stopping tq look for
the gate, and found himself in a road
face to face with another youth a little
older than himself, who was also going
toward the village. He was dressed
in the same manner, but he was neither
so tall nor so erect as the former.
His eyes were gray, and not so vivid,
and his glance was more tranquil,
his mouth was graver and his smile
sweeter. Instead of a gun he carried
a spade upon his shoulder. An ass
preceded him without being driven,
and he was followed by an enormous
dog, with short thick hair of a whitish
yellow color, of the fine race of shep-
herd-dogs of Estremadura.
"ELallooI Is this you, Perieo? God
bless your exclaimed the elegant
guard.
''And you, too, Ventura, are you
coming to take a rest?"
'* No,** answered Ventura, " I come
for supplies, and besides, it is eight
days—"
" Since you saw my sister, Elvira,"
interrupted Perieo with his sweet
smile. "Very good, my friend, you
are killing two birds with one stone.**
" You keep still, Perieo, and I will.
He. whose house has a glass roof
shouldn't throw stones at his neigh-
bor's,*' answered the guard.
**You are happy, Ventura,** pro-
ceeded Perieo with a sigh, "for you
can marry when you like, without op-
position from any one."
"And what!** exclaimed Ventura,
" who or what can oppose your getting
married?'*
« The will of my mother,** replied
Perieo.
"What are you saying?" asked
Ventura, "and why ? What fault can
she find with Rita, who is joung, good-
looking, and comes of a good stocky
since she is own cousin to you ?"
"That ifl precisely the reason my
mother alleges for not being in favor
of it.**
"An old woman's scruples ! Poes
she wish to change the custom of the
church, which permits it?"
"My mother's scruples," replied
Perieo, "are not religious ones. She
says that the union of such near rela-
tions is against nature, that the same
blood in both repels itself, and distaste
is the result ; that sooner or later evils,
misfortunes and weariness follow and
overtake them, and she gives a hun-
dred examples to prove it."
"Don*t mind her," said Ventura;
" let her prophesy and sing evil like
an owl. Mothers have always some-
thing against their sons' marrying.'*
"No," answered Perieo gravely,
"no; without my mother's consent I
will never marry."
They walked along some instants
in silence when Ventura said :
" The truth is, I am like the captain
who embarked the passengers and re-
mained on shore himself, or like the
preacher who used to say, ' Do as I
tell you and not as I do ;* for, in fact,'
does not the will of my father hold
me, tied down like a lion with a wool-
len rope ? Do you think, Perieo, that
if it were not for my father, I would
not now be in Ut^era, where the regi-
ment of vounteers is enlisting to go
aiid fight the infamous traitors who
steal across our frontier in the guise
of friends, to make themselves masters
of the country and put a foreign yoke
upon our necks ?'*
" I am of the same mind," said Peri-
eo, "but how can I leave my mother
and sister who have only me to look
to ? But remember, if my mother sets
herself against my marrying, I*m not
going to live so, and I shall go with
the other young men.**
"And you will do riffht,** said Ven-
tura with energy. "As for me, the
day they least expect it, though they
call me, I shall not answer, and you
may be sure, Pence, that on that daj
Digitized by CjOOQIC
500
Perieo the Sad
there will be a few less Frenchmen on
the soil of Spain."
"And Elvira T* qaestioned Perieo.
" She will do like others, wait for
me— or weep for me."
CHAPTEB- II.
The honse of the family of Perieo
was spacious and neatly whitewashed,
both without and within. On each
side of the door, built against the wall,
was a bench of mason work. In the
entry hung a lantern before an image
of our Lord which was fixed upon the
inner door, according to the Catholic
custom, which requires that a religious
thought shall precede everything, and
puts all things under some holy pat-
ronage. In the midst of the spacious
court-yard an enormous orange-tree
rose luxuriantly upon its smooth and
robust trunk. Its base was shielded
by a wooden frame. For numberless
generations this beautiful tree had been
a source of enjoyment to this family.
The deceased Juan Alvareda, the fa-
ther of Perieo; claimed upon tradition,
that its existence dated as far back as
the expulsion of the Moors, when, ac-
cording to his assertion, an Alvareda,
a soldier of tbe royal saint, Fernando,
had planted it, and when the parish
priest, who was his wife's brother,
would jest him upon the antiquity, and
uninterrupted succession of his lineage,
or make light of it, he always answered,
without being disturbed or vacillating
for an instant in his conviction, that
all the lineages of the world were an-
cient, and that, though the direct line
or succession of the rich might often
be extinguished, such a thing never
happened with the poor.
The women of the &mily made of
the leaves of the orange-tree tonics
for the stomach and soothing prepara-
tions for the nerves. The young girls
adorned themselves with its fiowers
and made confections of them. This
children regaled their palate and ire-
freshed their blood with its frait. The
birds had their quarters*general among
its leaves, and sung to it a thousand
cheerful songs, while its possessors,
who had grown up under its shelter,
watered it unweariedly in sunmier-time
and in winter cut away its withered
twigs, as one pulls the gray hairs from
the head of the father he would never
see grow old.
C& opposite sides of the entry were
two suites of rooms, or, according to
the expression of the province, |?arft-
do8, both alike ; consisting, each, of a
parlor having two small windows with
gratings looking toward the street,
and two bedrooms forming an angle
with the parlor, and receiving light
from the yard. At the end of the
yard was a door which opened into a
large enclosure in which were the
kitchen, wash-house, and stables, and
which paraded in its centre a large fig-
tree of so little pretension and self-
esteem that it yielded itself without
complaint to the nightly roost of the
hens, never haying bent its boughs
under the inconvenient weight, even
to play them a trick by way of carni-
val.
The master of the house had been
dead three years. When he felt his
end approaching, he called his son to
him and said : " In your care I leave
your mother and sister ; be guided by
the one and watch over the other.
Live always in the holy fear of Grod,
and think often of death, so that you
may see his approach wit|]out eiUier
surprise or fear. Remember my end,
that you may not dread your ewn.
All the Alvaredas have been honest
men ; in your veins fiows the same
Spanish blood and in your heart exist
the same Catholic principles that made
them such. Be like them, and you
will live happily and die in peace !*'
Anna, his widow, was a woman dis-
tinguished among her class, and she
would have been so in a more elevated
one. Carefully brou^t up by her
brother the priest, her understanding
was cultivated, her character grave,
her manners dignified, and ber virtue
instinctive. These merits, united with
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perieo tke Sad.
501
her easj circomataiuSea, gave her a real
superiority over those who surrounded
her, whidi she accepted without mis-
using. Her son Perioo> suhmisaive,
modest, and industrious, had been her
consolation, his love for his cousin Rita
being the onlj disquietude he had ever
caused her.
Her daughter Elvira, who was three
jears younger than JPerico, was a
roalva in gentleness, a violet in mo-
desty and a lily in purity. Ill-health
in childhood had given to her features,
which closely resembled those of her'
brother, a delicacy, aad an expression
of cahn resignation, which lent to her
a singular attraction. From her in*
fancy she had clung to Ventura, the
proud and handsome son of Unde Pe-
dro, who had been the friend and gos^^
sip of the late Alvareda.
The wife of Pedro died in giving
birth to a daughter, who from her in-
fancy had been confided to the care of
her mother's sister» a religious of AX-
cala. Separated thus from his daugh-
ter, Pedro had concentrated all his af-
fection upon his son, and with pride
and satisfaction had seen him become
the handsomest, the bravest, and the
most gallant, of all the youths of the
place.
Directly in front of the house of the
Alvaredas stood the small cottage of
Maria, the mother of Bita. Maria
was the widow of Anna's brother, who
had been superintendent of the neigh-
boring hacienda of Quintos.
, This woftian was so good, so with-
out gall, so candid and simple, that she
had never possessed enough force and
energy to subdue the decided, haughty,
and imperious character which her
daughter had manifested from her
childhood, and these evil dispositions
had therefore developed themselves
without restraint. She was violent-
tempered, fickle, and cold-hearted. Her
face, extraordinarily beautiful, seduc-
tively expressiv^e, piquant, lively, smil-
ing, and mischievous, formed a perfect
contrast to that of her cousin Elvira.
The one might have been compared
to a firesh rose armed with its thorns ;
the other to one of those roses of pas-
sion, which lift above their pale leaves
a crown of thorns in token of endur-
ance, while they hide in the depths of
their calix the sweetest honey.
In the delineation^ and classification
of the members which composed this
family and those connected with them,
we must not omit Melampo^ the dog
we have already seen, lazily following
Perieo on his return home. We must
give him his place, for not all dogs are
equal, even in the eye of the law. Me-
lampo was a grave and honorable dog,
without pretension, even to being a
Hercules or an Alcides among his race,
notwithstanding his enormous strength.
He seldom barked, and never without
good cause. He was sober and in
nothing gluttonous. He never caressed
his masters, but never, upon any pre-
text, separated himself from them. He
had never, in all his life, bitten any
person, and he despised above all
things the attacks of those curs that
with stupid hostility barked at his heels.
But Melampo had killed six foxes and
three wolves ; and one day had thrown
himself upon a bull which was pur-
suing his master, and obliged him to
stop by seizing him by the ear, as one
might treat a bad child. With such
certificates of service, Melampo slept
in the sun upon his laurels.
CHAPTBB in.
When the two youths arrived, they
found Elvira and Rita teaning each
against a side of the doorway, wrap-
ped in their mantles of yellow cloth«
bordered with black velvet ribbon, such
as were worn then by the women of the
country in place of the large shawls
which they use nowadays. They
covered the lower part of the face, al-
lowing only the foreheadand eyes to be
seen. Having wished them good even-
ing, Perieo said to his sister:
^ Elvira, I warn you that this bird
wants to fly ; fi9»ten the cage well . • .
He is beside himself to go and fight
Digitized by CjOOQIC
502
Perieo the Sad.
these gabachos* who are trying to pass
through here like Pedro tlirough his
hoase."
" For they say," added Ventura,
" that they are approaching Seville ;
and must we stand looking on with our
arms crossed, without so much as say-
ing this mouth is my own ?"
*' Ah goodness !" exclaimed Elvira, "I
hope in God that this may not happen !
Do not even speak of it I O my pro-
tectress Saint Anna ! I offer thee what
I prize so much, my hair, which I vriU
tie up in a tress with an azure rihbon
and hang upon thy altar, if thou wilt
save us from this.*'
"And I," said Rita, "will offer the
Saint two pots of pinks to adorn her
chapel, if it falls out so that you take
yourselves off in haste and do not
come back soon,"
"Don't say that, even m jest," ex-
claimed Elvira, distressed.
" Never mind, let her say it ; the
Saint is sure to prefer the beautiful
tress of your hair to her pinks,'' ob-
served Ventura.
At this moment the good widow,
Maria, approached. She was older
than her sister-in-law, and although
hardly sixty years old, was so small
and thin that she appeared much
older.
" Children," she cried, " the night
is falling, what are you doing out
here, freezing yourselves P* .
"How freezing ourselves?" an-
swered Ventura, unbuttoning his col-
lar, "I'm too warm, the cold is in
your bones, Aunt Maria."
" Do not^lay with your health, my
son, nor trust in your youth, for
Death does not look at the record of
baptism. This north wind cuts like
a knife, and you are more likely to
get a consumption by waiting here
than an inheritance from the Indies."
So saying she passed into the
house, all following her, except Ven-
tura, who went to discharge his com-
missions.
They found Anna seated before the
brasier, the point of retlnion round
* G<ibaeho§j a term of oontempi for Frenchmen.
which families gather m winter. The
great copper frying-pan shone like
gold upon its low wooden bench.
The floor of the spacious room
was covered with mattings of straw
and hemp, around it were arranged
rude woc^en chairs, high-backed and
low -seated, a low pine' table upon
which burned a large metal lamp, and
a leathern arm-chair, like those seen
in the barbers' shops of the region,
completed the simple ftimiture of the
room. In the alcove were seen a very
high bed, over which was spread a
white counterpane with well starched
ruffles ; a very large cedar chest, with
supports underneath to preserve it
from the dampness of the floor; a
small table of the same wood, upon
which, in its case of mahogany and
glass, was a beautiful image of " Our
Lady of Sorrows,'' some pious offer-
ings, and the " Mystic Garland ; or,
Lives of the Saints," by Father Bal-
tasar Bosch Centellas.
As soon as they were all reunited,
including Pedi'O, the neighbor and
friend of Anna, the latter began to
recite the rosary. When the prayers
were finished Anna took up her distaff
to spin, Elvira applied herself to her
knitting, and Pedro, who occupied the
great chair, employed himself in the
preparation of a cigarette ; Perico in
roasting chestnuts and acorns, which,
when they were done, he gave to Rita,
who ate them.
" Did you ever T' said Perico, " how
the rain holds off! Thd earth has
tuined to stone and the sky to brass.
Last year at this time it bad rained
so much that the ground could not be
seen for the grass that covered it"
" It is true," said Uncle Pedro, " and
now the flocks are perishing with hun-
ger, notwithstanding that last year
tiieir table was so well spread. "
" It appears to me," added Elvira,
in her sweet voice, "that it is going
to rain soon. The river wore its
black frown to-day, and the old peo-
ple say that these frowns are sleeping
tempests, which, when the winds
awaien them, drench the world.'"
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad.
503
"Of course it is going to rain,"
said Rita ; " I saw to-night the star of
the waters which the storm brings for
a lantern."
"It is a-goin^ to rain," confirmed
Maria, aroused from her dose bj the
abrupt and clear voice of her
daughter ; " my rheumatic pains an-
nounce it to me. Indeed, wind and
rain are the fruits of the season, and
they are needed. But I am sorry for
the poor herdsmen who pass such
nights in the inn of the stars/'
" Don't troubles yourself about them,
IVIaria," said the jovial Uncle Pedro,
who had always a saying, a proverb,
a story, or a something, to bring in
snpportof whatever he asserted. "In
this world habit is everytliing, and
that wlxich seems disagreeable to one,
another finds quite to his liking ; cus-
tom makes all level as the sea, and
gilds all like the sun. There was
once a shepherd that got married to a
girl as lovelv as a rose, and as chance
would have it, on the very night of the
wedding there arose such a tempest
as if all the imps from beneath had
been abroad with thunder and light-
ning, hurricane and flood. It was too
much for the shepherd ; he abandoned
his bride and rushed to the window
exclaiming as he dashed it open, < O
blessed night I why am I not out to en-
joy thee ! ' "
" The bride might well be jealous
of such a rival," said Rita, bursting
into a loud laugh.
The clock struck nine, they recited
the " animas," and soon afterward sepa-
rated.
When the mother and her children
were left alone Elvira spread a clean
cloth upon the table and placed upon
it a dish of salad* Anna and her
daughter began to sup, but Ferioo
remained seated with his head inclin-
ed over the brasier, absently stirring
with the shovel the few coals which
still glowed among the ashes.
"Are you not going to eat your
supper, Perico ?" said his sister, ex-
tending toward him the fine white
bread which she herself had kneaded.
"lam not hungry, "he answered,
without lifting his head.
" Are you sick, my son ?" asked
Anna.
" No, mother," he replied.
The supper was finished in silence,
and when Elvira had gone out, carry-
ing the plates, Perico abruptly said to
his mother :
" Mother, I am going to Utrera to-
morrow to enlist with the loyal Span-
ish who are preparing to defend the
country."
Anna was thimderstruck. Accus-
tomed to the docile obedience of her
son, who had never failed to keep his
word, she said to him :
" To the war ? That is to say that
you are going to abandon us. iSut it
cannot be ! You must not do it ! You
ought not to leave your mother and
sister, and I will not give my consent."
" Mother,*' said the young man, ex-
asperated, " it is seen that you always
have something to oppose to my de-
sires ; you have subjected my will, and
now you wish to fetter my arm ; but
mother," he .proceeded, growing ex-
cited, and impelled by the two greatest
motives which can rule a man — patriot-
ism in all its purity, and love in all
its ardor, " mother, I am twenty-two
years old, and I have besides strength
enough and will enough, to break away
if you force me to it"
Anna, as much astonished as terri-
fied, clapped her cold and trembling
hands in agony, exclaiming :
" What I is there no alternative be-
tween a marriage which will make you
wretched and the war which will cost
you your life ?**
" None, mother," said Perico, drawn
out of his natural character, and hard-
ened by the dread that he should yield
in the contest now fairly entered upon.
^ Either I remain to marry, or I go to
fulfil the duty of every young Span-
iard."
" Marry, then," said the mother in a
grave voice. " Between two misfor-
tunes I choose the least bitter ; but
remember, Perico, what your mother
tells you to-day ; Rita is vain and light
Digitized by CjOOQIC
504
Perico the Sad.
an indifibrent Christian, and an un-
grateful daughter. A bad daughter
makes a bad wife — ^your blood and
hers will repel each other. You will
remember what your mother now says,
but it win be too late."
Saying these words, the noble wo-
man rose and went into her room to
hide from her son the tears that choked
her voice.
Perico, who regarded hia mother
with as much tenderness as yencration,
made a movement as if to retain her.
He would have spoken, but his timid-
ity and the excitement of his mind con-
fused his faculties. He found no words,
and afler a moment of indecision rose
suddenly, passed his hand across his
damp forehead, €uid went out.
During this time I^ita, who waited
in vain at the grating of her window
for Perico, was impatient and uneasy.
" I won't put up with this ! ' she said
at last, spitefully, closing the wooden
shutter. "You may come now, but
upon my life, you shall wait longer
than I have.*' At this instant a stone
rolled against the foot -of the wall,
This was the signal agreed upon be-
tween her and Perico to announce his
arrival
" Now you may roll all the stones of
Dos-Hermanas and I shall not open
the shutter," said Rita to herself.
*^ Perhaps you think you have me at
your will and pleasure, like your old
donkey, but this will never do, my son."
Another stone came rolling, and
bounded back from the wall with more
violence than Perico was accustomed
to use.
" Ho I" said Rita, " he appears to be
in a huny ; it is well to let him know
that waiting has not the flavor of ca-
ramels 5 Pm only sorry it doesn't rain
pitchforks." But, after a moment of
reflection, she added, " If we quarrel,
the one to bathe in rose water will be
my hypocrite of an aunt; afterward
Uncle Pedro's daughter, Saint Marcela,
that the old fox keeps shut up in the
convent, like a sardine in pickle, will
be brought out to dance, so that she
may trap his godson Perico on the first
opportunity. But they shall not see
themselves in that glass, for to frus-
trate their plans—"
And suddenly opening the window,
she finished the sentence :
" I am here." Addressing herself
to Perico, she continued with asperity,
** Look here, are you determined to
throw down the wall ? Why did you
wake me ? When I am kept waiting I
fall asleep, and whbn I am asleep I do
not thank anyone for disturbing me ;
so go back by the way you came, or by
another, it's all the sftme to me." And
she made a motion as if to shut the blind.
"Rita, Rita!" exclaimed Perico,
"I have spoken to my mother."
" You I" said Rita, opening again
the half-shut blind. " You don't say it !
Why, this is another miracle like that
of Balaam's ass ! and what answer
did this ' mater ' not ^ amabilis ' give
you ?"
" She says, yes, that I mnj marry,"
answered Perico delightedly.
" Says yes I" mocked Rita. " Saint
Quilindon help me ! How often a key
can turn I But it belongs to the wise
to change their minds. Gro along wi th
you I To-morrow I will come over
and condole with her. Perico, what if,
following the good example of your
mother, as mine exhorts me to, I
abo should change my mind and now
say no ?"
"Rita, RitaP cried Perico, beside
himself with joy, "you are going to bo
my wife."
" That remains to be seen," she re-
sponded ; " the idea is not like a silver
dollar, which, the oftener you turn it,
the prettier it looks."
With these and other absurdities
Rita blotted entirely from the mind
of Perico, the solemn impression hia
n^other's words had left there.
CHAPTER IV.
On the followhig morning Anna
was sitting alone, sad and depressed,
when Uncle Pedro entered.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Pwico the Sad.
505
"Neigbbor," he said, "here I am,
because I have come."
« May it be for good, neighbor 7*
« But I have come because I have
something to talk to you about.**
'< Talk on, neighbor, and the more
the better/'
** You must know, then, that my
wind-mill of a Ventura has taken it
into his head to go and get his hide
pierced' by those French savages, con-
found them r
"Grently, gently, neighbor; kill an
enemy in fair fight, but do not curse
him. Ferico also was thinking of the
same thing. It is bitter, old friend, it
is cruel for us, but it is natural.^'
"I do not say the contrary, my
friend. Bad luck to the traitors! but,
in short, he is my only son, and I
would not lose him; no, not for aU
Spain. I have found but one means
to keep him at home and am come to
tell you what that is.**
As he spoke, Pedro was seating
himself comfortably in the great leath-
ern arm-chair, gathering up the ends
of his cloak, approaching his feet to
the fire, and settling himself at his ease
generally.
** Neighbor," he said, at last, with
that profusion of synonymous phrases
in which great talkers indulge, " I ab-
hor preambles, which only serve to
waste the breath. Things ought to
be arrangied with few words, and those
to the point. • One side or the other,
and this is mine, that which can be
said in five minutes, why waste an
hour talking about it ? that which can
be done to-day, why leave it until to-
morrow ? Of all roads the sh(»rte6t is
the best, but to come to the point, for
I neither like circumlocution nor — "
"Really," said Anna, interrupting
him, "you give occasion to suppose
the contrary. Do come to the point,
for you have kept me in suspense ever
since you entered."
** Patience, patience! I can't fire
myself off like a musket ; by talkmg
folks come to an understanding. What
is there to hurry us ? Grood gracious I
neighbor, if you are not all fire and
tow, and as sudden as a flash. I was
saying, Mrs. Gunpowder, that I had
found only one method of keeping this
skyrocket of mine from going off; and
that is to take a step which sooner or
later I should have taken ; in a word,
and to end the matter, I have come to
ask of you your Elvira for my Ven-
tura, hoping the son I offer you may
be as much to your liking as the daugh-
ter I ask you for is to mine."
Anna did not attempt to hide the
satisfaction she felt at the prospect of
a union so suitable and equal in every
respect, a union that had been fore-
seen by the parents, and was as much
desired by them as by their children.
Therefore, like the sensible people they
were, they began at once to discuss the
conditions of the contract
" Neighbor," said Anna, "you know
what we have as well as I do. The
only question is how to divide it. This
house has always gone to the oldest
son; the vineyard belongs to Perico by
right, because he has improved it, and
has newly planted the greater part of
it ; my cows I give to Imn, because he
has me to support while I live. The
ass he needs."
" Would you tell me, companion of
my sins," interrupted Pedro, "what
remains to Elvira? for according to
these dispositions, it appears to me
she is coming from your hands as our
mother Eve, may she rest in peace,
came from those of the Creator."
" Elvira will have the olive-yard,"
answered Anna.
" That is the patrimony of a prin-
cess," exclaimed Uncle Pedro. " Go
along! an olive-yard the size of a pock-
et handkerchief, which hardly yields
oil enough for the lamp of the blessed
sacrament"
" Twenty years ago it yielded mare
than a hun^d arrohosj^** observed
Anna.
" Neighbor," said Pedro, " that \7hich
was and is not, is the same as if it had
never been ; twenty years ago the girls
were dying for me."
* ArmXta of liquids, 83 pinto ; of aoUds, S9 poondt
of sixteen ounces to the poond.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
506
Perico the Sad.
" Forty years ago, you mean/' Anna
remarked.
** How very exact you are, neigh-
bor," pursued Pedro. ** Let us come
to the point Trees are as scarce in
that yard as hairs on the head of Saint
Peter, and those which remain are so
dry that they look like church candle-
sticks."
''It is' plain, my friend, that you
have not seen them in a long time.
Since Perico has known that the olive-
yard was to be his sister's, the trees
have been taken care of like rose-
bushes in pots ; each tree would shade
a parade ground. Elvira will have,
besides, the fields that skirt and that
are watered by the brook which runs
through them.''
f'And that are so parched and thir-
sty, you will take notice, because the
brook is one half the year dry and the
other half without water," added Pe-
dro. "• Let us understand each other.
I like bread, bread, and wine, wine ;
neither bran in the one nor water in the
other. Those fields, neighbor, are poor
and unproductive ; of no use, except for
the asses to wallow in. But, since no
one overhears us, did you not sell last
year two fat hogs, each weighing fif-
teen arrobas, at a shilling a pound —
calculate it, a hundred bushels of bar-
ley at fifteen shillings a bushel, a hun-
dred skins of wine, and fifty of vine-
gar? Now this cat which you must
have, shut up in a chest, without room
to breathe, what better occasion could
there be to give it the air? When
his majesty, Charles Y., came to
Jerez (so the story goes) they of-
fered him a rich wine. But such a
wine I rather better than that of your
grace's vineyard, and his majesty ap-
pears to have been a judge, for he
praised the wine greatly. ' Sir,' said
the Alcalde, so pufied up that his skin
could scarce contain him, for you must
know that the people of Jerez are
more vain of their wine than I am of
my son, 'permit me to inform your
majesty that we have a wine even
better than that.' ' Yes ?* said the king ;
'keep it then for a better occasion;'
and this, neighbor, is the letter I write
to you ; it is for you to make the ap-
plication.*'
"Which is," said Anna, "that all
this money, and somewhat more, I
have saved and put together for the
daughter of my heart."
"That's what I call talking," ex-
claimed Pedro. "Upon my word,
neighbor, you are worth a Peru. As
for my Ventiu^, all I have is his, since
Marcela wishes to take the veH, and
you may be sure that he is not shirt-
less. He will have my house."
"A mere crib," said Anna.
" My asses."
"They are old"
"My goats."
"That do not make up to you in
milk, cheeses, and kids, what they cost
you in fines, they are so vicious."
"And my orchard," continued Pe-
dro, without replying to the raillerj"
with which Anna revenged herself for
his jests.
In such discussion they arranged
the preliminaries of the contract, re-
maining a^rward, as they were be-
fore, the best friends in the world.
When Pedro had gone, Anna put
on her woollen mantle, and repress-
ing her grief, and hiding the extreme
repugnance she felt, went to the house
of her sister-in-law.
Maria, who professed for Anna, who
was very kind to her, as much love as
gratitude, and as much respect as ven-
eration, received her with loquacious
pleasure.
" It does one's eyes good to see you
in this house," she exclaimed, as Anna
entered. "What good thought has
brought you, sister ?"
And she hastened to place a chair
for her guest.
Anna sat down, and made known
the object of her visit.
The proposition so filled the poor
woman witii joy, that she could not
find words to express herself.
"0 my sister!" she exclaimed in
broken sentences, " what good fortune I
Perico! son of my heart! It is to
Saint Antonio that I owe this good
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Perieo the Sad.
507
fortune! And you, Anna, are you
satisfied? Look here, sister: Rita,
although forward, is really a good-
hearted girL She is wilful, but that
is my fiiult If I had brought her up
as well as you have Elvira, she would
be different. She is giddy, but you
will see (with years and married life)
how steady she will become. All
these things are the effects of my spoil-
ing and of her youth. Rita ! Rita V*
she cried, ^^come, make hasle: here
is your aunt — what do I say? your
mother, she wishes to become, by mar-
rying you to Perieo."
Rita entered with the self-posses-
sion of a banker, and the composure
of a diplomatist.
"What do you say, daughter?"
cried the delighted mother.
" That I knew it," replied Rita.
" Gro along," said the mother in an
undertone, " if you are not as calm as
if you were used to it, and cooler
than a fresh lettuce."
*• And what would you have me do —
dance a &ndango, because I am going
to be married ?*' answered Rita, rais-
ing her voice.
Anna rose and went out. Maria,
extremely mortified by her daughter's
rudeness, went with her sister-in-law
as far as the street, lavishing upon her
a thousand expressions of endearment
and gratitude.
CHAPTER v.
Preparations were being made for
the weddings. That of Elvira and
^ntura was to take place before that
of Rita and Perieo, as the former had
not to wait for a dispensation from
Rome.
Pedro wished his daughter Marcela
to assist at her brothei^s marriage, be-
fore commencing her novitiate, and
determined to go to Alcald to bring
her. Maria had a debt to collect there,
and needing all her itinds for the ex-
pected event, took advantage of her
old friend's going to make ti^e trip in
company.
The ancient pur, mounted upon their
respective asses, set out on their jour-
ney, crossing themselves, and Maria,
the Christian soul, making a prayer
to the holy archangel, Saint Raphael,
patron of all travellers, from Tobias
down to herself.
Maria, comfortably seated upon the
the cushions of her saddle, dressed in
a wide chintz skirt, which was plaited
at the waist, a jacket of black woollen
doth, of which the closely fitting
sleeves were fastened at the wrist by
a row of silver buttons, and round her
neck, a white muslin kerchief, pinned
down at the back to keep it from
touching her hair, looked like a bur-
lesque, anticipated, upon the mode
which was to rule among the fashion-
ables thirty years later. A little shawl
covered her head, the ends being tied
under her chin.
Pedro wore, with some slight dif-
ference, the dress we have already
described in speaking of his son. The
cloth was coarser, the bolt black, as
became a widower, his clothes all fitted
more loosely, and his hat had a broad-
er brim, and was without ornament.
"It is a day of flowers!" said
Maria, "the fields are smiling, and
the sun seems as if he were telling
them to be gay."
"Yes," said Pedro, "the yeUow-
haired appears to have washed his face,
and sharpened his rays, for they prick
like pins."
He took out a little rabbit-skin bag,
in which was tobacco, and began to
make a cigarette.
"Maria," said he, when he had
finished it, " my opinion is, that , you
will come bacjc fix>m Alcali with your
hands as empty as they go. But,
Christian woman, who the deuce tempt-
ed you to lend money to that vaga-
bond ? You knew that he had not so
much as a place whereon to fall dead,
and nothing in expectation but alter-
nate rations of hunger and necessity."
" But," said Maria, "to whom shall
we lend if not to the poor ? the Tich
have no need to borrow."
" And don't you know, big innocent,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
508
Per%c<^ the Sad.
that ' he who lends f o a friend, loses
both the mone J and the friend V But
you, Maria, are always so credulous,
and T tell you now thal[ this man will
pay you in three instalments : ' badly,
late, and never.' *
" You always think the worst,
Pedro."
" That is the reason why I always
hit the mark ; think ill, and you will
think the truth,** said the crafty Pedro.
Presently he commenced droning a
ballad, of which the interminable text
is as follows :
In my house I heard at night,
fioonds that roused me in affright ;
Quick unsheathed my rapier bright,
Stole upstairs with footsteps UghU
Searched the dwelling all around,
yrom the rooftreo to the ground,
Listening for the faintest sound —
Nottilng heard I, nothing found.
And mystery, being new,
I^l repeat it o*er to you.
In my house, etc., etc.
Maria said nothing, nor did she
think much more. Rocked by the
quiet pace of her animal, she yielded
herself to the indolence which the
balmy spring day induced, and went
along sleeping.
B&lf the road being passed, they
came to a small inn. When they
arrived -some soldiers were lounging
upon the brick seats which were fixed
on each side of the door under the pro-
j^pting roof. As soon as they per-
ceived the approach of our venerable
couple, they began to attack them with
facetious sayings, buriesque provoca-
tions, and railleries, such as are usual
among the country folk, and especially
among the soldiers.
" Uncle," said one, " where are you
going with that ancient relic ?'*
** Aunty," cried another "is the
chureh where you were christened still
standing ?"
"Aunt,** said another, "does your
grace retain any recollection of the
day you were married ?*
" Uncle,** asked the fourth, "are you
going witli this maiden to AlcaU to
have the bans published ?*
" No," answered Pedro, lazily dis-
mounting, " I shall wait for that until
I am of age, and the girl nas her
growth."
"Aunt," continued the soldiers,
"shall we help you down from that
gay colt?"
" It is the best thing yon can do, my
sons," responded the good woman.
The soldiers approached, and with
kind]y attention assisted her to alight.
Pedro found some acquaintances in
the tavern who immediately asked him
to drink with them. He did not wait
to be urged, and having drank said to
tiiem :
"It is my turn now, and since I
have accepted your treat, you, my
friends, and these gentlemen, whom I
know only to serve, will do me the
favor to <hink a email glass of anisete
to my health."
"Uncle Pedro," said a young mule-
teer of Dos-Hermanas, "tell us a
story ; and I in the mean while will
take care to keep your glass fflled so
that your throat don't get dry."
"Ah me !" exclaimed Aunt Maria,
who ailer having drank her little
glass of anisette* had seated herself
upon some bags of wheat, "have
meroy on us, for if Pedro lets loose
his boneless member, we shall not get-
back to our place to-night, at least,
not without the miracle of Joshua."
" There is no danger,' Maria," an-
swered Pedro, " but you will sit on
those sacks till the com sprouts."
"Is it true, Uncle Pedro, what my
mother says," asked the muleteer, " that
in old times, when you were young,
you were a lover of Maria's ?"
" It is indeed, and I feel honored in
saying it," answered Uncle Pedro.
"What a story!" exclaimed Aunt
Maria, " it is a lie as big as a house.
Go along with you, Pedro, for a boast-
er. I never had a lover in my life
except my husband, ' may he rest in
peace.' "
" O Mrs. Maria, Mrs. Maria !" said
Pedro, " how very poor is your grace's
memoiy ! for you know the song —
* liquor distilled firom anise-bced.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad,
509
** Though yon take ftjpm him the 0o«ptTC,
Bobes of fltete, and tlgn^t rinf?,
Still reiD&inB unto the monarch
Thli— that he tru once a king."
" It is true," Maria answered, " that
he made love to me one daj at my
cousin's wedding, and that he came
one night to my window ; but he got
such a fright there that he left me
planted, and ran away as if fear had
lent wings to his feet ; and I believe
he never stopped until ho ran his
nose against the end of the world."
'* How is that ?" exclaimed the audi-
ence, laughing heartily ; " is that the
way you show your heels when you
ore frightened, Uncle Pedro ?"
" I neither boast of my courage,"
replied the latter composedly, " nor do
I wish to gain the palm from JVaii-
cwio Estehan,^
"That is being more afraid than
ashamed," said Aunt Maria, who was
becoming impatient.
** You see, sirs," said Uncle Pedro,
* slyly winking, ^ that she has not yet
forgiven me, which proves, does it
not, that she was fond of me ? But I
should like to know," he proceeded,
•* which of you is the Gid Ccanpeador
that would like to have to do with
lyings of the other world ; with super-
natural things ?"
"There was nothing more super-
Jiatural than your fears," interrupted
Maria, " and they had no more cause
than the rolling of a stone fit)m the
roof, by some cat that was keeping
vigiL"
"•Tell us about it. Uncle Pedro,
tell us how it happened," cried the
audience.
" You must know then, sirs," began
Uncle Pedro, " that the window Maria
indicated to me, was at the back of
the house. The house was ii^ a lone-
some place on the outskirts of the
town ; near by was a picture of pur-
gatory, with a lamp burning before it.
As I looked at the light, something
which happened there a short time be-
fore came into mind. A milkman used
to pass by the picture every night as
he went out of town, carrying the
empty skins which he brought in at
sunrise every morning, filled witli
milk. When he came to this place,
he did not scruple to lower the con-
secrated lamp to light his cigarette.
One night, it was the eve of All Souls,
when he had taken the lamp down,
as was his custom, it went out, and
he could not Hght his cigarette. He
found it strange, for the wind slept,
and the night was clear. But, what
was his astonishment when a moment
after, turning to look back, he saw
the lamp lighted, and burning more
brightly than ever. Recognizing in
this a solemn warning from Grod —
touched, and repenting of the profa-
nation he had done — he made a vow
to punish himself by never smoking
another cigarette in his life ; and, sirs,"
added Pedro, in a grave voice, " he
has kept it"
Pedro paused, and for a moment
all remained silent.
"This is an occasion," presently
said Maria, "to apply the saying, that
when a whole company is silent at
once, an angel has passed by, and the
breath of his wings has touched them
with awe."
"Come, Uncle Pedro," said the
muleteers, " let us hear the rest of the
story."
"Well, sirs," proceeded Pedro, in
his former jocose tone, "you must
know that the lamp inspired me with
great respect, mingled with not a lit-
tle fear. Is it well, I said to myself,
to come here and trifie under the
very beards of the blessed souls that
in suffering are expiating their sins ?
And I assure you, that light which
was an offering to the Lord — ^which
appeared to watch and to record —
and seemed to be looking at me and
rebuking me, was on object to impose
respect. Sometimes it was sad and
weeping like the De Ptofundis, at
others immovable like the eye of the
dead £xed upon me, and then the
fiame rose, and bent, and flickered,
like a threatening finger of fire ad-
monishing me.
" One night, when its regards ap-
peared BKure tln^eatening than ever be-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
510
Perico the Sad.
fore, a stone, thrown bj an* inviBible
hand, strurk me on the head with such
force that it left me stupefied ; and when
I started to run, though I was, as you
might saj, in open field, it happened
with me as with that * negro of evil
fortune' who, where there were three
doors to go out at, could not find one ;
and so, running as fast as I could, in-
stead of coming to mj house, I came
to a quarry and fell in."
" I have always heard of that negro
of evil fortune,'* said one of the listeners,
^ but could never find out how he came
to be called so. Can you tell me ?"
" I should think so!" answered Uncle
Pedro.
" There was once a very rich negro
who lived in front of the house of a
fine young woman, with whom he
fell in love. The young woman,
vexed by the soft attentions and en-
dearmeuts of the fellow, laid the mat-
ter before her husband, who told her
to make an appointment with the
negro for that evening. She did so,
and he came, bringing a world of
presents. She received him in a
drawing-room fhat had three doors.
There she had a grand supper pre-
pared for him. But they were
hardly seated at the table when the
light was put out, and the husband
came in with a cowhide, with which he
began to lash the negro's shoulders.
The latter was so confounded that he
could not find a door to escape through,
and kept exclaiming as he danced un-
der the blows :
* Poor Uttle negro, what evil Torianc !
Where there are three doors, he cannot find one.'
'^ At last, he chanced upon one, and
mshed out like the wind. But the
husband was after him, and gave him
a push that sent him from the top of
the stairs to the bottom. A servant
hearing the noise he made, ran to ask
the cause. * What would it be,' answer-
ed the black, * but that I went np on my
tiptoes and came down on my ribs P
" Que he subldo de pontillas.
The bi^mdo de cotUIIaa."
" Uncle Pedro," asked the miileteer,
laughing, << was tl}at the cause of your
remaining estranged ?''
" No," said Pedro, « eight days af-
terwards, I armed myself with cour-
age and returned to the grating, but
Maria would not open the window."
" Aunt Maria did not want you to
be stoned to death like Saint Stephen,"
said the muleteer.
" It was rot that, boy ; the truth is,
that Miguel Ortiz^ who had just com-
pleted his term, returned to the place,
and it suited I^iaria to forsake one and
take up with another who **
" Was not afraid,'* interrupted Ma-
ria, " to talk, with good intentions, to
a girl in the neighborhood of a canse^
crated ohject ; for, do you suppose that
all those souls were spinsters ?"
<^ I think so^ Maria, because the
married pass their purgatory in this
world — the men, because their wives
torment them, and the women, through
what their children cause them to suf-
fer. Well, sirs, I took the matter so
to heart that I could not stay in Dos-
Hermanas when the wedding was
celebrated, and I went to Alcali."
" Where he remembered me so well,
that he came back married to an-
other."
'* It is true, for I have always
thought it best ' when one king is
dead, to set up another.' *'
" Ah Pedro ! everlasting talker,"
said Maria getting up, " let us go.**
" Yes, let us go ; for the sun is as
hot as if he were flying away from the
clouds, and I think it will rain."
" God forbid I" exclaimed • J^Iaria,
<< give us the sun and wasps though
they sting !"
" Why should it rain, since we are iii
March ?" put in the muleteer.
" And don't you know, Jose " replied
Uncle Pedro, " that January promised
a lamb to March, but when March ar-
rived the lambs were so fat and fine
that January would not fulfil the pro-
mise ? Then March was vexed and
said to him,
* with three days left me of my own.
And three friend April will me loon,
I'll pat your eheep In laoh a state,
You'U wish you'd paid me whea too late.*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad,
511
** And so let ns be off. Grood-by,
gentlemen."
" yn^at a hurry you are in, Aunt
Jiiaria !" said the muleteer. " Are you
afraid you shall take root ?''
'^ No, but these asses of ours do not
go like yonrs, Jose."
^ That is so/' said Pedro as he as-
sisted Maria to mount; ''with us, all is
old — ^the horsewoman, her squire, and
the steeds. My ass is so judicious that
she cannot make up her mind upon
which foot to limp, and therefore limps
on all four ; and that of Maria so old,
that, if she could speak, she would say
'thee and thou' to us all. Well,
gentlemen, your commands."
" Health and dimes to you, Uncle
Pedro."
Our travellers took the road again,
and when they reached Alcala, sepa-
rated to attend to their respective af-
fairs.
An hour afkerward they rejoined
each other. Pedro came accompanied
by his daughter,- who threw herself
upon Maria's neck with that tender
sentimentality of young girls whose
hearts have not been bruised, wounded,
or chilled, by contact with the world.
**' You have collected your money ?"
questioned Pedro, as though he doubt-
, edit.
'^They offered me half now," answer-
ed Maria. *' or the whole after harvest ;
and, as I am in want of my dimes, I
preferred the former."
" Not Siplomon, Maria ! not even
Solomon ! could have acted more wise-
ly ; for,- ' blessed is he that possesses,'
and ' one bird in the hand is worth a
hundred on the wing. *"
Pedro took his daughter up behind
him, and they set out — ^Maria taking
care of her money ; Marcela of the
flowers, spices, cakes, and sweetmeats
she had bought as gifts ; and Pedro
looking after them both.
CHAPTER VI.
The arrival of Marcela caused
great joy to all except Rita, who
neither wished nor tried to hide the
ill-humor she felt in the presence of
one who had been destined by both
families to be the wife of Perico.
This hostile disposition, and the
cold reserve which Rita imposed upon
Perico in his intercourse with Marcela,
were the first frosts which had ever
fallen upon the springtime of that pure
spirit
Marcela was far from suspecting
the base and bitter sentiments of Rita,
and besides, she would not have un-
derstood them; for, though a young
woman, she had the soul of a child.
Having lived in the convent from her
birth, she had created for herself a
sweet existence, which could not be
enlarged by the interests and passions
of life, except at the cost of innocence
and happiness. She loved her good
religious, her garden, her gentle and
peaceful duties. She was attached to
her devotions, to her church, and to
her blessed images. She wished to
be a nun, not from spiritual exalta-
tion, but because she liked the life ;
not from misanthropy, but with joy of
heart ; not because she was without
convenient place or position in the
world, which many believe to be a mo-
tive for taking the veil, but because
her position, her place, she found — and
preferred it — ^in the convent.
This is what many do not, or pre-
tend not to comprehend. EverjMhing
can be understood in this world ; all
vices ; all irregularities ; all the most
atrocious inclinations; even the pro-
pensity of the Anthropophagi; but
that the desire for a tranquil and re-
tired life, without care for the present,
or thought for the future, can exist, is
denied, is incomprehensible.
In the world everything is believed
in — the masculine woman, the mor-
ality of stealing, the philanthropy of
the guillotine, in the inhabitants of the
moon, and other humbugs, as the Eng-
lish say; or canardsy as our neigh-
bors have it; or bubbles and foMeSy
as we call them. The satirical scep-
tic,, called the world, has a throat
Digitized by CjOOQIC
>12
Perico the Sad.
down which all these can pass, for
there is nothing bo credalous as in-
credality, nor so superstitious as irre*
ligion. But it does not beliere in the
instincts of puritj, in modest desires,
in humble hearts, and in religious
sentiments* No indeed; the exis-
tence of these is all hnmbu?, a hihUe
which it cannot receive. This mona-
ster has not a throat wide enough for
these.
Marcela, acoompanied'bj Anna and
Elvira, made her first visit to the
church, and to the chapel of Saint
Anna, into wbich the good wife of the
sacristan hastened to lead them.
The chapel is deep and narrow ; at
the extremity is an altar and the e&*
gy of the saint. In a crystal urn,
inserted into the altar, is seen a wood-
en cross and a small bell. The effigy
of Saint Anna is very ancient -, its
lower part widens in the form of a
bell, upon its breast it bears an image
of the Blessed Virgin, which in the
same manner bears that of the child
Jesus. The remote origin stamped
upon this effigy, imiting antiquity of
idea with age of material, gives, as it
were, wings to the devotion it inspires
with which to rise and free itself
from all present surroundings. On
the wall, at the right hand, hang two
large pictures. In one is seen an an*
gel, appearing to two girls, and in the
other the same girls, in a wild and
solitary place, with a man who is dig-
ging a hole in the earth.
On the left hand an iron railing
surrounds the entrance to a cave, the
descent into whidi is by a narrow
stairway. •
Marcela and her companions hav-
ing performed their devotions, seated
themselves in some low chairs which
the sacristan's wife placed for them
under the arbor in the court-yard,
and Marcela asked the obliging and
kindly woman to explain to tiiem the
two pictures which they had seen in
the chapeL The good creature, who
loved to tell the story, began it veiy
far back, and related it in the follow-
ing words.
POPULA& TRADTTIOK OF I>08-HEB.
HANAS.
"In times the memory of which is
almost lost, a wicked king, Don Eod-
rigo, ruled in Spain. It was then
customary for the noUes of the
realm to send their daughters to court,
and therefore the noble count, Don
Julian, sent his fair daughter Florinda,
known as La Cava. When the king
saw her he was inflamed with passion,
but she being virtuous, the king ob-
tained by violence that which he
could not by consent When the
beautiful Florinda saw herself dis-
honored, she wrote to the Count — ^with
blood and tears she wi*ote it, in these
words:
** ' Father, your honor and mine are
blemished; more to your renown would
it have been, and better for me, if you
had killed me, instead of bringing me
here. Confe and avenge me.'
^ When the Count, Don Julian, read
the letter, he fell down in a flwoon,
and when he came to himself he
swore, upon the cross of his sword, to
take a vengeance the like of which
had never been heard of, and one [hx>-
portioned to the offence.
" With this intention, he treated itlth
the Moors and gave up to them Tari&
and Algeciras. and like a swollen riv-
er which breaks its embankments they
inundated Andalusia. They reached
Seville, known in those times as JUs--
polls, and this place, then called On-
po. The Christians, befoDe they fled,
buried deep in the earth the venerated
image of their patroness Saint Anna.
And there it remained five hundred
years, until the good king Fernando,
having made himself master of the
surrounding country, invested Seville.
Here, however, the Moors made such
a stubborn resbtance that the spirit of
the monarch began to fail him. Then,
in the tower of HerveraSy now fallen
to ruin. Our Blessed Mother appeared
to him in a dream, animating his
valor, and promising him victory.
The good king returned to his camp
at Alcal4 with renewed courage. He
summoned all tke artifieeiB that could
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perie^ the Sad
513
be found, and commanded them to
make an image, as nearly as possible
in the likeness of bis Tision, but to his
great chagrin no one succeeded.
" There then presented themselves,
two beautifid youths, dressed like pil-
grims, offering to make an image in
every particular like the form the
good king had seen in his vision.
They were conducted to a workshop
in which they found prepared for
them everything necessary for their
work. The following day, when the
king, stimulated by his impatience,
went in to see how the work was pro-
gressing, the pilgrims had disap-
peared. The materials were lying on
the Joor untouched, and. upon an al-
tar was an image of our Lady, just as
slie had appeared to him in his sleep.
The king, recognizing the intervention
of the angels, knelt weeping before
the image he had wished for so much,
and which, by the hands of angels,
their Queen herself had sent him.
"Afterward, when the pious chief
had reduced Seville, he caused this
image to be placed in a triumphal car
drawn by six white horses, his majesty
walking behind with naked feet, and
deposited in the cathedral of Seville,
where it is still venerated, and where
it will oondnne to be venerated until
the end of time, under the invocation '
of our Lady of Kings. In her chap-
el, at her feet, lies the body of the
sainted monarch — ^relics, of the pos-
sessions of which all Spain may well
envy Seville.
" Soon after the appearance of tne
vision, the king with great confidence
in the help of God prepared to make
another attacdc. He posted himself
upon the neighboring heights of
Buena Yista: the two wings of his
brave army extendmg on both sides,
like two arms ready to do his will.
But the troops were so weary, and so
faint from heat and thirst, that they
had neither strength nor spirit left.
In this strait, the good king built
up an altar of arms, upon which he
placed an image of the Blessed Yir*
g^ which he always carried with
VOL, ui. 88
him, calling upon her in these words,
« Aid me I aid me ! Holy Mother, for
if by thy help I set up the cross to-day
in Seville, I promise to build thee a
chapel in this very spot, in which
thou Shalt be venerated, and I will
deposit in it the standards under
which the city shall be gained.' As
he prayed, a beautiful spring began
io flow at the foot of the ridge, send-
ing forth in different directions seven
streams. It flows still, and bears the
name of The King's Fountain.
" Men and horses refreshed them-
selves, and recovered strength and
courage. Seville was won, and the
Moorish King Aixa came bearing the
keys of the city upon a golden sidver,
and presented them to the pious con-
queror. They are kept with other
precious relics in the treasury of the
cathedral.
**In those times,** proceeded the
narrator, " there lived in the province
of Leon two devout sisters, named
Elvia and Estefania, to whom an
&ngel appeared and told them to set
out for the purpose of finding an im-
age of Our Lady which the Christians
had hidden under the earth. The
father of the devout maidens, Gromez
Mazereno, who was as pious as they
were, ^vished to go with them. But
on setting out they were in great
trouble, not knowing what direction
to take. Then they heard the sound
of a bell in the air. They saw no
bell, but followed the ringing until
they came to this place, where it
Bfiemed to go down into the ground at
their feet. This was then an unculti-
vated waste of matted thorns and
briers, and was called * The Invinci-
ble Thicket,' because the Moors, who
had all these lands under cultivation
could never cut it down ; for, unseen
by them, an angel guarded it with a
drawn sword in his hand. They be-
gan zealously to dig, and digging
came to a large flat stone, which
bemg lifted, they discovered the en-
trance to a cave-^the same that yon
saw in the chapel In it they found
the image of the saint, a cross, the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
514
Perieo the SouL
small bell, which, like the star of the
cafitcrn kings had led them here, and
a lamp still burning — the very lamp
that lights the saint now, for it hangs
in the chapel before her altar! * For
more than a thousand years it has
burned in veneration of our patroness.
They took up her image and raised
this chapel in her name. Houses were
built and clustered together round it,
until this village, which takes the name
of Dos-Hermanas from. its founders,,
was formed under its shelter. See,*'
continued the good woman, rising and
reentering the chapel, '' see here the
image which nothing has been able
to iiyure; neither the dampness of
the earth, nor dust of the air, nor the
canker of time* In these two pic-
tures are the portraits of the devout
sisters." A gteit quantity of offerings
were seen hanging on both sides of
altar. Of these seven little silver
legs, tied together and suspended by
a rose-colored ribbon, attracted Mar-
cela's attention.
''What is the meaning of that
offering?" she asked of the sacristan's
wife.
'< Marcos, the blacksmith, brought
them here. It happened, one day,
that the poor fellow was seized with
such violent pains in his legs, that
it seemed as though he could neither
live nor die.
*< His wife having admhiistered to
him without effect all the remedies
that were ordered, took him» stretched
upon a cart, to Seville. But neither
could the doctors there do anything to^
relieve him. One day, after the un-*
fortunate man had spent all he pos-
sessed in remedies, made desperate by
his suffering, and by the cries of his
chil^n for the bread which he had
not to give them, he lifted his broken
heart to Grod, claiming as his inter-
cessor our blessed patroness Saint
Anna, praying with fervor to be made
well until such time as his children
should no longer need him; adding:
When my x^ildren are grown up I
Will die without murmuring. And if,
uatil then, I regun my health, I
promise, Blessed Saint, to hang,
every year, a little silver leg upou
thy altar, in attestation of the mira*
clc' The next day Marcos came on
foot to give thanks to God. Years
passed. The sons of Marcos had
grown up and were earning their liv-
ing. There remained with him only
a young daughter. She had a lover
who asked her of her father. The
wedding was gay, only Marcos
seemed to be in deep thought On
the following day he «took his bed,
from which he never rose. What
he asked had been granted. . His
task was done."
''And these ears of grain ?" said Mar-
cela, seeing a bunch of wheat tied |rith
a blue ribbon.
"They were brought by Petrola,
the wife of Gomez. These poor peo-
ple had only the daily wages of the
father for the support of eight children.
They had begged the use of a small
field to sow with wheat, and in it were
sown also their hopes. With what
pleasure they watched it, and with
what satisfaction I for it repaid their
care, growing so luxuriantly that it
looked as if they sprinkled it every
morning with blessed water. One day
a neighbor came from the field and
told the poor woman that the locust
was in her wheat. The locust! One
of the plagues of Egypt I It was as
if a bolt from heaven had struck her.
Leaving her house and her little ones,
she rushed out wildly, with her arms
extended and not knowing what she
did* < Saint Anna,' she cried, <my
children's bread! my children's bread I*
She reached the field and saw in one
comer the track of the locust. This
insect destroys the blades from the
foot without leaving a sign. But be-
tween its track and the rest of the
field an invisible wall had been raised
to protect the wheat of the pious
mo&er who invoked the saint,^ and the
locust had disappeared. You can im-
agine the delight and gratitude of the
good woman, who was so poor that she
testified it by the gift q£ these few
b]ad<es of the precioas grain."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
iVtctf the Sad.
515
Anna, Elvira, and Marcela likened
with softened and fervent hearts, and
eyes moistened with tears. With the
same emotions the relation has been
transmitted to pa{>er. God grant that
it maj be read in like spirit !
CHAPTEB Vn.
Mat smiled. Golden with sun-
light, noisy with the .song of its birds
and the murmur of its insects ; odorous
with its flowers, laughing, and happy
to be the month, of all others, dedi-
cated to Mary.
The wedding day of Ventura and
Elvira had arriyed, and the sun, like
a friend that hastened to be the first
to give them joy, rose radiant. They
were ready to set out for the church.
Anna preyed to her heart the child of
her love, the gentle Elvira, so hum-
ble and thoughtful in her gladness that
she stood with drooping head and eyes
cast down, as if oppressed and dassled
by so much joy. Uncle Pedro, who
had never been so glad in all his life,
exceeded even himself in jokes, hints,
and fiicetious sayings. Maria, tran-
sported with her own delight, and
that of others, shed tears continually —
tears, like the rain drops, which some-
times fall fixmi a clear sky when the
sun is bright
As his rays shine through those
drops, so shone Maria's smile through
her tears.
^ ^ Dear sister,** said Marcela to El-
vira, ^next to mine,-my sweet Jesus,
your bridegroom is the best and most
perfect See my Ventura, how well
he appears ; if he had only a spray of
lilies in his hand, he would look like
Saint Joseph in *The EspousaW
And she had. reason to praise her
brother, for Ventura, neatly and rich-
ly dressed, more animated and gallant
than ever, hurrying the others to set
out, was the^ type a sculptor would
have chosen for a statue of Achilles.
Perico forgot even Rita. His large,
soft brown eyes were fixed upon his
sister with a look of deep and inexpli-
cable tenderness. Rita only was in-
different and petulant
They were leaving the house when
a strange sound reached their ears.
A sound which seemed to be made up
of the bellowing of the enraged bull,
the lamentations of the wounded bird,
and the growl of the lion surprised in
his sleep.
It was the cry of alarm and rage of
the flocks of fugitives that were ar-
riving, and the exclamations of as-
tonishment and indignation of the peo-
ple of the village that were preparing
to imitate them.
The French had entered Seville
with giant strides, and were hurrying
on in their devastating march toward
Cadiz.
Perico having foreseen this event,
had prepared a place of refuge for hb
family, in a solitary faim-house, far
aparf from any public way, and had
horses standing in the stables ready
against surprise.
While the men rushed into the yard
to prepare the animals, the women,
w?ld with fear, gathered and tied to-
gether the clothes and whatever else
they could carry with them in the
panniers.
''What a sad omenT said Elvira
to Ventura; "the day. which should
join us togedier separates us."
« Nothing can separate us, Elvira,**
answered Ventura ; '* I defy the whole
world to do it. Go without fear. We
are going to prepare ourselves, and
shall over&ke you on the road."
Ventura saw them depart under the
protection of Perico, and watched them
until they were out of sight
But now was heard at the entrance
of the village the fatal sound of drums,
which announced the arrival of the
terrible phalanx that threw itself upon
that poor unarmed people, taken by
surprise, and treated without mercy.
It came in the name of an iniquitous
usurpation of which the precedents
belong to barbarous times, as the rc-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
516
Perieo the Sad.
BiBtance i% met wifh belongs to the
dajs of heroism — ^a resistance against
which it dashed and was broken, fight-
ing without g^oiy and yielding without
shame.
•* Follow me; father/* said Ventura.
" Sistcr^come ; we must fly !*'
" It is too late,'* replied Pedro, " they
are already here. Ventura, hide your
sister ; when night comes we wOl es-
cape, but now hide yourselves."
"And you, father?" said Ventura,
hesitating between necessity and the
repugnance he Mt to being obliged to
hide himself.
*' I,** answered Pedro, "remain here.
What can they do to a poor old man
like me ? Go, I tell you 1 Hide your-
selves I Maroela, what aro you doing
there, poor child, as cold and fixed as
a statue ? Ventura, what are you
thinking of that you do not move?
Do you wish to be lost? Do you
wish to lose your sister? Ventura!
dear son, do you wish to kill me ?"
His fathei^s cry of anguish roused
Ventura from the stupor into which
he had been thrown by fear, uncer-
tainty, and rage.
"I^ is necessary," he murmured,
with clenched hands, and set teeth.
" Father, father I to hide myself like a
woman ! while I live I shall never get
over the shame of it I" and takmg a lad-
der, he lifted it to an opening in the
ceiUng, which formed the entrance to
a sort of lofl or garret, where they
kept seeds, and worn-out and useless
household articles, helped his sister to
mount, went up himseU^, and drew the
ladder afler him. ,
It was time, for there was a knock-
ing at the door. Pedro opened it,
and a French soldier entered.
*< Prepare me," he said in his jar-
gon, ** food and drink : give me your
money, unless you want me to take it,
and call your daughters, if you do not
wish me to look them up."
The blood of the honorable and
haughty Spaniard rose to his face, but
he answered with moderation,
''I have nothmg that you ask me
for."
"Which means that you have no-
thing, you thief? Do you knov whom
you are talking to, and that I am
hungry and thirsty?"
Pedro, who had expected to pass
the whole of this long wishcd4bf day
of his son's marriage in Anna's house,
and had therefore nothing prepared,
approached the door which communi-
■cated with the interior of the house,
and pointing to the extinguished
hearth, repeated, "As I have already
told you, there is nothmg to eat in the
house, except bread."
"You lie!" shouted the French-
man in a rage ; " it is because you do
not mean to give it to me."
Pedro fixed his eyes upon the gre-
nadier, and in them burned, for an
instant all the indignation, all the rage,
all the resentment he harbored in his
soul ; but a second thought, at which he
shuddered, caused him to lower them,
and say in a conciliating tone :
" Satisfy yourself that I have told
you the truth."
On hearing this continued refiisal,
the soldier, already exasperated by
the glance Pedro had cast at him, ap-
proached the old man and said ; " You
dare to face me ; you refuse to com-
ply with your obligation to supply me*
Ha ! and worse than all, you insult me
with your tranquil contempt. Upon
my life, I will make you as pliant as
a glove !" and raising his hand, there
resounded through the house, dry and
distinct, a blow on the face.
Like an eagle darting upon its
prey, Ventura dropped down, threw
himself upon the Frenchman, forced
the sword from his hand, and ran it
through his body. The soldier fell
heavily, a lifeless bulk.
"Boy, boy, what have you done?"
exclaimed the old man, forgetting the
affront in the peril of his 8<hi.
"My duty, father."
"You are lost r
« And you are avenged."
"Gotsaxe yourself! do not lose an
instant"
" First, let me take away thfe debtor,,
whose account is settled. If they find
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Sapphici, 517
him here, 70a will have to suffer, wall which snrronnded the yard, and
fiither.'' to the ground on the other side. The
^ Never mind, never mind," ex- poor father, mounted upon the trunk
claimed the father, ^save yourself, of a fig-tree, holding on by its
that is the first thing to be thought of." branches, with - bursting heart, and
Without listening to his father. Yen- straining eyes, and breath suspended,
tura took the OOTpee upon his shoulder, saw his son, the idol of his soul, pass
threw it mto the well, turned to the with the lightness of a deer, the space
old man, who followed him in an whi^ separated the village from an
agony of distress, asked for his bless- olive plantation, and disappear among
ing, sprang with one bound, upon the the trees.
TO BB OOVTUnnBD.
[OUGIMAL.]
SAPPHICS.
^nooEStsD BT "thb quip" of geobgb hebbebt.
Stratus m terram meditans jacebam ;
SflBculum molle et petulans procaxqae)
Aflsedas tristem stimulabat acri
Lsedere losu.
Pttlcfaxa, qnam tinxit Cythereo, rosa,
^' Cojus, qu«aso," Inquit, ^ manus, in&ceta
Carpere inaadax ? " Tibi linquo causam,
Victor lesu !
Tinnitans argentum : ^ Melos istud audi :
Mnsicffi nostine modes suaves^ **
Inquit et fugiL Tibi linquo causam,
Victor lesu I
Gloria tunc toUens caput et coruscans,
SericiB fills crepitans, me figit
• Ocolis limis. Tibi linquo causam,
Victor lestt !
Gestiit scomma sceleratis aptum,
Callida lingua acnisse Ira ;
Cootioescat jam. Tibi linquo causam,
Victor lesu !
Attamen cum To, die constitute,
EUgisti quos Tibi vindicassis,
Andiam o, dextro later! statatus,
""Eugefidelis"
aa Ledotel, In AMendooe Pominl, I8M.
B. A. &
Digitized by CjOOQIC
518
Problems of the Age,
[ ORZOINAL..]
PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.
IV.
THE REVELATION OF GOD IN THE CBBED
DBVONSTRAI^D IK THE CON8TITOTIVB
IDEA OF REASON.
As soon as we open the eye of rea-
son we become spectators of the crea-
tion. The word creation in this pro-
position is to be understood not in a,
loose and popular sense, but in a strict
and scientific one. We intend to say,
not merely that we behold certain ex-
isting objects, but that we behold them
in their relation to their first and su-
preme cause. We are witnesses of the
creative act by which the CJreator and
his work are simultaneously disclosed to
the mind. This is the original constitu-
tive principle of reason, its primal light
preceding all knowledge and thought,
and being their condition. It is the
idea which contains in itself, radically
and in principle, all possible develop-
ment of thought and knowledge, ac-
cording to the law of growth connatu-
ral to the human intelligence. It in-
cludes — God with all his attributes:
the work of God or the created uni-
verse ; and the relation between the
two, that is, the relation of God to the
universe as first cause in the order of
creation, and final cause in the order
of the ultimate end and destination of
things. The different portions of this
idea are inseparable from eadii other.
That is, our reason cannot affirm God
♦ separately from the affirmation of the
creative act, or afiirm the creative act
separately from the affirmation of Grod.
The being of God is disclosed to us
only by the creation, and the creation
is intelligible to us only in the light
given by the idea of God.* God re-
veals himself to our reason as creator,
* A carefiil attention to the succeeding argument
win show that by the idea of God given to intuition,
is not meant the eToIved idea, but the idea capable
of evolution, or the idea of infinite, neceflsary being,
which b shown U be the Idea of Ood by deinonstr»-
Uon.
and by means of the creative act. This
is the limit of our natural light, and
beyond it we cannot see anythmg by a
natural mode, either in God, or in the
universe.
The idea of Grod must not be con-
founded with that distinct and explicit
.conception which a philosopher or well-
instructed Christian possesses. If the
human mind possessed this knowledge
by an original intuition, every human
being would have it, without instruc-
tion, from the very first moment of
the complete use of reason, and
could never lose it. * The idea of
God is the affirmation of himself ixs
pure, eternal, necessary being, the
original and first principle of all ex-
istence, which he makes to the rea-
son in creating it, and which consti-
tutes the rational light and life of the
souL This constitutive, ideal princi-
ple of the soul's intelligence exists at
first in a kind of embryonic state. The
soul is more in a state of potentiality
to intelligence, than intelligence in act.
The idea of God is obscurely enwrap-
ped and enfolded in the substance of
the soul, imperfectly evolved in its
most priimtive acts of rational con-
sciousness, and implicitly contained
but not actually explicated in ever/
thought that it thinks, even the most
simple and rudimental. The intelli-
gence must be educated, in order to
bring out this obscure and implicit idea
of God into a distinct conception in
the reflective consciousness. This edu-
cation begins with the action ^of the
material, sensible world on the soul
through the body, and specifically
through the brain. The human soul
was not created to exist and act under
the simple conditions of pure spirit;
but as is incorporated in a material
body. The body is not a temporary
habitation, like the envelope of a la:hra,
but an integral part of man. The
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PrMenu of the Age.
519
intelligence is awakened to activity
through the senses, and all its per-
ceptions of the intelligible are through
the medium of the sensible. The sen-
sible world is a grand system of out-
ward and visible signs representing the
spiritual and intelligible world. Lan*
guage is the science and art of subsi-
diary s^s, the equiv^^.nts of the phe-
nomena of the sensible world and of
nil that we apprehend through them ;
and forming the medium for communi-
cating thought among men. For this
reason, all language so far as it repre-
sents the conceptions of men concern-
ing the spiritual word is metaphorical ;
and even the word spirit is a figure
taken from the sensible world.
When the obscure idea is completely
evolved, and the soul educated, throu^
these outward and sensible media, the
reflective consciousness attains to the
distinct conception of God. This edu-
cation may be imperfect, and the re-
flective consciousness may have but an
incomplete conception expressed in
language by an inadequate formula;
but the idea is indestructible, and the.
mental conception of it can never be
totally corrupted. This would be
equivalent to the cessation of all
thought, the annihilation of all concep-
tion of being and truth, and the ex-
tinction of all rational life in the souL
It is a mere negation of thought,
which cannot be thought at all, and a
mere non-entity. There is no such
thing as absolute scepticism. Partial
scepticism is possible. Revelation may
be denied as to its complete conception,
but the idea expressed in revelation
cannot be utterly denied. The being
of God may be denied, as to its com-
plete conception, but not completely
as to the idea itself. No sceptic or
atheist can make any statement of his
doubt or dislieliof, which docs not con-
tain an affirmation of that ultimate
idea under the conception of real and
necessary being and truth. Much less
can he enunciate any scientific formu-
las respecting philosophy, history, or
any positive object, without doing so.
Vast numbers of men are ignorant of
the true and formed conception of Grod,
but every one of them affirms the idea
in every distinct thought which lie
thinks ; and every human language,
however rude, embodies and perpe-
tuates it under forms and conceptions
whicb are remotely derived from the
original and infallible speecli of the
primitive revelation. Although the
mass of mankind cannot evolve the
idea of God into a distinct conception,
and even gentile philosophy failed to
enunciate this conception in an ade-
quate form, yet when this conception
is clearly and perfectly enunciated by
pure theistic and Christian philoso-
phy, reason is able to recognize it as
the expression of its own primitive and
ultimate idea. It perceives that the
object which it has always beheld by
an obscure intuition, is God, as pro-
posed in the first article of the Christ-
ian formula. The Christian church,
in instructing the uninstructed or par- ..
tially instructed mind in pure theism,
interprets to it, and explicates for it,
its own obscure intuition, "thus it is
able to see the truth of the being of
God ; not as a new, hitherto unknown
idea, received on pure authority, or by
a long deduction from more ultimate
truths, or as the result of a number of
probabilities; but as a truth which
constitutes the ultimate ground of its
own rational existence, and is only un-
folded and disclosed to it in its own
consciousness by the word and teach-
ing of the instructor, who gives distinct
voice to its own inarticulate or de-
fectively uttered affirmation of God.
So it is, that Grod affirms himself to
the reason originally by the creative
act which is first apprehended by the
reason through the medium of the sen-
sible, and interpreted by the sensible
signs of language to the uninstructed.
Thus we know God by creation, and
the creation comes into the most im-
mediate contact with us on its sensible
side.
It has been said above, that we can-
not separate the creative act from God
in the primitive idea of reason. It
is not meant by this that reason has
Digitized by CjOOQIC
520
I^roUms of the Age.
An intuition of God as necessarily a
creator. What is meant is, that the
idea of God present to an intelligent
mind distinct from God, presupposes
the creative act affirming to it an ob-
ject di&tinct from itself, and itself as
distinct from the object. When the
subject is eonscious of this truths
*< God affirms himself to me," there
are two terms ih the formula, ^ Gt)d,"
and ^ Me }" involying the third unit*
ing term d* the creatiye act The
perception of other existences is si-
multaneous wiih the perceptloQ of
himself^ but logically prior to it ; and
his first rational act apprehends the
existence of contingent, created sub-
stances, as well as the being of the ab-
solute, uncreated essence* The ele-
ments of God and creation ave in the
most ultimate and primitive act of rea-
son, and therefore in its constitutive
idea* The creation is Jthe idea of fin-
ite essences in God extcmized by
the Word who speaks them into exist-
ence. By the same Word, the intelli-
gent, rational portion of creation is en-
Hgbtened with the knowledge of this
idea. It beholds God, as he expresses
this idea in the creative act, and in no
otherwise. It cannot see immediately,
the necessity of his being, or, so to
speak, the cause why God is and must
be, but only the affirmation of tins
necessity in the creative act. But this
affirmatioa is necessarily in conformity
with the truth. It presents being as ab-
solute, and creation as contingent, and
therefore not necessary. False con-
ceptions may not discriminate accu-'
lately between the two terms, being
and existence ; but when these false
conceptions are corrected, and the idea
brought fully into light, the very
terms in which it is expressed clearly
indicate God as alone necessary, cre-
ation as contingent, and the creative act
as proceeding from the free will of the
Creator.
Grod, and creation, are thus simul-
taneously affirmed in the creative act
constituting the soul; although God is
affirmed as first and erealaon second,
in the logical order: God as cause and
creation as effect ; and although crea-
tion maybe first distmctly perceived
and reflected (m, as being more con«
natural to the reflecting subject himself,
and moro directly in contact witli his
senses and reflecting faculties. The
knowledge of God is limited to that
which he exfoesses by the similitude
of himself exhibited in the creation.
Our positive conceptions of God in the
reflective order are therefore derived
from the imitations, or representa-
tions of the divine attributes in the
world of created existences. An infi-
nite, and, to natural powers, impassable
abyss, separates us from the immediate
intuition of the Divine Essence. The
highest contemplative cannot cross this
chasm ; and the ultimatum of mystic
theology is no more than the confession
that the essence of God is unseen and
invisible to any merely human in-
tuition, unknown and unknowable by
the natural power of any finite in-
telligence. We know tU Deu$ nV, sed
non quid nt Detts — thai God is, but not
tahat he is. We know that God is, by
the affirmation of his l^eiolg to reason. *
We form conceptions that enable our
reflective faculties^ to grasp this aflSir-
mation, by means of &e created cb-
jects in which he manifests his attri-
butes, and through which, as through
signs and symbols, images and pictures,
he represents his perfections.
This is the doctrine of St. Paul, the
great father of Christian theology.
'' Quis enim hominum,8cit quae sunt
hominis, nisi spiritns hominis qui in
ipso est ? Ita, et quss Dei sunt, nemo
cognovit, nisi Spiritus DeL"
^ For what man knoweth the things
of a man, but the spirit of man which
is in hun ? So die things also that
are of God, no one. knoweth but the
Spirit of God."
We understand this to mean, that
God alone has naturally the immediate
intuition of bis own essence and of
the interior life and activity of his own
being within himself.
^ Quod notum est Dei manifestum
* That Ui, after we have demonstrated that which is
inrolTtd ia the idea of beiag.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Probiem of tie Age.
521
est in illis, Deus enim illis manifes-
tavit. Inviflibilia emm ipsius, a crea-
tura miindi, per ea qcue facta simt
intelleota, consptoiuiitar; sempiterna
quoqne ojizs Tirtus et divinitas." ^That
which is known of God is manifest
in them. ^For God bath manifested
it to them. For the inrisible things
of him, fxom the creation of the world,
are dearly seen, beingjmderstood bj
the things Uiat are made ; his eternal
power also and dtvinity."
That is, Grod affirms himself distinct-
ly to the reason by the creatiTe act,
and simultaneoosly with the showing
which he makes of his works.
^Videmus nunc per speculum m
enigmate.**
'^ We see now throngh a glass in an
.obscure manner, or more literally, in
A riddle, parable, or allegory/'*
That is, we understand ibib attributes
and interior relations of God as these
are made intelligible to onr minds by
analogies derived from created things,
in which, as in a mirror, the image of
God is reflected. The original and
obscure idea of God given to reason
in its constitution — but given only on
that side of it which faces creaJtion,'
induding therefore in itself creation
and its relation to the creator — ^may be
represented in various forms. It must
be distinctly borne in mind that our
natural intuition is not an intuition of
the substance or essence of the divine
being, or an intuition of God by that
uncreated light in which he sees him-
self and h^ works. God presents
himself to the natural reason as Idea,
or the first principle of intelligence
and the intelligible, by the intelligi-
bility which he gives to the creation.
He does not disclose himself in his
personality to the intellectual vision,
but affirms himself to reason by adivine
judgment Onr natural knowledge of
God is th«!<efore exdusivdy in the
ideal order. The intuition from which
this knowledge is derived may be call-
ed the intuition of the infinite, the
eternal, the absolute the necessary, the
•lOor.ILll;
uil9, SO;10ot.x1U.12.
Uiie, the beautiful, the good, the first
cause, the ultimate reason of things,
etc Real and necessary being, con-
sidered as the ground of the contin-
gent and as fadng the created intellect,
adequatdy embraces and represents
alL This intuition enters into all
thought and is inseparable from the
activity of the intelligent mind. The
intellect always does and must appre-
hend, the real, whidi is identical with
tlie ideal, in its thought:; and when
this reality or verity which it appre-
hends is reflected on, it always yields
up t^ elements, the necessary and
the contingent, the infinite and the fin-
ite, the absolute and the conditioned.
In apprehendii^ God, we necessarily
apprehend that the soul which appre-
hends and the creation by which it ap-
prehends him, must exists In appre-
hending creation, we apprehend that
God must be in order that tbie crea-
tion may have existence. If we could
suppose reason to b^n with the idea
of God, pure ^ and simple, we could
not show how it could arrive at any
idea of the creature.' f Neither could
we, beginning with the exclusive idea
of the conditioned, deduce the idea of
the absolute and necessary. _ We can
n€<rer arrive by discursive reasoning,
by reflection,* by logks, by deduction
or induction, at any truth, not indnd-
ed in the principles or intuitions with
which we start « Demonstration dis-
covers no new troth, but only discloses
what is contained in the intuitions of
reason. It explicates, but does not
create. All that we know therefore
aboufbeing and existences is contained
implidtly in our original intuition.
Real being is the impiediate object
apprehended by reason, as St Thomas
teaches, after Aristotle. ^'Ens namque
est objectum intellectus primum, cum
nihil sciri possit, nisi ipsum quod est ens
in actu, ut dicitur in 9 Met Unde nee
oppositum ejus intelligere potest in-
tellectus, non ens." " For being is the
primary object of the intellect, since
nothing can be known but that which
is being in act, as it is said in the 9
Met TVherefore the intellect cannot
Digitized by CjOOQIC
522
Rvblems of (he Age*
apprehend its opposite or not being.***
This appears to be plain. Either the
intelligible which the intelligence ap-
prehends is real or unreal, actaal be-
ing or not being, entity or nonentity,
something or nothing. If the intelli-
genoe apprehends the unreal, not be^
ing, not entity, no thing; it is not
intelligence, it does not apprehend.
These very terms are unstatabie ex*
cept as negations of a positive idea.
I must hare the idea of the real, or of
being in act, before I can deny it. I
must have the idea of my own exist-
ence before I can deny I existed a
century ago. If I deny or question
my present existence, I must affirm it
first, before I deny it, by making my-
self the subject of a certain predicate,
non-existence, or dubious existence.
There is only one door of escape
open, which is the affirmation of an
intuition of possible being. But what
is the intuition of the possible without
the intuition of the actual ? How can
I affirm that being is possible, unless
I have an intuition of a <^use or rea-
son situated in the very idea of being
which makei^ it possible, and if possi-
ble necessary and actual ? The very
notion of absolute being which is pos-
sible only, that is, reducible to act btit
not reduced to act, is absurd. For it
is not reducible to act except by a prior
cause which is then itself actual, neces-
sary being, and ultimate cause. Po-
tentiality or possibility belongs only to
the contingent, and is mere creability
or reducibility to act through an effi-
cient causa Wherefore we cannot
apprehend possible existence except
in the apprehension of an ultimate^
creative cause. All that is intelligible
is either necessary being, or contingent
existence having its cause in necessary
being. The abstract or logical world
is only a shadow or reflection of the
real in our own minds, and instead i]^^
preceding and conditioning intuition,
it is its product.
The real object apprehended by
reason has various aspects, but they
are aspects of the same object The
• • Opia. cxlll. c L
intuition of one aspect of being is
called the intuition of tnith or of the
true, including truth both in the abso-
lute and the contingent order. Truth,
in regard to finite things, is the corre-
spondence of a conceptiqp to an objec-
tive reality. This finite Aality can-
not be apprehended as true without a
simultaneous apprehension of neces-
, sary and eternal tnith as its ground
and reason. The mathematical truths,
for instance, in their application to ex-
isting things, express tfie relations of
finite numbers and quantities. They
are, however, apprehended as neces-
sarily and eternally true in an order
of being independent of time, space,
and all contingent existences; which
order of being is absolute : the type of
all existing things, the ultimate ground
of truth, the intelligible in se.
The intuition of the beautiful, whicli
is "the splendor of the true," is the in-
tuition of a certain type and the con^
formity of existing things to it, causing
a peculiar complacency in the intellect.
This complacency is grounded on a
judgment of the eternal fitness and
harmony of things, that is, of an abso-
lute and necessary reason of their or-
der in eternal truth, that is, in absolute
being.
The intuition of the good is an in-
tuition of being considered as the
necessary object of volition, and of ex-
istences as having in their essence a
ground of desirableness or an aptitude
lo terminate an act of the wilL Hence
good and being are convertible terms.
The absolute good is absolute being,
and created good is a created exist-
ence conformed to the type of the
good which is necessary and eternal.
The intuition of the infinite reduces
itself in like manner to the intuition of
absolute being accompanied by the
intuition of the finite or relative with
which it is compared. The absolute
is being in its plenitude, the intelligible
as comprehended by intelligence in its
ultimate act, neither admitting of any
increase. The finite is that which can
be thought as capable of increase, but,
increai^ indefinitely, never reaches
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ProUems of the Age.
528'
the infinite. The term infinite, as
F^n61on well observes, though nega-
tive in form— expressing the denial of
limitation — ^is the expression of a posi-
tive idea. Herbert Spencer proves
the same in » luminous and cogent
manner, even from the admissions of
philosophers of the sceptical school of
Kant.* The intuition of the infinite
gives us that which is not refferrible
to an idea of a higher order, but is it-
self that idea to which all others are
referred as the ultimate of thought
and being. This intuition of the in-
finite always presents itself behind
every conception, and makes itself the
first elepent of every thought
This is clearly seen in the concep-
tions, commonly called the ideas, of
space and time. The intuition of the
infinite will never permit us to fix any
definite, nnpassablc limits to these
conceptions, but forces us to endeavor
perpetually to grasp infinity and eter-
luty under an adequate mental repre-
sentation, which we cannot do. We
musty however, if we are faithful to
reason, recognize behind these concep-
tions of space that cannot be bounded
and time that cannot be terminated
either by beginning or end, the idea
of being' infinite as regards both, the
reason of the possibility of finite things
bearing to each other the relations of
co-existence and successive duration.
The same intuition is at the root of
the conception of the impossibility of
limiting the divisibility of mathemati-
cal quantity. "Whichever way we
turn, the idea of the infinite presents
itself. We can never reach the
boundary of multiplicability, nor can
we reach the boundary of divisibility,
which is only another form of multipli-
cability. The conception of ideal
space and number is rooted in the idea
of the infinite power of God to create
existences which have mathematical
relations to each other. The positive
multiplication or division of lines and
numbers must always have a limit,
but the radical possibility must always
remain infinite, because it is included
* First Prindplm of a New Syfllem of Phllosoph/.
in the idea t)f God, which transcends
all categories of soace, time or limita
tion.
The intuition of cause is in the
same order of thought. Necessary
being and contingent existence cannot
be apprehended in the same idea,
without the connecting link of the
prmciple of causation. It has been
fully proved by Hume and Kant, that
we cannot certainly conclude the
principle of causation from any induc-
tion of particular facts. We always
assume it, before we begin to make
the induction. It is an a priori judg-
ment that everything which exists
must have a cause, and that all finite
causes, receive their causality from a
first cause or causa causarum. Few
every finite cause has a beginning,
which comes from a prior cause, and
an infinite series of finite causes beihg
absurd, the idea of causation ne-
cessarily includes first cause, and is
incapable of being thought or stated
without it. Existence is not intelligi-
ble in itself, but in its cause, absolute
.being. Absolute being, though in-
telligible in itseltj is not intelligible to
human reason, except by the causative
act terminated in existences, and mak
ing them intelligible. That is, being
and existence, in the relation of cause
and eff*ect, are presented, and affirmed
to reason, as the one complex object
of lU original intuition, and its con-
stitutive idea.
T^s is the point of co-incidence of
the a priori and a posteriori argu-
ments, demonstrating the Christian
theiqtic conception. They analyze
the synthetic judgment of reason,
and show its cx)ntents. The argument,
a priori analyzes it on the side of be-
ing, showing what is contained in be-
ing, or ens. The argument a pos-
teriori axusLiyzeB h on the side of^ ex-
istence, existentia. But either argu-
ment implicitly contains the other. It
is impossible to reason on either the
first or last term of the synthetic judg-
ment, without taking in the middle
term of causation, which implies the
third term, existence, if you begin
Digitized by CjOOQIC
524
ProUeme of the Age,
witli being, and the first term, leing,
if 70U begin with existence. The
theistic conception is God Creator.
The theologian who begins to prove
the proposition, God creates the world,
cannot deduce creation bj showing
what is contained m ttie pure and
simple idea of necessary, self-existmg
being. The idea of Grod includes the
creative power, but not the creative
act, which is free, and cannot be de-
duced from the primitive intuition,
unless God affirms it to the reason in
that intuition ; fend even the creative
powv, or the possibility of creation,
cannot be deduced by human reason
from the idea of necessary being.
Thus, the argument a priori really
4oes not conclude the enect, that is,
creation, by demdnstrating it from the
nature of the cause alone, but as-
sumes it as known from the begm-
ning.
In like manner, the theologian, who
argues from the creation up to the
creator, or from eiTeet to cause, as-
sumes that the creation is really crea-
ted, and the effect of a cause exterior
to itself; otherwise, the term existence
could never conduct him to the term
being.
We cannot demonstrate beyond
what is given us in intuition, for all
demonstration is a simple unfolding of
the intuitive idea. The idea presents
to us the creative act If we reflect
the causative or creative principle,
whatever we logically explicate from
it is indubitably true, because ill con-
formity with the idea of first cause.
If we reflect the terminus of the
causative act, or creation, whatever
we logically explicate ftx)m it respect-
ing the nature of eminent cause is
indubitably true, for the same reason.
In both cases we reason validly, and
demonstrate all that is demonstrable
in the case. In the first instance, we
demonstrate what is really contained
in the idea of necessary being, and
bring this idea — under the form of a
distinct conception — ^face to face with
the reflective reason. In the second
instance, we demonstrate the order of
the universe, and the manifestation in
it of divine power, wisdom and good-
ness. We demonstrate that the the-
istic conception, or the conception of
God and his attributes, contained in
Christian Theology, is that which we
know intuitively in the light of the
primitive idea, lo^cally explicated
and represented by analogy in lan-
guage. What we do not demonstrate,
is the objective reality of the idea ; for
this is indemonstrable, as being the
first principle of all demonstration.
The idea is intelligible in itself, and
illuminates the reason with intelli-
gence. The office of logic and rea-
soning is to inspect and scrutinize the
idea, to represent in reflection that
which is intelligible. By this process
the idea of necessary being evolves
itself, necessarily, into the complete
theistic conception of God, as is
shown most amply in the treatises
of theologians and religious writers.*
We will endeavor to sum up their re-
sults in as brief and universal a syn-
opsis as possible.
Beginning at this pomt, real ne-
cessary being is in itself the intelligi-
ble ; we lay down first that which is
most radical and ultimate in the con-
ception of the living, personal God
and Creator; namety, absolute, in-
finite intelligence.
The absolute intelligible being must
be absolute inteUigent being. The
intelligible is only intelligible to intel-
ligence. What IS the idea, or ideal
truth or being, without an intelligent
subject ? What is infinite idea, or in-
finite object of thought, without infinite
intelligent subject ? That which is
intelligible in itself necessarily, al)so-
lutely, and infinitely, must necessarily
be the terminating object of intelli-
gence equal to itself, that is infinite.
This intelligence cannot be created,
for then it wotdd be finite. It must
be included in absolute being. Bc-
* It will be Meft, tiMT^fore, thai tlie WfBBMnto •
priori and a posteriori demonstrating the Christian
doctrine of Qod, as stated bv the great OMhoUe The-
ologians, hare not been impugned, bat, on the
eontrary, -vindicated from the misrepresentation of
a more modem and less profonod tcbool of |iUk^
sophers.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
firoNenu of the Age.
525
hig inchides in itselF all that is. It
therefore includes intelligence. It con-
tuns in itself all that is necessaiy to
{(s own perfection. Its perfection as
intelligible requires its perfection as
intelligent Absolute being is there-
fore infinitely intelligible and intelli-
gent in its own nature and idea. It
is the intelligible being whibh is intel-
ligent being, and only intelligent spir-
it, which is in its very essence intellip
gence, can be necessarily and infinite-
ly intelligible; for only self-existent
infinite spirit has the absolute infinite
activity necessaiy to irradiate the
light of the intelligible. The light of
the intelligible inxidiates our created
intelligence by an act which consti-
tutes it rational spirit. This act
must be the act of supreme, absolute,
infinite inteUigence. Whatever is in
the creature, must be infinite in the
creator. The world of finite, intelli-
gent spirits can only proceed from an
infinite, intelligent spirit, as first and
eminent cause. The sensible and
physical world also is apprehended
by our reason as intelligible, and is
intelligible, only in intelligent cause ;
which throws open the vast and mag
nificent field of demonstration from
the order and harmony of nature.
The intelligible in the order of the
finite, is a reflection of the intelligible
in the order of the infinite. The intel-
ligible in the order of the infinite, is
the adequate object of infinite intelli-
gence. The intelligible in se is iden-
tical with being in its plenitude ; and
being in plenitude is necessarily in-
finite, intelligent spirit*
From this point the way is clear
and easy to verify all that theologians
teach respecting the essential attri-
butes of God. We have merely to
explicate the idea of intelligent spirit
possessing being in its plenitude. All
* BecAuse, if we concelye of anjr essence that !t is
not spirhual, we can conoeire of one that is more
peffeoty namoij, that which has thes^ two attributes ;
and Ir we conceive of one that Is finite In infelll-
gtnoe, we can eoncelve of one that is sapcrior. or las
greaierplenitude of being, untU we reach the inA-
nUe. The very conception of bebag tn plenitude Is
being that exclades the conoepOon of tba yoMihiUly
of ihal which is greater than itselt
that has being— that is, every kind of
good and perfection that the mind can
apprehend in the divine essence by
means of creatures— must be attributed
to God in the absolute and infinite
sense. Wj cannot grasp plenitude of
being fiiUy under one aspect or form.
We are obliged to discriminate and dis-
tinguish qualities or attributes of bemg
in God. But this is not by the way of
addition or composition of these attri-
butes with the idea of the simple es-
sence of God. B is by the way of
identification.* Thus, being is identi-
fied with the intelligible and with in-
telligence. All the attributes of God
are identified with each other and
with his being.
This is what is meant by saying
that God is most simple* being, ens
simpUcisntnum. The pure and sim-
ple idea of being contains in itself
every possible predicate: hence we
can predicate nothing of it that can
add to it, or combine with it, to make
a composite idea greater than the idea
of being in its simplicity. It comes
to the same, when we say that God
is most pure act, actus purissi-
mus, which merely ascribes to him
actual bemg in eternity to the utmost
limit of possibility, or to the ultimate
comprebensibility of the idea of being
by the infinite mtelHgence of God.
In the first place, then, we demon-
strate the unity of God. There can be
but one infinite being. For the intel-
ligible being of God is the adequate
object of his intelligence. Therefore
there is no other infinite, intelligime
object of infinite intelligence.
God is absolutely good. For his
own being is the adequate object of
his volition, and the definidon of good
is adequate object of volition, so that
being is identical with good.
God is all-powerfiil. For there is
no intelligible idea of power, which
transcends the knowledge God has of
his own being as including the ability
to create.
God is infinitely holy. For the in-
tellect and the will of God terminate
upon the sameobjeet, that is, upon hia
Digitized by CjOOQIC
626
PrMmm of ths Age.
own being, and conseqnendj agree
with each other ; and the very notion
of the sanctity of Gk>d ia the perfect
harmon J of his intellect and will in
infinite good.
God is immatable. For any change
or progression implies a moTement
toward the absolnte plenitade of be-
ing, and is inconsistent with the ne-
cessary and eternal possession of this
plenitude.
God is infinite and eternal ; abore
all categories of limitation, succession,
time or space ; for this is only to say
that he is most simple being, and most
pare act
God is absolute truth and beauty,
for these are identical with being.
He is infinite love, for he is the in-
finite object of his own intelligence
comprehended as the term of his own
Tolition.
For the same reason, he is infinite
beatitude, since beatitude simply ex-
presses the repose and comphM^ncy of
intelligence and will in their adequate
object and is identical with love.
God is an ocean of boundless, un-
fathomable good and perfection, to
whom everything must be attributed
that can increase our mental concep-
tion of his infinite being. We can go on
indefinitely, explicating this conception,
and every proposition we can make
which contains the statement of any-
thing positive and intelligible, is self-
evident ; requiring no separate proof,
but merely verification as truly identi-
fying something with the idea of being.
^ We shall nay much and yet shall
want words ; but the sum of our words
is, HE IS ALL."* Nevertheless, our
reason is not brought face to face with
God by any direct intuition or vision of
his intimate, personal essence. Every
word, every conception, every thought
expressing the most complete and vivid
act of the reflective consciousness on
the idea of G^ is derived from the
creation, and gives only a speculative
and enigmatical representation of the
being of God itself, as mirrored in the
periections of created, contingent ex-
*iooi«i.xun.w.
istences. Though we see all things by
its light, the sun itself, the original
source of intelligSde light, is not within
our rational honzon. The creation is
illuminated by it with the light of in-
telligibility, and by this light we become
spectators of the creative act of God.
The creative act is doIk a transient
efibrt of poVer, but a durable, contin-
uous, ever-present act, by which God
is always creating the nniverae. The
creation has its being not in itself but
in God. All that we witness there-
fore and come in contact with, is but
the radiation of light, life, truth, beau-
ty, happiness ; physical, mentsd, and
spiritual existence; from God, the
source of being. We see the archi-
tecture which proceeds from his mi^ty
designs ; we behold the infinitely va-
ried and ever shifting pictures and^
sculptures in which he embodies his'
infinite idea of his own beauty. We
hear the harmonies that echo his eter-
nal blessedness ; the colossal machinery
of worlds plays regularly and resisl-
lessly by the force which he commmd-
cates around us ; his signs, emblems,
and hieroglyphics are impressed on our
senses ; the perpetual affirmation of his
being is always making itself heard in
the depth of our reason. The perpe-
tual influx of creative force from him
is every instant giving life and exist-
ence to our body. We breathe in it,
and see by it, and move through its
energy. It is every instant creating
our souL When our soul fir^t came
out of nothing into existence, it was
created by a whisper of the divine
word, which simultaneously gave it
existence and the faculty of appre-
hending that whisper, by which it was
made. Qod whispered in the soul the
affirmation of his own being as the au-
thor of all existence. This whisper is
perpetual, like the creative act. It
constitutes our rational life and activ-
ity. By its virtue we think and are *
conscious. It concurs with every in-
tellectual acL When the soul is sUlleat
and its contemplation of truth the most
profound, then it is most distinctly
heard ; but it cannot be drowned by aay
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Problemt of the Age.
527
tumaU or clamor. "In God we live^
and move, and have onr being/' We
float in the divine ides as in an ocean.
It meets us everywhere we turn. We
cannot soar above it, dive beneath it,
or sail in sight of its coasts. It is our
rational element, in which our rational
existence was created, in which it was
itiade to live, and we recognize it in
the same act in which we recognize our
own existence. It is necessary to the
original act of self-consciousness, and
enters into the indestructible essence
of the soul, as immortal spirit
The Creed, therefore, when it pro-
poses its first article to a child who is
capable of a complete rational act, only
brings him face to face with himself^
or with the idea of his own reason.
It gives him a distinct image or re-
flection of that idea, a sign of it, a
veriml expression for it. a formula by
which his reflective faculty can work
it out into a distiiffct conception. As
soon as it is fanrly apprehended, he
perceives its truth with a rational cer-
titude which reposes in the intimate
depths of his own consciousness. It
is true that he cannot arrange and ex-
press his conceptions, or distinctly
analyze for himself the operations of
his own mind, in the manner given
above. This can only be done by one
who is instructed in theology. But
although he is no theologian or
philosopher, he has nevertheless the
substance of philosophy or sapientioj
and of theology, in his intellect ; deep-
er, broader and more sublime than all
the measurements and signs of meta-
physicians can express. We have
taken the child as creditive subject in
this exposition, in order to exhibit the
ultimate rational basis of faith in its
simplest act, and, so to speak, to show
its genesis. But we do not profess to
stop with this simple act which initi-^
ates the reason in it» childhood into
the order of rational intelligence and
faith; rather we take it as only the
terminus of starting in the prosecution
of a thorough investigation of the com*
plete development which infelb'gent
fiuth imfolda in the adult and inatmct-
ed reason of a Christian fully educated
in theological science. Henoe we have
given the conception God in its scien-
tiflc form, but as the scientific form of
that which is certainly and indubitably
apprehended in its essential substance
by every mind capable of making an
explicit and complete act of raetional
faith in God as the creator of the
world. In the language of Wordsworth,
** The child is father of the man.". A
complete rational act in a child has In
it the germ of all science. He is as
certain that two and two make four,
as is the consummate mathematician.
A complete act of faith in a child is
as infalHble as the fiuth of a theolo-
gian, and has m it the germ of all
theology. He is able to say *' Credo
in Deum** with a perfect rational cer-
titude ; and this conclusion is the goal
toward which the whole precedm;jr
, argument has been tending.
But here we are met with a diffi*
culty. The principle of faith cannot
itself fall under the dominion of faith,
or be classed with the eredendo^ which
we believed on the veracity of God.
How tiien can Credo govern Deum.
The necessity for an intelligible basis
for faith has been established, and
this basis located in the idea of God
evolved into a conception demonstra-
ble to reason from its own constitu-
tive princij^s. It would therefore
seem that instead of saying " I believe
in Grod,** we ought to say " I know
that Gk>d is, and is the infinite
truth in himself, therefore I believe,**
etc
This formula does really express a
process of thought contained in the
act of faith, and implied in the signifi-
cation of Credo. Credo includes in
itself inteUtgo. Divine faith presup-
* poses, and incorporates into itself, hu-
man intelligence and human faith, on
that side of them which is an inchoate
capacity for receivmg its divine, ele-
vating influence. Hence the propriety .
of using the word OredOy leaving intel"
Kgo understood but not expressed,
l^e symbol <tf faith is not intended to
express aay object of onr knowledge,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
528
Th€ King and the Bishop.
except as unite! to the object of
faith. For this reason it does not dis-
criminate in the proposition of the ver-
ity of the being of God, that which is the
direct object of intelligence, but presents
it under one term with those proposi-
tions concerning God which are onlj
the indirect object of intelligence
through the medium of divine revela-
tion. When we say Credo in Deum,
if we consider in Deum only that
which is demonstrable by reason con-
cerning God, the full sense of Credo is
suspended, until the revelation of the
silperintelhble is introduced in the
succeeding articles. The term Deum
terminates OredOy only inasmuch as
it is qualified by the succeeding terms;
that is, inasmuch as we profess our be-
lief in God as the revcaler of the truths
contained in the subsequent articles.
The foregoing statement applies to
the use of the word Credo in relation
with Deum in the first article of the
Creed, taking Credo in its strictest
and most exclusive sense of belief in
revealed truths which are above the
sphere of natural reason. In addition
to this, it can be shown that there is
a secondary and subordmate reason
on account of which the mental appre-
hension of that which is naturally in-
telb'^ble in God is included under the
term faith, taken in a wider and more
extensive sense
This intelligible order of truth, or
natural theology, was actually com-
municated to mankind in the begin-
ning, together with the primitive reve-
lation. We are, therefore, instructed
in it, by the way of faith.' The con-
ception of God, and thjB words which
communicate to us that . conception,
and enable us to grasp it, come to us
through tradition, and are received by
the mind before its faculties are fully
developed. We believe first, and un-
derstand afterward; and the greater
part of men never actually Attain to
the full understanding of that which is
in itself intelligible, but hold it con-
fusedly, accepting with implicit trust
in authority, many truths which the
wise possess as science. Moreover,
the term faith is often used to denote
belief in any reality which lies in an
order superior to nature and removed
from the sphere of the sensible, al-
though that reality ihay be demonstra-
ble from rationsd principles. In a
certain sense we may say that this re-
gion of truth is a common domain of
faith and reason. But we have now
approached that boundary line where
the proper and peculiar empire of
faith begins, and like Dainte, lefl by
his human guide on the coasts of the
celestial world, we must endeavor un-
^ der heavenly protection to ascend to
this higher sphere of thought.
From Once a W«ek.
THE KING AND THE BISHOP.
Before Hoskilde's sacred fane,
(The first the land has known.)
Attended by his courtier train,
And decked, as on his throne,
In costly raiment, glittering gay
Beneath the noon-day sun ;
All fresh and fair, as though the daj
Had seen no slaughter done«-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
7%tf King and A# Bishop. 5S9
•
As tkongh the aD-b^ioldiiig eye
Of that Omnjscieat Deity,
Whom, tttmkig ftxim the downward waj
Hia bealiteft finihera tfod,
H^gaided by a purer ray,
Katk chosen for his Ood-^
Had seen no darker, dreader sight,
TwiMi yester mom and yieater night,
Beheld by his approving eye«
Who, now, woQld draw his altar nigh ;
Ay, fresh and fair as to his soul
No taint of blood did ding,
As tbongh in heart and conscience whole,
Stan<£ Swend, the warrior4ing.
On his, as on a maidea^s cheek,
(Though bearded and a knight,)
The lojH hoes of Denmark speak*—
The crimson and the white ;
But mark ye how the angry hue
Keeps deepening, as be stands,
And mark ye, too, the courtly crew,
With lifted eyes and hands!
Across the portal, low and wide,
A slender bar from side to side.
The bishop's staff is seen ;
And holding it, with reverent hands
And head erect, the prelate stands,
A man of stately mien.
" Go backr he cries, and fronts the king.
Whilst clear and bold his accents ring
Throughout the sacred fane—
And Echo seems their sound to bring
Triumphant back again —
<^ Go back, nor dare, with impious tread,
Into the presence pure and dread.
Thy guilty soul to bring,
Impenitent-^0 thou, who art
A murderer, though a king T
A murmur, deepening to a roar,
'Mid those who were clust'ring round the door :
A few disjointed but eager words —
A sudden glimmer of nadked swords ;
And the bishop raised his longing eyes,
In speechless praise, to the distant skies ;
* Th« Sanlsh king, Swend, soon after hb entrance Into the Chrlstlin church, slew some of hU ** Jarls*'
without a trial, and, on preienttng hlauelf, after tho commLwlon of this erhne, at the portal of the newly-
ballt cathednl of Roekilde. In a&eaiaod, found It tanrred br the pastoral sfaff of the EBRlifh missionary and
bishop who had conrerted him. After receMng the rebake glren In the poem, and forbiddlnff his attendants
to molest the bishop, he returned whence bo cane, and shortly after, made his reappearance in the garb of a
penitent, when he was recelred by the prelate, and, after a certaUi time of penance, ^beolred ; after which
they became fut friends.
VOL. IIL 84
Digitized by CjOOQIC
580 Hke Rng and the BMop.
For he thought his labor would soon be o'er.
And his bark at rest, on the peaceful shore ;
And he pictured the crown, the inartTrs wear,
Floating slowlj down, on the voiceless air ;
TiU he almost fancied he felt its weight
On his brows — as he stood, and blessed his fate.
With a calm, sweet smile on his fkce, he bowed
His reverend head to the n^ng crowd —
(Oh I the sight was fair to see I)
And ^ Strike V* he cried, whilst thej held their breath.
To hear his words ; " For I fear not death
For him who has died for me !**
King Swend looked up, with an angry glare,
» At the dauntless prelate, who braved him there, *
Though he deemed his hour near ;
And he saw, with one glance of his eagle eve.
That that beaming smile and that bearing hi^
Were never the mask of fear 1
Right against might had won the day ; —
And he bade them sheathe their swords ; then turned.
Whilst an angry spot on his cheek still burned,
From the house of God away.
£re the hour had winged its flight, once more,
Behold ! there stood, at the temple door,
A suppliant form, with its head bowed down.
And ashes were there, for the kingly crown ;
And the costly robes, which had made erewhile
So gallant a show in the sunbeams' smile.
Had been cast aside, ere its glow was spent,
For the sackcloth worn by the penitent !
The bishop came down the crowded nave ;
His smile was bright, though his &ce was grave,
He paused at the portal, and raised his eyes.
Yet another time to those sapphire skies,
But he thought not now, that the look he cast
To that radiant heaven would be his last ;
And he thanked his Master again — ^but not
For the martyrdom that should bless his lot ;
For the close to the day of life, whose sun
Was to set in blood, on his rest was won :
Far other than this was his theme of praise,
As he murmured : ^ O thou, in thy works and ways
As wonderful now as when Israel went
Through the sea, which is Pharaoh's monument :
Though I pictured death in the fiashing^teel,
And 1 looked for the glory it should reveal,
Yet oh I if it be, as it seems to be.
Thy will, that I stay to glorify thee,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Youth of Si. Paul
531
To add to thy jewels, one by one ;
Then, Father in heaveni that will be done T'
Then on the monarch's humbled brow
The kiss of peace he pressed.
And led hhn, as a brother, now,
A little from the rest —
^ Here, as is meet, thy penance do,
And as thy penitence is tme,
So God will make it light I
Then ma3r8t thoa work -with me, that thus
The light that he hath given ns
May rise on Denmark's night P
M« T« F*
TnuBsUted from Le Gorrcflpondant
THE YOUTH OP SAINT PAUL.
BT L'ABBI LOUIB BAUV ABD.
At the time when Jesus Christ eame
into this world, the Jews were scat-
tered over the whole surface of the
earth. From the narrow valley in
which their religious law had confined
them for the designs of God, these
people of little territory had over-
flowed into all the provinces of the
Roman empire. Captivity had been
the beginning of their dispersion. Nu-
merous Israelitish colonists, who had
formerly settled in the land of their
exile, were still existing in Babylon,
id Media, even in Persia; others had
pushed their way fturther on to the
extreme east, even as far as China.
Finally, under the reign of Augustus,
they are found everywhere.*
It was the solemn hour in which,
according to the parable of the gospel,
the Father had gone forth to sow the
seed. The field, "that is the world,"
was filled with it already, and the time
was not far distant when the Lord,
"seeing the countries ripe for the har-
vest," would send out his journeymen
^ V. BcttoniL "fflftolre de 1» Pcopantlon do Jo-
'^ " ' "De Mlgraaonlbua
. ' Iielpcig, 1789. Grort,
Iletn*. extra patriam," 1817. Jott, ** Bkitoliv des !».
rabies depuS^lM MaohAb^/* etc
to reap, and gather the wheat into his
bams.
One of these families ^ of the disper"
sion,'* as they were staled, inhabited
the city of Tarsus in Cfilicia. Of this
once famous city nothing now remains
but a few ruins, and the modem Tar-
sous falls vastly short of that high
rank which the ancient Tarsus held
among the cities of the East Even
at present, however, it is called the
capital city of Caramania. Situated
on a small eminence covered over
with laurels and myrtles, at a distance
of about ten miles from the Mediter-
ranean sea, it is washed by the rapid
and cold waters of the Kararsou, and
its population during winter amounts
to more than thirty thousand souls. In
suriimer it is almost a desert. Chased
away by the burning heats which pre-
vail at this season from the sea-ooast,
men, women and children abandon
their homes and emigrate to the sur-
rounding heights, where ihey fix dieir
camp under k>fty cedars, which afibrd
Uiem shelter, shade, and coolness.*
« P.Bdco, '* VoyafM"-dt« Out Malte-Braih
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
^32
I%8 Tmah of JSk, Paul
It were difficult to draw, from what
it is at present, an exact pictare of the
ancient Tarsus. Instead of the sad,
disconsolate look of a Turkish oitj,
there was then in it the movement, tlie
ardor, the splendor of the Greek city,
proud of her politeness and her recol-
lections. According to Strabo, Tarsus
was a colony of Ai^s. As a proof
of the high state of its culture, the
Greeks related that the oompaoions of
Triptolemus, perambulating the earth
in search of lo, stopped at that place,
charmed by its richness and beauty.
Others traced its origin further back,
to the old kings of Assyria. At one
of the gates of Tarsus there had been
seen for a long time the tomb of Sar-
danapalus with the following inscrip-
tion under his statue: '^I, Sardanapa-
lus, have built Tarsus in one day.
Passenger, eat, drink, and give thyself
a good time ; the rest is nothing.'^* His-
tory, however, has w^ritten there other
remembrances. It was not far from
Tarsus that the intrepid Alexander
bad nearly perished in the icy waters
of the Cydnus. It was there upon
the sea, at the entrance of the river,
that the memombie interview and the
fatal alliance of Antony and Cleopatra
had just taken place in the midst of
voluptuous feasts. The wise provi-
dence that provides reparations for all
our pollutions, had chosen the city of
a Sardanapalus and of an Antony to
be the cradle of St FauL
For the rest. Tarsus was a city per-
fectly well built and of remarkable
beauty. From the fertile hill on which
she rested, she could contemplate the
direction toward the north and wes^ of
an undulating line, which traced rather
than hid the horLeon. This was the
outline of the first ascending grades, of
the mountains of Cilicia. At a short
distance ftaai ihe city the waters of
numerous living springs met together
and formed a rapid river, deef^ en-
chased, which flooQ reached and re-
freshed tiiat portion of her whicb the
historians call the Gymnasium^ and
we would name the *< Quarter of the
schools." Further on there was a har-
bor of peculiar and distinctly marked
outline. Philostcatns has described in
a striking and picturesque manner the
different habitudes oi the men of traffic
and of the literary class, representing
^Hhe former as slaves to avarice, the
latter to voluptuousness. All their
talk," says he, ^consisted in reviling,
taunting, and railing at each other
with shiup-biting words: whence one
might have easily seen that it was
only in tlieir dress they pretended to
imitate the Athenians, but not in pru-
dence and praiseworthy habits. They
did nothing else all day but walk up
and down on the banks of the river
Cydnus, which runs across this city, as
if tbey were so many aquatic birds,
passing their time in frolicsome levi-
ties, inebriated, so to speak, with the
pleasing delectation of those sweet-
flowing waters."*
Such, then, was the city in which a
vast multitude of young men, elegant,
voluptuous and wit^, crowded and
pressed each otber like a swann of
bees, for Tarsus was the most brilliant
intellectual focus of that time and
country. The foUowio^ is the descrip-
tion of it, given by Str^ : '« She car-
ries to such a height the culture of arts
and sciences, that she surpasses even
Athens and Alexi^dria. The dijOTer*^
ence between Tarsus and these two
cities is, that in the foimer the learned
are almost all indigenous. Few
strangers come hither; and even those
who belong to the CQuntry do not so-
journ here long. As soon as they
have completed the course of their
studies in the liberal arts^ they emi-
grate to S(»ae other place, and very
tew of them return to Tarsus afbr-
ward."
The best masters regarded it as an
honor to teach in tiie schools of thia
city of arts. There were in it such
grammarians as Artemidorus and JCiio«-
dorus I such brilliant poets and profes-
*rbiloBtrate/*I>eIatl
tradactioD de Blalae de "^
p. 108,164. Paris, 1611.
i d*ApoilQDtiui 'niya&6«Q,
Igeadre," llr. Iv. du Iv,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
IFhe Ta^ of St. Paul
533
gora of eloquence bs Plutiades and
Diogenes; such philosophers of the
jsect of the stoics as the two Atheno-
dori; of whom the first had been Cato's
friend In life, ai^d his companion in
death, and the second had been the
instnictor of Augustus, who, in token
of gratitude, appointed him governor
of Tarsus. For, it was the fate of
this learned citj to be under the ad-
ministration of men of letters, and of
philoiK^hers. She had been ruled by
die poet Boethus, the favorite of An-
tony.- Nestor, the Platonic philoso*
pher^ had also governed her. It is
easily ae^, however, that such men
are better prepared for speculaticms in
science, than for the administration of
public affairs, so that, in their hands,
Tarsus felt more than once those intes-
tine commotions, of which cities of
schools have never ceased to be the
theatre.
It was in this city, and under these
circomstancea, almost upon the fron-
tiers of Europe and Asia, in the very
heart of a great civilization, that St.
Paul was bom, about ^be twenty-
e^hth year of Augustas' reign, two
years before the birth of Christ.* He
himself informs us that he was a Jew
of the tnbe of Juda,t bom in the
. Grsek city of Tarsus, and a Roman
citizen : so that by parentage, b]^edu-
cation, and by privilege, he belonged
to the three great nations who bore
rule over the realm of thought and of
action. The grave historian^ who ex-
hausts the catak^e of the illustrious
men of Tarsus, never suspected what
man — ^very differently illustrious— had
just appeared there, and of what a
revolution he was to become the zeal-
ous defender as well as the martyr.
The Jewish origin of the Doctor of
JSTations was, as is easily understood,
of vast importance for fulfilment of
the designs of God. The religion of
Jesus Christ proceeds from Judaism,
continues and perfects it. It was,
« Thl9 would be BOv If St. Pftal Uved to tb« age of
Bixty-elgrhi ytttrs, M is stated In a HoDoily of St.
John Cbrysostom, vol. vi. of bis complete works.
t Beajdttilrt. See Bom, xt l.->ȣ{k, 0. W.
% Strabo, liv. xiv
therefore, well worthy of the wisdom
of God that his apostles should belong
to the one as well as to the other cove-
nant, and that he should thus extend
his hand to all ages, as he was to
extend it to all men.
This purity of origin was so con-
siderable a privilege, that it is by it
one may account to one's self for the
rage and fury with which the Ebion-
ite Jews in dbe first age of our era la-
bored to deprive him of it. Adher-
ing to the last rubbish of the law of
Moses, and, for this reason, irrecon-
cilable enemies to the great apostle
of the Gentiles, these sectarians ma-
liciously invented the following fable,
accordiiaig to the relation of St. Epi-
phanius«* " They say that he was a
Greek, that his rather was a Greek
as well as his mother. Having come
to Jerusalem in his youth, he had
sojourned there for a certain time.
Having there known the daughter of
the high priest, he had desired to
have her for his wife; and to this
end he had become a Jewish pro-
selyte. As he could not, however,
obtain the young maiden even at that
price, he had conceived a burning re-
sentment, and commenced to write
against the circumcision, the sab-
bath, and the law.'' It seems to me
that St. Epiphanius confers too great
an honor upon this romance j by
merely exposing and refiiting it.
I know on what foundation St.
Jerome afi&rms, on the contrary, that
St Paul was a Jew not only by de-
scent, but also by the place of his
birth. According to him, St. PauPfl
parents dwelt in the small town of
Girchala in Juda, when the Eoman
invasion compelled them to seek for
themselves a home somewhere else.
Therefore they took their son, yet an
in£uit, with them, and fied to Tarsus,
where they remained, waiting for bet-
ter day6.t
The declaration of St Paul him-
self, however, allows no doubt to be
• " Adv. Hieret" Ut. il. t. i. p. 140, No. xvi.
t "De Vlrla IllUBtrib. Catalog. Script. Bocles." t.
Lp.819
Digitized by CjOOQIC
534
The TauA of &. Pat J.
entertained as to his origin.* Bom
in TarsuSy he was circumcised there
on the eighth daj after his hirth, and
received the name of Saul, which he
exchanged afterward for that of Paul,
probably at the time when Serg^ns
Paulus had been converted by him to
the Christian faith.
His parents failed not to instruct
him in the law ; for, how distant so-
ever from their mother country might
have been the place in which they
lived, the Jews did not cease to render
to the God of their fathers worship,
more or less pure, but faithfuL Like
all other great cities of the Roman
empire, Tarsus had her synagogue
where the Law was read, and where
the religious interests of the Israelitic
people were discussed. It was there
that prayers were solemnly made with
the face turned toward the holy city :
for there was no temple anywhere
but in Jerusalem, whither numerous
and pious caravans from all the coun-
tries of Asia went every year to cele-
brate in Sion the great festivals of
the Passover and Pentecost, to pay
there the double devotion, and pre-
sent their victims. The bond of
union was thus fastened more firmly
than ever between the colonies and
the metropolis, in which great things
were soon expected to take place.
Jerusalem was not only the country
of memorials, but to Jewish hearts
she was also the land of hope, and
every eye was turned toward the
mountain whence salvation was to
come.
Saul grew up in Tarsus. We
must not seek in the youth of Saul for
those signs which reveal in advance
a great man. Li individuals of this
sort, devoted to the work of God, all
greatness is from him, the instrument
disappearing in the hand of the di\'ine
artificer. Whatever illusion icono-
graphy may have impressed us with
upon the point, Saul did not carry,
either in stature of body or in beauty
of features, the reflection of his great
soul, and at first sight the worid saw
in him only an insignificant Dcrsoa, as
he himself testifies, ^'axpechu corpo-
m infirmus," Beside, he was a
man of low condition, exercising s
trade, and earning his daily bread by
the sweat of his face. The rabbinical
maxims said that, ^ not to teach one's
son to work, was the same thing as to
teach him to steaL" Saul was, there-
fore, a workman, and everything leads
us to believe that he, who was to
carry Dght to nations, passed, like his
master, the whole of his obscure
youth in hard work, - He made tents
for the military camps and for travel-
lers. This was an extensive industry
in the East; and a great trade in
these textures was carried od in Tar-
sus with the caravans starting from
the ports of Cilicia and journeying
though Armenia, Persia, the whole of
Asia Major, and beyond.*
Manual occupation, however, did
not absoH) the whole time, nor the
whole soul of the young Israelite;
since the tradition of the fathers
points to him as frequenting the
schools of Tarsus, and joming that
studious swarm of young civilians
who crowded there to attend the
lectures delivered by the professors
of science and literaturcf His Epis*
ties retain some traces of these his
first studies. In these he quotes now.
and^hen words of the ancient poets,
Menander, Aratus, Epimenides. He
expressed himself with equal fadlkj
in the three great languages of the
civilised world, the Hebrew, the
Greek, and the Latin; and it is mani-
fest that he knew the secrets of the
art of eloquence, for which he retain-
< These eoqjeotnres In regard to St. PimI*i Urth
and parentage are not founded on any loUd basis,
but on the oontrarj ^>pear to be quite Improbable:
The author*8 citation from the Babbinkal maxiins orer-
turns the argument which he derires from the fhot thai
St. Panl practised a handicraft, Ail. Jews, whaterer
their birth or wealth, learned a trade. 8t Fanl*s
knowledge of the tent-malcer*s trade, therefore, docs
not prore that he was of low birth, or belonged to
the class of artisans. On the oontrarT. his posses-
sion of the pririlem of Roman cltiaenshlp, wlilch he
mnst hare inherited, and which could only hare
been oonterred on account of some great serrloa
rendered to the state by one of his ancestors, to-
Ether with his thcroogb edoeaUon, go to show that
I belonged to one of the moet eminent Jewish fkmt-
lies of Tarsus.— Id. 0. W.
tSaneU Hknm/ni, t tL SSI.— ** Oonn. Bpist. ad
Digitized by CjOOQIC
J%0 TqhA of &. Paul
535
ed in later times oolj a magoanimoiis
ooatempL He was also initiated in
philosophj, under the teachers whom
I have named akeadj. Besides
Stoicism, whose patrons and success
in Tarsus I have mentioned, Flaton-
ism flourished there under the pro-
tection of Nestor, a man of great
distinction, who had been the precep-
tor of that illustrious youth Marullus,
who was sung by Virgil, and bewailed
bj Augustus. Is it not, at this period,
that a young man of Tyana, himself
destined to acquire a strange celebrity,
came to Tarsus in his fourteenth year,
and passionately embraced there the
precepts • of Pythagorean doctrine?
The uncertabties of the history, which
was written by Philostratus after-
ward, do not permit us to say any-
thing definite upon this point; but
one cannot help thinking that it is
from the same place, and at the same
time, that those two extremes of the
power of good and of the power of
evil have set out — ^ApoUonius of
Tyana, and Saint Paul.
Finally, not far from there the
oriental doctrines drove to their sev-
eral beliefs respectively the multitudes
of Asia, and invaded also the Greek
cides of Asia Minor and the Islands.
, Thus Parsism on the one hand, and
Hellemsm on the other, met in Tarsus
with Judaism. By its position, as well
as by its commerce, the birthplace of
St Paul was the point of confluence of
the two currents of ideas, which shared
the world between themselves. From
this centre the future apostle was able
to embrace in one view all those differ-
ent sorts of minds which he was to
embrace in his zeal afterwards.
Such were his beginnings* In them
Saul plays an insignificant part ; but
God a great one ; God does not act
openly as yet; he prepares* But
what preparation! What a ooncu>
rence of circumstances manifestly pro-
vidential 1 What greatness even in
this obscurity I The seal of predesti-
nation is visibly impressed upon that
soul appointed to regenerate the ^orld
by the fiutb* The place, the tune, the
means, everything seems disposed,
conseorited in advance, as it were, for
a great scene. God incarnate was to
fill it, but he had chosen Saul of Taiv
sus to be in it the actor most worthy
of him*
n.
The second education of Saul took
place in Jerusalem. He was yet
young when his parents, yielding to
that instinct which recalled the Jews
to their native country, sent him, or,
perhaps, went and took him with
themselves, to the holy ci^, in order
to fix their residence there.
There occur in history some solemn
epochs ; but that in which Saul ar-
rived at Jerusalem possesses a conse-
cration which cannot belong to any
but to itself alone: it was what St.
Paul called, afterward, }^ the fulness
of the times." The seventy weeks
determined by Daniel, entered then
into the last phasis of their accomplish-
ment The sceptre had been taken
away from Judah, and, at a few steps
from the temple, a centurion, with the
vine-stock in his hand, quietly walked
around the residence of a Roman
proconsuL People were waiting to
see from what point the star of Jacob
was to appear. It had risen already,
and the young workman of Tarsus,
whUe going to Jerusalem, might have
met on his way with a workman like
himself, who, sitting at the foot of
some unknown hill, preached in para-
bles to the people of his own country
and of his condition. This was in
fact taking place under the second
Herod* Saul was then twenty-nine
years old, and the Word made flesh
dwelt among us full of grace and
truth.
Did Saul have the happiness to see
his divine Master during his m(»>tal
life ? Grave historians formally afiirm
it,* and some passages in the Epistles
allow us to beUeve it Others thmk
* AUos, •' Hlstolre UnlTeneU* dt l*%Uae," t L
pwl57.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
536
The Youth of Sl And.
that wbat 'fliej refer to is onlj the
vision on the road to DamascuB.
Bat, whatever maj be the differ-
ence of opinions upon this point, it
appears impossible that the fame of
Jesus' teaching and miracles did not
reach the ears of Saul, while living
in Judea: it is even probable that
Saul might have endeavored to see
him. ^We have known the Qmst
aoeordii^ to the flesh," be himself
wrote to the Corinthians.* This
last testinumj leaves yet some doubt
as to the interpietalioo ; bnt^ when one
reflects on the repeated utterance of
these expressions, as well as upon the
coincidence of dates and names, one
cannot help starting at the thought,
that on some unknown hour the Grod
and the apostle must have met, and
that Jesus, piercing into the future,
bestowed on the jcnith that deep and
tender look which he gave the young
man spoken of in the Gospel; and
that the Pharisee, who was to become
a vessel of election, Uien condemned
himself to the regret of having that
day neglected and mistaken the bless-
ed Grod, of whom he was afterward
to say in that language invented by
love, ^MM vivere Ohrii&us uty*
" For me to live, is Christ"
When Saul entered Jerusalem for
the first time, liie pious israelite must
doubtless have been astonished and
saddened at the same time. Herod
the Ascalonite had rendered her, ae-
cording to Pliny's testimony, the most
raagnifiCGKit city of the East ; but by
the profane chacacter of her embellish-
ments, she had lost much of her holy
originality. The prince courtier had
erected near by a circus and a theatre,
where festivals in honor of Augustus
were celebrated every fifth year. He
had repaired and transformed the
temple, but also profaned it ; and over
the principal gate of the holy place
one saw the glitter of the golden eagle
of Bome and of Jupiter, a double in-
sult to religion jmd liberty. Jerusar
lem was likely to become a Roman
*lCor.lz.land8Gor. T.16
dty ; her part was on the pdnt of be*
ing played out ; her priesthood w«a
expiring, she began to oast off its
insignia, and one saw die line gradu-
ally disappear which sqfMoaited her
fhm the cities of paganism.
Beside, Saul found her torn in
pieces by religious sects which had in
these latter times &stened to the body
of Judaism, as parasitical plants sti<JL
to the trunk of an old tree. Beiigioos
opinion was divided betweai the
Pharisees atnd the Sadducees. I speak
not of the Herodians, fur in the order
of ideas flatteries are not taken into
account, for this reason— 4)ecanBe to •
flatter is not to dogmatize. Sadducee-
ism, a sort of Jewish Protestantism,
rejected all tradition ; would admit of
nothing but the text of the Penta-
teuch ; denied an afber-life because it
was not found formally enough incul-
cated by Moses, and eonsequendy en-
deavored to make (his present one^is
comfortable as possible. It was Epi-
cureanism under the mask of rdigion.
Pharisaism, on the contrary, was the
doable reaotion both in religion and
nationality. In order to enhance the
law, it multiplied practices and rites ;
in order to save the dogina, it burdened
it with an oral tradition, to serve as a
commentary, an interpreter, and a sup-
plement to the law. Under the name
of Mishna, this tradition proceeded,
according to her account, from secret
instructions of Moses himsdf, and
composed a kind of saicred science, of
which the doctors only possessed the
key.
The sect of the Pharisees was, on
the other hand, the great political as weU
as doctrinal power of the nation. The
people venerated them, tiie inces
treated them with regard, and Jose-
phus infbrms us that Alexander Jan-
nacus, being at the point of death,
spoke of them to his wife in ^ follow-
ing Dinner: ^ Allow the Pharisees a
greater liberty than usual ; for they,^
he told her, ** would, for the favor con^
ferred on them, reooadle the nation to
her interest ; that Hiey had a powerAd
influence over 1^ Jews, and were in
Digitized by CjOOQIC
J%e Touih of &. Pad.
537
a eapaeitj to piejiidioe those they
hated and fierr e those they loved-"*
The yoDDg Saol enrolled hiniself
with the Fharisees: among them,
howeyer, he chose his school. Being
sensihle of the fact that foreign ideas
were insinnating themselves into the
bosom of Judaism^ some choice minds
were at this epoch in search of I
know not what compromise between
Moses's doctrine and philosophy) in
which compromise the two elements
might be fused together, and thus
&rm a religion at the same time ra-
tional and mystic This fusion is one
. of the signs by which this period is
disdngaished. Uneasy and attentive,
every mind was laboring under the
want of a universality and nnity of
belief, whose painful child-birth, twen-
ty, times nuBcarried, was yet submit-
ted to without relaxation. One hun-
dred and fifty years before the epoch
we are now in, Aristobulus had at-
tempted this eclecticism, and Fhilo
was soon ailer to reduce it to system
in Alexandria and give it a widely
spread popularity in ii^ypt. Anoth-
er man, however, took upon himself
the business of planting it in the very
heart of Palestine.
This man was the famous rabbi
Gamaliel, the beloved teacher of Saint
PauL It must be admitted that no
man could be better qualified to ren-
der it acceptable than he was, on ac-
count of his position and character.
He was the grandson of Doctor Hillel,
whose science as well as his consider-
ation and holiness he had inherited.
He was the oracle of his time, and
''on his death/' the Talmud says,
*^the light of the law was extin-
guished in IsraeL" The Tahnudists
add that he had been vested with the
title of iVezM, or chief of the council,
and the Gospel agrees with the Jew-
ish authors, reoognizing in him a just
man, wise, mo<^rate| impartial, an
enemy to violence, and ruling the dif-
ferent parties by a moral greatness,
which secuved to him the confidenoe of
» ••Anllq.," Hr. zUL eh, xt. p. US.
all and the unaaimiby of their regards.
He was the first who caused the text
of the Bible to be read in Greek at
Jemsalem. This innovation was of
itself an immense progress, as it re-
moved that barrier which Pharisaism
had raised between the Hellenist and
the Judaizing Jews. He dreamed not,
however, of transforming Moses into a
Socrates. He gave up nothing of pure
Judaism. But, having a thorough
knowledge of the Greek, Oriental and
Egyptian philosophies, he held them
all in check ; he took out of each of
them what could be reconciled with
the law of God, enriched with it the
inheritance of tradition, and boldly
applying to ideas that generous and
accommodating toleration which he
made use of in social life, he allowed
them entrance into the Synagogue.*
Gamaliel, it seems, kept in Jeru-
salem what certain authors call an
academy. It was frequented, for rfien
of such a character possess a great
power of attraction. Yodng Israel-
ites brought to his feet, and placed at
his disposal, for the service of his and
their ideas, the intemperate zeal and
warm convictions of their age — Chris-
tian tradition acquaints us with the
names of some of them ; among others,
of Stephen and Barnabas, whom we
shall soon see disciples of a greater
master.t But the most ardent of
them all was, without contradiction,
the young Saul of Tarsus. Proud,
fiery, enthusiastic, he seems to have
been passionately fond of the Phari-
saism of Gamaliel, but mixing with
the zeal a violent asperity which, cer-
tainly, he had not from his master. No
man could be more attached, than he
was, to the ancient traditions; it is
himself who says so, adding that his
proficiency in the interpretation of theu
law i^aced him at the head of the men
of his time.:(
These Jewish as well as these
Gi'cek studies were not lost time in
the education of the apostle. They
* !«emeyer, " qharacteristtk der Bibel/' p. 68a
t Obrael. ar Laprae, in Act. y. 84.
I Se« JSpis^ to (b<i$^|yi|ia>wf , 4. 14,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
538
l%e Touih of SL Paid.
made Saul sensible of the pressing
need of a rerealer which the world
was then laboring under; and they
caused those groanings to reach his
ears from all parts^ which he himself
called the groaning of creation in
childbed of her redeemer. They did
also reveal to him, seeing the inability
of sects for it, that redemptiixi coald
not be the work of man, and they lefl
in his mind that haughty contempt of
human wisdom, which would be de*
spair, if God had not come to reveal
a better one possessing the promises
both of this world and of the next
Now, whilst young Saul and the
Jewish rabbins were agitating these
questions in the dust of schools and
synagogue, our Lord Jesus Christ
was giving the solution of them in
his own l^e and by his death. His
death was even more frnidul than his
lifeft and when the Pharisees believed
they had put an end to his doctrine,
as they had to his life, it was a great
surprise to them to see twelve fisher-
men, wholly unknown the day before,
suddenly appear, preaching that the
Son of God had risen from the dead,
that they had seen him gloriously as-
cending into heaven, and that, in or-
der to give testimony of it to the
world, ihity were ready and would be
happy to die. Their miracles, their
doctrine, the conversions which they
wrought by multitudes, their baptism
conferred on thousands of disciples, the
enthusiasm of some, the perplexity of
others, the hatred of many, stirred up
the politicians and the magistrates.
The great council met under these
circumstances. It seems that there
was held in it a decisive deliberation,
in which the destinies of Christianity
were solemnly discussed. The ques-
tion was to know, whether the new
religion should be drowned in blood,
or whether it should be allowed the
liberty and time of dying by a natu*
ral death. It did not occur to any
one's thought that it could live ; and
much less that it could be true : and
it is remarkable that not a word was
said on the doctrinal question, the
most important of all! Thus some
of them advised to put those men
to death, others feared lest violence
should excite a sedition, and there
was* division of counsel in the assem-
bly, when Gkmialiel rose up in ic
Silence followed, the Scripture relates,
because he was the sage of the na-
tion. He made no speech. He cited
only the names of some seditious meu
very well known in the city, the false
prophet Theodas, and Judas of Gali-
lee, who, after a little noise, had lefl
no trace behind them. Hence he
concluded that the new religion would
have the same fortune if it was from
man, and that if it was, on the contra-
ry, the work of God, it would prove
invmcible against all human dOTorts.
His advice appeared for a moment to
prevail, on account of its wisdom;
and the apostles, confiding in the
future, readily accepted the challenge.
God had other designs in regard to
his church, and it was not peace but
war that he had come to bring with
him. Wisdom had decided ; passion
executed. After ledting the advice
of Gamaliel, the Scripture adds that,
before being dismissed, the Apostles
were scourged, and that ^ they went
from the presence of the council re-
joicing that they were accounted wor-
thy to suffer reproach for the name of
Jesus.^ The signal had thus been
given, and a pure victim was about to
open the era of the martyrs.
We have thus far related only tbo
human history of St. Paul. We now
begin to enter into his supernatural
and divine history.
Saul had put himself at the head of
those who persecuted the Christians.
Hence it is that the Scripture repre-
sents him to us as laying everything
waste, like a rapacious wolf, spread-
ing consternation amidst the flock.
Hk very name^was terror to the new-
ly bom church ; above all the others,
however. One Christian roused his
jealous rancor.
It was a young man whose name I
have already mentioned, and who is
believed to have been of the same
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Th Tauih of SL Pad.
539
cotintry with Sanl, and bis relative.*
He was called Stephanos, which we
have modified into Stephen. *
Stephen, as eyeiything indicates,
was a Greek, and of the number of
those who were then called Hellenis-
tic Jews. In all probability, he be-
longed to that synagogue of Cilicians
of which SanI, his friend and conn-
tr3rman, must likewise have been a
member. Some of the andents have
even believed that he also belonged
to the school of Gamaliel ; and ^is
is confirmed by the old tradition, which
makes the remains of the great rab-
bin and those of the first martyr rest
in the same grave.f All these rela-
tions between Stephen and Saul, who
persecuted him, are worthy of being
taken into account. . They throw a
great light over those events, and de-
fine with precision the circumstances
of which they give the key.
The same tradition has taken a
pleasure in surrounding the young
neophyte witli every gift and accom-
plishment that could make him a most
precious victim. The memory which
the fathers have preserved of Ste-
phen is that of a youth of rare beau-
ty, in the flower of his age, endowed
with wonderful eloquence, and with a
candor of soul yet more charming.
** He was a virgin," St. Augustine
says of him, ^'and this purity of heart
reflecting upon his features imparted
to his face an angelic expression/'
St. John Damascene speaks in the
same strain of that excellent nature
which ^ made the light of grace shine
with more brilliant lustre.'' Such
souls are very near to Christianity.
Stephen had become a Chiistian. St.
Epiphanius affirms that he was such
during the life of v Jesus Christ, and
t'lat he was one of the seventy-two
disciples.^ St. Augustine doubts of
What we are informed of in the
Book K3^ the Acts coDceming this point
* Corn, a LapMe, In Act Aport. tL 18.
t '* InvMtlo Car|K>rls & Steptuml, VWo & Lad-
•ni," TlU. te U.
is, that moved by ^ a murmuring oi
the Greeks against the Hebrews for
that their widows were neglected in
the daily ministration," the apostles
caused seven men of that nation to be
chosen, whom they '^ appointed over
that business." The first named (aud
perhaps the most preeminent) among
them was Stephen, characterized by
the inspired historian as *' a man full
of taith and of the Holy Ghost"
This conversion raised storms in
the bosom of the synagogue ; and as
St Fan], according to his own ac-
count, occupied a preeminent rank
among the young men of that tune, it
was easy for him no doubt to breathe
his own burning flame into them.
Besides, everything announced a vio-
lent crisis, and the whole city experi-
enced that agitation and anxiety which,
in troubled times, precede and portend
a near commotion and a despoMle
struggle* As the disciples had not^t
been outlawed, as they did not even
have any peculiar name which distin-
guished them firom the rest of the peo-
ple, and their religious belief enjoyed
as yet its freedom, they joined every-
where the Jewish assemblies, instilled
there their doctrine, taught even in
the temple, where Uiey went to pray
like the rest But a deep-rooted
dissension, pr^nant with tempests,
was growing in the heart of every
synagogue. These were most numer-
ous at Jerusalem, as it is said that
well-nigh ^ye hundred different ones
were there in existence, each people
possessing their own, about in the
same manner as now in the city of
Bome every Catholic nation possesses
her proper church, for her own use,
and in her own name. The syna-
gogue of the 'C.licians, is expressly
mentioned in the holy Scripture and
signalized as one of the most disturb-
ed, and most opposed to the new sect*
Interpreters are of opinion that it was
there Saul and the deacon Stephen
met together in the midst of other
Asiatic Jews, their countrymen, hot-
• Aoi. tL 9.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
540
lie Timtk of £i. Paul.
headed aod sobtie, as are all of that
cauntiy.* They were of the same
age, acoording to oompntationfl made
for the purpose) and of equal leacsb-
iag ; bat Stepheo's eloqueooe had no
riTal! It wafl, the Acts saj, eomfi<-
thmg at once sweet and powerful, that
attracted by its gn^ce, and bore away
the soul by its force. One felt in it a
higher spirit, it is said, and it was' in
vain thai disputants from all the syna-
gogues arose against Christ and his
&ith; none could resist that word,
<^fnl] of wisdom and of the Holy
Ghost." Some Greek copies add that
he ^ reprehended the Jews wkh such
an assurance that it was impossible
not to see the truths which he an-
nounced."
His w(H^s gave dbpleasure onKkv
count of this freedom ; as they could
not refute him they soon resolved to
caiwnaiate him, waiting for a pretext
t^iet rid of him* Witnesses were
found; they are found everywhere.
Stephen had preached that a more
perfect worship was about to take the
place of the worship of Moses, that
the glory and the reign of the temple
were soon to have an end, and that
a better Jerusalem of ki^er destinies,
was on the point of being built. It
was but too easy to turn these words
from their si^ritual meaning, and con-
vert them into threats against tlie city
and the people. A purely moral and
peaceful revolution was a thing, on
the other hand, so entirely novel in
the history of the world, that one
would have juaturaHy persisted in
confounding it with a political and
civil revolutioo. It was this gross
and voluntary mistake that had fur-
nished the text to the pretended law*
suit against our Lord Jesus Christ; it
was equally the foundatioii of that
which his disciples have been Bvbjeetr
ed to. To these accusations they took
care to add that Stephen intended to
change the ancient traditions, whidi
thuig in the eyes of the Pharisees was
decisive.
* Dom Calroet, "Comn, tof les Actes," vi. 9.
The yonsg deaton wfas therefore
brought heftm the high^priest, that
saifte Caiaphas by whom Jesus had
suffered* When the accusers had
been heard, the pontiff requested Ste^
phen to answer them: ^Are these
things so?"
He rose up, and as soon as he could
bo seen, the book of the Acts ob-
serves, all the eyes in the assembly
were iized on him. Did he have al-^
ready a glimpse of the martyr's crown,
and did this vision transfigure him in
advance? I know not, but it is said
that his fiice appeared to their eyes
as the face of on ai^eL ^ It was,**
says St. Hilary of Aries, ' the flame
of his heart overspreading itself upon
his forehead ; the candor of his -soul
waa reflected on his features in a per-
fect beauty ; and the Holy Ghost re-
siding in Stephen's heart threw upon
his face a jet of supernatural light." .
The speech of Stephen was simple,
but peranplory. To those who charg-
ed him with bfeaking off from the re-
ligion of his &thers, he opposed at the
very beginning a long profession of
faith fix>m the books of Moses. But
the question relating to the temple,
whose fall he had foretold, was more
serious. He viewed it flrmly. He did
not retract himself; but presently ris-
ing from the region of facts to that of
superior principles which facts obey,
he began to demonstrate that a mate-
rial temple is nowise necessary to the
honor of God* As a proof of this ho
pointed back to the times in which
the patriarchs made their prayers on
the top of the high places ; when the
Lord manifested his presence in a
flame of fire in a bush ; and when the
Hebrew people carried through the
desert the tabernacle, which was
the sanctuary and the altar at the
same time. When he had come to
the time of the first temple he con-
cluded, and his discomrse suddenly as-
sumed the chacfteter of a vivid and
eloquent exaltation. Elevating him-
self from the imperfection of a na-
tional worship to the ideal of a uni-
versal and apiiit^al one, which wouM
Digitized by CjOOQIC
I%$ Toiah of Su PaaL
&41
haveltsMiiettiAJyohifellj wit^an mail's
sou), he said: *<Tet the Most High
dwellet^ ttot in houses made by
hands, as the prophet eaith : < Heav^a
is mj throne, and the eaarth wj fbot-
stool ; what house will yea build me,
saith the Lofd, or what is the place
of my resting? Hath noi my haad
made all these thmgs P "
Sueh a haittngne was a awiiifesUx
fie ^hd not abolish etery temple, nor
evetj worship, as some people ape
pleased to insinuate ; but he erased at
a sin^e stroke dhe exclusive privilege
of tbe temple of Jerusalem, he ex-
tended it^ boundaries, and for Khe <^d
Jewish m<Hiopofy substttated the cath*
olieitj of a newehuroh^ as large- as
the world.
The Jews understood hun too welL
Thej were already tremUing with
Ttngd against him, when, flrom the ao-
cnsed becoming the accuser, Stephev
charged them with the diurder of the
prophets, and principally with <3iat of
the God, our Saviour, whom ihey had
crucified. ^Ton have leoeived the
law by the disposition of angels,'' he
said to them, ^and have not kept it."
On hearing these words, their rage*
incapable of longer restraint^ \nmt
out ; <' they were out to the heart, and
they gnashed with their teeth at him,"
as the Acts relate. Stephen felt thai
his last hdur was at hand.
The Holy Ghost filled him as it
were with a holy rapture. He looked
steadfastly to heaven, where the ^ry
of God began to shkie on him, and
there, in the midst of that gloiy, re«
cognizing and sahthig Jesus Christy
who extended in^ hand to him, ^ Be«
hold," he exclaifiied, *I see tlie
heavens opened, the Son of Man
standing on the right hand of God/*
These words sealed his doom* On
hearing him, the Jews, shaking with
horror, ^ cried out with a loud voice,
stopped their ears, and with one ao-
coni ran violently upon him," as wild
beasts do on their prey.
No judgment was passed on him.
A text in the book of Deuteronomy
allowed any one to be put to death.
whoeatseed tfaepeo^ into idolatry.
This summary josilace sometimes toiler*
ated 1^ the Boman pro-consul, was
teniied the judgmmU of ;iedU To ap*
ply this juagmmt to tiie young deaoon,
was found more eonveoient t£m to go
thsongfa the ftndaKtilis of a regukr
sentenoei and they seised him to put
him to death. By a last relic of Phar
risaism, however, they took oare to ob-
seifve the praetioes of the law, enen in
such an ariMtraiy and crael deed^
To the etid, therefore, that the hdv
<nty shonid not be stained with blood,
the innocent victim was << cast forth
without" (hewallsof Jemsak^^
They went out by the nortfaehi
gate along that side which leads to
country of Kedar. At the west of
die valley crossed by the Eedron,
on a desdate places and at the right
of the distant raoaoitmns' of Galaad,
the crowd stopped. The witneites
began by rabhig their hands over ine
head of Stephen, which was the rite
of devoting a victim to death 9 ihea
stones innumerafaie, as thick as ha^,
fbll upon hittu The atrocious deed
went on with mireleBting fury, and the
body of the heroio martyr was now
noting but a wound ; but he held his
eyes immovably fixed on that celestial
vision, and as life was gradually re-
ceding fixMn his breast, he was ever
^invoking and saying, Lord Jesus,
receive my spirit I"
The Acts of the Apostles conclude
this namUive, with giving us die name
of the person who was the most noted
accomplice in this marder: ^ Saulm
autem erat eomerUiens neci m us."
St. Luke, ihe disciple of St. Paul,
says netluag further concerning his
master in this busmess. But St
Paul came afterward, who, humbly
giving a public testimony of his cruel
error, denounced himself as the insti-
gator of that iniquity. "When the
blood of Stephen was shed," he said
one day to the Jews, *^ I was the first,
and overthe others," Super ad stabam, *
It is the sense of the Greek text. Had
* ActzxlLSO.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
-J
542
The Touih of 8l Paul
he for such a thing a mandate of the
Sanhedrim, as we BhaD soon see him
vested with fiill powers against the
brethren of Damascos? Ererjthing
would make one betiere sa The
&therB and commentators say, it was
for this reason that he kept the gar-
ments of those men of blood: and
they, in fact, show us those murderers
as going the one afler the other, defer-
entially to lay their garments at the
feet of Saul, as an homage, so to
speak, paid to him, from whom they
had the power and the command to
strike.
Stephen saw him, and rerenged him*
self in his way — the. divine way. At
the point of death, covered with blood,
he lowered his eyes to the earth for
the last time, and sadly resting them
on his persecutors, perhaps he saw
through their impious crowd one of
th^Bi apart, more furious than the rest
He was moved to compassion for his
soul ; and then it was that ** falling on
his knees, he cried with a loud voice,''
not of anger, but of grace, and said :
« Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.**
He rose no more, and so sayii^,
Stephen ^< fell asleep in the Lord."
He could sleep in peace, indeed, for
he had just made a magnificent con-
quest ** If Stephen had not prayed,"
St Augustine says, ^ the church had
not won St Paul; the martyr fell, the
Apostle rose."* These substitutions
are the most mysterious secrets of
Providence. By an admirable law
of a bond in soUdo, of fraternity and
of love, God has willed that we, like
himself, can,, at the price of a little
blood, or even of some tears, pay the
ransom of souls, and secure to them
a future for which they are indebted
to us. He has permitted that the life
« St Aug. Sermol. "DeSanctto."
and the death of ChristiaQS, like those
of their Master, should be a redemp*
tion, completing the great redemption
of Calvary, aooording to the saying of
St Paul himself. Coloss. i. 24
It was meant that this should be the
first apostleship of all, and the most
fruitftiL In the midst of scaffolds*
ever full o£ victims, and the cataeomba
which incessantly recruited new child-
ren of Grod, Teriullian proclaimed
that ^ the blood of the martyrs was
a seed of Christians.'* He gave thus
form to a beautiful law, which the
* blood of Stephen, after Uie blood of
God himself, had before inaugurated*
The soul of Saul, therefore, was that
day a conquered souL It is in vain
that on the road to Damascus he
straggles and '* kicks against the
goad :" he is under the yoke of God )
he carries a mark g£ blood on him
which points him out, and which
saves him ; and Jesus, wheimver he
wOl, has only to show himself to
throw him down and make him obey,
This is admirable. Moses had written
in the book of Leviticus, *^ The priest
shall command him that is to be puri-
fied to offer for hhnself two iivii^
sparrows which it is lawful to eat,
.... and he shall command one of
the sparrows to be immolated, ....
but the other that is alive he afaall dip
.... in the blood of the sparrow
that is immolated; • • . • and he
shall let go the living sparrow, that it
may fiy into the field." (Levit xiv.
4-7.) It was according to this rite
that the transaeticm was accomplished.
Stephen had been the chosen victim ;
and when Saul had covered himself
with his redeeming blood, that bkx)d
set hiqi free: he had no more to do
but to spr^ his wings, and to start
on his fiight
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Ouekoo cmd the NighHngcie.
548
From CShamben's Jonrn&L
THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE,
OuB oldest poet, and almost our
best, unites in one sweet song the
cuckoo and the nightingale — the for-
mer to be chidden, and spoken of de-
spitefully ; the latter to be made the
theme of fervent praise, as the singer
and harbinger of love. Taken altoge-
ther, the cuckoo, in fact, is far from
being an attractive bird. Somehow,
it has in ail countries been regarded
as a symbol of matrimonial infidelity,
probably because it introduces itself
into and defiles the nests of other,
birds. Shakespeare, who Wed to make
eternal the fancies and prejudices of
mankind, exdaims :
" Cackoo ! cockoo ! O word of fear !
Unpleaslng to » married ear I"
Loved or hated, however, it is a crea-
ture about which we know less than
any other winged animaL It comes
and goes in mystery, no one being able
to decide what is its origmal country,
how far it extends its travels, to what
peculiarity in its structure or constitu-
tion it owes its restless propensity, or
why, almost as soon as bom, it becomes
a sbrt of feathered Cain, murdeiing its
foster-brethren, and, according to some,
devouring the very dam that fed it
W^ide, indeed, ai^ its wanderings. It
is heard on the banks of the Niger and
the Senegal in the heart of Africa ; it
is familiar to the dwellers on the Obi
and the Irtish ; it fiies screaming forth
its harsh dissyllables over the Baltic
surge \ it repeats them untiringly in
the perfumed air of Andalusia and
Granada, among the ruins of the Al-
hambra and the G^neralifie ; it startles
the woodman in the forests of France ;
it amuses the school-boy in the green
vales of Kent, of Gloucestershire, and
of Devonshire.
Our associations with the cuckoo
are, in some cases, pleasant ; it comes
to us with the first of those peregrina-
ting birds that usher in the summer ;
its cry is redolent of sunshine, of the
scent of primroses, of lindens, of oaks,
and elms, of solitary pathways, of the
lilied banks of streams. Occasionally,
we know not why, it flies early in the
morning over the skirts of great cities,
as if to invite their inmates to shake
off drowsiness, and look forth upon the
loveliness of the young day. Not
many weeks ago, we heard it in Lon-
don, just as the clouds were parting in
the east to make way for the first
beams of dawn. Many summers back,
we heard the self-same notes echoing
among the pinnacles of the Alps, be-
fore the morning-star had fad^ from
behind the Jungfrau. The cuckoo is
a sort of familiar chronicler, that ga-
thers up the events of our lives, and
brings them to our memory by his well-
known voice. As he shouts over our
heads, we call to mind the many sum-
mers the sweet scents of which we
have inhaled, the rambles we have
taken in the woods, our idolatry of na-
ture, our innocent pleasures.
The cuckoo and the nightmgale con-
stitute the opposite poles of the orni-
thological world ; one the representa-
tive of eternal monotony, the other of
infinite variety. Among men, there
are cuckoos and nightingales — ^indivi-
duals whose ideas are few, who thiiik
invariably after the same pattern, who
repeat day after day the formulas of
the nursery and the school-room, who,
from their swaddling-bands to their
shrouds, never break away from the
social catechism dinned into them at
the outset ; while there are others who
seem, at least in their range of thought,
to know no limit but that of creation,
to generate fresh swarms of ideas every
moment, now to hover among the ne-
bulas on the extreme verge of the uni-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
&u
I%e Ou^ tmd the Nigktdnffah.
verse, and now to nestle in the chalice
of the violet, where even Ariel could
scarcely find room for the tip of his
pinion. ^Naturalists may be fanciful,
like poets ; and if this liberty be ever
allowable, it is sorely so wh^n they
speak of the nightingale. The organi-
zation of this winged miracle, whose
whole weight does not exceed an ounce,
may in truth be looked upon as one of
the most remarkable in the whole scale
of animal life. The roar of the gorilla
can, it is said, be heard a full mile.
But the goriUa is a colossus, equalling
in stature one of the sons of Anak ;
while Philomela, not exceeding in bulk
the forejoint of the monster's thumb,
is able at night, when all the woods are
still, to cause die liquid melody of her
notes to be heard at an equal distance*
Consider the organ, measure the length
of country, and the ecstacy of the l^t*
ening ear, and you will perhaps ac-
knowledge that there are few pheno-
mena familiar to our experience more
astonishing than this. We have stood
at midnight on a mountain in the sooth
of France, and at a distance quite as
great, we think, as that mentioned
above, have heard the notes of the
songstress of darkness borne up to us,
on the breeze from the depths of an
unwooded valley. Faintly and gently
they came through the hushed air, but
there could be no mistake about their
identity; no other mortal mixture of
earth's mould than her throat could
have given forth such sounds, crisp,
clear, long-drawn, melancholy, as if she
were still lamenting the sad hap that
overtook her amid die solitudes of
Hellas. The French, down even to
the peasants, love the nightingale ; and
wild country ^Is, who in their whole
lives never read a page of poetry, will
sit out half the night on a hillside to
listen to their favorite bird. A priest
onoe invited us to pass a week with
hsm in his village presbiftere^ And in
enumerating the iodacementSy men-
jbioned first that there weve nightin-
gales in the neighborhood. His home
was in the valley of Mortagne, in the
Bocagias of Normandy, where these
birds are in fact as plentiful as spar-
rows.
In Italy, especially in Tuscany and
the Venetian states, the nightingale
trills her notes with more than ordin-
aiy beauty. The great Soman natur-
alist who perished amid the lava-floods
of Vesuvius, often, we may be sure,
ezyoyed her song from his nephew's
garden in this part of the peninsula.
No description of the wonders she
achieves can approach the one he has
left us for truth or eloquence, and it
was written in all likelihood by the
light of some antique lamp between the
prolcmged gushes of*her music. Un-
happily» it is true, as he says, that the
nightingale's song can only be heard in
peifection during fifteen out of the three
hundred and sixty-five days of the year.
The female bird is then sitting in her
nest, imparting vital heat to the musi-
cians of future years ; and her lover,
fuUy impressed with the importance of
her duty^ intoxicates her with his voice,
to dispel the tedium of confinement. In
spite of natural history, however, poet-
rv transfers to the mute female the
smging ijowers of her lord :
^ mgbtly the rtngv ttna yoD peaMgnoate-ttied.**
Pliny, too, after stating the fact, that
it is the male that sings,, immediately
avails himself of the aid supplied by
metonymy, and changes the sex of the
musician. I^et us take his description,
as honest Philemon Holland supplies
it in the language of Elizabeth's time :
"Is it not a wonder,** he says," that so
loud and clear a voice should coma
from so little' a body? Is it not as
strange tliat she should hold her breath
so long, and continue with it as she
doth? Moreover, she alone in her
song keepeth time and measure truly ;
she riseth and falleth in her note just
with the rules of music and perfect
harmonic : for one while in one entire
breath she draweth out her tune at
length treatable; another while she
quavereth, and goeth away as fast
in her running pomts ; sometimes she
maketb stops and short cuts in her
notes^ another time she gathereth in
Digitized by CjOOQIC
TTie Ouekao and the IKghttngale.
545
her breath and aingeth descant be-
tween the plain song ; she fetcheth her
breath again, and then you shall have
her in her catches and divisions ; anon,
all on a sndden, before a man would
think ity she drowneth her voice, that
one can scarce hear her ; now and then
she seemeth to record to herself; and
then she brcaketh out to sing volun-
tarie. In some she varieth and alter-
cth her voice to all keys ; one while full
of her largeSy longs, briefs, semibriefs,
and minims; another while in her
crotchets, quavers, semiquavers, and
double semiquavers, for at one time
jou shall hear her voice full and loud,
another time as low ; and anon shrill
and on high : thick and short when she
list ; drawn out at leisure again when
she is disposed ; and then (if she be so
pleased) she riseth and mountethup
aloft, as it were with a wind-organ.
Tbus she altereth from one to anotiber,
and singeth all parts, the treble, the
meane, and the base. To conclude ;
there is not a pipe or instrument again
in the world (devised with all the art
and cunning of man so exquisitely as
possibly might be) that can afford more
music than this pretty bird doth out of
that little throat of hers.*'
We have persons here in England
who earn their livelihood by catching
nightingales. It is the same in most
o^er countries. Near Cairo, there is,
or used to be, a pretty grove of min-
gled mimosas, palms, and sycamores,
where the netters of nightingales
station themselves at night, in the pro*
per season, to take the bird when in
full song. According to their report,
which there is no reason to discredit,
the male bird becomes so intoxicated
by the scented air, by love, and by his
own music, that the cap-net, fixed at
at the sunmiit of a long reed, may be
raised and closed about him before he
is sensible of his danger. From the
free woods he is then transferred to a
cage, where in nine cases out of ten,
he dies of nostalgia. Nor is this all.
The female bird, accustomed not only
to be cheered by his song, but likewise
fed by his industry, pines and perishes
YOL. III. 85
with all her brood. The wren, the
swallow, the titlark intermit the busi-
ness of incubation, and leave their
nests for a minute or a minute and a
half to help themselves while they are
sitting, or to assist ihe male in feeding
the young afler the eggs are hatched :
but the female nightmgale used, like
an eastern sultana, to be provided for
entirely by her lord, feels her utter
helplessness when she is deserted,
and leaning her little head and neck
over the edge of the nest, with her
eyes fixed in the direction in which he
used to come, dies in that attitude of
expectancy. The reason is, that the
instinct of pairing, which is strong in
many other birds, reaches its culmi-
nating point in the nightingale — ^the
same males and females keeping toge-
ther for years without ever seeking
other mates.
The cuckoo, as we have said, offers
the most striking contrast in the de-
velopment of its instincts. It does
not pair at all, and as there aro more
males than feinales, we may often see
two or three of the former sex follow-
ing one of the latter, and fighting for
her favors. As the parents care not*
for one another, neither do they care
for their young. It was long supposed
that the cuckoo laid only one egg in
the season ; but this has been found to
be an error, for though they leave no
more than one egg in one nest — we
mean generally — Sxej have been ob-
served to make deposits in various
nests, and then fly away to a distant
part of the country, or even to other
lands. In the female cuckoo, there-
fore, the maternal instinct is entirely
wanting, which, though it acts in obe-
dience to an imperious law of nature,
makes it a hatefiil bird. As soon as
it quits the shell, it begins to exhibit
its odious qualities. When the cuckoo's
egg is placed in the nest of the hedge-
sparrow, for example, the deluded mo-
ther perceives no difference between
the alien production and her own. She
sits, therefore, on what she finds, and
having no idea of numbers, of course
never thinks of counting the eggs.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
546
TKe Onctioo and the NighdngaU*
When hatcbing-time arrives, however,
she is made the witness of an extraor-
dinary scene. The vilkunous young
cuckoo, which often escapes from the
shell a whole day before the others,
immediately begins to clear the nest by
pitching out the mihatched eggs ; or
if the young ones have made their ap-
pearance, forth they are thrown in like
manner. Nature has fabricated the
little monster with a view to this un-
grateftil proceeding, for in its back
there is a hollow depression, in which
^^ or chick may be placed while he
is rising to shunt it over the battle-
ments. The process is extremely cu-
rious: the young assassin, putting
shoulder and elbow to the work, keeps
continually thrusting against his victim
till he gets it on his back ; he then
rises, and placing his back aslant, tum-
bles it out into empty space. This
done, and finding that he has all the
dwelling to himself, he subsides quietly
into his place, and waits with ever-
open bill for the dole which the foolish
sparrow wears itself almost to death
in providing for the faithless wretch.
When the nest happens to be situated
in a high hedge, you may oilen see the
young sparrows spiked alive on the
thorns, or the eggs still palpitating with
living birds lying unbroken on the soft
grass below. This inspires naturalists
with no pity ; they observe that neither
the eggs nor the young birds are thrown
away, since various reptiles that feed
on such substances make a comfortable
meal of what is thus placed within
their reach.
As the cuckoo does nothing in life
but eat, scream, and lay eggs for other
birds to hatch, it needs no education,
and receives none. On the other hand,
the nightingale, having to perform the
highest functions allotted to the dass
avesj requures much training and dis-
cipline, study and preparation. The
young nightingale does not sing by
mere instinct. If taken from the nest
soon after it is hatched, and brought
up among inferior creatures, it is in-
capable of peribrming its lofty mission,
and deals in vulgar twittering like
them ; just as a baby, if removed from
the society of speedi-gifted mortals,
and entrusted to the care of dumb per-
sons, will lack that divine quality of
expressing ideas which distinguishes
man from the brute. The nightingale
needs and receives a classical educa-
tion. When the grass is dewy — ^when
the leaves are green and fresh — when
the soft breath of the morning steals
over the woods like incense, the old
bird takes forth the young ones, before
it is quite light, and placmg them on
some bough, with strict injunctions to
listen, goes a little way off, and begins
his song. In this he commences with
the easier notes, and is careful to keep
the whole in a comparatively narrow
compass. He then pauses to watch
the result of his first instructions. Af-
ter a brief delay, during which they
are turning over the notes in their
mmds, the young ones take up the lay
one by one, and go through it, as our
neighbors say, tcmt hien que moL The
teacher watches their efforts with at-
tention; applauds them when right;
chides them when they have done
amiss ; and goes on day by day r^ter-
ating his lessons till he considers his
pupUs quite equal to the high duties
they have to perform* Mankind, of
course, imagine that those duties con-
sist in soothing their ears, and driving
away melancholy. But apropos of
the performances of another buu, our
philosophic poet inquires :
**!■ H for thM the lark Mceoda aod ■;B«it"
Andrepli^:
** Jo]r tones his roloe, joy wntmateii bh wlngt.**
So with the nightingale^-*
**Lov<M of 111* owa and raptvM iweU tbe Aols.**
Some one speaking of our own species,
says :
" We think, we toil, we war, we love.
And all we aak i»— woman^s loTe."
It is to win the love of Philomela that
the nude nightingale studies, watches,
and pours forth his soul in song. He
had much, rather that men d^d not
listen ; he is a shy, solitary, and timid
bird, and takes his love away into
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ilhe Ouchoo and the I^hUngah,
547
die forests, where, undidfurbed by the
sounds of ynlgtur life, he raTishes her
ears with music. It is a question much
discussed hj poets and naturalists, whe*
ther the nightingale's song be joyous
OP melancholy. It probably derives
its character ft*om the frame of mind in
which the listener happens to be — Uy
the joyous it is mirthflil, to the sorrow-
M it is sad — ^but in its real nature it
is what Mlton suggests —
" She all night long her amoroiu descant sung.**
Still it must be owned that they who
discover melancholy in her long, low,
meltingly sweet notes^ seem to ap-
proach nearer the truth than they who
describe her as a merry bird. It is su-
pei-stition, perhaps, that attributes to
her the strange philosophy which makes
anguish the well-spring of pleasure.
When desirous, it is said^ of reaching
the sublimest heights of song, she leans
her breast against a thorn, in order
that the sense of pain may tone down
her impetuous raptare into sympathy
with human sorrow.
Another strange notion is, that the
nightingale fixes her eyes —
" Her bright, bright eyea ; her eyes both bright and
full"—
on some particular star, from which
she never withdraws them till her song
is concluded, unless she be alarmed by
the approach of some footstep, or other
sound indicative of danger. We re-
member o^ice, in Kent, going forth to
spend a night in the fields to enjoy the
strange delight imparted by the night*
ingale's notes. We placed ourselves
on a little eminence overlooking a val-
ley, covered at intervals by scattered
woods. It was the dead watch and
middle of the night ; silence the most
absolute brooded over the earth. We
stood still in high expectation. Pre-
sently, one lordly nightingale fiung
forth at no great distance from the
summit of a lofty tree his music on
the night. The lay was not protracted,
but a rich, short, defiant burst of me-
lody ; he then, like the Boman orator,
paused for a reply. The reply came,
not close at hand, but, as it seemed,
from some copse or thicket far down
in the valley. If one might presume
to judge on the spur of the moment, the
second songster did really outdo the
first. The notes came forth bubbling,
gushing, quivering, palpitating, as it
were, with soul, for nothing material
ever resembled it He went over a
broad area of song, with a sort of wil-
derness of melody ; his notes followed
each other so rapidly, high, low, Hnked,
broken— 4I0W sweeping away like a
torrent, now sinking till it sounded like
the scarcely audible murmur of a dis-
tant bee. He then stopped abruptly,
confident that he had given his rival
something to reflect npon« We now
waited to hear that rival's answer, but
he appeared to consider himself de-
feated, and remained silent. Another
champion now stepped forward, and
took up the challenge. He must surely
have been the prince of his race. From
a tree on the slope of a height, not far
to the right of our position, he gave us
a new specimen of the poetry of his
race. The former two, evidently young-
er and more inexperienced, had been
in a hurry. He took up his parable
at leisure, beginning with a few light '
flourishes by way of preface, after
which he plunged into lus epic, seem-
ing to carry on the subject from the
epoch of Deucalion and Pyrrha,
down to that moment, displaying all
the resources of art, and presenting us
with every form into which music
could be moulded. What he might
have achieved at last, or to what pitch
he might have raised our ecstasy, must
remain a mystery, for beforo he had
concluded his song, a thundering rail-
way train, belching forth fire and smoke
as it advanced, seemed to be on the
very point of annihilating the song-
sters ; so they all took to flight, or at
least remained obstinately silent. We
waited hour alter hour, now pacing in
one direction, now in another; stop-
ping short, pausing in our talk, listen-
ing till the streaky dawn, climbmg
slowly up the eastern hills, revealed
to us the inutility of ftirther hope.
The first time we heard the nightin-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
548
y<^ — -
gale was itom the deck of a veBsel in
the Aroiiy near Lee Woods. It was a
starlight night ; we were leaning on Uie
bulwarks, speculating on the reception
we were to meet wi£ in England — ^in
which we had that day arrived for the
first time. As we were chewing the
cud of sweet and bitter fancy, from an
indenture in the woods, called, as we
have since learned. Nightingale Yallej,
there burst forth at once a food of
sound, the strangest, the sweetest, the
most intoxicating we had ever heard
— ^it must be, it was the voice of the
nightingale-—
To the land ofiAj UXhert VbA weleomed ma ta6k.
^ears not a few have rolled by since
then, but we remember as distinctly as
if it were yesternight the pleasure of
that exquisite sumrise. We heard the
nightingale in England before tlie
cuckoo— « circumstanoe which, aoeoid-
ing to Chancer, should portend good-
lud[ ; and so it did^-good-lud^ and
happy days.
Perhaps much of the pleasure tasted
in such cases is derived frmn the time
of year — ^for both the cuckoo and the
nightmgale belong to the spring — ^when
the air is full of bahn, whenthe foliage
is thick, when the grass is green and
young — and when, especially in the
morning, delicate odors ascend from
the earth, which produce a wonderful
effect upon the animal spirits. Through
these scents, the cry of one bird and
the song of the other invariably come
to us : the one flitting at early dawn
over the summits of woods, the other
in loneliest covert hid, making night
lovely, and smoothing the raven down
of darkness till it smOes.
[ouanrAL.]
HYMN.
Spirit of God, thyself the Lord,
Out of the depths I call on thee.
Above, I view thy gleaming sword.
Around, thy works of love I see.
Spirit of Grod,that hovering high
Didst watch the primal waters roU,
Brood o*er my heart, and verify
The turbid chaos of my soul !
Spirit of God, oh ! bid me fear,
That blessed fear thy love can calm ;
Transfix me with thy shining spear
And heal me with thy holy balm I
Spirit of God, oh ! fill my breast,
And sear me with the sign of heaven.
The glorious brand of sin confessed,
The glorious seal of sin forgiven.
F. A.S.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ITte Luiuitrial.Jfti of our Ancestors.
549
From the Iriflh Indostrtal Bbgadna
THE mDUSTRIAL ARTS OF OUR ANCESTORS.
BT If. HAYERTT, ESQ*
That the early inhabitants of Ire-
land possessed sundry kinds of manu-
facture is a point that can scarcelj be
disputed; for, besides frequent pas-
sages in ancient and authentic histor-
ical documents referring to the matter,
we have satisfactory evidence in those
specimens of the manufactured articles
themselves which have been preserved
to the present day, and which bear
testimony to the skill and industry that
produced them.
A visit to the Museum of the Royal
Irish Academy must convince us of the
excellent workmanship of the ancient
Irish bronze swords, and other wea-
pons, and of certain ancient gold orna-
ments — ^both bronze and gold articles
belonging to a date anterior to the in-
troduction of Christianity into Ireland.
From the early Christian ages we have
received many of the old ecclesiastical
pmamentd that have been preserved ;
and some of them exhibit that peculiar
and exquisite kind of interlaced orna-
mentation which began at a remote
period to be known as opus IRbemicumy
or the Irish style.
We know tlutt the ancient Irish were
skilled in the manufacture of their mu-
sical instruments, as well as in the use
of them ; and in the preparation of
parchment, as well as in the almost un-
rivaUed beautyof penmanship <tf which
that parchment has preserved so many
specimens. Then we must return to
much more ancient times for the ma-
nufacture of gold and silver goblets,
and, above all, for those beautiful fibu-
lae, or brooches, which have afforded
models for some of the most graceful
and costly articles of female decoration
at the present day. Wemaj very na.
turally conclude that these charming
fibular were not employed to bold to-
gether mantles of the coarsest possible
manufocture, or, rather, that there was
some proportion between the texture
of the doth and the beautiful work-
manship of the brooch which clasped
it round the person of the wearer;
and, in a word, we are justified in pre-
suming that some manufactures, be-
sides those of which specimens were
durable enough to have been preserved
to the present day, existed in the coun-
try.
The incessant warfare of the Danish
period, and of the centuries following
the Anglo-Norman invasion, must have
been destructive to the industrial arts ;
yet we meet occasionally with some
external evidence of their existence
even then. Some eighty years ago,
the Earl of Charlemont lighted on a
curious passage relating to the subject
in an Italian poem of the fourteenth
century. From this and other author-
ities he was fible to show, in a paper
published in the first volume of the
*^ Transactions of the Ro$ral Irish Aca-
demy," that Ireland produced a fine
^woollen fabric called serge, which en-
joyed an European reputation at the
very time the Flemish weavers were
brought over by Edward IIL to estab-
lish the woollen manufacture in Eng-
land, and consequently before it could
have been introduced here from the
latter country. The investigation of
such scattered facts as these would be
interesting, and no doubt would flatter
national vanity. It may, perhaps, oc-
cupy us on some future occasion ; but
for the present we shall confine our in-
quiry to a somewhat more modem
epoch, and more taogLble evidences.
Strangdy enough, the first writer we
have had on the natural history and
industrial resources of Ireland happens
Digitized by CjOOQIC
550
Tke Adustrial An$ of our Jnesttars.
to have been a Datchman. Dr« Grer-
ard Boate— a resident of London,
though bj birth, it appears, a Hollan-
deiv^obtained the post of state ph/-
sician in Ireland from the Common-
wealth, in 1649 and haying porchased,
as an adventurer, a few years earlier,
some of the forfeited lands in 3Leinster
and Ulster, applied himself to the sub-
ject of his'bool^ with a view originally
to the improvement of his own pro-
perty. His infonnaiion, however, was
obtainedynotfrompersooal experience,
bat from Irish gentlemen whcm he
had met in London, such as Sir Wil-
liam and Sir Richard Parsons ; and
from his brother, Dr. Arnold Boate,
who had pracdsed as a physician in
Dublin for many years ; bat he him-
self, unfortunately, died a few months
after his arrival in Ireland to enter on
the duties of his office, before he was
able to carry out more than half the
original design of hb work, which,
though written in 1645, was not pub- ^
lished until some years after his death.
He collected his information and wrote
while the great civil war was still
raging, and when all his feelings and
interests must have been strongly en-
listed against the native race, so that
we are not to be surprised at the acer-
bity of some of his expressions about
them. Our concern is, not with his
feelings or opmions, but with the facts
which he relates, and the descriptions
and statistics which he supplies.
On the state of metallurgy in Ire- *
land in his time, Dr. Boate gives ns
some very curious information. He
denies any knowledge of the subject on
the part of the native Irish, and asserts
that all the mines in Ireland were dis-
covered by the ** New English." *♦ The
Old English in Ireland,'* he says, ^ that
is, those who are come in from the time
of the first conquest until the begin-
ning of Queen Elizabeth's reign, have
been so plagued with wars from time
to time — one while intestine among
th^nselves, and another while with the
Irish — that they oould scarce ever find
the opportunity of seeking for mines.
And the Irish themselves, as
being one of the most barbarous na-
tions ot the whole earth, have at all
times been so far from seeking out any,
that even in these last years, and since
the English have begun to discover
some, none of them all, great or smalU
at any time bath applied himself to
that business, or in the least manner
furthered it; so that all the mines
which to this day are found out in Ire-
land, have been discovered (at least, as
far to make any use of them) by the
New English, that is, such as are come
in during and since the reign of Queen
Elizabeth.' (Thorn's CoBection of
TracU and Treajti$e$, voL i. 102.)
He adds, that several iron mines had
been discovered in various parts of the
kingdom, and also some of lead and
silver, during the forty years' peace,
from the deaBi of Elizabeth to the out-
break of the great rebellion — the long-
est peace, he remarks, that Ireland
ever enjoyed, either before or afler the
combg of the English. The great ex-
tent to which smelting was carried on
during a portion of that time may be
concluded from the almost incredible
destruction of the Irish woods, to make
charcoal for the purpose. This Dr.
Boate describes in a preceding chap-
ter; ''As long as the land was in
the full possession of the Irish them-
selves," he says, and we know the fact
from many other sources, '' all Ireland
was very f\ill of woods on every side ;"
but the English cleared away a great
deal of these, both to destroy the lurk-
ing places of their foes, and to con-
vert the land into tillage and pasture*
Besides the woods cleared for these
purposes, a vast amount of timber was
felled, as Boate tells us, for merchan-
dise, and to make charcoal for the iron
works. The timber comprised under
the former head does not appear to
have been for building, but sunply for
pipe staves and the like, of which, he
says, great quantities were exported
even in former times ; ^ and," he adds,
^ during the last peace a mighty trade
was driven in them, and whole ship-
loads sent into foreign countries year-
ly ;" while, ^ as for the charcoaV' be
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ne Aduthriai Jfis of our Aneeston.
551
oontinnes, *^ it is incredible what quan-
tity thereof is consumed bj one iron
workin a jrear ... so that it was ne-
cessarj from time to time to fell an in-
finite number of trees, all tiie loj^pings
and windfalls being not sufficient ibr it
in the least manner.** The result of
all this was, that even in Boate's time,
that is, over 200 jears years ago, the
greater part of Irdand was left totally
bare of woods ; the inhabitants could
obtain * no wood for building, or eren
for firing ; and in some parts one might
travel whole days widiout seeing any
trees, except a few about gentlemen's
houses. For a distance of over three
score miles from north to south, in the
counties of Louth and Dublin, ** one
doth not come near any woods worth
speaking of; and in some parts there-
of you shaU not see so much as one
tree in many miles. For the great
woods which the maps do represent
unto us upon the mountains, between
Dundalk and Nurie, are quite vanish-
ed, there being nothing left of them
these many years since but one only
tree, standmg close by the highway, at
the very top of one of the mountains,
60 far as it may be seen a great way
off, and therefore serveth travellers for
a mark.'*
At that period iron mines were work-*
ed extensively near Tallow, on the bor-
ders of Cbrk and Waterford, by the fa-
moas Earl of Cork ; in the county of
Clare, some six miles from Limerick ;
at a place called Desert, in the Eing^s
County, by Sergeant-Major Pigott ; at
Mountiath and Mountmellick, in the
Qneen's County; on the shores of
Lough Allen, both on the Boscommon
and Leitrim sides — ^the mountains of
SHeve-an-ieran,or the Iron Mountain,
in the latter county, having obtained
its name, in the remotest ages, from the
presence of that metal ; on the shores
of Lough Erne, in Fermanagh ; in
Oavan ; at Lissan, on the borders of
Tjroae and Londonderry, where the
Works were carried on by Sir Thomas
Staples, the owner of the soil ; at the
fbot of Stieve Gallon, in the county of
Derry; and in several other places.
Iron smeltmg works and foundries
were erected, not only in the vicinity
of the mines, but in other places on
the coast, and elsewhere, where the
convenience of water carris^ and the
supplies of charcoal afforded induce-
ments. To some of these works on
the sea-coast, the ore was brought
even from England ; but the principal
iron works appear to have been those
belonging to the Earl of Cork, in
Munster; to Sir Charles Coote, at
Mountrath, and in Boscommon and
Leitrim ; to the Earl of Londonderry,
in his own county ; to Lord Chancel-
lor Loftus, ancestor of the Marquis of
Ely, at Mountmellick ; to Sir John
Dunbar, in Fermanagh; Sir Leonard
Blennerhassett, on Lough Erne ; and
a comp any of London merchants in
Clare. We are not told whether these
last were the representatives of the
London Mining Company, to whick
Queen Elizabeth granted the royalties
of the precious metals that might be
discovered within the English Pale.
Mr. Christopher Wandsworth, who
had been Master of the Bolls for Ire-
land, and acted as Lord Deputy under
the Earl of Strafford, erected a foun-
dry in the county of Carlow, where
ordnance were cast, and also a kind of
small round furnaces, pots, and other
articles made.
It was estimated that the owners of
the iron works — we do not here refer
to the mines — ^made a profit of forty
per cent in the year ; and Boate was.
assured, by persons who were particu-
larly well informed on the subject, that
the Earl of Cork cleared £100,000 by
his iron works. Sir Charles Coote —
''that zealous and famous warriour in
this present warre against the Irish
rebells," in the first year of which
war he fell — appears to have been
quite as famous as an iron-master as
he was as a warrior, and his iron-
works at Mountrath were a model at
that time, A ton of the ore called
rock mine cost him, at the furnace
head, 5s. 6d.; and a ton of white
mine, or ore dug from a mountain, 7s.
The two ores were mixed in the pro-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
^52
7%6 InduUriai Jrit of our Ameef^on.
portion of one of rock mine to two of
white mine, and three tons of the
mixed ore yielded one ton of good har
iron, which was conveyed in rude,
small boats called cots, on the Biver
Nore to Waterford, and thence shipped
to London, where i^ was sold for £16,
and sometimes for £17, or even £17
10s.; the whole cost of the iron to
Sir Charles Coote, including that of
dig^g it out of the mine and every
expense until it reached the London
market, Custom House duty included,
being between £10 and £11 per ton*
Jxx most places the cost of the ore at
the furnace varied from 5s. to 6s. per
ton; and when the ore was particu-
larly rich, 2^ tons produced one ton
of good iron ; but Boate tells us that
few of the iron smelters carried on
their work as profitably as Sir Charles
Coote.
Li Boate's time, only three lead
and silver mines appear to have been
known in Ireland. One of these was
in the county of Antrim, and was very
rich, yielding 1 lb. of silver to 30 lbs.
of lead; another was situated in Cony
Island, at Sligo ; and the third, the
only one which was worked, was the
famous silver mines of the barony of
Upper Ormond, in Tipperary, about
twelve miles from Limerick. This
mine had been discovered about forty
years before, and was at first supposed
to be merely a lead mine; some of
the first lead it produced being used
by the Earl of Thomond to roof his
house at Bunratty. It was worked
in the shape of open pits, several
&thoms deep, but still slopmg so grad-
ually, that the ore was carried to the
sur&ce in wheelbarrows. Each ton
of ore at this mine yielded 3 lbs. of
pure silver ; but our authority does
not inform us how much lead. The
silver was sold in Dublin for 5s. 2d.
per 02., and the lead for £11 per ton,
though it is stated to have brought
£12 in Limerick; and the royalty, or
king's share, was a sixth part of the
silver, and a tenth of the lead. The
rest was the property of those who
farmed the mine, and who cleared an
estimated profit of £2000 per amium*
The works at this mine, and in gen-
eral aU the smelting works which we
have mentioned throughout the ooon-
tiy, were of course destroyed in the
civil war.
So much for the practical metallurgy
of Ireland, as it existed two hundred
years ago. Of the knowledge of the
original inhabitants on the subject,
Sir William Wilde ("Catalogue of
Antiquities," etc, voL L p. 351) says
-*and his opmion is the result of all
the investigation that is practicable in
the matter-^'' When, and how, the
Irish people discovered metals and
their uses, together with the art of
smelting and casting, has not been
determined by archaeologists ;" but a
few remarkable and suggestive facts
on the subject may be menti(»ied.
Manuscripts, themselves five or six
hundred years old, and purporting to
give information handed down from
the most remote antiquity, make fre-
quent jpention of the knowledge and
use of metals among the ancient Irish.
Thus the old annalisU say, that
"gold was first smelted in Ireland
in Fotharta-Airthir-Liflfe," a woody
district in Wicklow, east of the River
LifTey, supposed to coincide with the
present well-kniown auriferous tract
in that county. Indeed, it is most
probable that gold was the first metal
known to tlie Irish, as well as to all
people in early stages of civilization,
as, besides its glittering quality, it is
almost the only metal found in a na-
tive state upon the surface, and con-
sequently obtainable without the art
of smelting. Dr. Boate writes: "I
believe many will think it very unlikely
that there should be any gold mines in
Ireland; but a credible person hath
given me to understand, that one of
his acquaintances had several times
assured him that out of a certain rivu-
let, in the county of Netlier-Tirone,
called Miola, he had gathered about
one dram of pure gold." We also
know from the celts, and other articles
in these metals whidi have been pre-
served, that the fuicient Irish possessed
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Tk$ JMmirial ArU of tmr Aneesk^i.
553
capper, which thej were able to oon-
yert into brass and bronxe ; and also
that they had flilrer, tin, lead, and
iron. The Irish version of Nennios
mentions, as the first wonder of Ire-
land, that Lough Lein — the Lake of
Killamey— is surroonded hj four
drdes, yiz., " a circle of tin, and a
circle of lead, and a circle of iron, and
a drcle of copper'' — an indication
not only that these metals were
known to the people, but that some
rade idea had been fonned of the
mineralogj of the district.
THEIB AGBICm^TITRE.
Grain, in one shape or other, formed
a main ingredient in the foodof the Irish
\£rom the earliest historic period ; and
we may, consequentlj, include Agri«
*ccdture among the earliest of their in-
dustrial arts. We are not aware of
any time at which they were exclu-
sively a flesh-eating people ; and we
find it clearly stated, with reference to
periods not alt<^ther very remote,
that the native Irish subsisted to a
great extent on the milk and butter of
their large herds of cattle, seldom kill-
ing the animals for their flesh. On
the other hand, we know that vast
numbers of cattle were slain and con-
sumed in the constant petty wars of
the country; and that the lawless
dwellers in the cranoguesj or lake
habitations — ^whatever period they be*
long to — were decidedly carnivorous,
as tiie immense accumulations of the
bones and horns of cattle found in
their insulated haunts testify. But
the fact we contend fi>r is, that the
ancient Irish were a granivorous quite
as much as a camcvorous race, if not
more so; and some ethnologists have
concluded, from an examination of
very ancient Irish crania, that the
teeOi were chiefly employed in masti-
cating grain in a hard state.
It is a curious and well-known fiict
that in many parts of Ireland traces
of tillage are visible on the now bar-
ren sides or summits of hills, in pla*
ces which have been loi^ since aban-
doned to savage nature, and in a soil
which would appear never to have
been susceptible of cultivation. Some
such eleviUed spots, now covered
with grass, are known to have been
cultivated some years since, when the
rural population was much denser
than at present ; but we are referring
to other places where we find well-
marked ridges and furrows on hill-
sides, four or five hundred feet above
the sea level, or even more; and
which are now covered with heath,
and so denuded, by ages of atmos-
pheric action on the steep slopes, as to
retain only the least quantity of vege-
table surface^ wholly inadequate at
present to nourish any kind of grain.
When, and by whom, were these
wild spots cultivated? The country
people have lost all tradition on the
subject, and substitute their own con-
jectures.
It is not probable that the popula-
tion of Irebud was ever so dense as to
have necessitated such extreme efibrts
to eke out the arable land ; or that the
people were ever so crowded as to
have been compelled, as it were, like
the Chinese, to teirace the hill«eides to
grow food. Mr. Thom has collected,
in his admirable ^'Statistics of Ire-
land," all the authentic accounts of
Irish census returns. Taking these
in their inverse order, we find that
the 8,175,124 of 1841 was only
6,801,827 in 1821; 5,937,856 in
1814; 4,088,226 in 1792; 2,544,276
in 1767; 2,309,106 in 1726; 1,034-
102 in 1695 ; and 1,300,000 in 1672.
These latter early returns were mere-
ly the estimates of the hearth-money
collectors, and are generally deemed
to be unreliable. Newenham, in his
** Enquiry,** expresses his disbelief in
them, and shows from the statements
of Arthur Young, and from official re-
turns, that they were dearly under
the truth* Yet the returns recently
found by Mr* Hardinge, of the Land-
ed Estates Record Office, among the
papers of Sir William Petty, in the
library of the Marquis of Lansdowne,
would reduce the population to a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
554
ne Btiitstnal Art9 of <mr Aneestors^
mnch lower figure still at an epoch
only a litde earlier than the date
last enmnerated aboye. Mr. Har*
dinge shows that the Petty returns
must haTe been made in 1 658 or 1 659 ;
and, supplying a proportional compn-
tation for some omitted counties and
baronies, he finds that the total p<^u«
lation of Ireland at that date was only
haif a rmUum! It is true that this
was immediately after the close of
the k>ng and desolating civil war
which commenced in 1641 ; and at a
time when, as Mr. Hardinge observes,
one province had been so utterly de-
populated as to leave its lands vacant
for the transplanted remnants of the
people of two other provinces; yet^
even under all the circumstances, the
number is incredibly smaU.
■ Groing further back, we may con*
elude that the population could not
have been considerable during the
constant civil wars which wasted tlie
entire country throughout the long
reign of Elizabeth ; nor was there
any time fh>m the Anglo-Norman in-*
rasion to that period in which the cir-
cumstances of the country were fav-
orable to the social or numerical de-
velopment of the population; while
in earlier times matters can hardly
be said to have been a whit better.
There is no period of ancient Irish
history in which the native annalists
do not record almost an annual re-
currence of internecine wars in all the
provinces — wars equally inveterate
and sanguinary, whether the coun-
try was infested by foreign foes, or not
{vide the Four Masters passim)-^
while, on the other hand, we know that
the population of a country never
multiplies excessively except in long
intervals of peace. It may be urged
that the remains of the innumerable
roths and cahirs, or ccdsheby which
cover the land, and of the abbeys and
small churches which dot the country,
indicate periods of very dense popula-
tion: but this is a mistaken notion $ for
at the time when the ratbs were inhab-
ited, it can scarcely be said there were
any towns in Ireland i and even when
the monasteries were bnilt^tiie popnla-
tton was almost wholly ratal, and scat-
tered ; while a great many of the very
small religions edifices through the
country were only the isolated orato-
ries of hermits.
The poet, Spenser, writing about
jL.D. 1596» would seem to give us the
best clue to the time in which those
moui^tain wildernesses we have been
referring to were subjected to a kmd
of cultivation. In his ^« View (^ die
State of Ireland," he makes jG-eruetct
relate how the most part of the Irish
fled from the power of Henry IL
^into deserts and mountains, leaving
the wyde countrey to the conquerour.
who in their stead eftsoonee placed
English men, who possessed all their
lands, and did quite shut out the Irish,
or the most part of them :** and how
<<they [the Irish] continued in that
lowlinesse until! the time that the di-
vision betweene the two houses of
Lancaster and Yoiic arose for the
crowne of England; at whidi time
aU the great English lords and gen-
tlemen, which had great possessi<ms
in Ireland, repaired over hither into
England. • • • . . Then the Irish
whom before they had banished into
the mountains, where thev only lived
on white meates, as it is recorded,
seeing now their lands so dispeopled
and weakened, came downe into all
the plaines a^joyning, and thence ex-
pelling those few English that re-
mained, repossessed them againe, since
which they have remained in them,"
etc.
It is most probable, then, that it was
during that early period of refuge in
the mountains that the wild tracts we
have alluded to were cultivated by the
Irish ; and it is worth remarking that
when, in Spenser's own time, the
English recovered a portion of the
plain at the fbot of SMeve Bloom, in
the O'Moore's country, of which the
Irish had been for several years in
quiet possession, they were surprised
at the high state of cultivation in
which they foond it.
The ancient Irish plonghed with ox-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
7%« hidustrial Arts of our Ancestors,
555
en, as af^pears from manj noqaesticm-
able authorides-— among others, from
a rofereBce to the subject in the "Vol-
ume of ^ BrehoQ Laws" recently pub-
lished by Goremment, page 123 ; but
in BQft>seq«6nt times (hey were brought
so low, that in some places, and among
the poorest sort, the baibarous prac-
tice prevailed of yoking the pkm^ to
a horse's tail ! It is a mistake to sup-
pose, OB the one hand, that this was a
mere groundless calumny on the peo-
ple ; or, on the other, that it was any-
thing like a general national custom.
The preamble to the Act of the Irish
Parliament (10 and 11 Charles L,^
chap. 15) passed in 16S5, to prohib-
it the practice, says : ^ Whereas in
many places of this kingdome there
hath been a long time used a barba-
rous custome of ploughing. . . . and
working horses, mares, etc, by the
taile, whereby (besides the cruelty
used to the beiasts) the breed of horses
is much impaired in this kingdome, to
the great prejudice thereof ; and where-
as abo diTers have and yet do use the
like barbaroQS custom of pulling off
the wool yearly from living sheep, in-
stead of clipping or shearing of them,
be it therefore enacted," etc, etc
That this Act, as well as the sub-
sequent Act, chap. 15, ^to prevent
the unprofitable custom of burning of
come in the straw," instead of thresh-
ing out the grain, was regarded as a
popular grievance, appears from the
fact, that the repeal of these Acts was
made one of the points of negotiation
with the Marquis of Ormond during
the Civil War ; but they remained on
the Statute Book until repealed, as
obsolete, in 1828, by 9 Geo. IV. c 53.
Boate, writing fibout Ireland, more
than two hundred years ago, labors to
show that the soU and climate are
better suited for grazmg than for till-
age. ^Although Ireland," he quaint-
ly observes, ^ahnost in every part
bringeth good com plentifully, never-
theless hath it a more natuiall apt-
ness for grass, the which in most pla-
ces it produceth very good and plen-
tiful! of itself, or with little help ; the
which also hath been well observed
by Giraldus, who of tliis matter wri-
teth— <This iland is frnitfuUer in
grass and pastures than in com and
graines." And farther on he contin-
ues: ^The abundance and greatness
of pastures in Ireland doth appear by
the numberless number of all sorts
of cattell, especially kine and sheep,
wherewith this country in time of
peace doth swarm on all sides." He
remaiks, tiiat, although the Irish kine,
sheep, and horses were of a small size,
that did not arise from the nature of
the grass, as was fully demonstrated
by the fact that ^e breed of large
cattle brought out of England did not
deteriorate in point of size or excel-
lence.
Sir William Petty states that the
cattle and other grazing stock of Ire-
land were worth above £4,000,000
in 1641, at the outbreak of the civil
war; and that in 1652 the whole was
not worth £500,000.
John Lord Sheffield, in « Observa-
tions on the Manufactures, etc., of
Ireland," Dublin, 1785, writes that
Ireland, ^ which had so abounded in
cattle and provisions, was, after Crom-
well's settlement of it, obliged to im-
port provisions from Wales. How-
ever, it was sufficiently recovered
soon after the Restoration to alarm
the grazing counties of England ; and
in the year 1666 the importation of
live cattle, sheep, swine, etc, from
Ireland was prohibited* • • • . Ire-
land turned to sheep, to the dairy, and
fattening of cattle, and to tillage ; and
she shortly exported much beef and
butter, and has since supplanted Eng-
land in those beneficial branches of
trade. She was forced to seek a for-
eign market; and England had no
more than one fourth of her trade,
although before that time she had al-
most the whole of it''
Arthur Young, whose *•' Agricultu-
ral Tours in Irdand in 1775, etcV'
did so much for the improvement of
this country, always advocated tillage
in preference to grazing. Befemng
to the former, he says : ^ The pro-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
556
Ciaims,
ducts upon the whole [of Ireland] an
much inferior to those of England
are
England,
though not more so than I should
have expected; not from inferioritj
of soil, but from the extreme inferior-
ity of management • • Tillage in
Ireland is very little understood. In
the greatest com counties, such as
Louth, Kildare, Carlow, and Kilken-
ny, where are to be seen many very
fine crops of wheat, all is under the old
system, exploded by good farmers in
England, of sowing wheat upon a fal-
low and succeeding it with as many
crops of spring corn as the soil will bear.
. • But keeping cattle of every sort
is a business so much more adapted
to the laziness of the farmer, that it is
no wonder the tillage is so bad. It
is everywhere left to the cotters, or to
the very poorest of the farmers, who
are all utterly unable to make those
exertions upon which alone a vigor-
ous culture of the earth can be found-
ed ; and were it not for potatoes, which
necessarily prepare for com, there
would not be half of what we see at
present. While it is in such hands,
no wonder tillage is reckoned bo un-
profitable. Profit in all undertak-
ings depends on capital ; and is iyiny
wonder that the profit should be small
when the capital is nothing at all!
Every man that has one gets into cat-
tle, which will give him an idle lazy
superintendence instead of an active
attentive one."
How much of this is just as appli-
cable to the state of things in our own
times, as it was eighty or ninety years
ago I Young would appear to be de-
scribing accurately the state of agri-
culture in Ireland just before the last
destmctive famine; but happily he
^ould find at the present moment
a considerable improvement One
change, however, which he would find
would not be much to his taste. He
would see even the humblest tenant &r-
mer, as well as the large land occupier,
placing almost his whole confidence
in pasturage, and compelled to aban-
don tillage by the uncertainty of the
seasons, the low price of grain, and
the increasing price of labor.
[OSIOIHAL.]
CLAIMS.
Nat,— claim it not, the lightest joy that throws
Its transient blushes o'er the beaming earth
Or the sweet hope in any living thing
As thine by biith.
No precious sympathy, no thoughtful care,
No touch of tenderness, however near,*
But watch the blossoming of life's delight
With sacred fear.
Have joy in life, and gladden to the sense
Of dear companionship, in thought, in sight ;
But oh 1 as gifts of heaven's abounding love^
Not thine by right
Digitized by CjOOQIC
557
From The Month.
SEALSKINS AND OOPPERSKINS.
Captaik Hall, unconvinced by
the evidence pubHshed bj Captain
M^Clintock in 1859, undertook bis ex*
pedition in search of the surviving
members of Sir John Franklin's crew,
(if such there were ;) or in the hope
of clearing up all doubt about the
history of their end, in the event of
their having perished. He was baffled
in his attempt to reach the region in
which he hoped to find traces of the
objects of his search, by the wreck of
the boat which he had constructed for
the enterprise ; and his ship being be-
set with ice in a winter which set in
earlier than usual, he spent more than
two years — ^the interval between May,
1860, and September, 1862 — among the
Esquimaux on the western coast of
Davis's Strait, in ordem to acquire their
language and fiunilianxe himself with
their habits and mode of life. He
is at present once more in the arctic
r^ons, having returned thither In
Older to prosecute his enterprise. He is
now accompanied by two intelligent
Esquimaux, whom he took back with
him to America; and who, having
now learnt English, will serve him as
interpreters as well as a means of in*
troduction to the various settlements of
Esquimaux whom he may have occa*
sion to visit in his travels. The results
of his present expedition will pi*obably
be more interesting than those of his
first* If we test the success of his first
voyage by the dbooveries to which it
led, these were confined to correcting
the charts of a portion of the west-
em coast of Davis's Strait, and to
proving diat the waters hitherto laid
down as *^ Frobisher's S(raie " are in
fact not a strait, but a bay. As a voy«
age of discovery, its importance falls
far short of that undertaken for the
same object in 1857by Captain M^Clin*
tocL Ci^tain Hall, however, was en*
abled,by comparing th^ various tradi-
tions among the Esquimaux, to arrive
at the spot where Frobisher, in the
reign of Queen Elizabeth, attempted
to found a settlement on ** Kodlunam'*
Siat is, «* White man's"] Island, (the
unless Warwick's Island, of English
maps,) where be found coal, brick,
iron implements, timber, and buildings
still remaining. This success in tra«
cing out, by means of information sup-
plied by the natives, the relics of an
expedition undertaken more than three
centuries ago, makes him confident of
obtaining a like success in unravelling
the mystery in which thefiiteof Sir John
Franklin and his companions is still
wrapped, by a similar residence among
the Esquimaux of Boothia and Eang
William's Island, which were the last
known points in their wanderings.
This is the region he is now attempt-
ing to reach for the second ihae. Bat
the real value of his present volume is
the accurate and faithfol record it gives
of the author^s impressions, received
from day to day during a residence
within the arctic zone, and the details
it gives of the habits and character of
the Esquimaux.
The ori^ of this people is, wo be-
lieve, unknown. Another arctic tra^
veller has suggested that they are
^ the missing linlc between a gaxon and
a seaL" They are rapidly decreasing
in numbers} yet) If measured by
the territory which they inhabit, they
form one of ffae most widely-spread
races on the face of the earth. Mr.
Max MUller might help us to arrive
at the ethnological family to which
they belong, were he to study the spe-
•cimens of their language with which
Captain Hall suppHes us. Judging
fhmi the physiognomy of two of them,
whom the author has photographed for
his fipontispieoe, we should say that
Digitized by CjOOQIC
&58
SmUim and OopptrMm$.
thej oertainlj do not bebng, as M.
B^rard and, we believe. Baron Hum-
boldt have supposed, to those Mongol
races, which, under the names of
•'Laps" and •'Finns," inhabit the
same latitudes of the European conti-
nent. Thej seem rather to approach
the type of some of the tribes of the
North Amerioan Indians ; and the re*
semblance of their habits of life and
traditions points to the same conclo*
sion. They are small of stature, five
feet two inches being rather a high
standard for the men, but of great
strength and activity, and they have a
marvellous power of enduring fatigue,
cold, and hunger.
The name *^ Esquimaux,'' by which
we designate them, is a French form
of on Indian word, Auh^se-um-oog
(pronounced Es-ke-moag) — ^meaning
in the Cree langoage, ^ He eats raw
flesh ;" andin&ctthey are the only race
of North- American savages who live
habitually and entirely on raw flesh*
In their own language they are called
hamii^ that is,</^peopleparea;c6i2»itfe.
Formerly they had ddefs, and a sort
of feudid system among them ; but
this has ^sistppeared, and they have
now no political organisation what-
ever, and no authority among them,
except that of the husband over his
wives and childr^o.
Their theology — so far as we can
arrive at it — leaches that there is one
Supreme Being, whom they call '^ An*
guta," who created the moteiul uni-
verse ; and a secondary divinily , (the
daughter of Anguta,) called ^ Sidne,"
through ^ose agency he cxoated all
living things, anunal ai^ vegetable. The
Innuits believe in a heaven and a hell,
and the eternity of future rewards and
punishments. Success and hi^piness,
and benevolence shown to others, they
consider the surest marks of predesti-
nation to eternal happiness in the next
world ; and they hold it to be a& cer-
tain that whoever is killed by accident
or commits suicide goes straight to
heaven, as that the crime of murder
will in all cases be punished eternally
inbeiL They seem hardly to seeure
the attribute of omnipotence to their
^Supreme Being;" for, in their ac-
count of the creation of the world,
they affirm that his first attempt to
create a man was a decided fiulare— ^
tiiat is to say, he produced a whiu
man. A second attempt, however,
was crowned with entire success, in the
piodncdon of an Esquimaux on In-
nui^— 4he faultless prototype of the
human raee. A traditioa of a deluge,
or ^'extraordinary high tide," which
covered the whole earth, exists among
the Esquimaux; and they have cer^
tain cust<M|[is which they observe with
religious reverence, aldiough they can
give no other reason or explanation
of &em except immemorial tradition.
*^ The first Innuits did so," is always
their answer when questioned on the
subject. Thus, when a reindeer, or
any other animal, is kiHed on land, a
portion of the flesh is always buried
on the exact spot where it fell — ^possi-
bly the idea of sacrifice was ocmnected
with this practice ; and when a polar
bear is killed, it^ bladder must be in-
flated and exposed in a conspicuous
place for three days. And many such
practices, equally unintelligible, are
scrupulously adhered to ; and any de-
parture from them is supposed to bring
misfortune upon the offending party.
Though the Esquimaux own neither
government nor control of any kind,
they yet yield a superstUions obe-
dience to a cfaaraoter called the ^ An-r
geko," whose mfltienoe they rarely
venture to contravene. The Ai^eko
ia at once physician and magician* In
cases ot sickness the Esquimaux never
take medicine ; but the Angeko is
called^andif his enchantments fail to
cure, the sick person is carried away
from the tents, and left to die. Th^
Angeko ia also called upon to avert
evils of all kinds ; to secure success for
hunting or fishing expeditions, or any
such undertaking ; to obtain the di<»-
appearance of ice, and the publie good
on various occasions ; and in all cases
the efficacy of his inin]stratk)ns is be-
lieved to be proportioned to the guer-
doa which he receives* GaptamHall
Digitized by CjOOQIC
SeaUdtu and CcpptrdM^
559
mentions only twc instanoesy aa hav-
ing occurred in his experience, of re-
sistance being made by Esquimaux to
the wishes of the Angeko ; and in both
cases the parties demurred to a de-
mand that they should give up their
wives to him. Though more com-
monly they have but one wife, owing
to the difiBculty of supporting a num-
ber of women, polygamy is allowed
and practised by the Esquimaux.
Their marriage* is without ceremony of
any kind, nor is the bond indissoluble*
Exchange of wives is of frequent oc-
currence ; and if a man becomes, from
sickness or other cause, unable to sup-
port them, his wives will leave him,
and attach themselves to some more
vigorous husband. For the rest^ the
Esquimaux are intelligent, honest, and
extremely generous to one another.
When provisions are scarce, if a seal
or walrus is killed by one of the camp,
he invites the whole settlement to feast
upon it, though he may be in want of
food for himself and his family on the
morrow in consequence of doing so.
They are very improvident, and rarely
store their food, but trust tc the for^
tunes of the chase to supply their
wants, and are general^ dunng the
winter in a constant state of oscilk^
tion between famine and abundance.
The Esquimaux inhabit the extreme
limits of the globe habitable by man,
and they have certain peculiarities in
their life consequent on the circum-
stances of their climate and country ;
but in other respects they resemble the.
rest of the nomad and savage races
which people the extreme north of
America* In summer the Esquimaux
live in tents called tupics^ made of
skins like those used by the Indian
tribes, and. these are easily moved
from place to place. Ad winter sets
in, they choose a spot where provisions
are likely to be plentiful, and there they
erect igloog^ or huts constructed of
blocks of ice, and vaulted in the roof..
If they are obliged to change their
quarters during the winter, either per-
manently or temporarily, they build
fresh igloo* of snow cut into blocks,
which soon freeze, and in the space k£
an hour or two they are thus able to
provide themselves with new premises.
The only animals domesticated by the
Esquimaux are their fine and very in-
telligent dogs. They serve them as
guards, as guides, as beasts of burden
and draught, as companions, and assist
them in the pursuit of every kind
of wild animal. The women have
the care of all household a&irs, and
do the tailor's and shoemaker's work,
and prepare the skins for all articles
of clothing and bedding — no unin^por-
tant department in such a climate as
theirs : the men have nothing to think
of but to supply provisions by hunting
and fishing. Sporting, which in civil-
ized society is a mere tecreation and
amusement^ is the profession and se-
rious employment, as well as the de-
light, of the savage. And we find in
the rational as well as in the irration-
al animal, when in its wild state, the
highest development of those instincts
and sensible powers with which God
has endowed it for its maintenance and
self-preservation, and which it loses, in
proportion aB it ceases to need them,
in civilized society or in the domesti-
cated state.
The arctic regions, though ill-
adapted for the abode of man, teem
with animal life. The seal, the wal-
rus, and the whale supply the ordin-
ary needs of the Esquimauic In the
mouth of their rivers they find an
abundance of sahnon; various kinds
of ducks and other aquatic birds in«
habit their coasts in multitudes ; rein-
deer and partridges are pKntaful on
the hills ; while the most highly prized
as well as the most formi&ble game
is the great polar bear, whose fiesh
affords the most dainty feast, and
whose skin the wannest dothing, to
these children of the North.
Captain Hall lived, for months at
a time, alone with tlie Esquimaux.
Gb& acquired some proficiency in their
langua^i and shared their Ufe in all
respects. He became popular with
them, and even gained some influence
xover them. He experienced some
Digitized by CjOOQIC
560
Seabtim and Oopperskins.
difficulty in his first attempt to eat
raw flesh, (some whale's blubber,
which was served up for dinner;) but
on a second trial, when urged by
hunger, he made a hearty meal on the
bloG^ of a seal which had just been
killed, which he found to be delicious.
After this, cooking was entirely dis-
pensed with. Those who hare visited
new and "unsettled" countries will
be able to testify how easily man
passes into a savage state, and how
pleasant the transition is to his inferior
nature. There is a charm in the
freedom, in the total emancipation
from the artificial restraints, the fevei^
ish collisions, and daily anxieties of
civilized society whidi is one of the
most secret, but also one of the most
powerful agents in advancing the
colonization of the world. Captain
HalFs enthusiasm, which begins to
mount at the sight of icebergs, whales,
and the novelty and grandeur of arc-
tic scenery, reaches its climax when
he finds himself in an unexplored re-
gion, the solitary guest. of this wild
and eccentric people, and depending,
like them, for his daily sustenance on
the resources of nature alone.
The Esquimaux are sociable and
cheerful, and, in Greenland and the
neighboring islands, hospitable to
strangers; but those of their race
who inhabit the continent of America
have a character for ferocity, and are
the most unapproachable to Europeans
of all the savage tribes of America.
Even Captain Hall himself expresses
uneasiness from time to time lest he
should become an object of suspicion
to them, or give them a motive for re-
venge. They ar« one of the few peo-
ples of the extreme north with whom
the Hudson's Bay Company have
hitherto failed to establish relations of
commerce. Many travellers and
traders liave been murdered by them
on entering their territory, and the
missioners of North-America regard
them as likely to be the last in the
order of their conversion to Christian-
ity. Skilful boatmen and pilots,
perfectly familiar with their coasts.
with great intelligence in observing
natural phenomena, and knowing by
experience . every probable variation
of their inhospitable climate, as well
as the mode of providing against it,
they formed invaluable assistants to
an expedition for the scientific survey
of a region as yet imperfectly known
to the geographer. Their sporting
propensities were the chief hindrance
to their services in the cause of science.
No sooner were ducks, or seals, or
reindeer in view, than all the objects
of the expedition were entirely for-
gotten till the hunt was over. No
motive is strong enough to restrain an
Esquimaux from the chase so long as
game is afoot :
'* Canls a corionaaqnamabtierrebltur ancto.**
Seals are captured by the Esquim-
aux in various ways. Some are
taken in nets. At other times they
are seen in great numbers on the ice,
Ijdng at the brink of open water,
into which they plunge on the first
alarm, and much skill is then required
in approaching them. In doing this,
the Esquimaux imitate the tactics of
the polar bear. The bear or the
savage, as the case may be, throws
hunself fiat upon the ice and imitates
the slow jerking action of a seal in
crawling toward his game. The
seal sees his enemy approaching, but
supposes him to be another seal ; but
if he shows any signs of uneasiness,
the hunter stops perfectly still and
« talks" to him — that is, he im-
itates the plaintive grunts in wMch
seals converse with one another. Re-
assured by such persuasive language,
the seal goes to sleep. Presently he
starts up agam, when the same pro-
cess is repeated. Fmally, when with-
in range, the man fires, or the bear
springs upon his victim. But the
Esquimaux confess that the bear far
surpasses them in this art, and that if
they could only "talk" as well as
«Nmoo," (that is, "Bruin,)" they
should never be in want of seal's fiesh.
When the winter sets in, and the ice
becomes thick, the seal cuts a passage
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Seabbins and ChpperMm-
561
through the ioe with his sharp daws
with which its flippers are armed, and
makes an aperture in the surface
large enough to admit its nose to the
onter air for the purpose of respiration.
This aperture is soon oovered with
enow. When the snow becomes deep
enough, and the seal is about to give
Inrth to its young, it widens the aper-
ture, passes through the ice, and con-
structs a dome-shaped chamber under
the snow, which becomes the nursery
of the young seals. This is called a
seal's igloo^ from its resemblance to
the huts built by the Esquimaux. It
requires a dog with a very fine nose
to mark the bathing-place or igloo
of a seal by the taint of the animal
beneath the snow ; but when once it
has been discovered, the Esquimaux
is pretty sure of his prey. If an igloo
has been formed, and the seal has
young ones, the hunter leaps ^ with a
run '' upon the top of the dome,
crushes it in, and, .before the seals can
recover from their astonishment, he
plunges his seal-hooks into them, from
which there is no escape. If there be
no igloo, but a mere breathing-hole,
he clears away the snow with his spear
and marks the exact spot where the
seal's nose will protrude at his next
visit, an aperture only a few inches
in diameter; then with a seal-spear
strongly barbed in his hand, and at-
tached to his belt by twenty yards of
the thongs of deer^s hide, he seats hun-^
self over the hole and awaits the seal's
^blow." The seal may blow in a
few minutes, or in a few hours, or
not for two or three days ; but there
the Esquimaux remains, without food,
and whatever the weather may be,
till he hears a low Snorting sound;
then, quick as lightnings and with un-
erring aim, he plunges the spear into
the seal, opens the aperture in the
ice with his axe till it will allow the
body of the seal to pass, and draws it
forth upon the ice. The mode of
Sjpearing the walrus is more perilous.
The wahrus are generally found among
broken ice, or ice so tliin that they can
t»eak it. If the ice is thin, they will
TOL. III. 86
often attack the hunter by breaking
the ice under his feet. In order to do
this, the walrus looks steadily at the
man taking aim at him, and then
dives ; the Esquimaux, aware of his
intention, runs to a short dbtance to
shift his position, and when the wahrus
rises, ciashmg through the ice on
which he was standing only a moment
before, he comes forward again and
darts his harpoon into it. Ordinarily
the Esquinusmx selects a hole in the
ioe where he expects the walrus to
^.vent/' and places himself so as to
cmnmacd it, with his harpoon in one
hand, a few coils of a long rope of
hide, attached to the harpoon, in the
other, the remainder of the rope be- .
ing wound roand his neck, with a
slmrp spike fastened at the extreme
end of it. As soon as the walrus
rises to the surface, he darts the har-
poon into its body, throws the coils of
rope from his neck, and fixes the spike
into the ice. A moment's hesitation, ^
or a blonder, may involve serious C(hi-
sequences. If he does not instantly
detach the rope from his neck, be is
dragged under the ice. If he fails to
drive the spike firmly into the ice be-
fore the walrus has run out the length
of the line, he loses his harpoon and
his rope.
But the sport which rouses the
whole spirit of an Esquimaux com-
munity be^ns when a polar bear
comes in view. "^Ninoo" is the
monarch of these arctic deserts, as
the lion is of those of the South.
The person who first shouts on see-
ing ^Ninoo," whether man, woman,
or child, ia awarded with the skin,
whoever may succeed in killing him.
D<^ are immediately put upon his
track, and, on coming up with him,
are taught not to close with him, but
to hang upon his haunches and bring
him to bay. The men follow as best
they can, and with the best arms that
the occasion supplies. The sagacity
and ferocity of this beast make an at-
tack upon him perilous, eyen with
fire-arms ; but great nerve, atrength,
and skill are reqmred* when armed
Digitized by CjOOQIC
imXf with' * Impooo or * spemr, to
mer^ him band to fand in hu bottle
lor life,
** Of {// ).U 4«o, by ny/V'ivvelu, Mvk the «v»
The polar bear it amphibioiu, and
<ifu>n takea to the tea. Theo if boats
can be procured, it beeomes atrial of
»|jeed betweea rowing aad swimmiiig,
flful an exciting race of many miles
often takes place. In the open sea
**Ninoo^ hasapoorehanceof escape,
unless he gets a great start of his pnr^
Miers ; but the arctic coasts are gen-
emlly studded with islands, and, when
he can do so, he makes first for one
island, then for another, crossing them,
and takmg to the water again on the
opposite side, while the iMMts have U>
make the entire circuit of each. The
sagacity of these animals is marvel*
lous,and proverbial among the Esqui-
maux, wiio study their habits in order
* \o get hints for their own guidance.
^Vhen seals are in the water, the bear
will swim quietly among them, his
f^roat white head assuming the appear- -
anoe of a block of iloatmg ice or snow,
and when close to them he will dive
and seise the seals under the water.
When the walrus are basking on the
rocks, ^^Ninoo" will climb the cliffs
above them and loosen large masses
of rook, and then, calculating the
mirvo to a nicety, launch them upon
his prey beneath. When a she-bear
is attended by her cubs, the Esqui-
maux will never attack the cubs until
the mother has been destmtched $ such
is their fear of tlie vengeance with
which, in the event of her escaping,
Khe follows up tho slaughter of her
offspring by day and night with terri-
ble pertmaclty and Ihry.
Ihe Esquimaux stalk the reindeer
much as we do the red deer in the
Highlands of Scotland \ but the snow
which lies iti arctie regions during the
greater part of the year enaUes them
to follow the same herd of deer by
their tracks ibr several days together.
Such, then, are the life,* the habits,
the imrsuits of the Esqaimaox* ^-
in idigioBt Aej itaad in need of
that fiuth which alooe is able to save
their laee, now f^^imkan^ firons ||ie
free of the earth. Thdrlile isaeon-
ataot aUBg;^ widi the cfimate in which
Aey live and the finnine with which
they are perpetoaDy threatened. A
hanlyniee of hanten, they exhibit
many natanJ viitaes, eoosidecable in-
telli^nee, and a stroog nationaKty.
The troe fidth, if they embraced it.
while it secured their etenial interests,
would at the same time be to them^as
it has been to so nuiny savage races,
the princifde of a great aocnd regen-
eration. At present they are wasting
away as a race, and will soon become
extinct. Polygamy has always been
found to cause the decrease and deca^'
of a population ; and any human bo>
dety, however simple, will fall to
pieces when it is not animated by ideas
of order and justice.
The Esquimaux occupy the extrem-
ities of human habitation in Nortii
America ; and if we pass from their
territory to the south, we enter iqwu
that vast realm called ^ British Amer*
ica"*-a region sufficient in extent and
resouroes, if developed by civilization,
to constitute an empire in itself. Of
this vast territory ^e two Canadas
alone, on the north bank of the Sx.
Lawrence Biver and the chain of
mighty lakes from which it flows, have
been colonized by European settlers.
The remainder is inhabited by the
nomad tribes of Indians and the wild
animals upon which they subsist, the
British government being there un-
represented except by the occaskmal
forts and Stations established by the
Huds<»i's Bay Company as centres for
the traffic in Ulrs, which the In^ans
supply in the greatest abundance and
variety.
The French, who were among the
first to profit by the discovery of Co-
lumbua and to settle as cokmistB in the
new hemisphere, have in theur eon-
quests always planted the eross of
Christ aide by side with the banner of
France. Though they have foiled to
retain the dominion of those oobnieB
Digitized by CjOOQIC
SealMfU and Chpperskins.
563
wliich they founded, yet, to their glory
be it eaid, their missioners hare not
only kept alive that sacred ilame of
faith which they kindled in their for-
mer possessions, but have spread it
from one end of the American conti-
nent to the oOier, beyond the limits
within which lucre leads the trader,
and even among the remote tribes
who as yet reject all ordinary inters
course with tiie white man. Mon-
seigneor Faraud, now Bishop of Ane*
mour and Vicar-Apostolic of Macken-
zie, lias published his experiences du-
ring eighteen years of missionary la-
bor as a priest among the savages of
the extreme north of America,* with
the view of giving information to fu-
ture missioners in the same regions^
and inspiring others to undertake the
conversion of this portion of the hea-
then world The proceeds of the sale
of his book will be devoted to found-
ing establishments for works of corpo-
ral and spiritual mercy among the
tribes of Indians in his diocese. The
narrative of his apostolic life is highly
interesting. Bom of an old legitimist
family in the south of France, some of
whose members had fallen victims to
the Reign of Terror in 1793, and care-
fully educated under the eye of a pious
mother, he offered himself to the ser-
vice of God in the priesthood. Being
of a vigorous constitution and of an
enterprising spirit, he was drawn to
the work of the foreign missions, and
at the age of twenty-six he started
for North America. Landing at New
York, he passed through Montreal to
St Boniface, ti settlement on the Red
River, a few miles above the point
where it discharges its waters into the
great Lake Winnipeg. Here he fixed
his abode for seven months, studying
the language, and acquiring the hab-
its and mode of life of the natives.
At the end of this time the Indians
of the settlement started on their an-
nual expedition at the end of the sum-
mer to the prairies of the west to hunt
* " nix-faaU Ana ches les Sauvages. VoyagM et
Missions de Mgr. faiUQil dans le Nerd de rAm«riqae
Britannlqae. Regis Ruffst et Ola Farfs, 1868.*'
the buffalo— an important affair, on
which depends their supply of buffalo-
hides and beef for the winter.
For this expedition, which was or-
ganized with military precision and
most picturesque effect, one hundred
and twenty skilful hunters were se-
lected, armed with guns and long eou-
teaux de chasse, and mounted on their
best horses. A long train of bullock-
carts followed in the rear^ with boys
and women as drivers, carrying the
tents and provisions for encampment,
and destined to bring home the game.
The priest accompanied them, saying
mass for them every mommg in a tent
set apart as the chapel, and night-
prayers before retiring to rest in the
evening.
In this way they journeyed for a
week, making about thirty miles in the
day, and camping for the night in their
tents. Let the reader, in onler to con-
ceive nn American "prairie," imagine
a level and boundless plain, reaching
in every direction to the horizon, fer-
tile and covered with luxurio^t herb-
age, and unbroken except by swelling
undulations and here and there occa-
sional clumps of trees sprinkled like
islets on the ocean, or oases on the
desert After marching for a week
across the prairie, they came upon the.
tracks of a herd of biiffkloes* The In-
dians are taught from childhood, when
they encounter a track, to discern at
once to what animal it belongs, how
long it is since it passed that way, and
to follow it by the eye, as a hound
does by scent. For two days they
marched in the tra(^ of the buffaloes,
and the second night the hunters
brought a supply of fresh beef into
camp— they had killed some old bulls.
These old bulls are found single, or
m parties of two or three, and always
indicate the proximity of a herd. Ac-
cordingly, on the following morning
the herd was discovered in the dis-
tance on the prairie, like a swarm of
flies on a green carpet The hunters
now galloped to the front, and called
a council of war behind some undula-
ting ground about a mile and a half
Digitized by CjOOQIC
564
Sealskins and Copperslins.
from the bii£Ealoes, who, in number
about three thousand, were grazing
lazilj on the plain. All was now an-
imation. It would be difficult to sa j
whether the keener interest was shown
bj the men or the horses, who now,
with dilated eyes and nostrils, ears
pricked, and nervous action, pawed
the ground, impatient as greyhounds
in the slips and eager for the fray.
The plan of action was soon agreed
upon — ^a few words were spoken in a
low tone by the chief^ and the horse-
men vanished with the rapidity of the
wind. In about a quarter of an hour
they reappeared, having formed a cir-
cle round the buffaloes, whom they
now approached at a hand-gallop, con-
centrating their descent upon the herd
from every point of the compass* The
effect of this strategy was that, though
they were soon discovered, time was
gained. Whichever way the herd point-
ed, they were encountered by an ap-
proaching horseman, and they were
thus thrown into confusion, undl,
massing themselves into a disordered
mob, they charged, breaking away
through the line of cavalry. Then
began the race and the slaughter. A
good horse, even with a man on his
back, has always the speed of a buffa-
lo; but the skill of a hunter is shown
(besides minding his horse lest he gets
entangled in the herd and trampled to
death, and keeping hia presence of
mind during the delirium of the chase,)
in selecting the youngest and fattest
beasts of the herd, in loading his piece
with the greatest rapidity — ^tho Indians
have DO breech-loadei*3 — ^and taking
accurate aim while riding at the top
of his speed. Jn the space of a mile
a skilful buffalo-hunter will fire sev-
en, eight, nine shots in this manner,
and at each discharge a buffalo will
bite the dust. On the present occa-
sion the pursuit continued for about a
mile and a half, and above eight hun-
dred buffiUoes were safely bagged.
When the chase was over, there was
a plentiful supply of fresh beef, the
hides were carefully stowed on the
carts, the carcasses cut up, the meat
dried and highly spiced and made into
pies, in which form it will keep for
many .months, and forms a provision
for the whiter. The buffalo (which
in natural history would be called a
bison) is the principal source of food
and clothing to the Indians who live
within reach of the great western prai-
ries. But the forests also abound with
elk, moose, and reindeer, as well as
the smaller species of deer, and small-
er game of other kinds, and the multi-
tudes of animals of prey of ail sizes
which supply the markets of Europe
with furs. The abundance of fish in
the lakes and rivers is prodigious.
The largest fish in these watexs is the
sturgeon. This fish lies generally near
the surface of the water: the Indian
paddles his canoe over the likely spots,
and when he sees a fish darts his har-
poon into it, which is made fast by a
cord to the head of the canoe ; the fish
tows the canoe rapidly through the
water till he is exhausted, and is then
despatched. Besides many other in-
ferior kinds of fish, they have the pike,
which runs to a great size in the lakes,
and two kinds of trout — the smaller
of these is the same as that found in
the rivers of England ^ the larger is
often taken of more than eighty pounds
in weight. The Indians take these
with spears, nets, and baskets ; but a
trout weighing eighty pounds would
afford considerable sport to one of our
trout-fishers of Stockbridge or Drif-
field, if taken with an orthodox rod
and line.
A fortnight was devoted to the chase;
and between two and three thousand
buffiUoes having been killed, and the
carts fully laden, the party returned
to St. Bonifice. The settlement of
St. Bonifice was foimded by Lord Sel-
kirk, who sent out a number of his
Scotch dependents as colonists, and
induced some Canadian families to
join them. It wds originally intended
as a model Protestant colony ; but the
demoralization and vice which broke
out in the new settlement brought it
to the verge of temporal ruin. Lord
Selkii'k then called Catholics to his aid^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Seabtint and Chpperddn$.
565
and three priests were sent there* Be-
ligion took the place of fanaticism, and
ever since this epoch the colony has
never ceased to flourish and increase,
and has become the centre of namei^
ous settlements in the neighborhood of
friendly Indians converted to the faith.
This is one of many instances which
might be qaoted in which the noxious
weed of heresy has failed to trans-
plant itself beyond the soil which gave
It birth. St. Boniface has been the
residence of a bishop since 1818, and
is now the resting-place and point of
departure for all missioners bound for
the northern deserts of America. It
was here that Mgr. Faraud spent
eighteen months studying the langua-
ges of the northern tribes of Indians.
Lord Bacon says that ^ he that goeth
into a strange laud without knowledge
of the language goeth to learn and not
to travel" This, which is true of the
traveller, is much more true of the
missioner^ as Mgr. Faraud soon found
by experience. He made several
essays at intercourse with neighboring
tribes, like a young soldier burning
with zeal and the desire to flesh his
sword in missionary work. But the
reception he met with was most morti-
fying, being generally told "not to
think of teaching men as long as he
spoke like a child.*' He applied him-
self with renewed energy to acquire
the native language.
The dialects of most of the tribes
of the extreme north of America
(with the exception of the Esquimaux)
are modifications of two parent lan-
guages, the Montatgnais and the Cree.
By acquiring these Mgr. Faraud was
able to make himself understood by
almost any of these tribes after a short
residence among them. Eighteen
months spent at St Boniface served
as a novitiate for his missionary work,
at the end of which time he received
orders to starts early in the following
month, for Isle de la Cix)sse, a fort
on the Beaver river, about 850
leagues to the N.W. of St. Boniface.
On his way thither he was the guest
of the Governor of the Hudson's Bay
Company, at Norway House, where
he was most hospitably entertained.
Mgr. Faraud bears witness to the libe-
ral and enlightened spirit in which the
authorities of the Hudson's Bay Com-
pany, as well as the government officials
in Canada, render every aid and en-
couragement in their power to the
Catholic missioners ; and he quotes a
speech made to him by Sir Edmund
Head (then Governor of Canada)
showing the high estimation, and even
favor, in which the Catholic missioners
are held by them. Whatever perma-
nence and stability our missions possess
in these vast deserts is owing to the
protection and kind assistance render-
ed to them by the British authorities ;
while, on the other hand, it would be
hardly possible for this powerful com-
pany of traders to maintain their pre-
sent friendly relations with Indian
tribes, upon which their trade depends,
without the aid of the Catholic mission-
ers.
After five months spent at Isle de
la Crosse, and three years after his de-
parture from Europe, Mgr. Faraud
left for Atthabaska, one of the most
northerly establishments of the Hud-
son's Bay Company, whither the va-
rious tribes of Lidians, spread over an
immense circuit 400 leagues in dia-
meter, come twice in the year, early
in spring and late in the autumn, to
barter their furs, the produce of their
winter and summer hunting. This
was his final destinatibn and field of
apostolical labor, it is often said that
it is the happiness of the Red Indian
to be totally ignorant of money ; and
this, in a certain sense is true. But
money has no necessary connection
wilji the precious metals or bank-notes ;
and any medium of circulation which
by common agreement can be made to
represent a determined value becomes
money, in fact, if not in name. Thus
the market value of a beaver^s skin in
British America varies litUe, and is
nearly equivalent to an American dol-
lar. The Hudson's Bay Company
have adopted this as the unit of their
currency, and the value of other furs
Digitized by CjOOQIC
566
Sealskins and Oopperskins.
is reckoned in relation to tbis standard.
The following are some of the prices
given to the jfndians for the furs ordi-
narily offered hj them for sale :
The skin of a black bear values
from six to ten beavers ; the skin of a
black ik}x, about six beavers ; the skin
of a silver fox, about five beavers ;
the skin of an otter, from two to three
beavers ; the skin of a pecari, from one
to four beavers ; the skin of a martin,
from one to four beavers ; the skin of
a red or white foic, about one beaver,
and so forth.
Twice in the year the steamers and
canoes of the company, laden with
merchandise, work their way up the
lakes and rivers to these stations,
where the Indians assemble to meet
them, and receive an equivalent for
their furs in arms, ammunition, articles
for clothing, hardware, and trinkets.
Two of our countrymen, Viscount
Milton, and Dr. Cheadle, have lately
published an account of their travels
in British America, of which we give
a notice in another part of this num-
ber.* The description they give of
the privations they endured and the
difficulties they had to overcome in
merely traversing the country as tra-
veUers, furnished as they were with
all the resources which wealth could
command, while it reflects credit on
their British pluck and perseverance
in attaining iht object they had in
view, gives us som^ idea of the obsta-
cles which present themselves to a
missioner in these regions, who has to
take up his abode wherever his duty
may call him, and without any means
of maintaining life beyond those which
these districts supply. The object of
these gentlemen was to explore a line of
communication between Canada and
British Columbia, with a view to sug-
gesting an overland route through
British territory connecting the Pacific
with the Atlantic — ^a most important
project in a political point of view,
upon which the success of the rising
•"The Norlh-Wwl __..
count MUum, U.P., and W.
don. 186Cl
bv Land.** Bt VI»-
CkMdl«, Hn. Lon-
colony of Columbia appears eventually
to depend. The territory administer-
ed by the Hudson's Bay Company,
reaching as it does from the Atlantic
to the Pacific, from the coasts of La-
brador on the NJE., to Vancouver's
Island on the S.W., contains an area
nearly equal to that of the whole of
Europe.
Mgr. Faraud remained fifteen years
at Atthabaska. He found it a soutary
station-house, in the midBt of deserts
inhabited by idolatrous savages ; it is
now a flourishing mission, with a vast
Christian population advancing in civ-
ilization, the capital of the district to
which it gives its name, and a centre
of operation from which missioners
may act upon the whole north of British
America, over which he now has epis-
copal jurisdiction. Such results, as
may be supposed, have not been at-
tained without labor and suffering.
In the commencement die mission was
beset with difficulties and discourage-
ments. His first step was to bidld
himself a house with logs of wood,
an act which was accepted by the sav-
ages as a pledge that he intended to
remain with them. A savage whom
he converted and baptized soon after
his arrival, acted as lus servant and
hunted for him; while with nets and
lines he procured a supply of fish for
himself when his servant was unsuccess-
ful in the chase. In this manner he for
some time maintained a life alternately
resembling that of Robinson Crusoe
and St. PauL He soon made a few
conversions in his neighborhood^ and
in the second year, with.the aid of his
catechumens, built a wooden ehapel,
ninety feet long by thirty broad. He
was now able, when the tribes assem-
bled in the spring and antunm, to
converse with them^ and preach to
them. They invited him to visit them
in their own countries, often many
hundreds of miles distant ; and these
visits involved long and perilous jour-
neys, in which he several times nearly
perished. In the fourth year he b^an
building a large chnrch, surmounted
by a steeple, from which he swung a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
SeaUsins and Ooppenlunt.
567
large bell, whieli lie procared from
£mH>pe throagh the agents of the
compaDj. It was r^ai^d as a sa-
pernatQiiil phenranenon bj the savages
when *^ the sound of the cfanreb-going
bell" was heard for the first time to
boom over their primeval fotests. As
scon as a savage became his catechu-
men^ he taught him to read, at the same
time that he instnicted him in religion.
The soil was gradoallj cultivated, crops
were reared, and cows and sheep in-
troduced. In the tenth year a second
priest was sent to his aid, who was
able to carry on his work for him at
home while he was absent on distant
missions.
There are thirteen distinct tribes in-
hflflMting British America, and Mgr.
Faraud devotes a chapter to the dis-
tinctive characteristics of each. But
a geneml idea of these savages may
be easily arrived at. Most of us are
familiar with the lively descriptions of
the ted man in the attractive novels of
Mr. Fenimore Cooper; and, though
the stories are fiction, these portraits
of the Indians are drawn to the life.
We have most of us been struck by
their taciturnity, . their profound cUa-
simulation, the perseverance with
which they follow up their plans of
revenge, the pride which prevents
them fh>m betraying the least cu-
riosity, the stoical courage with which
they brave their enemies in the midst
of the most horrible sufferings, their
caution, their cmelty, the extraordin*
ary keenness and subtlety of their
senses. The Indian savage .is pro-
foundly selfish ; gratitude aod sympa-
thy for others do not seem to enter into
the composition of his nature. The
same stubborn fortitude with which he
endures suflMng seems to render him
ind^erent to it in others. Intellect-
ually he is slow in his power of con-
ception and process of reasonii^, but
is endowed with a marvellous power
of memory and reflection. He has a
great fluency of speech, which often
rises to real eloquence ; and there is a
gravity and maturity in his actions
which is the fruit of meditation and
thov^t. Cases of apostasy in reli-
gion are very rare among the Indians.
A savage visited Mgr. Faraud soon
after his arrival at Atthabaska. He
had come from the shores of the Arctic
Ocean, where his tribe dwelt, a dis-
tance of above six hundred mile«, and
asked some questions on religious sub-
jects. After listening to the prieslfs
instruction on a few frmdamental
truths^ ^ 1 shall come to you again,"
he said, << when you can talk like a
man ; at present you talk like a child.''
Three years ailerward he kept his pro-
mise ; and immediately on arriving he
presented himself to the priest, and pla^
ced himself under instruction. On leat^
ing after the first in8tmcti<m, he assem-
bled a number of heathen savages, at a
short distance in the forest, and preach*
ed to them for several hours. This
continued for many weeks. In the
morning he came for instruction; in
the afternoon he preached the truths
he had learned in the morning to his
countrjrmen. Mgr. Faraud had the
curiosity to assist unseen at one of
tiiese sermons, and was stu'prised to
hear his own instruction repeated with
wonderftd accuracy and in most elo-
quent language. In this way a great
nmnber of conversions were made ;
and the instructioBS given to one were
faithftdly communicated to the rest by
this zealous savage. The name of
th» savage was D6negonnsy^. When
tiie time arrived for his tribe to return
to dieir own country, the priest pro-
posed that he should receive baptism.
^ No^" he said ; ^ I have done nothing
as yet for Almighty Qod. In a year
you shall see me here again, and pre-
pared for baptism." Punctual to
his promise, he returned the following
spring. In the mean time he had con-
verted the greater portion of his tribe ;
he had tau^t them to recite the pray-
ers the priest had taught him ; and he
brought the confessions of all the peo-
ple who had died in the mean time
among his own people, which he had
received on thdr dtoth-beds, and which
his wonderful memory enaUed him
now to repeat word for word to the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
56S
SeaUdnt and Ooppentim,.
priest, beggiiiff Urn to give them abso-
lation. Ddn^onuaje was now told to
prepare for baptism ; bat he again in-
sisted on preliminaries. First, that he
was to take the name of Peter, and wait
to receive his baptism on St Feter^s
day—'' Because," he said, "^ St. Peter
holds the kejs of heaven, and is more
likelj to open to one who bears his
name and is baptized on his feast;" se-
condly, that he was to be allowed to
fietst before his baptism forty days and
nights, as our Blessed Lord did. On
the vigil of St. Peter*s day he was so
weak that he walked with difficulty to
the chnrch ; bat on the feast, before day-
break, he knocked iondly at the priests
door and demanded baptism. He was
told to wait till the moss was finished.
When mass was over, the priest was
about to preach to the people; but
D^^nusye stood up and cried out,
'^It is St»Petei^s day; baptize me."
The priest calmed the murmurs which
arose from the congregation at this in-
terruption, and the eyes of all were
suddenly drawn to the fi^re of this
wild neophyte of the woods standing
before the altar to receive the waters
of regeneration. A ray of light seemed
to play round his head and rest upon
him, as though the Holy Ghost were
impatient to take up his abode in this
new temple.
Caaes are not unfreqaent of ^^ half-
caate" Lidians reared in the woods as
savages claiming baptism from the
priest as^ their "birthright." They
have never met a priest before, nor
ever seen their Catholic parent. They
are not Christians, and do not know
even the most elementary doctrines of
the church. Yet they have this strange
faith (as they say " by inheritance")
through some mysterious transmission
of w^ch God atone knows the secret
One of these " half-castes" met Mgr.
Faraud one day as he was travelling
through the forest, and asked him to
baptize him . " I have the faith of my
father," he said, ^and demand my
birtiiright" Then,4bviting him to his
house, he added : '^ My wife also de-
sires baptism." The priest accompa-
nied him to his banting-lodge, ana waa
presented to his wife, a young savage
lady of some twenty years. She waa
a veritable Amason, a perfect model
of symmetry of form and feminine
gmce ; tiiere was a savage majesty in
her gestures and gait; she- was a
mighty huntress, tamed the wildest
steeds, and was famed far and near
for her prowess with the bow and
spear. She welcomed the stranger
with courtesy, and immediately pre-
sented him with a basket fiiU of the
tongues of elks which had been the
spoil of her bow in the chase of the
previous day. But as soon as she
learned the errand on which he had
come, her manner changed to profound
reverence, and, throwing herself on htr
knees with hands clasped in the atti-
tude of prayer, she asked him for a
crucifiz, " to help me in my prayers,"
she said. The Indians do not pray.
Her husband did not know one article
of the creed. Who taught her to
pray ? — ^to venerate a priest ? — ^to adore
the myster}' of the cross ? — to desire
baptism, and yearn for admissiim to
the unity of Crod's church ?
The three principal difficulties in the
missioner's work among the Indiana
are to <' stamp out*' (to use a recently-
invented phrase) the influence of their
native magicians, and the practices of
polygamy and cannibalism — though se-
veral of the tribes are free from the
last-named vice. The magician, as
we might expect, is always plotting to
counteract his advances and to re-
venge them when suocessfuL When
a man has been possessed of half-«r
dozen wives, and perhaps as yet barely
realized to himself the Christian idea
of marriage, it is a considerable sacri-
fice to part with all but one, and some-
times perplexing to decide which he
will retain and which he will part with.
Then the ladies themselves have ge-
nerally a good deal to say upon this
question, and combinatioas arise in
consequence, which are often very se-
rious and oftencr still very ludicrous.
At Fort Resolution, oa the great
Slave Lake, the missi^mer met with a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
SeaUtim and Ot>pDer$tins.
569
wftnn Kceptkm from the nei^boring
tribes of Indians; and asjthe greater
part (A' them embraced Christianitj,
he set himself to work in instmcting
them. He exphdned to them that
Chrisdan marriage was a free act, and
coald never be valid where it was
compulsory, and that in this respect
the wife was as independent as the
husband. This was qaite a new doc-
trine to the savages, with whom it was
an inveterate custom to obtain their
wives either by force or by purchasing
them from their parents. The doctrine,
however, was eagerly received by the
women, who felt themselves raised by
it to equal rights with their husbands.
The men were then instructed that the
Christian religion did not permit poly-
gamy, and tlutt as many of them as
hfd more than one wife must makeup
their minds which of them they would
retain, and then part with the rest. It
would be difficult to explain the reason
why marriage, which is a serious and
solemn contract, and which in mystical
signification ranks first among ihe sa-
craments, is the subject of jests, and
provokes laughter in all parts of the
world. The savages were no excep-
tion to (his rule ; and while they set
themselves to obey the commands of
the church, they made their doing so
the occasion of much merriment. The
following morning a crowd of them
waited upon the priest, each of whom
brought the wife with whom he in-
tended to be indissolubly united. After
an exhortation, which dwelt upon the
divine institution, sacramental nature,
and mutual obligations of matrimony,
each couple was called up to the priest
af^er their names had been written
down in the register. The first couple
who presented themselves were " To-
queiyaai** and " Ethikkan." " Toquei-
yaza," said the priest, ^ will you take
Ethikkan to be your lawful wife P'
" Yes," was the answer. " Ethikkan,
win you take Toqueiyazi to be your
lawful husband?" "No," said the
bride, " on no account." Then turn-
ing to the bridegroom, who shared the
general astonishment of all present,
she continued, <'Yon took me away
by force ; you came to our tent and
tore me away fVom my aged father ;
you dragged me into die forests, and
there I became your slave as well as
your wife, because I believed that
you had a right to make yourself my
master: but now the priest himself
has declared that God has given the
same liberty to the woman as to the
man. I choose to enjoy that libe^y,
and I will not marry you.** Great
was the sensation produced by this
startling announcement. A revolu-
tion had taken place. The men beheld
the social order which had hitherto ob-
tained in their tribe suddenly over-
thrown. The women trembled for the
consequences which this daring act
might bring upon them. For a mo-
ment the issue was doubtful ; but the
women, who always get the last word
in a discussion, in this case got the first
also ; they cried out that Ethikkan was
a courageous woman, who had boldly
carried out the prindpies of the Christ-
ian religion regardless of human re-
spect ; and what she had done was in
fact so clearly in accordance with
what the priest had taught, that the
men. at length acquiesced, and the
" rights of woman" were thenceforward
recognized and- established on the
banks of the great Slave Lake.
In one of his winter journeys through
the snow, attended by a party of Vi-
dians and sledge drawn by dogs, Mgr.
Faraud was arrested by a low moan-
ing sound which proceeded from a lit-
tle girl lying under a hollow tree cov-
ered with icicles. Her hands and feet
were already frostbitten, but she was
still sufficiently conscious to tell him
that her parents had left her there to
die. It is a common practice with the
savages to make away with any mem-
ber of the family who is likely to be-
come a burden to them. The priest
put the child on the sledge, carried
her home, and, with proper treatment,
care, and food, she recovered. She
was instructed and baptized, receiving
the name of Mary. This child be-
came the priest's consolation and joy.
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570
Jfiice&niy.
a viaibld angei in his hoase^ gay and
happy, and a sooroe of happiness and
edification to others* She was one of
those chosen soals on whom God
showers his choicest &Tor8, and whom
he calls to a close fiEuniliarity with
himself. Bat after a time the priest
was obliged to leave on a distant mis-
sion, having been called to spend the
winter wi& a tribe who wished to
embrace Christianity, and whose ter-
ritory lay at a distance of several
hundreds of miles. What was to be
V done with Mary? To accompany
him was impossible-— to remain bo*
hind was to starve* There was at
that time, among his savage catechn-
mens, an old man and his wife whose
baptism he had deferred till the fol-
lowing spring. This seemed to be the
only solution of the difflcolty. They
had no children of their own; they
would take charge of Mary, and
bring her safe back'to ^the man of
prayei^' in the spring. Bitter was
the partmg between little Mary and
the priest; but there was the hope
of an early meeting in the following
spring. The spring came, and the
priest returned; but the old savages
and Mary came not. For weeks the
priest expected them, and then start-
ed to seek their dwelling, about fif-
ty miles distant from his own. He
found their house empty, and the man
could nowhere be discovered. But in
searching for him through the forest,
he descried an old woman gathering
fuel It was his wife. Where was
Mary? The M woman made eva-
sive replies until the sternness of the
priest*8 manner terrified her into con-
fession. ''The winter had been se-
vere" — ^"they had run short of pro-
visions'* — "and— and — " in short,
they had eaten her. ^
• But if the difScttlties, disappoint-
ments, and sufferings of the missioner
in these American deserts are great,
requiring in him great virtue and an
apostolic spirit, his consolations are
great also. The grace of God is al-
ways given in proportion to his ser-
vants' need; and in this virgin soil,
where spurious forms of Christianity
are as yet unknown, the effects it pro-
duces are at time astounding. The
missioner is alternately tempted to
elation and despair. He must know,
to use the words of the Apostle, " how
to be brought low, and how to abound.'*
Monseigneur Faraud has now returned
to his diocese to reap the harvest of the
good seed which he has sown, and to
carry a Christian civilization to the
savages of the extreme north of Amer-
ica. He has left his volume behind
him to invite our prayers for his suc-
cess, and to remind those generous
souls who are inspired to undertake
the work of evangelizing the heathen,
that in his portion of the Lord's field
^ the harvest i» great and the laborers
few."
misc*:llany.
The Zoological Position of the Dodo. —
At a meeting of the Zoological Society on
the 9th of January last. Professor Owen
read a paper on the osteology of the Dodo^
the great extinct bird of the Mauritius.
Oar readers will remember that this bird
has given rise to a good deal of discussion
from time to time as to its true affinities.
"When Professor Owen was Curator of
the Royal College of Surgeons' Museum,
he dassed the Dodo along with tiie Rap-
torial birds. This arrangement led to the
production of the huge volume of Messrs.
Strickland and Melvilley in which it was
very ably demonstrated that the bird be-
longs to the Ooltimbm or pigeon group.
It is highly creditable therefore to Pro-
fessor Owen that upon a careful examina-
tion of the specimens of the dodo's bones
which have lately come under his obser-
vation, he has consents to the view long
ago expressed by Dr. Mcdville; The mate-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
New PubHcaticns,
571
rials upon which Professor Owen's paper
was based consisted of about one hundred
different bones belonging to various parts
of the skeleton^ which had been recently
discovered by Mr. George Clark, of Mahe-
berg, Mauritius, in an alluvial deposit in
that island. After an exhaustive exami-
nation of these remains, which embraced
nearly every part of the skeleton, Pro-
fessor Owen came to the conclusion that
previous authorities had been correct in.
referring the dodo to the Columbine order, .
the variations presented, though consid-
erable, being mainly such as might be
referable to the adaptation of the dodo to
a terrestrial life, and different food and
habits. — Foptilar Science Eeoieio.
Native Boreas, — A lake about two miles
in circumference, from which borax is
obtained in extremely pure condition and
in very large quantity, has recently been
discovered in California. The borax
hitherto in use has been procured by
GOmbining boracic acid, procured from
Tuscany, with soda. It is used in large
quantities in England, the potteries of
Staffordshire alone consuming more than
1100 tons annually.
Fall of the Temperature of Metals. —
At the last meeting of the Chemical So-
ciety of Paris, Dr. Phipson called atten-
tion to the sudden fall of temperature
which occurs when certain metals are
mixed together at the ordinary tempera-
ture of the atmosphere. The most ex^r
traordinary descent of temperature oc-
curs when 207 parts of lead, 118 of tin,
284 of bismuth, and l,6lY of mercury are
alloyed together. The external temper-
ature being at -f 170^ centigrade at the
time of the mixture, the thermometer in-
stantly falls to — 10' below zero. Even
when these proportions are not taken
with absolute rigor, the cold produced
is such that the moisture of the atmos-
phere is immediately condensed on the
sides of the vessel in which the metallic
mixture is made. The presence of lead
in the alloy does not appear to be so in-
dispensable as that of bismuth. Dr.
Phipson explains this fact by assuming
that the cold is produced by the liquefac-
tion at the ordinary temperature of the
air of such dense metals as bismuth, etc.,
i:i their contact with the mel^ury.
Chreeh and Egyptian Inecripiions. — ^The
discovery of a stone bearing a Greek in-
scription with equivalent Egyptian hiero*
glyphics, by Messrs. Lepsius, Reinisch,
R6sler, and Weidenbach, four German
explorers, at Sane, the former Tanis, the
chief scene of the grand architectural un-
dertakings of Barneses the Second, is an
important event for students of Egyptolo-
gy. The Greek inscription consists of
seventy-six lines, in the most perfect pre-
servation, dating from the time of Ptolemy
Energetes I. (288 B.C.) The stone is
twenty-two centimetres high, and seven-
ty-eight centimetres wide, and is com-
pletely covered by the inscriptions. The
nnders devoted two days to copying the
inscriptions, taking three photogniphs of
the stone^ and securing impressions of
the hieroglyphics. Etyptologists are
therefore anxiously looking forward to
the production of these fiusimiles and
photographs.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
MxBCXLLAH£A : Comprising Eeviews,
Lectures, and Essays, on tlistoriod.
Theological, and Miscellaneous Sub-
jects, By M. J. Spalding, D.D-,
Aitshbishop of Baltimore. Fourth
edition. 2 vols. Svo. Pp. 807. Balti-
more : John Murphy & Co. 1866.
This work has attained a well deserved
popularity in the Catholic community ;
and we hail with pleasure this new and
enlarged edition of it Dr. Spalding has
obtained the first place amongst the few
of our popular writers ; and by his con-
tributions to Catholic literature will leave
after him evidences of a "good fight "
for the truth and faith of Christ. Thq
Miscellanea is a book for the times, such
as the Church always needs, and of
which in later years wo have sadly felt
.the want The prolific Anti-<»itholic
press has deluged the c6untry with pub-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
572
Nsw PMieoHons*
iications of all sises and of overy cha-
racter, unfair in their statements of our
doctrine and practice, and but too often
marked by bitter iny^tiye and wilful
misrepresentation. The prejudices thus
engendered and deepened must be quick-
ly and pointedly met before the poison
has had time to spread. We must not
be content with a passive confidence in
the inherent strength of truth. la tho
long run truth will prevail, we know ;
but there is no reason why truth should
not also prevail in the short run. Our
American style of making a mental
meal is not very far different from that
of our physical meaL We read as fast
as we eat, and are not over dainty. It
is perfectly marvellous what hashes of
literary refuse your anti-church, anti-
papal, and liberal (sic) caterer has tho
impudence to set before a people hun-
gering after righteousness and truth:
and it is equally marvellous that these
same people so hastily gulp down the
newl^ spiced dish, without evincing any
suspicion of their having once or twico
before seen and rejected the same well-
picked bones and unsavory morsels.
Experience proves the necessity of
providing for the American mind good
solid food, cooked a la Mte, and served
with few accompaniments. They are
not partial to long introductory soups,
and totally disregard all sidenlish re-
ferences and quotations. Comparisons
aside, we need quick and popular an-
swers to these poflular and hasty accusa-
tions. The difficulty we experience is
in the fact that the books, pamph-
lets, and tracts which disseminate error,
contain such a mass of illogical reason-
ing, and are based upon so many con-
tradictory principles, that to answer
them all fidly and logically would re-
quire as man^ octavos as they possess
pages. To give a fair, unsophistical,
and popular response to the questions
of the day, as presented to us in the
forms we have mentioned, requires no
little critical skill, and real literary
genius. In the perusal of the work be-
fore us we have had frequent occasion to
admire these characteristics of the dis-
tinguished author. His trenchant blows
decapitate at once a host of hydra-
headed errors, and he displays a happv
faculty of marking and dealing with
those particular points which would be
noticeable ones for the reader of the
productions which come under the judg-
ment of his pen. We have cause to
congratulate ourselves that we have in
him a popular writer for the Americap
people. An American himself, he un-
derstands his countrymen, appreciates
their merits, and is not blind to their
fiiilings. It is true we find in these
pages many qualifications of the motives
of Protestant antagonists and of Pro-
testant movements genendlv which wo
wish might be read only by those to
whom they apply; still the intelligent
reader will not fail to observe that they
were called forth by the temper of the .
times in which these different essays
were written. The author himself ob-
serves in his pre&ce to this edition:
*^ As some of tnem were written as far
back as twenty years, it is but natuM
to suppose that they occasionally exhibit
more spirit and heat in argument, than
the cooler temper and riper taste of
advancing years would fully approve."
And he very justly adds : *' While 1 am
free to make this acknowledgment, jus-
tice to ipy own convictions and feelings
requires me to state, that in regard to
the facts alleged, I have nothing to re-
tract, or even, materially to modify, and
that in the tone and temper I do not
oven npw believe that I set down aught
in malice, or with any other than the
good intent of correcting error and es-
tablishing truth, without assuming the
aggressive except for the sake of what
I believed to be the legitimate defence of
the Church of God."
What the learned writer here hints at,
we feel to be his own profound convic-
tions at the present day, and the wisdom
of which the aspect of controversy as it
is now successfully being carried on here
and in Europe, also proves, that it is
better to convince and to teach, than to
silence. We are not, however, alto-
gether averse to sharp reproof or good-
natured ridicule where it is well de-
served. Fools are to be answered, says
the Holy Scripture, according. to their
folly ; and fools not unfrequently attack
the truth and do a deal of mischief.
When a writer or public orator presumes
to talk nonsense, or appeals to the vulgar I
prejudices or the fears of the ignorant,
it becomes necessary to exhibit both his
character and motives. Calm and un-
impassioned argument is thrown away
upon him, and is looked upon by the
unthinking masses as a confessioa of
weakness. Few instances, if any, can
be shown where a Catholic polemic
writer has treated an honorable antag-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
New PuhUeaUonu
573
onist with discourtesy : and we venture
to say that the scathing criticisms which
are to be found in the work before us
were richly merited, and on the whole
will be so judged by the dispassionate
reader.
This edition contains upward of one
hundred and sixty pages of new matter,
of equal interest with that of the fore-
going editions.
We give it our humble and earnest
commendation, heartily wishing that it
may- be widely circulated and read;
confidently assured as we are that it
will do good, and advance the cause of
truth.
CHBiSTiANiTr, Its Influence on Civiliza-
tion, and its Relation tq Nature's Re-
ligion: the "Harmonial** or Univer-
sal Philosophy. A Lecture. By Caleb
S. Weeks. New-York: W. White
&Ca 1866.
What a pity Mr. Caleb S. Weeks was
not bom earher I The whole world has
been running for nineteen centuries afler
the "Nazarene," and his "religious sys-
tem,^* when it might have been running
after Mister Weeks, and his shallow
spiritualistic humanitarian philosophy t
Who knows ? Reading effusions of this
kind, we are reminded of Beppolo's Fan-
farone :
" What UH tut bolls vlthln mt f
Is*t the throes of nMoent genlas ; or the strlft
Of high bamortal thoughts to find « rent :
Or, Is it wind?" •
Repobt of T^B Holt Childhood nr thb
U. S. AmiALS OF THB HOLT CHILD-
HOOD, etc. 1866.
We are in receipt of t&e above in
French and in English, together with
various circulars and pictures illustrat-
ing and recommending the extensive and
admirable work of charity, called "The
Holy Childhood" It was founded by
the Bishop of Nancy in France, the Rt
Rev. Forbin-Janson : and its object is
principally to rescue the abandoned
children of the Chinese, baptize them,
and educate them as Christians. Chi-
nese parents have irresponsible control
over the life and death of their children,
and hence the crime of indGuiticide is
Tei^ common amongst them, and that
in its most revolting forms, the heartless
parents drowning them, leaving them to
die by exposure, and even to be eaten
alive by dogs and swine. The poor will
sell their young children for a paltry
sum, apparently -without much regret
It was impossible that Catholic charity
should forever pass by unnoticed such a
plague-spot upon humanity. Wherever
humanity suffers, she knows how to in-
spire devoted souls with an ardent desire
for the alleviation of its misery. Found-
ed only since 1843, the association of
the Holy Childhood has rescued and
baptized three millions of these children.
The report for this year gives the number
of those under education at twenty- three
thousand four hundred and sixteen.
Such a noble work, so truly CaUiolic in
its spirit, needs no commendation of
ours. We are sure that all Catholic
children, who are the ones particularly
invited to be members of it, and to con-
tribute to its support, will vie with each
other in their prayers and offerings for
its success. Catholic charity effects
great things with little means. The
entire annual expenditures of the Society
for the Propagation of the Faith, with
which we hope our readers are well ac-
quainted, did not amount, a few years
since, to more than eight thousand dol-
lars. The Society of the Holy Child-
hood asks for a contribution of only one
cent a month from each of its members,
and requires each one to say dailv a
Hail Muy and an invocation 'to the child
Jesus, to have pity upon all poor pagan
children.
We have been much interested in look-
ing over the number of the annals sent
us, but we are sorry to see certain ReU-
giouB Orders singled out by name as not
yet having made this enterprise a part of
their work. Those holy and devoted men
need no stimulation of this kind to do
all that comes within their sphere for
God's greater glory, and the salvation of
mankind : and one does not like one's
name called out as a delinquent by him
who solicits, but has not yet obtamed
our name for his subscription-list It is,
to say the least, iiyudicious; but we
hope that the well-known zeal and ar-
dent charity of the Directors of this
pious work will be sufiScient apology for
the incautious remark.
A Brief Biographical Biotionart.
Compiled and arranged by tiie Rev.
Charles Hole, B.A., Trinity College,
Cambridge; with additions and cor-
rections by Wniiam A. Wheeler, M. A.,
assistant editor of Webster's Diction-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
574
Nem Ptt6Ueation$.
ary, author of " A Dictionary of
Noted Names of Fiction/' ota 12mo,
pp. 453. New-York : Hard & Hough-
ton. 1866.
VTq have here a most convenient little
rolumc for reference, and one that is
also pretty accurate and complete. It
merely gives the name of the person,
liis country, profession, date of hirth
and death. The American editor has
done his work well, as well as it is pos-
sible, humanly spealdng, to compile such
a work; but he certainly should have
added the name of Br. J. V. Huntington
^ to the Appendix, which contains the
names of those omitted by Mr. Hole,
lie has placed names there that are not
half so well known to men of letters as
that of the late lamented Dr. Hunting-
ton. Wo make special mention of his
name, as the American editor of this use-
ful little book is the author of "A Dic-
tionary of Noted Names of Fiction,"
and must have read of the author of
*'Alban," "The Forest," "Rosemary,"
*' Pretty Plate," " Blonde and Brunette,"
etc., etc. There may be other omissions,
but this author being one of the most
prominent of our deceased American
Catholic writers, there can be no good
excuse for the exclusion of his name.
Devotion to tub Blessed Virgin Mart
IN North America. By the Rev.
Xavier Donald Macleod. With a Me-
moir of the author by the Most Rev.
John B. Purcell, D.D., Archbishop of
Cincinnati. 8vo, pp. 467. Virtue &
Yorston, New-York.
Few Americans are well acquainted
with the religious history of their own
country. It is to be regretted, for in the
religious history of any nation we find a
revelation of life no less interesting, and
far more important than the detail of its
political fortunes. Indeed, we believe that
history written so as to exclude the men-
tion of religion and its influence upon
the social character, civilization, and the
national peculiarities of a people, would
be as incomplete as it would be unintel-
ligible. Americans are educated to be-
lieve that this country, with the excep-
tion of Mexico, has been a Protestant
country from the start ; that its religiotxs
activity has been purely Protestant ;
tliat Catholicity has been chiefly hitherto
a work confined to the spiritual ministra-
tions of foreign priests to a foreign im-
migrant population ; and he is surprised
to learn that the only missionary work
done on this continent worthy of record
on the page of its history is wholly Cath-
olic. And we venture to affirm that the
only picture of the religion of America,
either of its early or its later days, which
will bo looked upon by future genera*
tions with pleasure and pride, will be
that which the Catholic Church presents
in the apostolic labors of her missiona*
ries, through which the savage Indian
becomes the docile Christian ; the rude,
uneducated masses, whether white or
black, are guided, instructed, and saved ;
the truth and grace of the holy fitith is
preached in hardship, toil, privation, per-
secution, and death. It is true that the
book before as treats of religion in Amer-
ica with only the devotion toward our
Blessed Lady as its particular theme,
but it necessarily offers us a view of the
progress of the Catholic religion in every
part of the continent It is written in
a most charming style, replete with
graphic descriptions, and marked through-
out by that tone of enthusiastic loyalty
to the faith so characteristic of the gifted
and lamented author. There is no por-
tion of the work we have read with great-
er interest than that which concexns
the conversion and religious life of the
Indians. There has been no truer type
of the Catholic misdonary than is dis-
played by those devoted priests, who
came to this country burning with the
desire to win its savage aborigines to the
iaith of Christ Let us give a little ex-
tract:
** For thirty years now haa Father Sebas-
tian Basle dwelt in the forest, teaching to its
wild, red children the love of God and Mary.
He is burned by sun and tanned by wind
unUl he is ahnost as red as his parishioners.
The languages of the Abenaki and Hnron,
the Algonquin and Illinois, are more familiar
to him than the tongue in which his mother
taught him the Ave Maria. The huts of
Norridgewock contain his people ; the river
Kennebec flows swilUy past Us dwelling to
the sea. There he has built a church —
handsome, he thinks and says ; perhaps it
would not much excite our luxurious imagina-
tion. At any rate, l&e altar is handsome; and
he has gathered a store of copes and cbasn-
blea^ alb« and embroidered stoles ibr the ditf-
mty of the holy service. He haa trained,
also, as many as forty Indian boya in the cer-
emonies, and, in their crimson cassocks and
white surpUcesy they aid the sacred pomp.
Besides the churcl^ there are two chapels,
one on I2ie road wnidi leads to the forest,
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Nmo PuiKeaUafu.
575
where the hrweB are wont to make a short
retreat before they Btart to trap and hunt ;
the other on the path to the cultivated landB,
where prayers are offered when they go to
plant or gather in the harvest. The one is
dedicated to the guardian angel of the tribe,
the other to our most holy mother, Mary Im-
maculate. To adorn this latter is the espe-
cial emulation of the women. Whatever
they have of jewels, of sUk stuff from the
settlements, or delicate embroidery of porcu-
pine-quill, or richly tinted moose-hair, is
found here ; and from amidst thdr oiferings
rises, white and Mr, the statue of the Yii^
gin ; and her sweet face looks down benig-
nantly upon her swarthy ehildren, kneeling
before her to recite their rosaries. One
beautiful inanimate mhnstrant to Qod^s wor-
ship they have in abundance— light from wax
caiuUes. The wax is not precisely (^ntfoptuffL
but it is a nearer approach to it than you find
in richer and less excusable places. It is
wax from the berry of the laurels, which
cover the hills of Maiae. And to the chapel
every night and morning come all the Indian
Christians. At momhig they make their
prayer in common, and assist at mass, chant-
ing, in their own dialect, hymns written ibr
that purpose by their pastor. Then they go
to their employment for the day ; he to his
continuous, orderly, and eeaaeless labor. The
morning is given up to visitors, who come to
theur gm>d &tber with their sorrows and dis-
quietudes ; to ask his relief a^^unst some
little injustice of their fellows ; his advice on
their marriage or other projects. He con-
soles this one, instructs that, reestablishes
peace in disunited families, cdlms troubled
consciences, administers gentle rebuke, or
gives encouragement to the timid. The after-
noon bdongs to the sick, who are visited in
their own cabins. If there be a coundl, the
black-robe must come to invoke the Holy Spirit
on thdr deliberations; if a feast, he most be
present to bless the viands and to check all
approaches to ^sorder. And always in the
afternoon, old and young, warrior and gray-
haired squaw, Christian and catechumen, as-
semble for the catechism. When the sun
declines westward, and the shadows creep
over the village, they seek the chapel for the
public prayer, and to sing a hymn to St
Mary. Then each to his own home ; but be-
fore bed-time, neighbors gather again, in the
honse of one of them, and in antiphonal
choirs they nn0 their beads, and with an-
other hynm they separate for sleep.^*
The work does not need any com-«
mendation at our hands ; it will assuredly
booome popular whereFor it is intro-
duced, whether H be into the libraries of
ooUeges or litwiUT AS^odaUons, or into
the &mily circle.
LiPB AND GAMPAieHS OF LiSUT.-QEirXBAL
U. S. Grant, from his Boyhood to the
Surrender of General Lee ; including
an accurate account of Sherman's great
inarch from Chatti^nooga to Washing-
ton, and the final official Reports of
Sheridan, Meade, Sherman, and Grant ;
with portraits on steel of Stanton,
Grant and his Generals, and other
illustrations. By Rev. P. G. Headley,
author of Life of Napoleon, Life of Jo-
sephine, etc, etc. 8vo, pp. 720. New
York: Derby & Miller Publishing Co.
1866.
The title of thia work is sufficiently
ambitious to justify the expectation that
it is really a yaluable contribution to our
national historical literature. Sudi is,
however, not the case. The only yalua- *
ble portions of the book are the reports
of different commanding generals, which
are appended. The style is of the in-
flated, mock-heroic order, of which we
have had a surfeit, especially since the
commencement of the late war. The
descriptions of battles remind us of a
certain class of cheap battle pictures, in
which smoke, artillery horses, and men
are arranged and rearranged to suit any
desired emergency. One is left in doubt
in reading the account of the famous
charge on the left at Fort Donelson,
whether 0. F. Smith or Morgan L. Smith
was the officer in command. Morgan L.
Smith was a brave and valuable officer,
but the decisive charge in question was
led by C. F. Smith, and was one of the
most remarkable and brilliant military
exploits of the war. We cannot pre-
tend to wade through all the crudities,
platitudes, and mistakes of this bulky
volume, manufactured to order, not writ-
ten. There is one glaring blunder or
intentional perversion, in the desire to
please every body, which all cannot pass
over. The relief of Major^eneral Mo-
Clemand in front of Vicksburg is made
to appear to be a 'reluctant act on the
part of General Grant Mr. Headley
represents General Grant as complying
with an urgent military necessity, at the
cost of his friend. This is all sheer
nonsense. There was and could be no
friendship between Grant and McCler-
nand. One might as well expect fellow-
ship between light and darkness. There
was a military necessity to remove Mc-
Clemand, for every day that he com-
manded a corps imperilled the safety of
the whole army. Shermaa and McPher-
son muted io .demAQding his removal.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
576
New PMieatiani.
and General Grant chose the right mo-
ment to relieye him-when he had demon-
strated his incapacity, or worse, to the
mind of every soldier on the field, and
ruined forerer the false populari^ he
had acquired as a politician of the low-
est grade. Mr. madley makes an un-
successful effort to gloze over General
Wallace's unaccountable delay in com-
ing up to the field of' Shiloh. In fact,
he deals in indiscriminate praise for an
obrious reason, and like all such people
is certain to get very little himself from
his critics. The book no doubt sells,
and will probably stimulate a desire to
read the authentic histories which will
in due season appear, and of which Wm.
Swinton's History of the Army of the
Potomac (not without its faults) is a
specimen. We expect a first-dass scien-
tific History of the War. Major-General
Schofield is the man to write it, when
the proper time arriyes.
Poetry, Ltbical, Narbatfte, and Sa-
tirical, or THB Civil War. Selected
and edited by Kichard Grant White.
12mo, pp. S84. American News Co.
Mr. White's preface to this volume of
selected poetry is the best criticism
which the book could have, and is an
exhaustive and elegant essay. It is a
remarkably complete collection of the
pieces which have appeared firom time
to time in the progress of the war. The
value of such a work is in its complete-
ness less than in the merits of the com-
positions selected. We should be glad
to see another edition, containing some
which have been overlooked or omitted.
The value of such a collection increases
with time, and it will be eagerly sought
for and highly prized when the hateful,
painful, and commonplace features of
the struggle have softened into the ele-
ments ofpleasing fominisoence and ro-
mance, and become the incentives to
heroism and patriotism to unborn chil-
dren.
A Text Book on Phtsioloot. For the
use of Schools and Colleges, being an.
Abridgement of the author's larger
work on Human Physlolcwy. ByJ<mn
William Draper, M.D., LL.D., author
of A Treatise on Human Physiology,
and A History of the InteUectual Se-
velopmeat of Europe, etc ISmo, pp.
876. Harper & Brothers, 1866.
A Text Book ok Chbmzstbt. Tor the
use of Schools and Colleges. By Hen-
ry Draper, M.D., Professor Adjunct of
Chemistry and Natural History in the
University of New York. 12mo, pp.
507. Harper & Brothers. 1866.
The Drapers, father and sons, present
the rare example in this materialistic a»>
and most materialistic city, of a whoio
family devoted to literary and scientific
pursuits, and working in that harmony
which the sincere aim loyal pursuit of
science is sure to produce. Although
we have had occasion to differ with Pro-
fessor Draper in his philosophical and
some of his political deductions, we ad-
mire his intellect and attainments, and
in the purely scientific order consider
him entitled to the highest consideration
and respect He is a close student and
an original observer, and we believe him
ardently and faithfully devoted to the
ascertainment of exact scientific truth.
His sons are men of great promise,
and have already done more in their short
lives in the respective departments of nat-
ural science than many of twice their age.
Catholicity courts scientific investiga-
tion and verifloation in every department
of inquiry, and delights to honor all men
who devote their lives V> these self-de-
nying labors. There is, so to speak, a
sanctity of science. Science inevitably
tends toward religion, and is the most
powerful safeguard of society and civili-
zation next to religion. .
The two manuals whose titles are giv-
en above are excellent of their kind, and
we cordially recommend them to our
schools and colleges.
BOOKS BECEXYED.
Tnm O. ArriMnm k Oa, New-Totk. The Aoiraal
CydopiBdU And Register of ImporU&t BrcDts of
the Year 1365. 8vo, pp. SJSa
Vrom Hdrd k Hoconroir, New-Tork. Rerolation sad
Beoonstrttction. Two Leeturefl dellyered In Ihe
Law School of Harrard College, In January, 1889;,
and JTaauary, 186A, by Joel Parker. Syo, pam-
phlet, pp. 88. Shakespeare's Delineations of In-
sanity, Imbecmty, and Snldde. By A. O. Kel-
logg, M.D., Assistant Phydklan Stale Lnnalle
Asylum, Utlca, N. Y. Ifcno. pp. 204. Pictures
of Oonntry Ufa. By Alice Oaiy. 18mo,pp. 8M.
Vrom D. k J. SADun A Co., New-Tork. Parte 18.
19, and 90 of D'Artaud's Lives of the Popes ; and
Vol II. of Catholic Anecdotes.
Prom P. O'Shia, New-York. Nos. SO, ST, 88, 89, 80,
81, 88. and 88 of Darras*B History of the Catholic
Oharon.
From A. D. V. Basdoiml I^«v-Yoik. The Lady of
lA Oaraye. By the Hon. Mrs. Norton, lino,
pp. 115.
From J. J. OHknmoa k Oa, Newark, N. J. Jems
and Mary. A CathoUc hymn-book. Selected
frxaa Tarions soorces, and arranged for the use of
the children of St Patrick's CaUiedFal, Newark,
N. J. Iteo^ pp. 10| papers
Digitized by CjOOQIC
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL, m^ NO. 17.— AUGUST, 1866.
[ OBieXMAU ]
PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.
Tm KXTILATlOff OV THE STTPERXATimAL OR-
I>n, AMD ITS BXLAIIOM TO TOE PRIMITITK
IDEA OF REABOH.
OuB reasofQ in apprehending the
intelligible is advertised at the same
time of the existence of the snper-
intelligible. It is necessary to ex-
plain here the sense in which this lat-
ter term is used. It is evident that it
can be used only in a relative and not
in an absolute sense. That which
is absolutely without the domain of
the intelligible is absolutely unintelli-
gible and therefore a non-entity. The
super-intelligible must therefore be
something which is intelligible to Grod,
but above the range either of all crea-
ted reason, or of human reason in its
present condition. It will suffice for
the present to consider it imder the
latter cat^ory.
Our reason undoubtedly appre-
hends in its intelligible object the ex-
istence of something which is above
the range of human intelligence in its
present state. The intimate nature of
material and spiritual substances is in-
comprehensible. Much more, the in-
timate nature or essence of the infinite
VOL. IIL 87
divine being. All science begins from
and conducts to the incomprehensible.
Any one who wishes to satisfy himself
of this may peruse the first few chapters
of Mr. Herbert Spencer's " Principles
of Philosophy." That portion of the
first article of the creed which reason
can demonstrate; namely, the being
of God, the Creator of the world, in
which is included also the immortality
of the soul, and the principle of moral
obligation ; advertises therefore, of an
infinite sphere of truth which is above
our comprehension. The natural sug-
gests the supernatural, in which it has
its first and final cause, its origin and
ultimate end. The knowledge of the
natural, therefore, gives us a kind of
negative knowledge of the super-natu-
ral, by advertising us of its own in-
completeness, and of the want of any
principle of self-origination or meta-
phyBi(»l finality in itself. A system
of pure naturalism which represents
the idea of reason under a form which
satisfies completely the intelligence
without introducing the sapematu-
ral, is impossible. What is nature,
and what do we mean by the natu-
ral? Natare is simply the aggregate
of finite entities, and the natural is
Digitized by CjOOQIC
8W
Prohtems of the Age,
what inay be predicated of these enti-
ties. A Bjstem of pure naturalism
would therefore give a complete ac-
count of this aggregate of finite enti-
ties, without going beyond the entities
lliemBelveSy that is, without transcend-
ing the limits of space, time, the finite
and the contingent. Such a system
is not only incapable of rational de-
monstration, but utterly unthinkable.
For, when the mind has gone to its
utmost length in denying or exclud-
ing every positive affirmation of any-
thing except natui*e, there remains al-
ways the abyss of the unknown from
which nature came and to which it
tends, even though the unknown may
be declared to be unknowable. Those
who deny the super-intelligible and
the supernatural, therefore, are mere
sceptics, and cannot construct a phi-
losophy. Those who affirm a First
Cause, in which second causes and
their effects are intelligible, affirm the
jsupcrnaturaL for the first and ab-
solute Cause cannot be included under
the same generic term ' with the sec-
ond causes and finite forces of nature.
The more perfectly and clearly they -
evolve the full theistic conception of
pure reason, the more distinctly do
they affirm the superaatural, because
the idea of Grod as the infinite, intel-
ligible object of his own infinite in-
telligence is proportionately explicat-
ed and apprehended. It is explicated
and apprehended by means of analo-
gies derived from finite objects, but
these analogies suggest that there is
an infinite something behind them
which they represent. By these an-
alogies we learn in a measure the
meaning of the affirmation Ut Deus
siU We do not learn Quid sit Detts,
but still we cannot help asking the
question, What is Grod, what is his
essence ? We know that he is the ad-
equate object of his own intelligence
and will, and therefore we cannot help
asking the question what is that ob-
ject, what does God see and love in
himself, in what does his most pure
and infinite act consist, what is his
beatitude? Our reason is advertised
of an infinite truth, reality, or being,
which it cannot comprehend, that is,
of the super-intelligible* Those who
base their philosophy on pure theism,
or a modified rationalistic Christianity,
are therefore entirely mistaken when
they profess to be anti-supematural-
ists, and to draw a distinctly marked
line between themselves and the sup-
cmaturalifits. The distmction is only
between more or less consistent sup-
ernaturalists. Those who are at the
remotest point from the Catholic idea,
see that those who are a little nearer
have no tenable standing-point, and
these see it of those who are nearer
than they are, and so on, until we
come to the Anglicans and the Orien-
tals. But the extremists themselves
have no better standing-point than
the intermediaries, and in their theis-
tio conception have admitted a princi-
ple from which they can be driven
by irresistible and invincible logic to
the Catholic Church. For the present,
we merely aim to show that they arc
compelled to admit the supernatural
when they affirm God as the first and
final cause of the world. In affirming
this, they affirm that nature has its
origin and final reason in the super-
natural, or in an infinite object above
itself, which human reason cannot
comprehend. That is, they affirm sup-
er-intelligiblo and super-natural rela-
tions, of man and the universe. These
relations must be regulated and ad-
justed by some law. This law is eith-
er the simple continuity of the origin-
al creative act which explicates itself
through con-creative second causes in
time and space, or it is this, and in
addition to this, an immediate act of
the Creator completing his original,
creative act by subsequent acts of an
equal or superior order, which concur
with the first towards the final cause
of the creation. Whoever takes the
first horn of this dilemma is a pure
naturalist in the only sense of the
word which is intelligible. That is,
while he is a supematuralist, in main-
taining that nature has its first and
final cause in the supernatural, or in
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
ProUems of the Age.
579
God ; lie is a natmalist in maintain-
ing that man has no other tendency
to his final cause except that given in
the creative act that is essential to na-
ture, and no other mode prescribed
for returning to his final cause than
the explication of this natural tenden-
cy, according to natural law. Conse-
quently, reason is sufficient, without
revelation; the will, without grace;
humanity, without the incarnation ; so-
ciety, or the race organized under law,
without the church. It is precisely in
the method of treating tlus thesis of nat-
uralism that the divarication takes place
between the great schools of Catholic
theology and between the various sys-
tems of philosophy, whether orthodox
or heterodox, which profess to base
themselves on the Christian idea, or
to ally themselves with it. It is not
easy to find the clue which will lead
us safely through this labyrinth and
preserve us from deviating either to
the right hand or to the left, by denying
too much on the one hand to the nat-
uralists, or conceding too much to them
on the other. Nevertheless it is ne-
cessary to search for it, or to give up
all effort to discuss the question be-
fore us, and to prove from principles
furnished by nature and reason the
necessity of accepting a supernatural
revelation.
The true thesis of pure naturalism
or rationalism is, that God in educa-
ting the human race for the destiny in
view of which he created it, merely
explicates tliat which is con tuned in
nature by virtue of the original crea-
tive act, without any subsequent inter-
ference of the divine, creative power.
He develops nature by natural laws
alcme, in one invariable mode. The
physical universe evolves by a ri^d
sequence the force of all the second
causes which it contains. The ration-
al world is governed by the same law,
and so also is the moral and spiritual
world. The intellectual and spiritual
education of the human race devel-
ops nothing except natural reason,
and the natural, spiritual capacity of
the soul. Reason extends its con-
quests by a continual progress in the
super-intelligible realm, reducing it to
the intelligible^and eternally approach-
ing to the comprehension of the infi-
nite and absolute truth. The spirit-
ual capacity advances constantly in
the supernatural realm, reducing it to
the natural, and eternally approach-
ing the infinite and absolute good or
bcmg. All nature, all creation, is on
the march, and its momentum is the
impulsive force given it by the crea-
tive impact that launched it into exis-
tence and activity.
Planting themselves on this thesis,
its advocates profess to have an d pri'
ori principle by which they prove the
all-sufficiency of nature for the fulfil-
ment of its own destiny, and reject as
an unnecessary or even inconceivable
intrusion, the affirmation of another
divine creative act, giving a new im-
pact to nature, superadding a new
force to natural law, subordinating the
physical universe to a higher end,
implanting a superior principle of in-
telligence and wiU in the human soul,
and giving to the race a destination
above that to which it tends by its
own proper momentum. They refuse
to entertain the question of a super-
natural order, or an order which edu-
cates the race according to a law su-
perior to that of the evolution of the
mere forces of nature ; and in conse-
quence of this refusal, they logically
refuse to entertain the question of a
supernatural revelation disclosing this
order, and of a supernatural religion
in which the doctrines, laws, institu-
tions, forces and instruments of this
order are organized, for the purpose
of drawing the human race into itself.
This is the last fortress into which
heterodox philosophy has fled. The
open plains are no longer tenable*
The only conflict of magnitude now
raging in Christendom is between the
champions of the Catholic faith and
the tenants of this stronghold. It is a
great advantage for the cause of truth
that it is so. The controversy is sim-
plified, the issues are clearly marked,
the opportunity is favorable for an
Digitized by CjOOQIC
580
Problems of the Ag
unimpeded and decisive collision be-
tween the forces of faith and un-
belief, and the triumph of faith will
open the way for Christianitj to gain
a new and mighty sway over the
mind, the heart, and the life of the
civilized world. This stronghold is
no more tenable than any of the others
which have been successively occu-
pied and abandoned. Its tenants
have gained only a momentary advan-
tage by retreating to it. They escape
certain of the inconsistencies of other
pardes and evade the Catholic ail-
ments levelled against these inconsis-
tencies. But they can be driven by
the irresistible force of reason from
their position, and made to draw the
Catholic conclusion from their own
premises.
We do not say this in a boastful
spirit, or as vaunting our own ability
to effect a logical demolition of ration-
alism. Rather, we desire to express
our confidence that the reason of its
advocates themselves will drive them
out of it, and that the common judgment
of an age more enlightened than the
present will demolish it. It is our
opinion, formed after hearing the lan-
guage used by a great number of
men of all parties, and reading a still
greater number of their published ut-
terances, that the most enlightened in-
telligence of this age in Protestant
Christendom has reached two conclu-
sions; the first is, that the Cath4>lic
Church is the true and genuine church
of Christianity; and the second, that
it is necessary to have a positive re-
ligion which will embody the same
idea thai produced Christianity. The
combination and evolution of these
two intellectual convictions promise
to result in a return to Catholicism.
And there are to be seen even already
in the writings of those who have grven
up the positive Christianity of ortho-
dox Protestantism, indications of the
workings of a philosophy which tends
to bring them round to the positive
supernatural faith of the Catholic
church. It is by these grand, intellec-
tual currents moving the general mind
of an age, that individual minds are
chiefiy infiuenoed, more than by the
thoughts of other individual minds.
Individual thinkers can scarcely do
more than to detect the subtle element
which the common intellectual atmos-
phere holds in solution, to interpret to
other thinkers their own thoughts,
or give them a direction which will
help them to discover for themselves
some truth more integral and univer-
sal than they now possess. There-
fore, while confiding in the power of
the integral and universal truth em-
bodied in the Catholic creed to bear
down all opposition and vanquish every
philosophy which rises up agamst it,
we do not arrogate the ability to grasp
and wield this power, and to exhibit
the Catholic idea in its full evidence
as the integrating, all-embracing form
of universal truth. It is proposed in
an honorable and conciliatory spirit to
those who love truth and are able to
investigate it for themselves. Many
things must necessarily be affirmed or
suggested in a brief, unpretending se-
ries of essays, which admit of and re-
quire minute and elaborate proof, such
as can only be given in an extensive
work, but merely sketched here after
the manner of an outline engraving
which leaves out the filling up belong-
ing to a finished picture.
To return from this digression. "We
have begun the task of indicating how
that naturalism or pure rationalism
which affirms the theistic conception
logically demonstrable by pure reason,
can only integrate itself and expand
itself to a universal Theodicy or doc-
trine of God, in a supernatural revela-
tion.
If the opposite theory of pure
naturalism were true, it ought to verify
itself in the actual history of the hu-
man race, and in the actual process of
its education. The idea of the super-
natural ought to be entirely absent from
the consciousness of the race. For, on
the supposition of that theory, it has
no place in the human mind — and no
business in the world. If unassisted
nature and reason suffice for them-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PrMepu of the Age.
581
selyes they ought to do their work
alone, and do it so thoronghlj that
there would be no roodi for anj pre-
tended snpematnral revelation to creep
in. The history of mankind ought to
be a continuous, regular evolution of
reason and nature, like the movements
of the planets ; the human race ought
to have been conscious of this law from
the beginning, and never to have
dreamed of the supernatural, never to
have desired it.
Philosophy ought to hare been, from
the first, master of the situation, and to
have domineered over the whole do-
main of thought
The reverse of this is the fact The
histoiy of the human race, and the
whole world of human thought, is fill-
ed with the idea of the supematuraL
The philosophy of naturalism is either
a modification and re-combination of
principles learned from revelation, or
a protest against revelation and an at-
tempt to dethrone it from its sway. It
has no pretence of being original and
universal, but always pre-supposes re-
velation as having prior possession,
and dating from time immemorial.
IQow human nature and human reason
are certainly competent to fulfil what-
ever task Grod has assigned them.
They act according to fixed laws, and
tend infallibly to the end for which they
were created. The judgments of hu-
man reason and of the human race are
valid in their proper sphere. And
therefore the judgment of mankind that
its law of evolution is in the line of the
supernatural is a valid judgment. Re-
velation has the claim of prescription
and of universal traditioD. Naturalism
must set aside this claim and establish
a positive daim for itself based on de-
monstration, before it has any right
even to a hearing. It can do neither.
It cannot bring any conclusive argu-
ment against revelation, nor can it es-
tablish itself on any basis of demon-
stration which does not pre-suppose the
instruction of reason by revelation.
It cannot conclusively object to re-
velation. The very principle of law,
that is, of the invariable nexus be-
tween cause and efiect, which is the ul-
timate axiom of naturalism, is based
on the perpetual concurrence of the
first cause with all secondary causes,
that is, the perpetuity of the creative
act by which God perpetually creates
the creature. There is no reason why
this creative act should explicate all
its effects at once or merely conserve
the existences it has produced, and not
explicate successively in space and
time the effects of its creative energy.
The hypothesis that the creative pow-
er can never act directly in nature ex-
cept at its origin, and must afterwards
merely act through the medium of pre*
viously created causes in a direct line,
is the sheerest assumption. Some of
the most eminent men in modem phy-
sical science maintain the theory
of successive creations. There may
be the same direct intervention of
creative power in the moral and spirit-
ual world. Miracles, revelations, super>
natural interventions for the regcnenv-
tion and elevation of the human race,
are not improbable on any a priori
principle. The artifice by which the
entire tradition of the human race is
set aside, and a demand made to prove
the supernatural de novOy is unwarrant-
able and unfair. The supernatural
has the title of prescription, and the
burden of proof lies only upon the par-
ticular systems, to show that they are
genuine manifestations of it, and not
its counterfeits. The existence of a
reality which may be counterfeited is
a fair postulate of reason, until the con-
trary is demonstrated, and something
positive of a prior and more universal
order is logically established from the
first principles of reason. We are not
to be put off with assurances like a
fraudulent debtor's promises of pay-
ment, that our doubts and uncertain-
ties, will be satisfied afler two thousand
or two hundred thousand years. Ex-
clude the supernatural, and natural
reason will have, and can have no-
thing in the future, beyond the univer-
sal data and principles which we have
now and have had from the beginning,
with which to solve its problems. The
Digitized by CjOOQIC
582
PrcUemi of the Age,
connection between mind and matter,
the origin and destination of the soul,
the future life, the state of other orders
of intelligent beings, the condition of
other worlds, will be as abstruse and
incapable of satisfactory settlement
then as now. If we are to gain anj
certain knowledge concerning them, it
most be in a supernatural way. And
what conclusive reason is there for de-
ciding that we may not ? Who can
prove that some of that infinite truth
which surround^ us may not break
through the veil, that some of the in-
telligent spirits of other spheres may
not be sent to enlighten and instruct
us?*
One of the ablest advocates of
naturalism, Mr. William R. Alger,
has admitted that it is possible, and
oven maintains that it has already
token place. Li his erudite work on
the " History of the Doctrine of a Fu-
ture Life," he maintains the opinion
that Jesus Christ is a most perfect and
exalted being, who was sent into this
world by God to teach mankind, who
wrought miracles and really raised his
body to life in attestation of his doc-
trine, althougli he supposes that he
laid it aside again when he left the
earth. He distinctly asserts the in-
fallibility of Christ as a teacher, and
of the doctrine which he actually
taught with his own lips. Here is a
most distinct and explicit concession of
the principle of supernatural revela-
tion. To those who heard him he was
a supernatural and infallible teacher.
In so far as lus doctrine is really ap-
prehended it is for all generations a
supernatural and infallible truth. It
liaa regenerated mankind, and Mr.
Alger believes it is destined, when bet-
ter understood, to carry the work of
regeneration to a higher point in the
future. It is true, he does not acknow-
ledge that the apostles were infallible
in apprehending and teaching the doc-
trine of Christ But he must admit,
that in so far as they have apprehend-
ed and perpetuated it, and in so far as
he himself and others of his school
now apprehend it more perfectly than,
they did, they apprehend supernatural
truth and appropriate a supernatural
power. Besides, once adnutting that
Christ was an infallible teacher, it is
impossible to show why be could not
do what so many philosophers have
done, communicate his doctrine in clear
and intelligible terms, so that the sub-
stance of it would be correctly under-
stood and perpetuated* Miss Frances
Cobbe, admitted to be the best exposi-
tor of the doctrine of the celebrated
Theodore Parker, in her ** Broken
Lights,'' and other similar writers,
give to the doctrine and institutions of
Christ a power that is superiiuman
and that denotes the action of a super-
human intelligence. Those who prog-
nosticate a new church, a new re-
ligion, a realization of ideal humanity
on earth, cannot integrate their hypo-
thesis in anything except the super-
natural, and must suppose either a
new outburst of supematui^ life from
the germ which Christ planted on the
earth, or the advent of another super-
human Redeemer.
Dr. Brownson while yet only a trans-
cendental philosopher on his road to
the Church, exhibited this thought with
great power and beauty, in a little
book entitled "New Views.** The
dream of a new redemption of man-
kind in the order of temporal perfec-
tion and felicity was never presented
with greater argumentative ability or
portrayed in more charmuig colors, at
least in the English languagje^ and
never was any thmg made more clear
than the necessity of superhuman
powers for the actual fulfilment of
this bewitching dream.*
Whether we look backward or for-
ward, we confront the idea of the su-
pernatural. This is enough to prove
its reality. There are no universal
pseudo-ideas, deceits, or illusions. That
which is universal is true. We have
* That is, who can prore It from reason alone, with*
out the evidence of Rerelatlon Itielf thatit is already
* Tliat is, bewitching to those who do not bellere In
something for more sublime, the restoration of all
things in Christ, foretold in the Scripturvs.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
I^hlems of the Age.
588
therefore only to inspect the idea of
the Bapernataral, to examine and ex-
plicate its contents, to interrogate the
universal belief and tradition of man-
kind, to study the history of the
race, and nnfold the wisdom of the
ancients, and the result will be
tnith. We shall obtain true and
just conceptions of the original,
universal, eternal idea, in which all
particular forms of science, belief, law,
and human evolution in all directions,
coalesce and integrate themselves as
in a complete whole including all the
relations of the universe to Grod, as
First and Final Cause.
We must now go back to the point
where we left off, af^er establishing as
the first principle of all science and
faith the pure theistic doctrine re-
specting the fiv^t and final cause, or
the origin and end of %11 things in ne-
cessary being, that is, God. We have
to show the position of this doctrine
in the conception of supernatural reve-
lation, and its connection with the other
doctrines which express the supernatu-
ral relation of the human race and the
universe to God.
The conception of the supernatural
in its most simple and universal form,
is the conception of somewhat distinct
from and superior to the complete
aggregate of created forces or second
causes. In this sense, it is identical
with the conception of first and final
cause. It may be proper here to ex-
plain the term Final Cause, which is not
in common use among English writers.
It expresses the ultimate motive or
reason for which the universe was
created, the end to which all things are
tending. When we say that God is
necessarily the final cause, as well
as the first cause, of all existing things,
we mean that he cotdd have had no
motive or end in creating, extrinsic
to his own being. All that proceeds
from him as first cause must return
to him as final cause. From this it
appears that the conception of nature
in any theistic system implies the
supernatural ; because it implies a
cause and end for nature above itsel€
The supernatural can only be denied
by the atheist, who maintains that
there is nothing superior to what the
Theist calls second causes, or by the
Pantheist, who either identifies Grod
with nature, or nature with God. A
Theist cannot form any conception of
pure naturo or a purely natural order,
except as included in a supernatural
plan ; because his natural order origi-
nates in a cause and tends toward an
end above and beyond itself, and is
not therefore its own adequate reason.
As we have already seen, reason, by
virtue of its origmal intuition of the
infinite, is advertised of something in-
finitely beyond all finite comprehen-
sion. By apprehending its own limi-
tation, and the finite, relative, con-
tingent existence of all things which
are, it is advertised of an infinite un-
known, and thus has a negative know-
ledge of the supernatural • By the
light of the creative act in itself and
in the universe, it apprehends the
being of Grod as refiected in his
works and made intelligible by the
similitude of created existences to
the Creator. It apprehends that
there is an infinite being, whose
created similitude is in itself and all
things ; a primal uncreated light, the
cause of the reflected light in which
nature is intelligible. Therefore it
apprehends the supernatural. But it
does not directly and immediately
perceive what this infinite being or
uncreated light is, and cannot do so.
That is, by explicating its own primi<i
tive idea, and bringing it more and
clearly into the reflective conscious-
ness, and by learning more and more
of the universe of created existences, it
may go on indefinitely, apprehending
God by the reflected light of simili-
tudes, "per speculum, in tgnigmate f*
but it must progress always in the
same Hne: it has no tendency toward
an immediate vision of God as he is.
intelligible in his own essence and by
uncreated light Therefore, it has
only a negative and not a positive ap-
prehension of the supematuraL God
dweUs in a light inaccessible to created
Digitized by CjOOQIC
584
I^roUems ofihsAge.
intelligence^ as snch. There is an in-
finite abyss between him and all fin-
ite reason, which cannot be crossed
by any movement of reason, however
accelerated or prolonged. Therefore,
although there is no science or philoso-
phy possible which does not proceed
from the affirmation of the supernatu-
ral, that is, of the infinite first and final
cause of nature, yet it is not properly
called supernatural science so long as
it is confined to the limits of that
knowledge of causes above nature
which is gained only through nature.
Its domain is restricted to that intelli-
gibility which Grod has given to second
causes and created existences, and
which only reflects himself indirectly.
Therefore, theologians usually call it
natural knowledge, and in its highest
form natural theology, as being limited
within the bounds above described.
They call that the natural order in
which the mind is limited to the ex-
plication of that capacity of apprehend-
ing God, or of that intuitive idea of
Grod, which constitutes it rational,
and is therefore limited to a relation
to God corresponding to the mode of
apprehending him. The term super-
natural is restricted to an order in
which God reveals to the human
mind the possibility of apprehending
him by the uncreated light in which
he is intelligible to himself, and com-
ing into a relation to him corresponding
therewith; giving at the same time
an elevation to the power of intelli-
gence and volition which enables it to
realize that possibility. This eleva-
tion includes the disclosure of truths
not discoverable otherwise, as well as
the faculty of apprehending them in
such a vivid manner that they can
have an efficacious aotion on the will,
and give it a supernatural direction.
Tn this sense, rationalists have no
conception of the supernatural. None
have it, except Catholics, or those who
have retained it from Catholic tradi-
tion. When we ascribe to rationalists
a recognition of the supernatural, we
merely intend to say that they rec(^-
nize in part that immediate interfer-
ence of God to instruct mankiiid and
lead it to its destiny which is really
and ultimately, although not in then:
apprehension, directed to the eleva-
tion of man to a sphere above that
which is naturally possible. There-
fore they cannot object to revelation
on the ground of its being an inter-
ference with the course of nature or not
in harmony with it, and cannot make
an d priori principle by virtue of which
they can prejudge and condemn the
contents of revelation. But we do
not mean to say that they possess
the conception of that which consti-
tutes the supematuralness of the reve-
lation, in the scientific sense of the
term as used by Catholic theolc^ans.
Even orthodox Protestants possess it
very confusedly. And here lies the
source of most of the misconceptions
of several abstruse Catholic dogmas.
It is in the restricted sense that we
shall use the term supernatural here-
after, unless we make it plain that we
use it in the general signification.
We are now prepared to state in a
few words the relation of the concep-
tion of Grod which is intelligible to
reason, to the revealed truths con-
cerning his interior relations which are
received by faith on the authority of
his divine veracity. How does tilie
mind pass through the knowledge of
God to belief in God ; through ^ Oog-
nosco Dewn " to " Credo in JDisum "f*
We have already said that ^ Cogno$-
co^ is included in *' Credo*** The creed
begins by setting before the mind that
which is self-evident and demonstrable
concerning God, in which is included
his veracity. It then discloses cer-
tain truths concerning God which are
not self-evident or demonstrable from
their own intrinsic reason, but which
ore proposed as credible, on the author-
ity of God. The word ** Credo*' ex-
presses this. **I believe in Grod,'
means not merely, ^ I affirm the being
of God," but also, " I believe certain
truths regarding Grod (whose being is
made known to me by die light of rea-
son) on the authority of his Word."
•"IknowOod.'* "IbeUeretnGoiL*'
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ProhUnu of the Age.
585
These truths must have in them a
certain obscurity impervious to the in-
tellectual vision ; otherwise, they would
take their place among evident and
known truths, and would no longer be
believed on the simple motive of the
veracity of God revealing them. That
is, they are mysteries, intelligible so
far as to enable the mind to appre-
hend what are the propositions to
which it is required to assent, but
super-intelligible as to their intrinsic
reason and ground in the necessary
and eternal truth, or the being of Grod.
In the Creed these mysteries, fore-
shadowed by the word " Credo," and
by the word " Deum,** considered in
its relation to "Credo," which indi-
cates a revelation of mysterious truths
concerning the Divine Being to follow
in order afler the affirmation of the
being and unity of Gk>d ; be^n to be
fommlly expressed by the word " Pa-
trem." In this word there is implicit-
ly contained the interior, personal re-
lation of the Father to the Son and
Holy Ghost in the blessed Trinity,
and his exterior relation to man as the
author of the supernatural order of
grace, or the order in which man is
affiliated to him in the Son, through
the operation of the Holy SpiriL
These relations of the three persons
of the blessed Trinity to each other,
and to man, include the entire sub-
stance of that which is strictly and
properly the supernatural revelation
of tiie Creed, and the direct object of
faith. Before proceeding, however, to
the consideration of the mysteries of
faith in their order, it is necessary to
inquire more closely into the process
by which the intellect is brought to
face its supernatural object, and made
capable of eliciting an act of faith.
The chief difficulty in the case is to
£md the connection between the last
act of reason and the first act of faith,
the medium of transit from the natu-
ral to the supematuraL The Catho-
lic doctrine teaches that the act of
faith is above the natural power of the
human mind. It is strictly supernat-
ural, and possible only by the aid ot
supernatural grace. Yet it is a ra-
tional act, for the virtue of faith is
seated in the intellect as its subject,
according to the teaching of St. Thom-
as. It is justifiable and explicable
on rational grounds, and even requir-
ed by right reason. The truths of
revelation are not only objectively cer-
tain, but the intellect has a subjective
certitude of them which is absolute,
and excludes all suspicion or fear of
the contrary. Now, then, unless we
adopt the hypothesis that we have lost
our natural capacity for discerning di-
vine truth, by the fall, and are merely
restored by divine grace to the natural
use of reason, there are several very
perplexing questions on this point
which press for an answer. Rejecting
this hypothesis of the total corruption
of reason, which will hereafter be
proved to be false and absurd, how
can faith give the mind absolute certi-
tude of the truth of its object, when
that truth is neither self-evident nor
demonstrable to reason from its own
self-evident principles? Given, that
the intellect has this certitude, how is
it that we cannot attain to it by the
natural operation of reason? Once
more, what is the evidence of the fact
of revelation to ordinary minds ? Is
it a demonstration founded on the ar-
guments for credibility ? If so, how
are they capable of comprehending
them, and what are they to do before
they have gone through with the pro*
cess of examination ] If not, how have
they a rational and certain ground for
the judgment that God has reaUy re-
vealed the truths of Christianity?
Suppose now the fact of i-erelation es-
tablished, and that the mind appre-
hends that God requires its assent to
certain truths on the virtue of his own
veracity. The veracity of God being
apprehended as one logical premiss,
and the revelation of certain truths as
another, can reason draw the certain
conclusion that the truth of these
propositions is necessarily contained
in the veracity of Grod or not ? If it
can, why is not the mind capable of
giving them the firm, unwavering as*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
586
Problems of the Age.
sent of faith bj its own satnral power,
without the aid of grace? IF not,
how is it that the assent of the intel-
lect to the truth of revealed proposi-
tions does not always necessarilj con-
tain in it a metaphysical doubt or a
judgment that the contrary is more or
less probable, or at least possible ? If
it is said that the will, inclined by the
grace of Grod, determines to adhere
positively to the proposed revelation
as true, what is meant by this ? Does
the will merely determine to act
practically as if these proposed truths
were evident, in spite of the lesser
probability of the contrary? Then
the assent of the intellect is merely a
judgment that revelation ia probably
true, and that it is safest to follow it,
which does not satisfy the demand of
faith. For faith excludes all fear or
suspicion that the articles of faith may
possibly be false. Does the will force
the intellect to judge that those prop-
ositions are certain which it appre-
hends only as probable 1 How is this
possible ] The will is a blind facul-
ty, which is directed by the intellect,
" Nil volitum nisi prius cognitum." *
There is no act of will without a pre-
vious act of knowledge. The will can •
not lawfully determine the intellect to
give any stronger assent to a propo-
sition than the evidence warrants.!
In a word, it is difficult to show how
the intellect has an absolute certitude
of the object of faith, without repre-
senting the object of faith as coinci-
dent with the object of knowledge, or
the intuitive idea of reason, and thus
naturally apprehensible. It is also
difficult to show that faith is not coin-
cident with knowledge, and thus to
bring out the conception of its super-
naturalness, without destroying the
connection between faith and reason,
subverting its rational basis, and rep-
resenting the grace of faith as either
restoring a destroyed faculty or ad-
ding a new one to the soul, whose ob-
ject is completely invisible and unin-
* Nothing \a willed unless preTlonsly known,
t This is the statement of an ol\jection, not a prop-
Mttlon affirmed by the author.
telligible to the human nndexstanding
before it is elevated to the supernat-
ural state. The difficulty lies, how-
ever, merely in a defective statement,
or a defective apprehension of the
statement of the Catholic doctrine, and
not in the doctrine itsel£ In order
to make this plain, it will be necessa-
ry to make one or two preliminary re-
marks concerning certitude and prob-
ability.
There is first, a metaphysical certi-
tude excluding all possibility to the
contrary* Such is the certitude of
mathematical truths. Such also is the
certitude of self-evident and demon-
strable truths of every kind. The
sphere of this kind of certitude is di-
minished or extended accordingly as
the mind has before it a greater or
lesser number of truths of this order.
Some of these truths present them-
selves to every mind so immediately
and irresistibly that it cannot help re-
garding them just as they are, and
thus seeing their truth. For instance,
that two and two make four. Others
require the mind to be in a certain
state of aptitude for seeing them as
they are, and to make an effi>rt to
bring them before it. There are
some truths self-evident or demon-
strably certain to some minds which
are not so to others ; yet these truths
have all an intrinsic, metaphysical
certitude which reason as such is ca-
pable of apprehending, and the fail-
ure of reason to apprehend them is
due in individual cases merely to the
defective operation of reason in the
particular subject. The operation of
reason can never be altogether defi-
cient while it acts at all, for it acts
only while contemplating its object or
primitive idea. But its operation can
be partially defective, inasmuch as the
primitive idea or objective truth may
be imperfectly brought into the re-
flective consciousness. And thus the
intellect in individuals may fail to ap-
prehend trutihs which can be demon-
strated with metaphysical certitude,
and which the intellect infallibly
judges to be absolutely certain in
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Problems of the Age.
587
those indiTidaab who are capable of
making a right jndgment In this op-
eration of apprehending metaphysical
truths there is no^criterion taken from
experience, or from the o(Hicarrent as<-
sent of all men, but the truth shines
with its own intrinsic light, and reason
judges by its inherent infallibility,
Next to metaphysical certitude
comes moral demonstration, resulting
from an accumulation of probabilities
so great that no probability which can
prudently be allowed any weight is
left to the other side, but merely a
metaphysical possibility. For in-
stance, the Copemican theory.
Then comes moral certainty in a
wider sense ; where there is probable
evidence on one side without any pru-
dent reason to the contrary, but not
such a complete knowledge of all the
facts as to warrant the positire jndg-
ment that there is really no probabil-
ity on the other side. This kind of
certainty warrants a prudent, positive
judgment, and furnishes a safe prac-
tical motive for action ; but it varies
indefinitely according as the data on
which the judgment is based are more
or less complete, and the importance
of the case is greater or less. '
Then come the grades of proba-
bility, where there are reasons balanc-
ing each other on both sides, which
the mind must weigh and estimate.
To apply these principles to the
question in liand.
First, we affirm that the being and
attributes of God are apprehended
with a metaphysical certitude. Second,
that the motives of credibility proving
the Christian revelation are appre-
hended, when that Revelation is suffi-
ciently proposed, with a varying de-
gree of probability, according to vary-
ing circumstances in which the mind
may be placed, but capable of being
increased to the highest kind of mor^
demonstration. Third, that the logical
conclusion which reason can draw
from these two premises, although hy-
pothetically necessary and a perfect
demonstration— that is, a necessary
deduction from the veracity of God,
on the supposition that he has really
made the revelation — ^is really not
above the order of probability, on ac-
count of the second premiss. It is
not above the order of probability, al-
though, as we have already argued, it
is capable of being brought to a moral
demonstration by such an accumula-
tion of proofe within that order, that
reason is bound to judge that the op-
posite is altogether destitute of pro-
bability.
From this it appears, both how far
reason with its own principles can go
in denying, and how far it can go in
assenting to revealed truth. We see,
first, how it is, that the truth of revela-
tion does not compel the assent of all
minds by an overwhelming and irre-
sistible evidence. The first premiss,
which affirms the being of God, al-
though undeniable and indubitable in
its ukimate idea, may be in its distinct
conception, so far denied or doubted
by those whose reason is perverted by
their own fault, or their mbfortune, as
to destroy all basis for a revelation.
The second premiss, much more, may
be partially or completely swept
away, by plausible explanations of its
component probabilities in detail. And
thus, revelation may be denied.. The
influence of the will on the judgment
which is made by the mind on the re-
vealed truth is explicable in this re-
lation, and must be taken into the ac-
count. It is certain that the moral
dispositions by which voluntary acts
arebiased,bias also the judgment. The
self-determining power of the will
which decides positively which of its
different inclinations to foUow, controls
the judgment as well as the volition.
This is an indirect control, which is ex-
erted, not by imperiously commanding
the judgment in a capricious manner
to make a blind, irrational decision, but
by turning it toward the consideration
of that side toward which the volition
or choice is inclined. This infiuence
and control of volition over judgment
increases as we descend in the order
of truth from primary and self-evident
principles, and dimmishes as we ap«
Digitized by CjOOQIC
588
Problems of the Age.
proach to them* In the case of tmth
which is morallj or metaphTsically
demonstrabley its control is exerted bj
turning the intellect partially awaj
from the consideration of the troth and
hindering it from giving it that atten-
tion which is necessary, in order to its
apprehension. In the case of divine
revelation, various passions, prejudices,
interests, or at least intellectual impe-
diments to a right operation of reason,
actpowerfuUy upon a multitude of minds
in such a way, that the mirror of the
soul is too much obscured to receive
the image of tmth.
But, supposing that reason and will
both operate with all the rectitude pos-
sible to them, without supernatural
grace ; how far can the mind proceed in
assenting to divine revelation? As
far as a moral demonstration can take
iL It can assent to divine truth, and
act upon it, so far as this truth is
adapted to the perfecting of the intel-
lect and will in the natural order.
But it lacks capacity to apprehend
the supernatural verities proposed to it,
as these are related to its supernatural
destiny.
The revelation contains an unknown
quantity. The will cannot be moved
toward an object which the intellect
does not apprehend. Therefore, a
supernatural grace must enhghten the
intellect and elevate the will, in order
that the revealed truth may come in
contact with the soul. This super-
natural grace gives a certain con-na-
turality to the soul with the revealed
object of faith, by virtue of which it
apprehends that Grod speaks to it in a
whisper, distinct from his whisper to
reason, and catches the meaning of
what he says in this whisper. It is
this supernatural light, illuminating
the probable evidence apprehended by
the natural understanding, which makes
the assent in the act of faith absolute,
and gives the mind absolute certitude.
It IS, however, the certitude of Grod
revealing, and not the certitude of
science concerning the intrinsic reason
of that which he reveals. This re-
mains always inevident and obscure in
itself, and the decisive motive of as-
sent is always the veracity of God. It is
not, however, altogether inevident nnd
obscure, for if it were, the terms in
which it is conveyed would be unin-
telligible. It is so far inevident, that
the intellect cannot apprehend its cer-
tainty, aside from the declaration of
God. But it is partially and obscure-
ly evident, by its anaJogy with the
known truth of the rational order. It
is so far evident that it can be demon-
strated from rational principles that it
does not contradict the truths of reason.
Further, that no other hypothesis can
explain and account for that which is
known concerning the universe. And,
finally, that so far as the analogy be
tween the natural and the supernatural
is apprehensible, there is a positive
harmony and agreement between
them. This is all that we intend to
affirm, when we speak of demonstrat-
ing Christianity from the same princi-
ples from which scientific truths are
demonstrated.
Let us now revert once more to Jesus
Christ and the pagan philosopher.
The pagan first perceives strong, pro-
bable reasons, which increase by de-
grees to a moral demonstration, for
believing that Christ is the Son of
God, and his doctrine the revelation of
Grod. The supernatural grace which
Christ imparts to him, enables him to
apprehend this with a permanent and
infallible certitude as a fixed principle
both of judgment and volition. He
accepts as absolutely true all the my-
steries which Christ teaches him, on
the faith of his divine mission and the
divine veracity. We may now sup-
pose that Christ goes on to instruct
him in the harmony of these divine
verities with all scientific truths, so fiir,
that he apprehends all the analogies
which human reason is capable of dis-
cerning between the two. He will
then have attauied the ultimatum pos-
sible for human reason elevated and
enlightened by faith, in this present
state. Science and faith will be co-
incident in his mind, as fieur as they can
be. That is, faith will be comcident
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Problems of the Age.
589
with science until it rises aboYC its
sphere of vision, and will then lose it-
self in an indirect and obscare appre-
hension of the mysteries, in the vera-
city of Grod.
In the case of the child brought up
in the Catholic Ohnrchf the Church,
which is the medium t:^ Christ, in-
structs the child throngh its various
agents. The child's reason apprehends,
through tho same probable evidence
by which it learns other facts and
truths, that the truth presented to him
comes through the church, and through
Christ, from Grod, who is immediately
apprehended in his primitive idea.
The light of faith which precedes in
him die development of reason,
illuminates his mind from the begin-
ning to apprehend with infallible cer-
titude that divine truth which is pro-
posed to him through the medium of
probable evidence* This faith is a
fixed principle of conscience, proceed-
ing from an illuminated intellect, in-
clining him to submit his mind unre-
servedly to the instruction of the
Catholic Church on the faith of the
divine veradty. It rests there un-
waveringly, without ever admitting a
doubt to the contrar}% or postponing a
certain judgment antU the evidence of
revelation and the proofs of the divine
commitoion of the church have been
critically examined. It may rest there
during Jlfe, and does so, with the great-
er number, to a greater or lesser de-
gree ; or, it may afterward proceed to
investigate to the utmost limits the
rationale of the divine revelation, not
in order to establish faith on a surer
basis, but in order to apprehend more
distinctly what it believes, and to ad-
vance in theological science.
Some one may say : " You admit
that it is impossible to attain to a per-
fect certitude of supernatural truth
without supernatural light ; why, then^
do you attempt to convince unbelievers
that the Catholic doctrine is the ab-
solute truth by rational arguments?"
To this we reply, that we do not en-
deavor to lead them to faith^by mere
argument; but to the ^preamble of
faith." We aim at removing diffi-
culties and impediments which hinder
those from attending to the rational
evidence of the faith ; at removing its
apparent incredibility. We rely on
the grace of the Holy Spirit alone to
make the effort successful, and to lead
those who are worthy of grace beyond
the preamble of faith to faith itself.
This grace is in every human mind to
which faith is proposed, in its initial
stage; it is increased in proportion to
the sincerity with which truth is
sought for ; and is given in fulness to
all who do not voluntarily turn their
minds away from it It' we did not
believe this, we would lay down our
pen at once.*
* The doctrine tooght by Cardinal de hago and Dr.
Newman, in regard to which some dissent was ex-
pressed in a former nomber, seems to the author, on
mature reflection, to be, after all, Identical with the
one here maintained.
Digitized by CjOOQIC ^
590
A Day at AbbeviBe.
From Odm » Vfeek.
A DAY AT ABBEVILLE.
BT BBBIB RITVOB PAUUS.
Twenty years ago, we posted into
Abbeville by night, and were deposited
in an old-fashioned inn, with a large
walled garden. In the morning we
posted nirther on across country to
Bouen. Since then, many a lime has
the Chemin de Fer du Nord borne us
flying past the ancient city oft visited
by English kings and English men-at-
arms; not, perhaps, deigning to stop
to take in water ; for Abbeville, once
upon the highway of nations, now lies
just, as it were, a shade to one side;
just a shade — the distance between the
station and the ramparts. Yet this is
enough to cause the maitre cThotel to
shake his head and say in a melan-
choly accent, ^AlheviUe est presque de-
truiUJ*
On asking for the Hdtel de I'Europe,
I was told that the Hdtel T6te de Boeuf
was "all the same." Which, however,
was far from being the case, as neither
the building nor ^e master was what
we had known twenty years ago.
Qiter^y as to the degree of affinity re-
quired by the French intellect to pro-
duce the degree of identity ? In fact,
the Hdtel de TEurope no longer exist-
ed. The house was possessed by a
body of religious, the sisters of St.
Joseph, and their large school for
young ladies. The T^te de Boeuf
had been a small chdrteau; two stiU
picturesque brick turrets bearing wit-
ness of its ancient state.
In the morning I walked over al-
most the length and breadth of Abbe-
ville, surprised to find it so large and,
apparently, flourishing; and yet, in
spite of tail chimneys upon the circum-
ference, full of the quaintest old houses
in the centre. Some of them have
richly carved beams running along the
edge of the overhanging stories. Snch
may still be seen in a few English
towns ; I remember them at Booking,
in Essex. The glory of the place is
its great church, or rather the nave,
for this is all that ever ^t completed
of the original design of the time of
Louis XII., the king who married our
Princess Jlary, sister of Henry VIIL
The choir has been patched on, and is
about half the height of the nave. The
latter is a glorious upshoot of tracerled
stone, with two towers; perhaps all
the more impressive from having been
thus arrested in the yerj act of crea-
tion. It is like a forest tree which
has only attained half its development;
and ona feels as if it ought to go on
growing, pushing out fresh buttresses
and arches, till its fair proportions
stood complete. There is an excel-
lent stone staircase up one of the tow-
ers, , and from the top a wide view
of the town and the fields of Picardy,
even to the sharp cliff marking where
the sea-line must be. The windings
of the Somme may be traced for many
miles. I was told that the tide ased
to swell almost up to the town, and
that several little streams, once faUing
into the river, were dried up. Even
now, as there are several branches,
one is here and there reminded of
Bruges, by the little old-fashioned
bridges. crossing a canal in the middle
of a street. A broad girdle of water ^
seemed to me to surround great part
of the town ; but I could obtain no map
and no guide-book, though I anxiously
inquired at the best shop. Only a
history of Abbeville was dug out of
the museum at the Hdtel de Yille,
which building had a strong but plain
tower reported of the eleventh century.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Day at uUfbevtOe.
591
The Abbevillois care Uttle appaientlj
for their antiquities, though they are
many and curious.
This ground, though somewhat bare
and barren iu appearance, has been
thickly occupied by humanity from the
earliest ages of history. Keltic bar-
rows have been found here in abun-
dance, and though many of them have
been destroyed in the interests of agri-
culture, enough remain to delight the
antiquary by their flint hatchets and
arrows, their ums, and their burnt
bones. One such barrow, near Noy-
elles-8UP-Mer,when opened, was found
to contain a large number of human
heads, disposed in a sort of cone. In
1787, one was opened at Cr^cy, and
in it were found two sarcophagi of
burnt clay, in each of wluch was an en-
tire skeleton* Each had been buried in
its clothes, and one bore on its finger a
copper ring; its dress being fastened
likewise by a brooch or hook of the
same metaL Endless indeed is the
list of primitiTe instruments in fiint,in
copper, in iron, in bronze, found here-
abouts; likewise vases full of burnt
bones, not only of our own race, but
of various animals — mice, water-rats,
and ^such small deer;" and in the
near neighborhood, of boars, oxen, and
sheep. Succeeding to these wild peo-
ple and wild animals came the Romans.
Before they pounced down upon us,
before they crossed over to Porta Ly-
manis, and drew those straight lines
of causeway over England which
make the Roman Itinerary look some-
thing like Bradshaw's railway map,
(only straighter,) they settled them-
selves firmly in tbe north of France ;
notably, they staid so long near St
Valery, (at the mouth of the river
which runs through Abbeville,) that
they buried there their dead in great
numbers, whereof the place of sepul-
chre IB at this day yet to be seen.
Their own nice neat road also had
they, cutting clean through the Graulic
forests. It came from Lyons to Bou-
logne, passing through Amiens and
Abbeville, and was in continuation of
one which led from Rome into Gaul I
And wherever this people of conquer-
ors travelled, thither they carried their
religious ceremonies and their domes-
tic arts, so that we find still Ydl sorts
of medals, vases of red, grey, or black
clay, little statuettes, ex votoSf and
sometimes larger groups of sculpture,
such as one in bronze representing the
combat of Hercules and Antteus. Car-
thaginian medals have also been turned
up here, brought from the far shores
of the Mediterranean; and those of
Claudius, Trajeji, Caracalla, and Con-
stantine. This long catalogue is use-
less, tsave to mark the rich floods of
human life which have successively
visited the banks of the Somme.
In the first year of the fiflh century
the barliarians made their way up to
the Somme, fighting the Romans inch
by inch. Attila burst upon this neigh^
borhood, and fixed his claws therein ;
the tide of Rome rolls back upon the
south, and new dynasties begin, and
with them comes in Christianity ; no ,
however, without much difiiculty. The
faith appears to have gradually spreail
from Amiens, where St. Finius preach-
ed as early as 801; but even 179
years later, St. Germain, the Scotch-
man, was martyred, and St. Honor^,
the eighth bishop of Amiens, labored
daily, for thirty-six years, in conjunc-
tion with Irish missionaries, to infuse
Christianity into the minds of people
equally indisposed, whether by Frank*
ish paganism or Roman culture, to ac-
cept the doctrines of the Cross^ In-
deed, the learned historian of this part
of the country, M. Louandre, believes
that even Rome itself had never been
able to destroy the old Keltic religion.
He says that, as late as the seventh
century, the antique trees, woods, and
fountains were still honored by public
adoration in this part of France ; and
St. Rignier hung up relics to the trees
to purify them, just as in Rome itself
the old pagan temples were exorcised.
And after a time the old gods of all
sorts were known either as idols or
demons ; no particular distinctions be-
ing drawn amoag them ; they lie as dd"
bn's beneath the religious soil of this
Digitized by CjOOQIC
592
A Dag at JUevOU.
part of IKcardj, jasi as the bones of
those who adored them are oonfoanded
in one common dust
Late in the seventh centaiy ap-
pears St. Bignier, a great samt in
these parts. He was conyerted and
baptized by the Irish missionaries,
and thereupon became a most austere
Chrisdan indeed; onlj, says his legend,
eating twice a week — Sundays and
Thursdays. King Dagobert invited
the saint to a repast, which the holy
man accepted, and preached the Gos-
pel the whole time Uiey sat at table—
a day and a night!
We must now take a great leap to
the days of Charlemagne, because in
his days the Abbey of St. Rignier,
near to Abbeville, was very fiunous
indeed, both as monastery and school,
and contained a noble library of 256
volumes; the greater part whereof
were Christian, but certain others were
pagan classics ; let us, fw instance, be
gratefhl for the Eclogues of Virgil and
the Rhetoric of Ciceio. Of this libra-
ry but one volume remains; I have
seen it, and with astonishment. It is a
copy of the Gospels, written in letters
of gold upon purple parchment. It
was given by Charlemagne to the
Count-Abbot, Saint AugilberL This
one precious fragment of the great li-
brary is in the museum of Abbeville.
The school was, indeed, an ecclesiasti-
cal Eton and Oxford. The sons of
kings, dukes, and counts came here to
Icam the ^letters," of which Charle-
magne made such great account
Now the town of Abbeville first gets
historio mention in the century suc-
ceeding Charlemagne. It is called
Abbatis Villa, and belonged to this
great monastery of St Rignier;
wherefore I have introduced both the
good saiat and his foundation* It
grew, as almost all the towns of the
middle ages did grow, from a religious
root — a tap-root, striking deep in the
soiL Of course, having thus begun to
grow, its history has miftde interesting
chapters a great deal too long to be
copied or even notod here ; it will not
be amiss, however, to look for its
points of occasional contact with Eng-
land. Firstly, then, it was from St
Valery, the seaport of the Somme, that
William the Conqueror set out for
England. Then, in 1259, our Henry
III. met St Louis at AbbeviUe, and
Henry did homage for his French
possessions. Then, in 1272, our great
King Edward I. married Eleanor,
heiress of Fonthieu — she who sucked
the poison from her husband's wound;
and the burgesses of Abbeville, mis-
liking the transfer, quarreled violent-
ly with the king's bailiff, and killed
some of the underlings. Eleanor's
son, Edward II., married Isabel, the
** She-wolf of Fraooe, with aordentlng ftrngs.
That teax«tfc the bowels of thy mangli^ mate."
This unamiable specimen of her sex
lived at Abbeville in 1812; butdur>
ing her reign and residence, and that
of her son Edward IH., the inhabit-
ants of Abbeville ceased not to kick
indignantly. The King of France,
her brother, struck into the contest
^pour comforter la main dB Madame
aAngleteme*^ The legal documents
arising from these quarrels partially
remain to us. So they go on, quar-
reling and sometimes fighting, until
the great day of Crdcy, when Edward
nL, the late king's nephew, tried to
get the throne. The oft-told tale we
need not tell again. In 1393, France
being in worse extremities, we find
Charles VL at Abbeville, and Frois-
sart there at the same time. Per^
haps, in respect of battles and quar-
rels, those few notices are sufficient ; I
only wished to indicate that AbbeviUe
was on the borderland between the
English and the French, and came in .
for an ample share of fighting. Two
royal ceremonials enlivened it in the
course of centuries, whereof particular
mention is made in the history. Louis
Xn. here met and married Maty
of England, in 1514: << La Beine
Blanche," as she was afterward call-
ed, from her white widow's weeds.
In the Hdtel de Cluny at Paris is still
shown the apartments she occupied.
Louis was old, and Mary young, when
they married ; but the French histoiv
Digitized by CjOOQIC
''God BUss Your
593
an recounts her exceeding complai-
fiance and politeness to the king, and
his great delight therein.
In 1657, young Louis XIV. came
here with his mother, and lodged at
the Hotel d'Oignon. Monsieur D'Oig-
non, the noble owner, had everything
in such beautiful and ceremonious or-
der for then* reception, that he became
a proverb at Abbeville — ^''As com-
plete and well arranged as M. d'Olg-
non." A sort of rich Richard.
The antiquarian who goes to Abbe-
ville and dips into the history (by M.
Louandre) at the Museum, will find
plenty of interesting matter about the
manners and customs of the Abbevil-
lois, rendered all the more striking by
so many of the old houses being yet
just where they were, and as they
were* Bat few impressions of the
book seem to have been printed off,
for it is no longer sold, though the
obliging librarian did say he knew
where a few copies remained at a high
price. This for the benefit of any
long-pursed antiquary, curious in lo-
cal histories. It is such a book as can
only be written by a devoted son of
the soil digging away on the spot.
. In the Revolution, Abbeville fortu-
nately escaped any great horrors ; but
the trials of the middle ages afibrd
plenty; especially one of a certain
student, condemned for sacrilege.
Now, it is a peaceful, well-governed
town, busy in making iron pots and
cans, and other wrought articles from
raw materials brought by the railway.
It proves to be only in respect of the
hotel interest that Abbeville est pres-
que dctriiite.
Translated from the French
«GOD BLESS YOU!''
BT JEBOHE DUMOULIN.
"Thank you, master Jerome!' my
reader replies ; ** yes, to be sure, may
God bless me! But I have not
sneezed, that I know of, for a quarter
of an hour, at least ; and apropos de
quoi do you say that ? or rather, why
and wherefore do they always say so
to people who sneeze r I suspect that
you want to talk about it, and, in fact,
I should not be displeased to hear you
discuss for a little while this odd cus-
tom ; so begin, master Jerome,"
Very well, dear reader, such is my
idea, and I think you will not find
uninteresting the little history of it
which I intend to give ; and I assure
you beforehand, that if I fail to con-
vince you, you must be very difficult.
Setde it first in your mind, that in
whatever you may have heard hereto-
VOL. IlL S8
fore upon this subject, there was not
one word of truth. Among the most
probable histories of this kind is that
of a pestilence, which in the time of
Pope Saint Gregory, ravaged Italy,
the peculiar characteristic of whidi
was to cause the sick person to die
suddenly by sneezing. When the
patient sneezed, which was for him,
the passage from life to death, the as-
sistants gave him this fratcraal bene-
diction, saying to him, *^ God bless
you!" which was the equivalent or
translation of Requiescat in pace.
This account, I repeat, would be
much more acceptable, if it were not
contradicted by a positive fact, namely,
that the use of the expression is many
centuries anterior to Pope Saint Gre-
gory ; anterior even to the Christian
Digitized by CjOOQIC
594
''God JB^s Tour
era, and borrowed, of course, from the
pagans, as I am about to prove from
authentic testimony.
But in the first place, let us remark
that in the highest antiquitj sneezing
was a circumstance in regard to which
thej drew auguries, especiallj if a
person sneezed many times consecu-
tively. Xenophon relates that one of
his corporals having sneezed, he drew
from it a good augury by a process of
reasoning which I did not quite un-
derstand^ but which his troops, appa-
rently, found sufficiently conclusive.
Going back again some eight centuries,
we find in the " Odyssey *' an adven-
ture of the same kind, but more
droll. In the eighteenth book of this
poem, the divine Homer relates that
one day Telemachus began to sneeze
in such a manner as to shake the
whole house. That put madam Pene-
lope in good humor, who calling her
faithful Eumacus the swineherd: " Do
you hear, old fellow," she said ; " he
is well cared for I and what an augury
of happiness the gods have given us.
Jupiter has spoken by the nose of my
dear Telemachus, and he announces to
us that we are about to be freed from
these scamps of gallants who bore me
with their pursuits, and who beside put
to sack our poor civil list 5 for every
hour our cattle, goats, and little pigs,
which you love Uke so many children,
are sacrificed to the voracity of these
rascals.^ Now, my good fellow, I have
an idea: go you to the door of the
palace, where for some days I have
seen that beggar that you know.
Take him from me these pantaloons
and this shirt, which I am sure he
needs very much ; and promise him
beside a magnificent frock-coat, which
ho will have only if he shall answer
in a satisfactory manner the questions
which I shall propose." In fact the
good queen suspected that the ragged
peasant might be the wise Ulysses
in disguise. But let us proceed with
our subject
In the second chapter of his twenty-
eighth book, the elder Pliny expresses
himself thus : Our stemumentis salulch
musf Quod etiam Tlherium dssa-
rem in vehiculo exegiase tradunt, et
aliqui nomine quogtie consalutare re-
Ugiosiug putanU Thus the custom
was already established among the
Romans of wishing health and good
fortune to persons who sneezed, and
the last word but one of the phrase
indicates that this wish had a religious
character. In many authors health
is wished to persons who sneeze;
solvere jubentur, is the consecrated
expression, which corresponds to
" God guard you ;'* and according to
the passage cited above, it appears
that when Tiberius, driving in his
chariot, sneezed, then, and only then,
the populace were obliged to cry.
Long live the emperor I a formula
which included the impetration of life
and health by the protection of the
gods. Tliis custom existed then at
the time of Pliny, and going back still
further among the Romans, let us see
what we find. Here then is a story
extracted from the "Velerum Auc-
torum Pragmenta,"' and inserted by
Father Strada in his "Prolusiones
AcademicflB.'' I give a free transla-
tion, it is true, but I will guarantee
the perfect exactitude of the substance,
and of the formulas.
One day when Cicero was present
at a performance at the Roman opera,
the illustrious orator began to sneezs
loudly. Immediately all rose, senators
and plebeians, and each one taking off
his hat, they cried to him from all
parts of the house : " God bless you T
Omnes assurrexere — solvere jubentes.**
Upon which three young men, named
severally Fannius, Fabsdus, and Lem-
niscus, leaning upon their elbows in
one of the boxes, began the interchange
of a succession of absurd remark?,
and finally started the question of the
origin of this custom. Each gave his
own opinion, and the three agreed at
once that the usage dated back as far as
Prometheus. It was then, at Rome, a
common tradition of very ancient date,
as we see, according to some, even as an*
cient as the epoch of the tower of BabeL
But if they were agreed as to the ground-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
^ God Bless Tour
595
work, thej enybeHished their caQvas
in yerj different fasbioos. The stories
related' bj Fannios, and by Fabalus
I will spare jou for the sake of brevity
and for other reasons ; contenting my-
self only with the version of Lemnis-
cos, which will suffice for oar object
Following then, this respectable au-
thority : The son of Japetus moulded,
as every one knows, with pipe-clay, a
statue which he proposed to animate
with celestial fire, and his work finish-
ed, he put it into a stove io order that
it should dry sufficiently ; but the heat
was very great, and acted so well, or
so iQ, that independently of other dam-
ages, the nose of the work became
cracked and shrunken in a manner
very unfortunate for a nose which
had the slightest self-consciousness.
When the artist returned to the stove
and saw this stunted nose, he began
to swear like a pagan as he was ; but
perceiving that the fiat-nose gained
nothing thereby, he took the wiser part
of re-manipulating the organ, adding
thereto fresh clay, and in order to
&cilitate the woik of restoration, he
conceived the idea of inserting a match
in one of the nostrils of his manikin.
Bat the mucous membrane, already
provided with sensibility and life, was
irritated at the contact of the sulphuric
acid, and the consequence was such a
tremendous sneezing that all the teeth,
not yet quite solid in the jaw, sprang
out into the face of the operator. Dis-
mayed by this deluge of meteors, and
expecting to see his little man get out
of order from top to bottom "AhT*
cried Prometheus, " may Jupiter pro-
tect youP — Tibi Jupiter adsiti
•* And from this vou see two things,"
continued Lemniscus : " First, why
they always say to people who sneeze,
'May Jupiter assist you!' and also,
why this morning, in a similar case, I
said nothing at all to this old mummy
Crispinns, since from time immemorial
his last tooth has taken flight. He
might sneeze like an old cat without
the slightest danger to his jaw."
Here terminates the colloquy of our
young men. I am far from intending
to guarantee the contents, either as to
the conduct and exploitB of Prome-
theus, or the misfortunes of his little
man^ since I have not under my eye
the authentic records ; but what follows
Ineontestably firom this redtal, is, that
at the time of Cicero, the usage of
which we speak was already very an-
cient, since they traced it back to one
of the most ancient heroes of fable.
But moreover, and this it is which ren-
ders this passage particularly precious,
we find in it the precise form of
salutation which other passages con-
tain in the generic phrase — sahere
jubent. This formula consists in these
three words : Tibi Jupiter adsii I I
do not intend to say that this wish and
this deprecatory formula were only
used in the special case of which we
speak. Undoubtedly, in a thousand
other cireomstances, persons addressed
each other as a mark of good will.
Deus tihifaoeat ! Dii adsint ! Tibi
adsit Jupiter! etc, etc.; but in the
special case of sneezing, the phrase
was obligatory among persons of gen-
tle breedmg.
Now, reader, attention! and will
you enter into a Roman school, in the
time of Camtllus or Coriolanus ? There
we shall find in the midst of about
fiffy pupils, an honest preceptor bear-
ing the name of Stole, or Yolumnus,
or Pomponius, perhaps. Veiy well,
let it be Pomponius. Now on a cer-
tain day the good man began to sneeze,
but magisterially, and in double time,
following the form still used among
the modems, that is to say, he emitted
this nasal interjection — ad — sit! which
you have observed and practised a
thousand times. Upon which one of
the young rogues, remarking the homo-
phony of the thing with one of the
three words of the deprecatory formula
which he had heani in numberless
cases, added, in a mocking tone — tibi
Jupiter ! and instantly all the crowd
repeated in chorus after him, ad — sii
— Hbi Jupiter.
Here you have, dear reader, the
solution of the enignm. But let us
observe the sequel What did master
Digitized by CjOOQIC
596
«" God BUu Tau r
Pon^)ODiiia under the Bre of this gaj
frolic ? Somewhat astonished at first,
he immediately recovered himself, and
took the thing in good part ; and be-
ing sometldng of a wag himself, that
style of ben^ction suited his humor.
I see him now running his glance
along the restless troops, raising the
right hand, then the fore*finger, which
he carries io his nose, then calming
their terrors bj these soothing words :
Fear not, my little friends :
You oftea h«Te committed
Offenoes mnch more grave.
Ah well 1 hoir often and whenerer
I shall happen to make — ad-^i/
r Cry you all : JupUtr odHt I
You will not suppose that the little
boys failed in this duty. From the
school of Pomponius it passed through
all the line of the university estab-
lishments, and improving upon it,
the children saluted with — Jupiter
ad — dt! — first the heads of their
classes, then fathers, mothers, and all
respectable persons. The elders failed
not to imitate the little ones : it per-
meated the whole of society. Then
.came Christianity, which changed
Jupiier into God; and the formula,
Jupiter protect you! was naturally
transformed into God hUss you !
Thus it is verified that this formula
is of lioman origin ; and if anything
is simple, natural, and manifest, it is
its derivation from the physiological
phenomena with which it is connected,
and of which it represents phoneti-
cally the energetic expression. If
any of my readers can find a better
explanation of it, I beg him to ad-
dress me his memorandum by tele-
graph.
1 owe you now the quotation from
tlie "Anthology," which I promised
above, Among the Greek epigrams
of all epochs, of which this collection is
composed, there is one which relates
precisely to the custom of which we
speak. The Zeu Soson of this epi-
gram is the translation of the Jupiter
ituUit of the Latins. I say the trans-
lation and not the original. For
this is not one of those fragments
which may be of an epoch anterior
to that in which we have placed,
and in which we hav^ a right to
place master Pomponius and his
little adventure. In extending their
empire over the countries of the
Greek tongue, the Romans imported
there a great number of their customs
and social habits: the Jupiter adsii
must have been of this number, and
therefore we find it under Greek pens.
I dare not venture here upon the
Greek text of the " Anthology," which
would perhaps frighten our fair read-
ers, and I give only the Latin trans-
lation in two couplets :
Die ear Sulplelas neqaeat slbl mnngere nasumf
Causa est quod naso sit minor ipsa manus.
Cur slbl siernutans, non clamat, Jupiter adsU?
Non nasum audit qui distat ab aure nimia.
Very well I I yet have scruples in
regard to my Latin, which may not
be understood by some of the ladies
and especially by the bachelors of the
bifurcation. Therefore, to put it into
good French verse, I have haid recourse
to the politeness of our friend Pom-
ponius, and the excellent man has
willingly given the following transla-
tion of the second distich, which
alone relates to the circumstance:
On demande pourquo! notre voisin Sulploe
Eternue, et Jamais ne dlt : Dien ms binisse I
Ser.'Ut-ce, par hasard, quUl nVntend pas tres-blen f
Du tout, rorellloest bonne et fonctlonne 4 merrellle;
Mais son grand nes s*en va^-sl loin de son orelUa,
Que quand 11 faii-'UdsU/ celle-ce n'entend rien.
You demand why oar neighbor Sulploe
Sneeses and never says, Qod bless me I
It is, perhaps, because he does not hear well :
Not at all, his ear is good, and acts to a manrel ;
But his great nose goes away — so far Trom his ear.
That when he makes— ckf—ei^ / this last hears noth-
ing.
This epigram, undoubtedly, is not
much more than two thousand years
old ; and why may it not have been
written by Pomponius the ancient?
For the Pomponius of our day, to him
also, " how often and whenever," he
shall sneeze — and without that even,
God bless him I
Digitized by CjOOQIC
lierein. 597
[oBianux.]
THEREIN.
A SOKCk
I KNOW a vallej fair and green,
"Wherein, wherein,
A dear and winding brook is seen,
Therein ;
The village street stands in its pride
With a TOW of elms on either side,
Therein ;
They shade the village green*
In the village street there is an inn.
Wherein, wherein,
The landlord sits in bottle-green,
Therein.
His face is like a glowing coal,
And his paunch is like a swelling bowl ;
Therein
Is a store of good ale, therein.
The inn has a cosy fireside.
Wherein, wherein,
Two huge andirons stand astride,
Therein.
When the air is raw of a winter's night,
The fire on the hearth shines bright
Therein.
'Tis sweet to be therein^
The landlord sits in his old arm-<hair
Therein, therein ;
And the blaze shines through his yellow hair
Therein.
There coilieth lawyer Bickerstith,
And the village doctor, and the smith*
Therem
Fall many a tale they spin.
They talk of fiery Sheridan's raid
Therein, therein ;
And hapless Baker^s ambuscade
Therein;
Digitized by CjOOQIC
898 Therein.
The grip with which Grant throttled Lee,
And Sbennan*8 famous march to the sea.
Therein
Great fights are fought over therein.
The landlord has a daughter fair
Therein, therein.
In ringlets falls her glossy hair
Therein.
When thej speak in her ear she tosses her head ;
When thej look in her eje she hangs the lid,
Therein.
She does not care a pin.
I know the maiden's heart full welL
Therein, therein,
Pure thoughts and holj wishes dwell
Therein.
I see her at church on bended knee ;
And well I know she prajs for me
Therein.
Sure, that can be no sin.
Our parish church has a holy priest.
Therein, therein.
When he sings the mass, he faces the east.
Therein.
On Sunday next he will face the west,
When my Nannie and I go up abreast,
Therein,
And carry our wedding-^ ing.
And when we die, as die we must ;
Therein, therein,
The priest will pray o'er the breathless dost,
Therem;
And our graves will be planted side by side.
But the hearts that loved shall not abide
Therein,
But love in Heaven again.
aw.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Dhcotwicted } or, Old ThonuUtfi ^rirt.
£99
From The Lamp.
TOrCONVICrEB; OR, OLD THORNELEyS HEIRS.
CHAFTEB T.
I
THE VERDICT AT THE ISTQtTEST
From the time that Buspicions as
to the manDcr of Gilbert Thomeley's
death had been communicated to Scot*
land Yard, the house in Wimpole
street waa taken possession of by the
police^ and all egress or ingress not
subject to the knowledge and approval
of the officer in charge was prohibited.
Merrivale had been allowed on the
previous day to see the body of poor
old Thomeley, but with much dimcnl-
tj, as the police had strict orders not
to allow any strangers access to the
chamber of death. lie told me this
on our way to the inquest.
«By the by," he said, «did you
know that Wilmot is acting as sole
executor of his uncle, and has taken
upon himself the responsibility of or-
dering everything about the fbneral ?
I asked Atherton about it yesterday
evening, and he says Wilmot came to
him and asked what was to be done,
as Smith and Walker had said that
he and Atherton, as only relatives of
the deceased, were the proper persons
to open the will, and see who were
left his executors. Atherton, with his
usual thoughtlessness for his own in-
terests, hade hira act as he considered
right in eveiything, and was too much
overwhelmed with his own sorrow to
think of anything else. Wilmot then
went to Smith's and opened the wiU,
which was deposited there, and finds
he is left sole executor; and, mind
yon, I fancy he's sole heir likewise, for
he's as coxy as ever he can be. Mark
my words, Kavanagh, therell be a
hitch about that wil^ as sure as I'm
alive.''
I felt that Merrivale spoke with a
purpose ; but I answered him coolly :
« I think so too j and Wilmot will fead
himself in the wrong box."
" If I thought it was any use," con-
tinued he, ^ I would ask you once
more to confide to me the nature of the
business which took you to Thome-
ley's on Tuesday evening.^'
^ It will transpire in due time, Mer-
rivale. I pass you my word it is ut-
terly useless knowledge now ; nor does
it in any way afiect Hugh Atherton'g
present position. God knows that
nothing should keep me silent if I
thought that silence would injure in
the smallest degree one so dear to me—*
Will he be present to day?" I asked
in a little wlule.
" Yes ; he seemed very anxious to
watch the proceedings ; and on the
whole I thought it better he should.
I never saw. such a man," said Merri-
vale, with a burst of enthusiasm very
unlike his usual dry, cold manner;
" he thinks of every one but himself.
He is principally anxious to be there
that he may detect any flaw in the
evidence, or find any clue that may
lead to the discovery of the real mur-
derer of his uncle, apparently with-
out any thought of saving himself, as
if that were a secondary eonsidera-
tion. He seems to think more of the
old man's death and take it to heart
than of anything which has happened
to himself; except when he speaks of
Miss Leslie, and then he breaks down
entirely. I have prepared him for
having to hear your evidence, and I
likewise mentioned that his uncle had
sent for you the night of his death ; and
that you eonsidered yourself bound in
honor not to mention yet what trans-
pired at the interview, but you had
Digitized by CjOOQIC
GOO
Uncopmeted ; or, Old Thomele^$ Heirs.
assured mo it would throw no light
upon our present darkness."
" Darkness, indeed 1 O my poor
"Hughr*
" IIo expressed great surprise, and
said ; * Well, this will be the first and
onlj secret affecting either of us which
John has ever kept from me. Wil-
mot hinted that some one had been at
work who was not friendly to me ; but
I told him I didn't believe I had an
enemy : and I don't and won't believe
it now.' Then I asked him if he
wouldn't like to see you, and I think
in his heart he would ; but he seemed
to hesitate, and at last said : ' No, it is
best not, best for us both — ^at least un«
til afler this,' — meaning the inquest —
'is over.'"
The first qecret I No, not the first,
Hugh, not ^he first; but the other
could never have divided us, could
never have raised one shadow be-
tween us, I had buried it deep down
in its lonely grave, and laid its ghost
by the might of my strong love for
you, my friend and brother 1
The house in Wimpole street
looked gloomy enough, with its close*
shut blinds and the two policemen
keeping guard on either side the
door, suggestive of death-^f murder!
There was a small crowd collected
round ; not such a crowd as had as-
sembled before the police-station, but
something like. Sireet-childi-eny er-
rand-boys, stray costermongers with
their barrows, passing tradesmen with
their carts or baskets, and women —
slatterns from neighboring alleys and
back-streets, Irish women from the Ma-
rylebone courts and slums ; and each
arrival caused fresh agitation and ex-
citement amidst that crowd of up-
turned eager faces gathered there,
waiting for the verdict.
" That's him," cried a voice as our
cab drove up to the door — ^'^ that's
Corrinder Javiesl' "No, it an't,
bless yer innercencel the corrinder
wears a scarlet gownd and a gold-laced
'at." "Tell ye he don't 5 he wears a
black un, and ers got it in his bag."
" Yah I — the lawyer, the nevy*s law-
yer r' followed by a yell of imprcca*
tions. The nearest gamin on the
door-step had heard Merrivale give
his name to the policemen and demand
admission, and had handed it down
to his fellows. So, with the sounds
of the brutal mob ringing in our e§rs,
we passed the threshold of the mur-
dered man's house* A cold shudder
seized me as I stood in the hall, and I
seemed to feel as if the spirit of the
dead were hovering about in disquiet,
and unable to rest. A superintend-
ent of the police received us in the
hall, and we asked him if we could go
up to see the body. After some de-
mur he went up-staurs with us, and un-
locked the chamber of death. There
in his shell lay all that remained of
Gilbert Thomeley, he whose name and
fame had been world-wide. Fame,
for what ? For amassing wealth ; for
grinding down the poor; for toiHng,
slaving, wearing himself out in the
busy march of life, with no thought but
for that life which perishes heaping
up riches which must be relinquished
on the grave's brink; which could
bring him no comfort nor solace in
the valley of the shadow ; which per-
chance, in the inscrutable designs of
providence, had been used as an in-
strument of retribution against him.
I looked at his worn face— seamed
with the lines of care, furrowed with
the struggles that had brought so lit-
tle reward — and remembered that last
evening when I had seen and spoken
with him— of the secret he had con-
fided to me, of what he bad so darkly
hinted at; and I fancied I could read
in his unplacid face that death had
visited him in all its intensity of bit-
terness, that the bodily suffering had
been nothing compared to the ocean
of remorse which had swept over his
souL He rested from hia weary la-
bors, and the fruits of them had not
followed him. God alone knew the
complete listory <tf his life ; God only
could supply what had been want-
ing from the treasures of his mercy;
God only could tell whether that last
fiood of remorseful anguish had been
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or^ Old HiorneUrfs Heirs.
601
the sorrow that could be accepted for
the sake of One who had died for
hun.
Whilst we yet stood gazmg on the
corpse, word was bronght us that the
coroner had arriyed, and was going
to open proceiiedlngs. The superin-
tendent once more plumed the key
upon the dead; and we descended to
the first-floor.
"I must divide you, gentlemen^
now," said he. ** You, sir," to Merri-
vale, '^ will please to come with mo to
the inquest-room ; and you, Mr. Kay-
anagh, must wait in this back draw-
ing-room until we send for you. I
thought you'd prefer being cJone, to
goinpr along with the other witnesses.''
"Yes," I said; «I should much
prefer it."
I avail myself of the newspapei^
reports, together with Mr. Merrivale's
notes, for an account of the inquest;
and I have also used his observations
made on the personal appearance,
manner, etc, of the witnesses and
others who took part in it. For my-
self, I r<»nained in that dark dingy
back-room untH my turn came to give
evidence.
I heard the dull tramp of the jury-
men as they went up-stairs and entered
the room overhead to view the body,
and their hushed murmurs as they
came down. I heard the hum of voi-
ces in the front drawing-room, where
the witnesses were assembled, and
the distinct orders issued at intervals
by the palice. I remember standing
at the window looking into the dismsJ.
back-garden, noting mechanically the
various small sights in the back- gar-
dens opposite. I remember staring for
a quarter of an hour at two cats fight-
ing on the wall — a black and a tabby;
and listening to their dismal squalls.
If they had been two tigers tearing each
other to pieces on that back garden-
wall in Uie midst of this eminently
civilized city, I don't think it would
have made more impression on my
brain than did those two specimens of
the feline race. And last, I remem-
ber walking, as in a dream, into the
dining-room, where sat the coroner at
the head of the long table, and ranged
on either side of him the twelve jury-
men. I remember seeing a man
whom I recognized as one of the de-
ceased s solicitors, Mr. Walker, occu-
pying a chair at a small side-table
with his derk, and on the opposite
side of the room at another table sat
Merrivale: while just behind him,
guarded — ay, guarded — ^by a police-
man, sat Hugh Athertpn ; and that as
I came and took a chai^r placed for me
at the other end of the long table, he
raised his eyes and looked full upon
me, and that I knew then the deadly
influence which had been at work — ^for
it was no longer the friendly, trustful
look of old ; I knew — ^yes, I knew that
our warm friendship had died the
death, that a traitor's hand had helped
to slay it. I knew, and knowing it
the pain was so intense, so like a
knife entering my heart, that uncon-
sciously I raised my liand as though
to ward ofl^ the agony that had come
upon me, and a cry escaped my lips
—"Hugh, Hugh!" And then I
heard the coroner addressing me in
the calm business tones of a man ac-
customed to do his terrible work.
The first witness called was Mr.
Evans, surgeon. Ho said :
" I am a member of the Eoyal Col-
lege of Surgeons, and live at 138
Wimpole street. I was summoned
to Mr. Thomeley*s house about seven
o'clock on the morning of the 24th ;
and was taken up into deceased's
room. He was in bed, lying on his
back, the eyes partially open, and
the forehead and mouth contracted, as
though great pain had preceded death.
He had apparently been dead some
hours. There was a stiffiiess, how-
ever, about the body, and an unusual
rigidity of the limbs, which excited
my suspicion. The feet were like-
wise arched. The housekeeper and
the man-ser\-ant were in the room
with the deceased at the time I ar-
rived. I asked what he had taken
last before going to bed. The house-
keeper repUed he had taken his bitter
Digitized by CjOOQIC
602
Unconvicted; or, Old Thamdey^s Hein.
ale as usual about nine o'clock. I
asked to see the bottle out of which
he had taken the ale. The house-
keeper bade the man go down to his
master's study and fetch up the tray.
On it were a pint-bottle of Bass's bit-
ter ale, a tumbler, and a plate of hard
biscuit. There were a few drops at
the bottom of the gloss. I smelt and
tasted them ; there was no peculiar
smell, but the taste was unusually bit-
ter. It suggested to me that strych-
nine inight have been introduced. In
the bottle about half a tumblerful of
ale was left. I took possession of it
for the purpose of analysis, with the
tumbler still containing a few drops.
I said to the housekeeper : ^ Information
must be sent at once to the police.' This
was done. I remained until the su-
perintendent arrived, and then pro-
ceeded to my house wtth the ale-bottle
and glass. I immediately subjected
the contents of both to the usual pro-
cess. In the few drops contained in
the glass I discovered the appearance
of strychnine. The contents of the
bottle were perfectly free." (Sensa-
tion.) ^I then went back to Mr.
Thomeley's house, and reported the
results to the police-officer, who com-
municated with Scotland Yard, the
deceased's relative Mr. Wilmot, and
his lawyers. I demanded that the
family medical man should be sum-
moned. On his arrival we made a
post-mortem examination, and removed
the stomach with its contento, sealed
and despatched them to Professor
T for analysis. We both refused
a death-certificate until the results of
that analysis had been ascertained.
We agreed ourselves in suspecting
death had originated through poison,
and that the poison had been strych-
nine* There was no appearance of
any disea<ie in either heart, lungs, or
brain, which should cause sudden
death. All three organs were in a
perfectly healthy state."
Dr. Robinson, physician, and the
usual medical attendant of deceased,
corroborated the above evidence in
every particular.
Professor T— next deposed that
he received the stomach of deceased
with its contents from Dr. Robinson
and Mr. Evans« That he had ana-
lyzed the latter, and had detected and
separated strychnine in vezy minute
quantities; on further test, positive
proof of the existence of the poison
was afforded by the colors produced.
Upon introducing some of the suspect-
ed matter into the body of a frog,
death had been produced from tetanic
convulsions; thus demonstrating the
existence of strychnine. His opinion
was that deceased had died from the
effects of strychnine administered in
bitter ale ; that the quantity adminis-
tered had been about one grain, not
more — ^it might be less.
Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, was
then examined. She was a woman
past fifty in appearance; her face
was remarkable; so perfectly immo-
bile and passionless in its expression.
Her hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes
were of a pale sandy color; and her
drooping eyelids had that peculiar mo*
tionin them which novelists call ''shiv-
ering." She gave her answers in
clear low tones; but seldom raising
^er eyes to the interrogator; they
were of a cold bluish-gray, with a
dangerous scintillating light in theuL
Her manners and appearance were
those of a woman above her station in
life ; her language quite grammatical,
though tinctured by a slightly foreign
idiom and accent; her deportment
perfectly self-possessed. She deposed
that the deceased had appeared in the
same health as usual up to the even-
ing previous to his death, when on
taking in his bitter ale and biscuits
she observed that he looked very
much flushed and agitated, and his
voice had sounded loud and angry
as she came up the stairs. He and
Mr. Atherton seemed to be having a
dispute; and as she came into the
room she distinctly heard Mr. Ather-
ton say to her master, ^ You will bit-
terly repent to-morrow what you have
said to-night." She could swear to
the words, for they made an impies-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; &r, Old Thomekffs Heirs.
608
8ion npoa her. Had not heard Mr.
Wilmot speak whilst in the study.
The ale had hcen brought up from
the cellar by Barker, who uncorked it
down-etairs, as usual, in presence oi
the other servants. Barker had ac-
companied her to the study-door, and
opened it for her. Always took in
the ale when her master waA alone,
or when only the young gentlemen
(Wilmot and Atherton) were there;
and waited to receive hia orders for
the next day. Deceased always took
bitter ale at nine o'clock, with hard
biscuits.
Mr. Merrivale : " Did you not pour
some ale out into the tumbler before
taking it up-stairs T*
**Ididnot.*'
« Would you swear you did not ?"
** Certainly I would swear it."
Evidence continued : To her know-
ledge he had taken nothing since the
ale. The young gentlemen never
took bitter ale: Mr. Atherton didn't
like it, and Mr. Wilmot could not
drink it. Only one tumbler had been
brought up. The tray had remained
in the study just as Mr. Thomeley
had lefl it, and had not been touched
until the following morning, when the
doctor asked to have tlie bottle and
glass brought to him. Barker, the
man-servant, had fetched the tray
from the study. No one had entered
the study from the time Mr. Thome-
ley had gone to bed, until Barker had
gone there for the tray the next morn-
ing. She had locked the door on the
outside as she went up to bed, but had
not gone into the room. On the mom*
ing of the 24th she was roused by a
violent knocking at her door, and by
Barker saying, in a very agitated man-
ner, " For God's sake get up directly,
Mrs. Haag, and come to master; for
I fear he's dead T Had hurried on a
few clothes, and gone instantly to Mr.
Thoraeley's room. The deceased was
in bed, the eyes partially open, and
the mouth contracted, as if in an agony
of pain. She had touched his hand
and found it quite cold. Then they
both had stocmed to listen if he
breathed; but he did not. Barker
said : •* I fear it's all up with him ; he
must have had a fit and died in the
night Whafs to be done, Mrs.
ILnag ?" Replied, " Send at once for
a doctor.'* The other servants now
came crowding in, and one of them
ran off immediately for the nearest
surgeon. He arrived in less than
half an hour. No one had touched
the ifody until the arrival of the doc-
tor; they had all feared lest they
might do harm by touching it. Had
lived in the service of deceased near^
ly thirty years ; he had been a severe
but just master to her. Was a Bel-
gian by birth ; but had lived nearly
all her life in Enorland. Was a wid-
ow ; had no children living, nor any
relations alive that she knew of. Ex-
amined as to what had transpired be-
fore taking the ale to the study, Mrs.
Haag deposed that Mr. John Kava-
nagh had called on Mr. Thorneley at
seven o'clock, and been closeted with
him for an hour ; that a short time be-
fore he went away the study-bell rang,
which was answered by Barker, who
came down into the servants'-hall and
told Thomas the coachman to go up
with him to his master's room. When
they came down, they said they had
been signing their names as witnesses
to some paper, which both of them
had supposed was a will; but that
neither their master nor Mr. Kava-
nagh had told them so. She had put
on her things whilst they were up-
stairs, and just after they returned
she went out — Questioned ^ to her
errand, said she went to buy some
ribbon she wanted at a shop in Ox-
ford street; that returning home by
Vere street she saw Mr. Atherton
coming out of the chemist's shop at
the comer of Oxford street, and heard
him speak to Mr. Eavanagh. Heard
the words " Ka^^anagh," "Atherton,'*
and saw them shake hands. Could
swear to their identity. — Questioned
by Mr. Merrivale, solicitor for the
prisoner, as to how it had come about
that she had been witness to the
meeting between the two gentlemen at
Digitized by CjOOQIC
604
Unconvicted; OTy Old Tkomeley^s Hein^
the c6rner'of Vere street and Oxford
street, and yet was met only in the
middle of Vere street — ^a very short
street — at least ^vq minutes after-
wards by Mr, Kavanagb, denied meet-
ing Mr. Kavanagh at all in Vere
street ; had passed the two gentlemen
at the comer, and gone straight home.
Had worn no veil that evening. —
Examination resumed by the coroner :
Had not seen her master since taking
the ale into the study ; had gone to the
door after the gentlemen had left, but
found it locked, and received for answer,
he was busy, and did not require
anything. Mr. Wilraot had left some
Ume previous to Mr. Atherton; she
had seen neither to speak to them
that evening. This was the pith of
the housekeeper's evidence.
John Barker was the next witness
called, who corroborated everything
deposed by Mrs. Haag. Asked by a
juryman if it was he who signed the
paper on the evening before Mr.
Thomeley*s death, replied it was.
Was he aware of the nature of the
document? No; but both he and
Thomas the coachman, who had like-
wise signed, fancied it must be a will.
Had lived nearly twenty years with
his master, and often witnessed busi-
ness papers, but never asked what
ihcy were. — Questioned by Mr. Merri-
valc as to whether he had noticed any
conversation which passed between
Mr. WUmot and Mr. Atherton in the
hall the night before the deceased died,
replied he had caught one or two
words. — ^Told by the coroner to i*e-
peat them. After seeming to recol-
lect himself for a moment or two, said
he had heard Mr. Wilmot say he must
get some money out of the governor ;
to which Mr. Atherton had replied in
rather a low voice ; but he had heard
tiie words, " won't live long," and " to
be worried," and "our affiiirs." —
Asked by the prisoner if the sentence
had not been, " Ho is getting very old,
and won't live long ; he ought not to
be worried with our affairs " ? Re-
plied he could not say ; it might have
been so; but what he had repeated
was the whole of what he had distinct-
ly heard. He wished to say that he
believed Mr. Atherton to be innocent ;
for ho was very fond of poor master,
and his uncle always seemed more
partial to him tlian to any one else
— ^mach more than to Mr. Wilmot.
Thomas Spriggs the coachman, the
cook, and the housemaid, were then
examined respectively, and their evi-
dence corroborated eveiy etatement
made before ; only one fresh feature
presented itself. The cook volun-
teered to state that she had been
awoke, in the middle of the night on
which her master died, by some noise,
and had fancied she heard stealthy
footsteps on the stairs.-^Quc6tioned
upon this, said that she meant the
stairs leading from the third story
where the women-servants slept, to
the second story.
Were they front or back-stairs ?
Front-stairs ; the back-stairs only
reached the second floor. That the
housekeeper occupied one room to
herself, she and the housemaid an-
other, and the third was empty. She
had not dared to get out of bed, be-
lieving it was the ghost
What ghost?
Oh ! the house was haunted ; all the
servants know it and believed it, ex-
cept the housekeeper, who had laughed
at her shameful, 'and called her a su-
perstitchious woman. But then they
had never been what she might call
comfortable nor friendly together ; for
Mrs. *Aag 'eld herself 'igh and 'orty
with all the company in the 'all.
Couldn't say at what hour she had
been awoke ; had drawed the clothes
over her 'cd, and said her prayers,
and supposed she had fell asleep
again, being that way inclined by na-
tur'.
Mr. Merrivale : " Have you and
the housekeeper ever fallen out,
cook?"
Witness : " Well, no, sir. I can't
say as we ever 'ave ; and I've nothing
to bring against her except as she was
'igh and close, which isn't agreeable,
sir, when the position of parties ia
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or^ Old Thomeletfi Hem.
G05
ckallj respectable, which mine is, sir,
'aving come of a greengrocer's family
as kcp* their own wehicle and drove
theirselves; and whose mother could
afford to be washed oat, and never
sat down to tea on Sunday without
s'rimps or 'winkles or something to
give a relish.**
Coroner : " That is enough, cook. —
Bring in the next witness."
Mr. Lister Wilmot, who appeared
much agitated, next deposed : ** I went
to visit my deceased uncle on the even-
ing of Tuesday last, and whQst taking
off my outer coat in the hall, my cous-
in, Mr. Atherton, arrived. We went
into my uncle's study together. Very
little conversation passed between us.
I mentioned my intention of asking
my uncle for some money that even-
ing, which I needed, having some
pressing bills to pay. My cousin
replied something to the effect that
he, my uncle, would probably not
live long, and we ought not to
worry him with our affairs. I think
he simply said it with a view to stop-
ping me from making the application :
he thinks I am extravagant. Ho
asked me how much I wanted. I
said, £500. He said : * That ia a large
sum, Lister ; we shall never get the
governor to come down as handsome
as that.'*'
Mr. Merrivale: "Did Mr. Ather-
ton say, ' we shall,* or * you will * ?"
"Witness (hesitating \\ " I am not
quite clear, but I thint he said ' we
shall.' It was simply a kindly way
of speaking. We found my uncle
more than usually taciturn and ab-
stracted ; but I was so hard pressed I
was obliged to brave him, and ask
him for money. To my astomshment,
instead of venting his anger on me, he
turned it all upon my cousin Hugh,
and accused him of. leading me into
extravagance.**
Coroner : " Was this so ?**
" It was not Hugh and I are the
best of friends ; but our pursuits and
tastes are totally opposite. I said so
to my uncle, and tried to appease him
in vam. At last he worked himself
into such a rage that he seemed quite
reckless of what he said ; and hinted
that Hugh might pay my debts for
me, and if he couldn't do so out of his
own pocket, he might get Kavanaghto
advance me some out of his future wife*s
dividends ; that I might have got the
girl for myself if I had chosen ; but as
it was, he dared say Kavanagh would
luarry her in the long-run, for it was
easy to see how the wind lay in that
quarter."
Mr. Merrivale : " Can you swear to
those words ?"
**I can. My cousin got very an-
gry at this, and said : ' You have no
right to make such remarks or draw
any such conclusions ; they are false.
You will repent of this to-morrow.'
I can swear to those words. Just
then Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper,
brought in my uncle's ale and biscuits,
as usual. Barker opened the door for
her: I remember that fact. There
was only one tumbler with the bottle
brought up. Neither myself nor my
cousin ever touch that beverage.
When Mrs. Haag had left the room,
Hugh got up and went to the table
where the tray had been placed, and
brought a glass of ale to mj uncle
with a plate of hard biscuits."
Coroner : ^ Did you see the prison-
er pour out the ale ? Where was he
standing with regard to yourself?"
" He had his back towai-d us ; I
was sitting by the fire opposite my
uncle ; the table was in the middle of
the room. To get the ale Hugh must
turn his back to us."
" How long was he at the table ?"
Witness, (after a moment's thought:)
*' A minute or more ; but I could not
speak positively."
^ Sufficient time to have put any-
thing in the ale ?"
Witness, (much agitated :) ** Am I
obliged to answer this ?"
" You are hot obliged ; but an un-
favorable interpretation might be put
upon your silence."
Witness (in a very low voice :)
" There was time."
Mr. Merrivale : " Did you not ob-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
606
Unconvicted; or^ Old ThoTnde^9 Meirt*
serve that some ale was poared out
in the tumbler when it was brought
up ?"
" I did not observe it ; it might have
been so, but I could not saj for cer-
tain either way.'*
Mr. MernVale to the coroner* "My
client desires me to state distinctly
that a small quantity, about a quarter
ot* a glassful, was already poured cut
when he went to the tray. He sup-
poses it was done to save the overflow
fi-om the bottle.'*
Coroner : " I will note it."
Evidence continued : " My uncle
drank half the ale at a draught, shook
his bead, and said : ' It is very bitter,
to-night.' We neither made any re-
mark upon it. He likewise took a
biscuit and ate it. Soon afterward I
rose to go. He would not say good-
night to me. Hugh came to the door
with me — the study-door — and whis-
pered, ^I'll try to appease him aod
make it all right for you.' I went
straight down-stairs and out of the
house. I remember seeing my cou-
sin's coat hanging in the hsll ; it was a
brown-tweed waterproof one; but I
did not touch it. The coachman came
the following morning with the sad
news to my chambers."
Mr. Merrivale : " Are you acting
as sole executor, Mr. Wilmot?"
<* I am ; my cousin is aware of it."
Mr. "Walker : " It is illegal to ask
for any depositions about the de-
ceased's will here."
Coroner : *♦ I am the best judge of
that, Mr. Walker. Anything which
throws light upon what we have
to find out must be recieved as evi-
dence."
Mr. Merrivale : " Were you aware
what the contents of your late uncle's
will were before you opened it at
Messrs. Smith and Walker's ?"
** I was not ; but both Hugh Ather-
ton and myself were led to anticipate
what the tenor of it would be."
"Have the results fulfilled your
anticipations ?"
" I don't consider myself warranted
in answering such a question."
Coroner : " Have yon any thing else
to state, Mr. Wiknot ?"
" Nothing, except that I believe in
my cousin's innocence."
Mr. John Kavanagh was then
called, and, af^er the usual prelimina-
ries, stated that on his return from a
tour in Switzerland on the afternoon
of Tuesday, the 23d, he found a note
from Mr. Thomeley, which he now
produced* (Note read by the coro-
ner and passed on to the jurvmen.)
That upon receipt of it he had gone
to Mr. Thorneley's at the hour ap-
pointed, and had been shown at once
into that gentleman's study. Had
found him very much altered for the
worse and aged since last he had seen
him, some montlis since. He looked
as if some heavy trouble were upon
him, weighing him down. He bad
transacted the business required, which
occupied, he should say, an hour, and
had then lefl him as calm and as well
as when he (witness) first entered the
room. He had chosen to walk home,
and, stopping to light a segar at tlie
comer of Vere street, had met Mr.
Atherton coming out of the chemisCe
shop. Mr. Atherton had offered to
accompany him home, but he (Wit-
ness) had refused, and they had part-
ed, Mr Atherton stating his iiAention
of coming to see him on the morrow.
That the moment afler, he had repent-
ed his refusal and hurried back to ask
him to return ; but being near-sighted
and the night dark, had not been able
to distinguish his figure, and had given
up the pursuit. Returning down Vere
street, about half-way ho had met a
female walking very fast, but who in
passing had almost stopped, and stared
very hard at him. She had on a thick
veil, so he could not see her face, nor did
he recognize her figure. The circum-
stance had passed from his mind until
detective Jones had told him that Mr.
Thorneley's housekeeper had been in
Vere street that evening, and seen
his meeting with Mr. Atherton, and
then it had struck him it might have
been she. — (Here Mr. Merrivale was
seen to confer very earnestly with the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
VhconmcUd; cr^ Old J%omele^s Heirt.
607
prisoner, and afterward to pass a slip
of paper io the coroner, who after read-
ing it bowed, as if in assent, and then
beckoned to a policeman, who left the
room.) He had gone straight home
to his chambers, and being tired went
carlj to bed, and did not wake till
very late the following morning, when
his derk had told him the news of
Mr. Thomeley'B death, and detective
Jones had called upon him sho.nlj af-
terward.
By the coroner: "What was the
nature of the business which you
transacted with deceased T*
•*I am bound over very solemnly
not to mention it until a certain time."
** Was it a will you called the two
servants to witness r"
^ I am not at liberty to answer. I
pass my word as a gentleman and a
man of honor that in no way do I
consider this to affect my friend Mr.
Atherton's present position ; and that
when it does I shall consider myself
free to speak.''
Mr Walker: <*We shall compel
you, Mr. Kavanagh, to speak in an-
other place than this. The breach of
etiquette yon have committed will not
be passed over by us as the family
and confidential legid advisers of the
deceased gentleman."
** We shall both act as we think right,
Mr. Walker."
The prisoner here in a very hollow
voice said " For God's sake, and for
the sake of one who is dear to us both,
I entreat you, John Kavanagh, to re-
veal any thing that may help to clear
an innocent man from this frightful
impntation.**
« I will, Hugh, so help me God I
But it would avail you nothing to
speak now."
Coroner : " Have you anything
further to state P'
" Nothing, save my most solemn re-
ligious conviction that Mr. Atherton
is innocent, and that he is the victim
of the foulest plot."
Mr. Walker here appealed to the
coroner, and said he objected to such
insinuations being made there; that
Mr. Kavanagh had done his best to
criminate the prisoner, and that he
was now trying to cast the blame upon
others.
Mr. Kavanagh was about to make
some violent answer, when the coroner
called to order.
Mr. Merrivale: "Will you have
the goodness, Mr. Kavanagh, to look
toward the end of the room, and see
if you identify any one there ?"
Mr. Kavanagh : " My Grod I It %$
sher
Coroner: "Who?"
" The woman I met in Vere street
that night."
Standing opposite to the witness,
with the light full upon her, was a fe-
male figure, closely veiled.
" I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh !"
it was the woman who spoke, loudly,
vehemently.
Coroner to witness : *^ Isee you are
using your eyeglass now; were you
using it when you say you met this
person in Vere street ?"
"I was."
" Could you swear that the figure
standing before you now and the
woman you met are one and the
same ?"
" I would swear that the appearance
of that woman standing befbre me
now and that of the figure I met is one
and the same — the same height, the
same carriage, the same veiled face."
" I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh !"
repeated the woman, with a passion-
ate gesture.
Coroner: "Mrs. Haag, you can
retire." (It was the housekeeper.)
Mr. Walker : " I don't see how
this affects the case."
Mr. Merrivale: "Probably not,
sir; but you will see by and by. I
am much obliged to you, Mr. Coro-
ner."
Mr. Kavanagh is replaced by In-
spector Jackson, detective officer, who
deposed that from information re-
ceived at Scotland Yard on the morn-
ing of the 24th instant, he had been de-
sired by his superintendent to proceed
to 100 Wimpole street, the residence
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Vneonvicted ; or^ Old 7%om9ie^$ Heirt*
of t^e deceased gentleman, and exam-
ine into the case» accompanied bj de-
tective Jones. From information re-
ceived from the hoasekeeper and other
servants, and after a conference with
the surgeon called in, his suspicions
had fallen upon Mr. Atherton. He
had left a policeman in charge from
the nearest station-house, and gone
with Jones direct to Mr, Atherton's
chambers in the Temple. On breaking
the nature of his visit to that gentle-
man, together with the news of Mr.
Thornelej's death, he had been terri-
bly overcome, and exclaimed that he
was an innocent man, God was Ills
witness ; that he would not have hurt
a hair of the old man's head ; but cer-
tainly he had been angry with him
the night before. Cautioned not to
say anything which might criminate
himself, Mr. Atherton had again said,
in very solemn tones : " My God, thou
knowest I am innocent T' Witness
had searched Mr. Atherton's room
and clothes ; in the pocket of his coat
had found a snaall empty paper la-
belled Strychnine — Poison ; with
the name of *• Davis, chemist, 20 Vere
street, corner of Oxtbi-d street." —
Questioned by Mr. Merrivalo as to
which coat-pocket the packet was
found in, replied the overcoat which Mr.
Atherton wore on the previous evening.
By a juryman : " How do you know
it was the identical coat worn that
evening ?"
" The man-servant, John Barker,
swears to it; he took it from Mr.
Atherton when he came to Mr.
Thomeley's house, and hung it up in
the hall to dry."
The prisoner: "Yes, I did wear
that coat ; but I know nothing of the ,
paper found in it."
By the coroner : " Have you been
in communication with the chemist in
Vere street ?"
Witness : " I nave, sir ; he remem-
bers—"
Mr. Merrivale : " I object to this
evidence coming from the mouth of
Mr. Inspector. The chemist is here
and should be examined himself."
Mr. Walker, one of the solicitors of
deceased " I think that the evidence
should be received from both the in«
spector and the chemist"
Mr. Merrivale : *^ I still object."
The coroner: "On what ground,
Mr. Merrivale P'
Mr. Merrivale: "On the ground
that the inspector having a precon-
ceived notion when he communicated
with the chemist, the latter may have
been misled by his questions. I should
at least wish that Davis should be ex-
amined first, and his evidence received
direct."
The coroner: " Very well. Is there
anything else, Mr. Inspector?"
"Nothing else, except that Mr.
Atherton denied all knowledge at once
of the paper found."
By Mr. Merrivale : " Did you not
find also a bottle of camphorated spir-
its P'
"I did; but on the table. It was
a fresh bottle, unopened, and bore the
same label, from Mr. Davis's." (Wit-
ness dismissed.)
Mr. Merrivale here demanded io
have the man Barker recalled, which
was done.
Mr. Merrivale : " Can you swear
to the overcoat which Mr. Atherton
wore the last evening he came to
Wimpole street ?"
"Certainly, sir. It was a brown
tweed waterproof, with deep pockets.
I know it well."
"Is that the coat ?" (Coat produced.)
"It is, sir."
" Can you swear to it ?*'
" I can, sir."
"How long was it between the
time Mr. Wilmot went away and the
time Mr. Atherton left the house T*
" About half an hour or three quar-
ters, I should say."
" Did you let him out ?"
"No, sir."
"Nor Mr. Atherton?'
" No, sir."
** Did you hear or know of any one
being in the hall for any length of
time whUst Mr. Atherton was with his
undo?"
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted, or, Old ITiamele^t Bieirt.
609
•^No one conld have been in the
ball, sir , we Aervants were all at sup-
per"
** Was the housekeeper with you ?"
^^No, sir ; she has her supper in her
own sitting-room always."
" Then how are you sure that she
did net go into the hall ?'
"I should have heard her door
open and her footsteps pass along
the* passage. The servants' hall door
was open that I might hear master's
belL'*
"^ You feel certain of this ?"
« I do, sir."
^ I have no more to ask this wit-
ness, Mr. Coroner."
Thomas Davis, chemist, was then
called. He deposed that on the eve-
ning of the 23d he perfectly well re-
membered a gentleman coming into
his shop and buymg a small bottle of
spirits of camphor. Could iK>t swear
to him, but thinks if may have been
the prisoner. It was a tall gentle-
man. (Upon being shown the bottle
of camphor, immediately identified it
as the one sold. The paper found in
Mr. Alherton's pocket was now pro-
duced, and he likewise identified it as
coming from his shop.) The paper
and label were the same as he used.
— Questioned as to whether he recol-
lected selling any strychnine either on
or before the 23d, replied he could
not remember selling any; but that
he had found a memorandum in his
day-book of one grain sold on the 23d.
(Sensation.) Was quite sure it had
been sold^ or the entry would not have
been made ; always made those entries
himself. His assistant reported to
him of anything sold during his ab-
sence from the shop, and he then en-
tered it in his day-book as a ready-
money transaction. His assistant
might have sold the strychnine on
that day ; but he had questioned him
and found he did not remember any
particulars. Could swear that he
himself remembered nothing about it.
— 3j Mr. Merrivale : Was generally
absent from the shop an hour at din-
ner-time— jGrom one to two— and firom
VOL. uu 89
five to half-past for tea; agam at
night from nine to half-past. Closed
at ten.
Mr. Merrivale here asked that Mr.
Wilmot and Mrs. Haag might sever-
ally be brought in ; to which Mr.
Walker objected. The objection was
overruled by the coroner, and Mr.
Wilmot was summoned.
Mr. Merrivale: "Do you remem-
ber having seen this gentleman before,
Mr. Davis ?"
« I do not, sir."
"Nor remember his coming into
your shop ?"
« No, sir."
The housekeeper was then called,
with the same results.
Examination of witness continued :
His assistant was a remarkably steady
and able young man, intrusted with
making up very important prescrip-
scriptions ; his word could be relied
on ; had been with him for five years.
He himself was a licensed member of
Apothecaries' Hall.
The last witness summoned was
James Ball, assistant to Mr. Davis,
the chemist. In reply to the coroner,
he never remembered having sold any
strychnine on the 23d, though he
might have done so; in which case
he would report it to Mr. Davis, who
would have entered it in the day-
book. Was in the habit of mentioniDg
each item as soon afler it was sold
as opportunity permitted. Could not
identify either Mr. Wilmot or Mrs.
Haag as having seen them in the
shop. — By Mr. Walker: Remembered
the prisoner coming into the shop on
the evening of the 23d ; they did not
often see such a tall gentieman. His
eipployer, Mr. Davis, had served him
with the camphor.
By Mr. Merrivale : " Do you mean
to say that a customer whom you did
not serve, buying camphor, made an
impressioih on your mind, and yet you
have no recollection of any one com-
ing to your shop and asking for such
a remarkable and dangerous thing as
strychnine ?"
After a moment's oonsideratioa :
Digitized by CjOOQIC
610
Uncommeted; or. Old Thomde^t Hein*
**' I remember that gentleman," (point-
ing to the prisoner,) ** becaase I won-
dered what his height might be, and
what a jolly thing it must be to be so
tall, especiailj with such a high count-
er to serve over." (Laughter. James
Ball was considerably below the mid-
dle height) "I don't recollect any-
thing at all about the strychnme.'*
By the coroner : " It is a question
probably of life or death, James Ball,
to that geutlenian, Mr. Atherton ; and
I conjure you to strive to the utmost
of your power to call to mind any
circumstance concerning the sale of
that poison which may throw some
light upon the subject Take your
time now to consider, for I see you can
recollect things.*'
Afker some moments of dead si-
lence, James Ball replied, " I remem-
ber nothing further than what I have
already stated."
This closed the evidence, and coro-
ner, summing up, addressed the jury.
He commented upon the awfulness of
the crime which had been committed ;
on the fearful increase of the use of
poisons of every kind for the purpose
of taking away human life. He said
in this case the principal facts they
had to deal with were, that it was
'proved on evidence that poison had
been administered to deceased in the
bitter ale, which he had taken before
going to bed. That tlie poison was pro-
nounced to be strychnine, which it was
well known would probably not take ef-
fectuntil an hour or so after it had been
imbibed. That the glass of bitter ale
in which the strychnine had been de-
tected was poured out and given to
deceased by his nephew, Mr. Hugh
Atherton, in presence of his other
nephew, Mr. Wihnot That it had
been proved by medical evidence that
in the ale remaining in the bottle no
strychnine had been detected. All
suspidons therefore were confined to
the ale which had been poured out.
That Mr. Atherton had been heard to
use angry, if not threatening, language
to the deceased, (he repeated the
words,) and had been seen by two
witnesses coming out of the chemist*s
shop kept by the identical man whose
name was on the paper labelled
Strychnine, and found in the prison-
er's pocket The prisoner's legal ad-
viser had stated that a portion of the
ale was already poured out in the
tumbler, when he (the prisoner) ap-
proached the table for the purpose of
helping his uncle; but no evidence
had been adduced of the fact Mr&
Haag, the housekeeper, had stated to
the contrary. Still the prisoner was
entitled to the benefit of the doubt
There had been positive evideaoe
that the deceased had died from the
effects of poison ; it rested with the
jury to decide whether the other evi-
dence was sufficiently conclusive to
warrant their finding a verdict against
the prisoner as having administered
the poison.
After a consultation of some quar-
ter of an hour, the jury returned a
verdict of Wilful Murder against Mr.
Hugh Atherton.
Merrivale brought me the news in
that dull back-room where I waited,
heaven only knows with what crush-
ing, heart-sick anxiety, and we left
the house — ^that doomed house of
death, of woe and desolation to the
living.
The crowd outside had thickened
and densified; but their cries and
clamors were meaningless sounds for
me. As we stood on the pavement
whilst Merrivale hailed a cab, I felt
something thrust into my hand — a
piece of paper. I looked round and
saw a man disappearing amongst the
throng, who presently turned and
held up his hand to me. He was in
plain clothes and somewhat disguised ;
but I recognized Jones the detective
When in the cab I unfolded the pa-
per, and read, hastily scrawled in pen-
cil:
" Meet me, sir, please, on the Sur-
rey end of London Bridge to-night at
nine o'clock.
"A, Jones."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Uneonmcled; or, Old I%omiiejf» Shirt.
611
CHAFTEB TL
IK BLUE-ANCHOR LANE.
Nine o'clock waa striking, as I hur-
ried along the footway of London
Bridge, hustled and jostled by the
many paetseugers who seem to be for-
ever treading their weary road of busi-
ness, care, or pleasure — for even plea-
sure brings its toil ; nine o'clock re-
sounding loud and clear in the night-
air from the dome of St. Faal's, and
echoed from the neighboring dinrch*
steeples. It sounds romantic enough
to please the most enthusiastic de-
Yourers of pre-Badcliffe novels, or to
capture the imagmation of the most
ardent votaries of fiction. But it waa
far otherwise to me on the night of
that Thursday which had seen Hugh
Atlierton branded with the name of
murderer. It was far otherwise to
me — weighed down with the crush-
ing knowledge that the companion of
my youth, the friend of my later years,
although an innocent man, was being
gradually hurried on to a felon's death ;
and that I — / who loved him so well— -
had helped to his destruction, though
Heaven could witness how unwillingly
and unconsciously. No ; there was no
romance forme that night as I dragged
my weary steps over the bridge, with
the sight of him before my eyes, and
the Boimd of heart-bursting grief from
the Ups of that poor stridden girl, his
betrothed bride, ringing in my ears ; for
Ihad been to tell her the results of this
day's work. Oh ! why had I not yielded
to his wish the evening I met Hugh
Atherton in that fatal street, and taken
him home with me ? Why had I not
more earnestly followed up the im-
pulse — ^nay, dare I not call it inspira-
tion? — to return after him and bid
him come back with me? Ah me I
my selfishness, my blindness— could
any remorse ever atone for them and
the terrible evil they had brought
about ? My God, thou knowest how
my heart cried out to thee then in bit-
terness and sorrow: "Smite me with
thy righteous judgments; but spare
him — ^spare her T
And now what new scene in this
drama of life was I going to see un*-
folded? I could not tell; I knew
noUung; I could only pray that if
Providence pointed out to me any
track by which I might penetrate the
awful mystery that hung round us, I
might pursue it with all fidelity, with
utter forgetfnhiesB of self. I had
gone with Merrivale after we left
Wimpole street to the House of De-
tention whers Atherton was lodged,
and desired him to ask that I should
see Hugh i but he had come out look-
ing puzzled and perplexed, and said :
^ I can't make it out ; Atherton re-
fuses to see you, and gives no reason
except that it is < best not.' '^ No help
was there, then, but to trust to time
and unwearied exertion to remove the
cloud between us.
I found Jones waiting for me at the
other end of the bridge, and anxiously
on the look-out.
" I am right glad to see you, sir ; I
was fearful you mightn't come, seeing
that I gave you no reason for doing
so."
^ I trusted you sufficiently, Jones, to
belive you wouldn't have brought me
on a useless errand at such a time of
awful anxiety.'*
" Bless you, sir, I wouldn't — not for
a thousand pounds ; and I've had that
offered to me in my day by parties as
wished to get rid of me or shut me up.
No, indeed, sir ; Fd not add to your
trouble if so be I could not lighten it
But we have no time to lose, and we
have a goodish bit before us. Ton
' asked me this morning whether I knew
any thing of a Mr. de Vos. I did not
then, but I do now; and a strange
chance threw me across him. If, sir,
you will trust yourself entirely to me
to-night, I think I can be of use to
you. But you must confide in me,
and allow me to take the lead in every-
thing. And first, will you let me ask
you one or two questions ?*
I told him he mi^t ask anythmg
he pleased ; if I coiUd not answer^ I
would tell him so ; that I would
trust him implicitly.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
612
Oheawvteted ; or. Old Tkormdej^s Mein,
"Then, sir, will you condeBoend to
honor me bj coming hmne first for a
few minntes ? My misstis expects as.
She's in a terrible way aboat Mr.
Atherton: she never forgets past kind-
ness."
We tamed off tihe bridge, straight
down Wellingtoii street, High street
Borough, and then into King street,
where Jones stopped before a re-
spectable-looking private house, and
knocked. The door was opened by
his wife — ^with whom, under other cir-
cumstances, I had been acquainted
before — and we entered their neat
little front-parlor. Evidently we were
expected, for supper was laid — homely,
but substantial, and temptingly dean.
"You must excuse us, sir,** said
Jones ; " but I fancied it was likely you
had taken little enough to-day, and I
told Jane to have something ready for
us. Please to eat, Mr. Kavanagh;
we have a short journey before us, and
I want you to have aU your wits and
energies about you.**
I was faint and sick, true enough ;
for I had touched nothing save a bis-
cuit and a glass of wine since the
morning ; but my stomach seemed to
loathe food ; and though I drew to the
table, not wishing to offend the good
people, I felt as if to swallow a morsel
would choke me. Jones cut up the
cold ham and chicken in approved
style, whilst his wife busied herself
with slicing off thin rounds of bread
and butter ; but I toyed with my knife
and fork, and could not eat. Not so
Jones ; he took down incrodible quan-
tities of all that was before him with
the zest of a man who knows he is go-
ing to achieve luck's victory. Pre-
sently he threw down his tools, and
looked hard at me.
•^This*ll never do, sir; you mtist
eat**
I shook my head and smiled.
** Jane," said he to his wife, " bring
out Black Peter ; no one ever needed
him more than Mr. Kavanagh."
Mrs. Jones opened a cupboard and
brought forth a tapery-necked bottle,
out of which her husband very care-
fully poured some liquid into a wine-
glass, and then as carefully corked it
up again.
** Drink this, sir; Tve never known
A to fail yet.'*
I lifted the gkss to my lips. "Why,
it's the primest Cura9oa I" I cried.
** That it may be, sir, for all I know.
A poor Grerman, to whom I once ren-
dered a service, sent me two bottles,
and I've found it the best cordial I ever
tasted. I call it Black Peter— -his
name was Peter, and he was un(x>m-
monly black, to be sure — ^but I never
heard its right name before. Drink
it off, sir, and you'll feel a world bet-
ter ppeswitly."
I did, and the effects were as Jones
prognosticated. The cold, sick shiver-
ing left me, and I was able in a little
while to take some food.
** Now, Jane," said the good man to
his wife, when he saw I was getting
on all right, ^ shut up your ears ; Mr.
Kavanagh and I are going to talk
business."
Mrs. Jones laughed, picked up some
needle-work, and sat down to a small
table by the fire. ^
"My wife's a true woman, sir, in
every thing but her tongue ; she (iUniU
talk: I'll back her against Sir Richard
himself for keeping dark on a secret
case. Now, sir, will you please to
tell me, if you can, why you are anx-
ious to find out about this Mr. de
Vos?"
I r^ated to him about my meeting
De Yos at my sister's, what I had
heard and witnessed in Swain's Lane,
the impressions made upon me then,
and how I had caught sight of the man
outside the police-court on the preced-
ing day. Jones listened very atten-
tively, and made notes of it all.
^ Exactly," sjud be, when I ended
i>y saying that Mr.Wilmot had denied
all knowledge of De Yos and the ren-
dezvous in Swain's Lane. ^Jost
what I expected. Of course he
would."
^'What! Do you think he did know,
and that it was Wilmoti's voice I
heard?"
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unco$meied; oTj Old Thomd&^t Msirs.
613
''I think noduDg, sir/' said be, wkh
a curious smile ; *' but I guess a good
deaL We bave a terriblj-tax^led
skein to unravel ; but I think in fol*
lowing up this man we have got the
right end of it. I must now tell jou
how I stumbled upon him to-day. I
heard from inspector Keene that he
was engaged by Mr. Merrivale to see
into this muider of old Mr. Thomeley ;
and knowing how partial I was to Mr.
Atherton — good reason too — he asked
me if rd like to help him, and if so^
he'd speak about me to Sir Richard
Majne. I said I would, above all
things, for I'd had a hand in taking
hlmi though I believed he was innocent;
and now Td give much to help him
back to his tibertj again. To cut
short with the story, it was settled I
should hang about the house to-day
during the inquest in disguise, to pick
up any stray information that might
be let drop ; for there's a deal more
known, sir, about rich folks and their
households by such people as those
who were crowded round the house to-
day than ever you'd think for ; and we
gather much of our most valuable in-
formation by mixing in these crowds
unknown, and listening to the casual
gossip that goes on in them. So I
made myself up into a decent old guy,
and took my way to Wimpole street.
Whilst waiting to cross Oxford street'
two men came up behind me, and I
heard a few words drop which made
me turn round to look at them. Sure
enough, one answered most perfectly
your description of this Mr. De Vos.
I thought to myself, ^Here's game
worth following;' and I did follow,
and heard them make an appointment
ibr to-night on this side the water.
Now, sir, do you see why I asked you
to meet me ?'
^ I do. We must be present at the
meeting."
^' Just so, sir ; and we have no time to
lose, for the hour mentioned was soon
after ten o'clock. If you'll take no-
thing else we will go. We must go
made up; and you'll trust entirely to
me."
^ You mean disguised P*
'• I do, sir; if you'll come up-stairs,
ni give you what is necessary."
Up-stairs we went, and Jones pro-
duct from a chest of drawers a rough
common seaman's jacket, a pair of
duck trowsers, a woollen comforter, a
tarpaulin hat, and a false black beard,
in which he rigged me out ; and then
proceeded to make similar change in
his own attire, with the exception of a
wig of shaggy red hair and a pair of
whiskers to mateh.
"Leave your watch, sir, and any
little articles of jewelry you may have
about you, in my wife's charge ; keep
your hat well slouched gver your face
and your hands in your pockets, give
a swing and swagger to your walk, and
you'll do,"
"Why, where upon earth are we
going, Jones?"
" To Blue-Anchor Lane, sir, if you
know where that very fashionable
quarter lies."
I did not know exactly where
it was, saying from police-reports,
which named it as one of the
lowest parts of that low district lying
between Bermondsey and Botherhithe.
I had been somewhere near it once,
having occasion to call on one of the
clergy belonging to the Catholic Church
in barker's Bow ; but that was quite
an aristocratic part, for a wonder, com-
pared Mrith Blue-Anchor Lane. Yes,
Parker's Bow I had yisited; and,
thanks to my having grown and
" gentlefolked" to the height of six
feet odd, I had managed to pull the
bell and get admitted to the convent
behind the church, where dwell the
good Sisters of Mercy, walled-in all
tight and trim. But down Blue- An-
dior Lane I had never penetrated;
and I asked Jones if it were not con-
sidered a favorite haunt for charac-
ters of the worst description.
"It is so, sir; and we must be
careful and cautious to-night in all we
do." I noticed that he put his staff
and alarum in his pocket, and fur-
nished me with sinular implements.
" In case of necessity, sir," he said.
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
ei4
UnconvieUdi ovy Old Thomdej^s Heirs.
laughing, ^you must act as special
constable with me. I wouldn't take
you into the smallest danger; but,
you see, I don't know but what your
pfesence is of absolute necessity, and
that you may be able to gather a due
in this case quicker than I should.
Not that I yield in quickness at twig-
ging most things to any man," said
Detective Jones, with a bit of profra-
sional pride quite pardonable; ^but
you must identify the man for certain
yourself, sir, before I can act in the
matter with anything like satisfac-
tion."
It was just upon ten o'clock when
we left King street, and proceeded to
London Bridge; whence we took
the train to Spa Boad. It takes, as
every one knows, but a few minutes
in the transit ; and leaving that dark,
dismal, break-neck hole of a station,
we turned to the left up Spa Bead,
down Jamaica Bow, and so into Blue-
Anchor Lane. It is needless to de-
scribe what that place is at night;
it is needless to picture in words all
the degrading vice that walks forth
unmasked in some of the streets of
this capital, which ranks so high
amidst the great cities o the world.
Is our exterior morality to be so far
behind, so infinitely below, that of
tribes and nations on whom we stoop
to trample ? Can such things be, and
we not waken from our lethargic sleep,
remembering what our account will
one day be ? Can our rulers so calm-
ly eat and drink, take their pleasure,
hunt their game, pursue their gentle-
manlike sports, knowing, as assuredly
they do too well, that thousands of
their people are living lives more de-
graded, more brutal, more shamelessly
inhuman, more fuU of sin, ignorance,
and every kind of squalor and misery,
than the wildest savages we have set
our soldiers to hunt out of the lands in
which God placed them ?
^ What can the man be doing in
such a place as this ?" I whispered to
Jones, as he stopped before the door of
a small low-looking house of entertain-
ment, half ooffee^hop and half public*
house, that rejoiced in the name of
« Noah's Ark."
« That's just what we've got to find
out, sir. Somehow it strikes me he's
better acquainted with such haunts as
these than yon and I are with Beg^it
street or Piccadilly. If I haven't
seen his face before, and that not ten
yards from the Old Bailey, I'm blest if
I was ever more mistaken in my life.
But hush ! here he is."
And swag^ring along, with his hat
stuck on one side, and murmuring a
verse of " Bory O'Moore," came Mr.
de Vos, my sister Elinor's " treasure-
trove," evidently somewhat airy in the
upper regions, and elated by good
cheer. Jones had taken out a short
clay pipe, and whilst seemingly intent
on filling ill saw he was watching De
Vos with a keen observant glance.
The latter gentleman was far from
being intoxicated ; he was merely
what is called ** elevated," and quite
wide awake enough to be wary of
anjTthing going on around him. I
saw him start perceptibly as his eye
fell upon me, though my slouched hat
and high collar must have gone a good
way toward concealing my features,
^ Fine night, mate," said Jones in a
bluff, loud voice, lighting and pulling
vigorously at his pipe.
" Deed and it is so," answered De
■^os, halting just opposite to us, and
once more turning his scrutiny upon
me. " Are you game for a dhrop of
whiskey P' addressing himself espe*
cially to me.
I was about to answer in feigned
tones, when Jones took the word out
of my mouth, and replied : " No use
asking him — ^he's too love-sick just
now to care for drink; he's parted
with his sweetheart, and is off for the
West-Indies by five in the morning
from the Docks."
Something now seemed to attract
De Vos's attention to Jones, for he be-
came suddenly veiy grave.
"I've not seen you here before,"
said he, peering into the detective's
&ce.
" May be you have, may be you
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or, Old Thomele^s Heirs.
615
haven't I don't need to ask any
man's leave to drink a pint at
^ Noah's Ark,' and watch a game of
skittles.'*
This, as Jones told me afterward,
was quite a random shot ; however, it
took effect
** I believe you," said De Vos with
all the boastfulness of his nature.
" You'll not see a betther bowler
through the country entirely than
meselK Til back the odds agaiust
any man this side the Channel, and
bedad to it I dare say now it's here
on Monday last you were to see me
playr
**Ay, ay, mate," sang out J<me8;
** right enough."
'^Ah! thin it was small shiners I
went in for then ; but Fll lay a couple
of fivers now against a brad, and play
you fair to-morrow against any of them
in there," with a back-handed wave to
the bouse, whence unmistakable soiinds .
of noisy mirth were proceeding. " Is
it done P'
Til consider your offer— shiver
my timbers but I willl" said Jones,
with a burst of Jack-tar-ism — ^**and
let you know in the morning."
"Just as you please ; you pays your
money and yoa takes your choice;"
and nodding to Jones, who responded
to the salute in approved style, De
Yos passed into the tap-room of the
"Ark."
**Is it he?" hurriedly whispered
Jones when he was out of hearing.
Yes, without doubt," answered I,
in the same tones.
** Then follow me, sir ; and keep
sflent unless I speak to you ;" and we
likewise entered through the swing-
doors of the gayly-lighted bar.
A glance sufficed to show us that
the man we sought was not there ; but
Jones was fiur from being disconcerted ;
indeed he seemed most thoroughly up
to the mark in the task before him,
and threw himself into the part he had
assigned himself with all the genius
and facility of a BiUington or Toole.
Three or four men with physiognomies
that would not have disgraced the
hangman's rope were drinking, smok-
ing, and exchanging low hcLdinage with
a fiashy-looking young woman, who
stood behind the bar-counter. Wqafon,
did I say ? Angels pity her ! There
was little of womanly natote left in
the fierce glitter of her eyes, in the
hard lines of premature age which dis-
sipation and sin and woe had lefk canr-
ed upon her forehead and around her
mouth. Little enough of this though,
no doubt, thought Detective Jones, in-
tent upon his own purposes, as he
quickly made up to her, and asked
with tdl the swaggering audacity of a
*' jolly tar," for two stiff glasses of the
primest pine-apple rum-and-water.
Jones extracted a long clay pipe
from the lot standing before us in a
broken glass, and passed it to me, and
handed his pouch of tobacco, with an
expressive glance that told me I was
to smoke. Whilst filling the pipe and
lighting it, the woman returned with
the rum-and-water, which she placed
ungraciously before us with a bang
and clatter that caused the liquid to
spill out of the glasses.
^ Look here, miss," said Jones in
his most insinuating tones ; ^ Fll for-
give you for upsetting the grog, and
give you five bob to buy a blue rib-
bon for your pretty hair, if you'll
manage to get me and my mate a snug
comer inside there," pomting to a door
on the left, whence issued voices ; " for
weVe a bit of money business to settle
to-night, and he's off first thing in the
morning for the Indies."
The woman seemed to hesitate for
a moment, and then holding out her
hand for the promised tip, she beck-
oned us to pass inside the bar, and led
the way to the door. Before she
opened it she said in a low voice:
^ I am doing as much as my place
IS worth; but I want the money;
take the table in the comer at the top
here ; keep yourselves quiet, and don't
take no notice of nobody, least of all
of him wholl be next you."
8he now opened the door, and I
saw Jones slip some more money into
her hand, which she received with a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
616
Unconvicted; or, Old ThomtUift Heirt.
short grant and a nod, and then clos-
ed the door upon us.
The room was divided like that of an
ordi|iary coffee-shop into box compart-
ments ; the one in the right-hand cor-
ner bj the door was emptj, and we
entered it, canying our glasses and
pipes with us. We seated ourselves
at the end of the two benches oppo-
site each other, and then glanced
round. In the box vi&'d'^s Vere
two rough-looking fellows, whom I
took to be real foUowers of our pre-
tended calling — ^the sea. They re-
turned our gaze suspiciously enough,
and we could hear one whisper to Sie
other, ** Who's them coves ?' and the
answer ^Dunno; none of us" But
the next moment mj attention was
diverted to the voices in the box next
to ours.
"Did you see Atfrf* It was De
Voe who spoke, I felt sure.
" Not I, my God I not I," answered
a deep hoarse voice. " It's ten years
since she and I met, and Td go to my
grave sooner than we should meet
again. Mind you, the day when her
cold cruel eyes rest on me will be a
fatal day for me. Faugh I Tve pass-
ed through as much bloodshed as it's
ever given one man to encounter in
his life, and never flinched ; but I tell
you, Sullivan, the thought of meeting
her face to face seems to freeze the
life-blood of my heart."
" Do you think she had a hand in
this, 0*Brian ?"
«Who can tell? She did not
pause once; what should stop her
again P'
"The fear of you."
" She sees no reason to fear. She
believes Fm still over there^ where she
Sent me."
"And the young fellow, niy man,
does he know anything?"
"Again how can I tell? But I
should say not How could she en-
lighten him f'
" Then he is— "
« Their son."
A pause succeeded. Meanwhile
Jones had engaged in a sort of dumb-
show with me to throw the men op-
posite off the scent, by passing papers
and money backwards and forwards,
and apparently makmg calculadons
with his pencil ; in reality I saw he
was taking notes. Presently De Yos
spoke again.
" Well, let's drink to the heir, old
boy ; and so long as I can make him
play the piper, why thui it's myself
that will, and bedad to him."
His Irishisms, be it observed, were
intermittent.
" Long life to the heir I" cried the
two voices simultaneously ; and there
was a clash of glasses.
" What's the time of day by your
ticker P' asked De Yos a few moments
afterward.
" Just upon eleven. The lad was
to be here by then, wasn't he ?"
" Yes, by eleven. I'd like to know
what he wants with me now."
Jones here took up his cap, buttoned
his coat, quietly opened the door, and
went out ; I following him, of course.
He threw a good-humored nod to the
woman, who still stood behind the
bar, and I did the same ; but he nev-
er spoke until we were some yards
from "Noah's ark."
"You may be thankful, sir," he
then said in a low voice, " to have got
out safely and unmolested. That's
the worst haunt of some of the worst
characters in London; and they're
banded together so as to shut out every
one as don't belong to them. There's
been a Providence, sir, in it all,"
raising his cap, "depend upon it.
Now we must see if we can stop this
lad whom they are expecting. We'll
talk the matter over afterwaid.
Just then a boy came up running
at full speed.
"Haltr* cried Jones, layinghis
hand on the lad's shoulder. "What
makes you so late ?'
<*WhafB the odds to you? Iiet
me go," replied the boy, with a mix-
ture of impudence and cunning in his
face. " Tm not not bound for you."*
" You're bound for < Noah's Aik,'
though,"
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Martyr. 617
" Are 700 Mr* Snlliiraii^ where a poUbeman was standing at
^ Of course I am." the comer. Jones took him aside for
^ Oh 1 then here's the letter, and a minute, and then rejoined me.
you're to see if it's all right" <« We'll hail the first cab, sir, in
^AIl right," said Detective Jones, Spa Road, and drive to your home,
opening the note and glancing at its if yon^ve no objection."
contents; ^tell the gentleman I'll be This we did; and as soon as we
there. Here's for yon, young Cod- had started he took a small candle-
lings," dropping a half-crown into the lantern from his pocket, lit it^ and then
boy's hand* handed me the note to read which he
** Five shillings, and not a stiver had taken from the boy. It contained
less, is my fare." but few words ; no names used, no
^ Here you are then, you small imp address, no signature, and simply de-
of iniquity ;" and another coin of sim- sired the person addressed to meet the
ilar value found Its way into the rag- writer the following day at the usual
amuffin's pocket place and hour What clue was there
He cut a caper, turned head over in that to the dark mystery we were
heels, and was gone. bent on solving? Only this, and I
And now Jones tore on breathless- put it into words :
ly dU we were safe out of Blae-Anchor ^ Great heavens ! it is Uster Wil-
Lane and had reached Paradise Bow, mofs handwritingP
TO n oomtvBK
[oBtanrii.]
THE MABTTH.
Sebene above the world he stands,
Uplift to heaven on wings of prayer :
Across his breast his folded hands
Recall the cross he loved to bear.
Upon his upturned brow the light
Flows like the smile of God : he sees
A flash of wings that daze his sight,
He hears seraphic melodies.
In vain the cniel crowd may roar.
In vain the cruel flames may hiss :
Like seas that lash a distant shore,
They faintly pierce his sphering bliss.
He hears them, and he does not hear^
His fleshly bonds are loosened all —
No earthly sound can claim the ear
That listens for his Father's calL
It comes — and swift the spirit spurns ,
I£fl quivering lips and soars away ;
The blind crowd roars, thebilnd fire bums.
While God receives their fancied prey.
D. A. a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
<18
Boe9 Homo.
Brom na If onth.
ECCE HOMO.*
[The London Readet says the follow-
ing article is from thepen of the Yeiy
Rev. Dr. Newman. — Ed. C. W.]
The word " remarkable^ has been
BO hacked of late in theological eriti-
cism-^nearlj as much so as <' earnest^
and '< thoughtfur— that we do not like
to make use of It on the present occi^
aion without an apology. In truth, it
presents itaelf as a yerj oonyenient
epithet, whenever we do not like to
commit ourselves to anj definite judg-
ment on a subject before us, and pre-
fer to spread over it a broad neutral
tint to painting it distinctly white, red,
or blade. A man, or his work, or his
deed, is ^ remarkable" when he pro-
duces an effect; be he effective for
good or for evil, for truth or for false-
hood — a point which, as far as that
expression goes, we leave it for others
or for the future to determine. Ac-
cordingly it is just the word to use
in the instance of a volume in which
what is trite and what is novel, what
is striking and what is startling, what
is sound and what is untrustworthy,
what is deep and what is shallow, are
so mixed up together, or at least so
vaguely suggested, or so perplexingly
confessed, which has so much of oc-
casional force, of circumambient glit^
ter, of pretence and of seriousness, as
to make it impossible either with a
good conscience to praise it, or with-
out harshness and unfairness to con-
demn. Such a book is at least likely
to be effective, whatever else it is or is
not ; and if it is effective, it may be
safely called remarkable v and there-
fore we apply the epithet ** remark-
able" to this ^ Ecce Homo.
• "KooeHttmoJ
«f Jet lu OhriBt
A Snrrej of the life and Work
186«.
It is remarkable, then^ on account
of the sensation which it has made in
religious circles. In the course of a
few months it has reached a third edi-
tion, though it is a fair-sized octavo and
not an over-cheap one. And it has
received the praise of critics and re-
viewers of very distinct shades of
opinion. Such a reception must be
owing either to the book itself or to
the circumstances of the day in whidi
it has appeared, or to both of these
causes together. Or, as seems to be
the case, the needs of the day have
become a call for ome such wori^;
and the work, on its appearance, has
been thankfully welcomed, on account
of its professed object, by those whose
needs called for it The anthor in-
cludes himself in the number of these ;
and, whOe providing for his own
wants, he hsA ministered to theirs.
This is what we especially mean by
calling his book '^ remarkable.*'
Disputants may maintain, if they
please, that religious doubt is our na-
tural, our normal state ; ihat to cher-
ish doubts is our duty that to com-
plain of them is impatience ; that to
dread them is cowardice ; that to
overcome them is inveracity ; that it
is even a happy state, a state of calm
philosophic enjoyment, to be conscious
of them — ^but after all, necessary or
not, such a state is not natural, and
not happy, if the voice of mankind is
to decide the question. English minds,
in particular, have too much of a reli-
gious temper in them, as a natural
gift, to acquiesce for any long time in
positive, active doubt. For doubt and
devotion are incompatible with each
other ; every doubt, be it greater or
less, stronger or weaker, involuntary
as well as voluntaiy, acts upon devo-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ucce Homo.
619
tion, 80 &r forth, as water sprinkled,
or dashed, or poured out upon a flame,
fieal and proper doubt kills faith, and
deyolion with it ; and even involun-
tary or half-deliberate doubt, though
it does not actually kill faith, goes rar
to kill devotion ; and religion without
devotion is little better than a bor-
den, and soon becomes a superstition*
Since, then, this is a day of objection
and of doubt about the hiteUectual
basis of revealed truth, it follows that
there is a great deal of secret discom-
fort and distress in the religions por-
tion of the community, the result of
that general curiosity in speculation
and inquiry which has been the growth
among us of the last twenty or thirty
years.
The people of this country, being
Protestants, appeal to Scripture, when
a religious question arises, as their ul-
timate informant and decisive author-
ity in allosuch matters ; but who is to
dedde for them the previous question,
that Scripture is really such an au-
thority ? When, then, as at this time,
its divine authority is the very point •
io be determined, that is, the character
and extent of its inspiration and its
component parts, then they find them-
selves at sea, without possessing any
power over the direction 'of their
course. Doubting about the author-
ity of Scripture, they doubt about its
substantial truth ; doubting about its
truth, they have doubts concerning the
objects which it sets before their faith,
about the historical accuracy and ob-
jective reality of the picture which it
presents to us of our Lord. We are
not speaking of wilful doubting but of
those painful misgivings, greater or
less, to which we have already alluded.
Religious Protestants, when they
think calmly on the subject, can
hardly concc^ from themselves that
they have a house without logical
foundations, which contrives indeed
for the present to stand, but which
may go any day — ^and where are they
then?
Of course Catholics will tell them
to receive the canon of Scripture on
the authority of the church, in the
spirit of St. Augustine's well-known
words: "I should not believe the
gospel, were I not moved by the au-
thority of the Catholic Church." But
who, they ask, is to be voucher in turn
for the church and St, Augustine?
is it not as difficult to prove the author-
ity of the church and her doctors as
the authority of the Scriptures ? We
Catholics answer, and with reason, in
the negative ; but, since they cannot
be brought to agree with us here, what
, argumentative ground is open to them ?
Thus they seem drifting, slowly per-
haps, but surely, in the direction of
scepticism.
It is under these circumstances that
they are invited, in the volume before
us, to betake themselves to the contem-
plation of our Lord's character, as it
is recorded by the evangelists, as car-
rying with it its own evidence, dispens-
ing with extrinsic proof, and claiming
authoritatively by itself the faith and
devotion of all to whom it is present-
ed. Such an argument, of course, is
as old as Christianity itself; the young
man in the Gospel calls our Loid
" Good Master," and St. Peter mtro-
duces him to the flrst Gentile converts
as one who ^ went about doing good ;"
and in these last times we can refer
to the testimony even of unbelievers
in behalf of an argument as simple as
it is constraining. ^ Si la vie et la
mort de Socrate sent d'un sage," says
Bousseau, ^ la vie et la mort de Jesus
sent d'un Dieu." And he clenches
the argument by observing, that, were
the picture a mere conception of the
sacred writers, '< Ilnventeur en serait
plus ^tonnant que le h6ros." Its es-
pecial force lies in its directness; it
comes to the point at once, and con-
centrates in itself evidence, doctrine,
and devotion. In theological lan-
guage, it is the motivum credibilitatisy
tiie ohfectum materiale and the farmaley
all in one ; it unites human reason
and supernatural faith in one complex
act; and it comes home to all men,
educated and ignorant, young and old.
And it is the point to whlcl^ af^er all
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and in fact, all religioas minds tend,
and in which thej ultimatelj rest,
even if they do not start from it.
Without an intimate apprehension of
the personal character of our Saviour,
what professes to he faith is little
more than an act of ratiocination. If
iaith is to live, it must love ; it must
lovingly live in the author of faith as
a true ^d living heing, in Deo vivo et
veto; according to the saying of the
Samaritans to their towns-woman:
" We now helieve, not for thy saying,
for we ourselves have heard hinu"
Many doctrines may be held implicit-
ly ; but to see him as if intuitively is
the very promise and gift of him who
is the object of the intuition. We are
constrained to believe when it is he
that speaks to us about himself.
Such undeniably iff the characteristic
of divine faith viewed in itself; but
here we are concerned, not simply
with faith, but with its logical antece-
dents; and the question returns on
which we have already touched, as a
difficulty with Protestants — ^how can
our Lord's life, as recorded in the
Gospels, be a logical ground of faith,
unless we set out with assuming the
truth of those Gospels ; that is, with-
out assuming as proved the original
matter of doubt? And Protestant
apologists. It may be urged — ^Paley
for instance — ^show their sense of this
difficulty when they place the argu-
ment drawn from our Lord's charac-
ter only among the auxiliary eviden*
ces of Christianity. Now the follow-
ing answer may fairly be made to
this objection ; nor need we grudge
Protestants the use of it, for, as wUl
appear in the sequel, it proves too
much for their purpose, as being an
argument for the divinity not only of
Christ's mission, but of that of his
church also. However, we say this
by the way.
It may be maintained then, that,
making as large an allowance as the
most sceptical mind, when pressed to
state its demands in full, would desire,
we are at least safe in asserting that
the books of the New Testament, tak-
en as a whole, existed about the mid-^
die of the second century, and were
then received by Christians, or were
in the way of being received, and
nothing else but them was received, as
the autiioritative record of the origin
and rise of theirreligion. In that &%t
age they were the only account of the
mode in whidi Christianity was intro-
duced to the world. Internal as well
as external evidence sanctions us in
so speaking. Four Grospels, the book
of the acts of the Apostles, various
Apostolic writings, made up then, as
now, our sacred books. Whether
there was a book more or less, say
even an important book, does not af-
fect the general character of the reli-
gion as those books set it forth. Omit
one or other of the Gospels, and three
or four Epistles, and the outline and
nature of its objects and its teaching
remain what they were before the
onussion. The moral peculiarities, m
particular, of its Founder are, on the
whole, identical, whether we learn
them from St Matthew, St John, St
Peter, or St PauL He is not in one
book a Socrates, in another aZeno,
and in a third an Epicurus. Much
less is the religion changed or obscur-
ed by the loss of particular chapters or
verses, or even by inaccuracy in fact,
or by error in opinion, (supposing /»er
impossible such a charge could be
made good,) in particnlu' portions of
a book. For argument's sake^ sup-
pose that tiie three first Gospels are
an accidental collection of traditions
or legends, for which no one is re^
sponsible, and in which Christians put
faith because there was nothing else
to put faith in. Tliis is the limit to
which extreme scepticism can pro-
ceed, and we are willing to commence
our argument by granting it Still,
starting at this disadvantage, we
should be prepared to argue, that if, m
spite of this, and afler all, there be
shadowed out in these anonymous and
fortuitous documents a teacher sui
generis, distinct, consistent, and origi-
nal, th^n does that picture, thus acci-
dentally resulting, for the very reason
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621
of its accidental GOxx^MiBition, onlj be-
come more marvellouB ; then he is an
historical fact and again a supernatu-
ral or divine fact — historical from
the consistency of the representation,
and because the time cannot be as-
signed when it was not received as
a reality; and supernatural, in pro*
portion as the qualities, with which
he is invested in those writings, are
incompatible with what it is reasona-
ble or possible to ascribe to human
nature viewed simply in itself. Let
these writings be as open to critidsm,
whether as to their origin or their
text, as sceptics can maintain ; never-
theless the representation in question
is there, and forces upon the mind a
conviction that it records a fact, and
a superhuman fact, just as the reflec-
tion of an object in a stream remains
in its definite form, however rapid the
current, and however many the rip-
ples, and is a sure warrant to us of
the presence of the object on the
bank, though that object be out of
sight.
Such, we conceive, though stated in
our own words, is the argument drawn
out in the pages before us, or rather
such is the ground on which the argu-
ment is raised ; and the interest which
it has excited lies, not in its novelty,
but in the particular mode in which it
is brought before the reader, in the
originality and preciseness of certain
strokes by which is traced out for us
the outline of the divine teacher.
These strokes are not always correct ;
they are sometimes gratuitous, some-
times derogatory to &eir object ; but
they are always determinate; and,
being such, they present an old argu-
ment before us with a certain fresh-
ness, which, because it is old, . is ne-
cessary for its being effective.
We do not wonder at all, then, at
the sensation which the volume 43 said
to have caused at Oxford, and among
the Anglicans of the Oxford school,
after \hQ wearisome doubt and disquiet
of the last ten years ; for it has opened
the prospect of a successful issue of
inquiries in aa all-important province
of thought, where there seemed to be
no thoroughfare. Dbtinct as are the
liberal and catholicising parties in the
Anglican Church, both in their prin-
ciples and their policy, it must not be
supposed that they are as distinct in
the members that compose them. No
line of demarcation can be drawn be-
tween the one collection of men and
the other, in fact ; for no two minds
are altogether alike, and, individually,
Anglicans have each his own shade
of opinion, and bel(Nig partly to this
school, partly to that Or, rather,
there is a large body of men who are
neither the one nor the other ; they
cannot be called an intermediate party,
for they have no discriminating watch-
words; they range from those who
are ahnost CathoUc to those who are
almost liberals. They are not lib-
erals, because they do not gloiy in a
state of doubt ; they cannot profess to
be ^ Anglo-Catholics," because they
are not propared to give an eternal
assent to all that is put forth by the
church as truth of revelation. These
are the men who, if they could, would
unite old ideas with new ; who can-
not give up tradition, yet aro loth to
shut the door to progress ; who look
for a more exact adjustment of faith
with reason than has hitherto been at-
tained ; who love the conclusions of
Catholic theology better than the
proofs, and the methods of modem
thought better than its results; and
who, in the present wide unsettlement
of religious opinion, believe indeed,
or wish to believe, scripture and or-
thodox doctrine, taken as a whole,
and cannot get themselves to avow
any deliberate dissent from any part
of either, but still, not knowing how
to defend their belief with logical ex-
actness, or at least feeling that thero
are large unsatisfied objections lying
against parts of it, or having misgiv-
ings lest thero should be such, ac-
quiesce in what is called a practical
belief, that is, believe in revealed
truths, only because belief in them is
the safest course, because they aro
probable, and because belief in oonse-
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622
Eece JTomo.
quence is a dnty, not as if they felt
absolutely certain, though tbey will
not allow themselves to be actually in
doubt. Such is abont the description
to be given of them as a class, though,
as we have said, they so materially
differ from each other, that no general
account of them can be applied strictly
to any individual in their body.
Now^ it is to (his large class which
we have been describing that such
a work as that before us, in spite of
the serious errors which they will not
be slow to recognize in it, comes as a
friend in need. They do not stumble
at the author's inconsistencies or
shortcomings ; they are arrested by
his professed purpose, and are pro-
foundly moved by his successful hits
(as they may be called) toward fulfill-
ing iL Eemarks on the gospel his-
tory, such as Paley's they feel to be
casual and superficial ; such as Rojis-
seau's, to be vague and declamatory :
they wish to justify with their intellect
all that they believe with their heart;
they cannot separate their ideas of re-
ligion from its revealed object ; but
they have an aching dissatisfaction
within them, that they apprehend him
so dimly, when they would fain (as it
were) see and touch him as well as
hear. When, then, they have logical
grounds presented to tliem for holding
that the recorded picture of our Lord
is its own evidence, that it carries
with it its own reality and authority,
that his " revelatio" is " revelata** in
the very act of being a "revelatio,*' it
is as if he himself said to them, as
he once said to his disciples, " It is
I, be not afraid f* and the clouds at
once clear off, and the waters subside,
and the land is gained for which they
are looking out.
The author before us, then, has the
merit of promising what, if he could
fulfil it, would entitle Lim to the gra-
titude of thousands. We do not say,
we are very far from thinking, that he
has actually accomplished so high an
enterprise, though he seems to be am-
bitious enough to hope that he has not
come far short of it. He somewhere
calls his book a treatise; he would
have done better to call it an essay ;
nor need he have been ashamed of a
word which Locke has used in his
work on the Human Understanding.
Before concluding, we shall take oo-
casloQ to express our serious sense,
how very much his execution falls be*
low his purpose ; but certainly it is a
great purpose which he sets before
him, and for that he is to be praised*
And there is at least this singular
merit in his performance, as he haa
given it to the public, that he is clear-
sighted and fair enough to view our
Lord's work in its true light, as in-
cluding in it the establishment of a
visible kingdom or church. In pro-
portion, then, ad we shall presently
find it our duty to pass some sevexe
remarks upon his volume, as it comes
before us, so do we feel bound, before
doing so, to give some specimens of it
in that point of view in which we con-
sider it really to subserve the cause
of revealed truth. And in the sketch
which we are now about to give of
the first steps of his investigation, we
must not be understood to make him
responsible for the language in which
we shall exhibit them to our readers,
and which will unavoidably involve
our own corrections of his ailment,
and our own coloring.
Among a people, then, accustomed
by the most sacred traditions of their
religion to a belief in the appearance,
from time to time, of divine messen-
gers for their instruction and reforma-
tion, and to the expectation of one
such messenger to come, the last and
greatest of all, who should also be
their king and deliverer as well as their
teacher, suddenly is found, after along
break in the succession and a period
of national degradation, a prophet of
the old stamp, in one of the deserts of
the cottntry---John,the sonof Zachary.
He announces the promised kingdom
as close at hand, calls his countrymen
to repentance, and institutes a rite
symbolical of it The people seem
disposed to take him for the destined
Saviour; bat he points out to them a
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Ecce Homo*
6128
priyate person in the crowd which is
locking about him; and henceforth
the interest which his own preaching
has excited centres in that other. Thus
our Lord is introduced to the notice of
his countrymen.
Thus brought before the world, he
opens his mission. What is the first
impression it makes upon us? Ad-
miration of its singular simplidtj both
as to object and work. Such of course
ought to be its character, if it was to
be the fulfilment of the ancient, long-
expected promise ; and such it was, as
our Lord proclaimed it Other men,
who do a work, do not set about it as
theur object ; they make several fail-
ures ; they are led on to it by circum-
stances ; they miscalculate tibeir pow-
ers ; or they are drifted from the first
in a direction difierentfrom that which
they had chosen ; they do most where
they are expected to do least. But
our Lord said and did. ^ He formed
one plan and executed it," (p. 18).
Next) what was that plan ? Let us
consider the force of the words in
which, as the Baptist before him, he
introduced his ministry ; " The king-
dom of God is at hand.** What was
meant by the kingdom of Grod ? "The
conception was no new one, but fami-
liar to every Jew,** (p. 19.) At the
first formation of the nation and state
of the Israelites the Almighty had
been their king ; when a line of earth-
ly kings was introduced, then God
spoke by the prophets. The existence
of the theocracy was the very consti-
tution and boast of Israel, as limited
monarchy, liberty, and equality are
the boast respectively of certain mo-
dem nations. Moreover, the gospel
proclamation ran, '^ Poenitentiam agite ;
for the kingdom of heaven is at band ;'*
here again was another and recognized
token of a theophany j for the mis-
sion of a prophet, as we have said
above, was commonly a call to refor-
mation and expiation of sin. A di-
vine mission, then, such as our Lord's,
was a falling back upon the original
covenant between God and his peo-
ple ; but next| while it was an event
of old and familiar occurrence, it ever
had carried with it in its past instances
something new, in connection with the
circumstances under which it took
place. The propliets were accustomed
to give interpretations, or to introduce
modifications of the letter of the law,
to add to its conditions and to enlarge
its application. It was to be expected,
then, that now, when the new prophet,
to whom the Baptist pointed, opened
his commission, he too, in like manner,
would be found to be engaged in a
restoration, but in a restoration which
should also be a religious advance ; and
that the more if he really was the
special, final prophet of the theocra-
cy, to whom all former prophets had*
looked forward, and in whom their
long and august line was to be sum-
med up and perfected. In proportion
as his work was to be more signal, so
would his new revelations be wider
and more wonderfuL
Did our Lord "fulfil these expecta-
tions ? Yes, there was this peculiar-
ity in his mission, that he came not
only as one of the prophets in the
kingdom of God, but as the king him-
self of that kingdom. Thus his mis-
sion involves the most exact return to
the original polity of Israel, which the
appointment of Saul had disarranged,
wUle it recognizes also the line of
prophets, and infuses a new spirit into
the law. Throughout his ministry our
Lord claimed and received the title of
king, which no prophet ever had done
before. On his birth, the wise men
came to worship " the king of the
Jews f " thou art the Son of Grod,
thou art the king of Israel,'* cried
Nathanael ailer his baptism ; and on
his cross the charge recorded against
him was that he professed to be " king
of the Jews.'* •* During his whole
public life," says the author, " he is
distinguished from the other promi-
nent characters of Jewish history by
his unbounded personal pretensions.
He calls himself habitually kmg and
master. He claims expressly the
character of that divine Messiah for
which the ancient prophets had di-
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624
£oce Homo*
reeled the nation to look," (page
He IS, then, a King, as well as a
Prophet ; but is he as one of the old
heroic kings, David or Solomon ? Had
such been his pretension, he had not,
in his own words, '^discerned the signs
of the times." It would have been a
false step in him, into which other
would-be champions of Israel, before
and after him, actuallj fell, and in con-
sequence failed. But here this young
Prophet is from the first distinct, de-
cided, and original. His contempora-
ries, indeed, the wisest, the most expe-
rienced, were wedded to the notion
of a revival of the barbaric kingdom.
"Theu" heads were full of the languid
dreams of commentators, the impracta-
cable pedantries of men who live in
the past,*' (p. 27.) But he gave to the
old prohetic promises an interpreta-
tion which they could undeniably
bear, but which they did not immedi-
ately suggest ; which we can maintain
to be true, while we can deny them
to be imperative. He had his own
prompt, definite conception of the re-
stored theocracy ; it was his own, and
not another's; it was suited to the
new age ; it was triumphantly car-
ried out in the event.
In what, then, did he consider his
royalty to consist ? First, what was
it not ? • It did not consist in the or-
dinary functions of royalty ; it did not
prevent his py ment of tribute to Cae-
sar ; it did not make him a judge in
questions of criminal or of civil law,
in a question of adulteiy, or in the
adjudication of an inheritance; nor
did it give him the command of ar-
mies. Then perhaps, after all, it was
but a figurative royalty, as when the
Eridanus is called "fluviorum rex,"
or Aristotle "the prince of philoso-
phers." No ; it was not a figurative
royalty either. To call one's self a
king, without being one, is playing
with edged tools — as in the story of
the inndkeeper's son, who was put to
death for calling himself " heir to the
crown." Christ certainly knew what
he was saying. « He had provoked
the accusation of rebellion against the
Roman government: he must have
known that the language he used
would be interpreted so. Was there
then nothing substantial in the royalty
he claimed? Did he die for a meta-
phor ?" ^p. 28.) He meant what he
said, and therefore his kingdom was
litersd and real ; it was visible ;
but what were its visible preroga-
tives, if they were not those in which
earthly royalty commonly consists?
In truth he passed by the lesser pow-
ers of royalty, to claim the higher.
He claimed certain divine and tran-
scendent functions of the original the-
ocracy, which had been in abeyance
since that theocracy had been in-
fringed, which even to David had not
been delegated, which had never been
exercised except by the Almighty.
Grod had created, first the people,
next the state, which he deigned to
govern. "The origin of other na-
tions is lost in antiquity," (p. 33 ; ) but
"this people," runs the sacred word,
"have I formed for mysel£" And
"He who first called the nation did
|br it the second work of a king : he
gave it a law," (p. 34) Now it is
very striking to observe that these two
incommunicable attributes of divine
royalty, as exemplified in the history
of the Israelites, are the very two
which our Lord assumed. He was
the maker and the lawgiver of his
subjects. He said in the commence-
ment of his ministry, ^ Follow me;"
and he added, " and I will make you"
— ^you in turn — ^'^ fishers of men."
And the next we read pf him is, that
his disciples came to him on the
Mount, and he opened his mouth and
taught them. And so again, at the
end of it, " Gro ye, make disciples of
all nations, teaching them." "Thus
the very words for wWch the [Jewish]
nation chiefiy hymned their Jehovah,
he undertook in his name to do. He
undertook to be the father of an ever-
lasting state, and the legislator of a
world-wide society," (p. 36 ;) that is,
showing himself, according to the pro-
phetic announcement^ to be " Admro'
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625
bUU^ etmtSiariuif pater fuiuri 9CKuti^
prineepB pads*'
To these two claims he adds a thii-d :
first, he chooses the subjects of his
kingdom ; next, he gives them a law ;
bat thirdly, he judges them — judges
them in a far truer and fuller sense
than in the old kingdom even the Al-
mighty judged his people. The God
of Israel ordained national rewards and
punishments for national obedience or
transgression ; he did not judge his
subjects one by one; but our Lord
takes upon himself the supreme and
final judgment of every one of his sub-
jects, not to speak of the whole human
race (though, from the nature of the
case, this function cannot belong to his
visible kingdom.) " He considered,
in short, heaven and hell to be in his
hand," (p, 40.)
We shall mention one further func-
tion of the new King and his new
kmgdom : its benefits are even bound
up with the maintenance of this law
of political unity. ^ To organize a
Bodety, and to hind the members of it
together by the closest ties, were the
business of his life. For this reason
it was that he called men away from
their home, imposed upon some a
wandering life, upon others the sacri-
fice of their property, and endeavored
by all means to divorce them from
their former connections, in order that
they might find a new home in the
church. For this reason he instituted
a solemn initiation, and for this reason
he refused absolutely to any one a dis-
pensation from it For this reason,
too • • • he established a common
feast, which was through all ages to
remind Christians of their indissoluble
union," (p. 92.) ^ But eui bono is a
visible kingdom, when the great end
of our Lord's ministry is moral ad-
vancement and preparation for a future
state ? It is easy to understand, for
instance, how a sermon may benefit,
or personal example, or religioos
friends, or household piety. We can
learn to imitate a saint or a martyr,
we can cherish a lesson, we can study
a treatise, we can obey a rule ; but
VOL. IIL 40
what is the definite advantage to a
preadier or a moralist of an external
organization, of a visible kingdom?
Yet Christ says, ^ Seek ye jir$t the
kingdom of God," as well as ''his
justice." Socrates wished to improve
men, but he laid no stress on their
acting in concert in order to secure
that improvement; on the contrary,
the Chnstian law is political, as cer-
tainly as it is moral Why is this ?
It arises out of the intimate relation
between him and his subjects, which,
in bringing them all to him as their
common Father, necessarily brings
them to each other. Our 'Lord says,
** Where two or three are gathered
together in my name, I am in the
midst of them." Fellowship between
his followers is made a distinct object
and duty, because it is a means, ac*
cording to the provisions of his system,
by which in some special way they
are brought near to him. This is de-
clared, stiU more strikingly than in
the text we have just quoted, in the
parable of the vine and its branches,
and in that (if it is to be called a par-
able) of the Bread of Life. The Al-
mighty King of Israel was ever, in-
deed, invisibly present in the glory
above the Ark, but he did not mani-
fest himself there or anywhere else
as a present cause of spiritual strength
to his people ; but the new king is not
only ever present, but to every one of
his subjects individually is he a first
element and perennial source of life.
He is not only the head of his king-
dom, but also its animating^ principle
and its centre of power. The author
whom we are reviewing does not quite
reach the great doctrine here suggest
ed, but he goes near it in the foUow-
ing passage: ^Some men have ap-
peared who have been as * levers to
uplift the earth and roll it in another
course." Homer by creating litera-
ture, Socrates by creating science,
Ccesar by carrying civilization inland
from the shores of the Meditenranean,
Newton by starting science upon a
career of steady progress, may be
said to have attained this eminence.
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Sec9 Bioitno*
Bat these men gave a single impact
like that which is conceived to have
first set the planets in motion. Christ
claims to he a perpetual attractive
power, like the sun, which determines
their orhit. Thej contrihuted to men
some discovery, and passed away ;
Chrisf s discovery is himself. To
humanity struggling with its passions
and its destiny he says, cling to me —
cling ever closer to me. If we believe
St. John, he represented himself as
the light of the world, as the shepherd
of the souls of men, as the way to
immortality^ as the vine or life-tree of
humanity,'^ (p. 177.) He ends this
beautiful passage, of which we have
already quoted as much as our limits
allow, by saying that ** He instructed
his followers to hope for life from feed-
ing on his body and blood.''
si sic omnia/ Is it not hard,
that, after following with pleasure a
train of Ihouglit so calculated to warm
all Christian hearts, and to create in
them both admiration and sympathy for
the writer, we must end our notice of
him in a different tone, and express
as much dissent from him and as
serious blame of him as we have
hitherto been showing satisfaction with
his object, his intention, and the gene-
ral outline of his argument ? But so
it is. In what remains to be said we
are obliged to speak of his work in
terms so sharp that tbey may seem to
be out of keeping with what has gone
before. Witli whatever abruptness in
our composition, we must suddenly
shift the scene, and manifest our dis-
approbation of portions of his book
as plainly as we have shown an in-
terest in it. We have praised it in
various points of view. It lias stirred
the hearts of many ; it has recognized
a need, and gone in the right direction
for supplying it. It serves as a token
and a hopeful token, of what is going
on in the minds of numbers of men
external to the church. It is substan-
tially a good book, and, we tiiist, w^ill
work for good. Especially, as we
have seen, is it interesting to the
Cath(^ as acknowledging the visible
church as our Lord's own creation, as
the direct fruit of his teaching, and
the destined instrument of his pur*
posep. We do not know how to speak
in an unfriendly tone of an author
who has done so much as this ; but at
the same time, when we come to
examine his argument in its details,
and study his chapters one by one, wo
find, in spite of, and mixed up with
what is true and original, and even
putting aside his patent theological
errors, so much bad logic, so much
of rash and gratuitous assumption, so
much of half-digested thought, that
we are obliged to conclude that it
would have been much wiser in him
if, instead of publishing what ho seems
to confess, or rather to proclaim, to bo
the jottings of his first researches upon
sacred territory, he had waited till he
had carefully traversed and surveyed
and mapped the whole of it. We now
proceed to give a few instances of the
faults of which we complain.
His opening remarks will serve in
illustration. In p. 41 he says, " Wc
have not rested upon sinjle passages,
nor drawn from the fourth gospel"
This, we suppose, must be his reason
for ignoring the passage in Luke ii. 49,
" Did you not know that I must be
about my father's business?' for ho
diitjctly contradicts it, by gratuitously
imagining that our Lord came for St.
John's baptism with the same intention
as the penitents around him ; and that,
in spite of his ov\^n words, which we
suppose are to be taken as another
•* single passage," " So it becometh us
to fulfil all justice," (Matt. iii. 15.) It
must be on tliis principle of ignoring
single passages such as these, even
though they admit of combination, that
he goes on to say of our Lord, that
^' in the agitation of mind caused by
his baptism, and by the Baptist's de-
signation of him as the future prophet,
he retired into the wUdemess," and
there " he matured the plan of action
which we see him executing from the
moment of his return into society,"
(p. 9 ;) and tliat not till then was he
<* conscious of miraculous powcr|"
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Eeee Ehmo.
es7
(p. 12.) This neglect of the sacred
text, we repeat most be allowed ban,
we suppose, under color of his acting
oat bis rale of abstaining ffom single
passages and from the foarth gospeL
Let us allow it ; bat at least he ought
to adduce passages, single or many,
for what be octaolij does assert. He
must not be allowed arbitrarily to add
to the history, as well as cautiously to
take from it. Where, then, we ask,
did he learn that our Lord's baptism
caused him ^ agitation of mind," that
he ^riiatured his plan of action in the
wilderness/' and that he then first was
** conscious of miraculous .power''?
But again : it seems he is not to refer
to "^ single passages or the fourth gos-
pel;** yet, wonderful to say, he ao-
tuaily does open bis formal discussion
.of the sacred history by referring to a
passage from that very gospel — nay,
to a particular text, whi<^ is only not
a '^single" text, because it is half
a text, and half a text, such that,
had he taken the whole of it, he
would have been obliged to admit
that the port which he puts aside
just runs counter to his interpreta-
tion of the part, which he insists
on. The words are these, as they
stand in the Protestant version : ^ Be-
hold the Lamb of God, which taketh
away the sin of the world." Now, it
is impossible to deny that ^ wliich
taketh away," etc, fixes and limits the
sense of " tlie Lamb of Ck)d ;" but our
author notices the latter half of the
sentence, only in order to put aside
the light it throws upon the former
half; and instead of the Baptist's own
interpretation of the title which he
gives to our Lord, he substitutes an-
other, radically different, which he se-
lects for himself out of one of the
psalms. He explains ^thelamb"by
the well-known image, which repre-
sents the Almighty as a shepherd and
his earthly servants as sheep— inno-
cent, safe, and happy under his pro-
tection. ^The Baptist's opinion of
Christ's diaracter, then," he says, " is
summed up for us in the title he gives
him— the Lamb of God, taking away
the sins of the world. There 9mm$
to be, in the last part of this descrip-
tion, an allusion to the usages of the
Jewish sacrificial system ; and, in or-
der to expkun it fully, it would be ne-
cessary to anticipate much which will
come more conveniently later in this
treatise. JSu^whenwe remember that
the Baptist's mind was doubtless full*
of imagery drawn from the Old Testa-
ment, and that the conception of a
lamb of Grod makes the subject of one
of the most striking of the psalms, we
shall perceive what he meant to convey j
by this] phrase J*' (pp. 6, 6.) This is
like saying, '^Isaiah declares, ^mino
eyes have seen the king, the lord of
hosts ;' biUj considering that doubtless
the prophet was well acquainted with
the first and second books of Samuel,
and that Saul, David, and Solomon
are the three great kings there repre-
sented, we shall easily perceive that
by ^ seeing the king/ he meant to say
that he saw Uzziab, kingof Judah, in
the last year of whose reign he had
the vision. As to the phrase *thc
lord of hosts,' which seems to refer
to the Almighty, we will consider its
meaning by and by :" — ^but, in truth, it
is difficult to invent a paralogism, in
its gratuitous inconsecutiveness pa-
rallel to his own.
We must own, that, with every wish
to be fair to this author, we never re-
covered from the perplexity of mind'
which this passage, in the very thresh-
old of his book, inflicted on us. It
needed not the various passages which
follow it in the work, constructed on
the same argumentative model, to
prove to ns that he was not only an
incognito^hnt an enigma. "Eigo"is
the symbol of the logician — what
science does a writer profess, whose
symbols, profusely scattered through
his pages, are <* probably," "it must
be," '^doubtiess," ** on the hypothesis,"
** we may suppose," and ** it is natural
to think^" and that at the very time
that he pointedly discards the com-
ments of school theologians V Is it
possible that he can mean us to set
aside the glosses of all who went bo-
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628
JUCC6 xfonio*
fore in hisownfavor, and to exchange
our old lamps for his new ones ? Men
have been at fault, when trying to de-
termine whether he was an orthodox
belieyer on his road to liberalism, or
a liberal on his road to orthodoxy:
this doubtless may be to some a per«
plexity; but our own difficulty is,
whether he comes to us as an investi-
gator or a prophet, as one unequal or
superior to the art of reasoning. Un-
doubtedly, he is an able man; but
what can he possibly mean by start-
ling us with such eccentricities of ar-
gumentation as are familiar with him ?
Addison somewhere bids his readers
bear in mind, that if he is ever espe-
cially dull, he always has a special
reason for being so ; and it is difficult
to reconcile one's imagitiatiou to the
supposition that this anonymous writer,
with so much deep thought as he cer-
tainly evidebces, has not some recon-
dite reason for seeming so iuconse-
quent, and does not move by some
deep subterraneous processes of ar-
gument, which, if once brought to
light, would clear him of the imputa-
tion of castle-building.
There is always a danger of mis-
conceiving an author who has no an-
tecedents by which wc may measure
him. Taking his work as it lies, we
can but wish that bo hod kept his
imagination under control; and that
he had more of the liard head of a
lawyer and the patience of a philoso*
pher. He writes like a man who can-
not keep from telling the world his
first thoughts, especially if they are
clever or graceful; he has come for
the first time upon a strange world,
and his remarks upon it are too obvi-
ous to be called original, and too crude
to deserve the name of freshness.
What can be more paradoxical than
to interpret our Lord's words to Nico-
demus, ^ Unless a man be bom again,**
and of the necessity of external reli-
gion, as a lesson to him to profess
his faith openly and not to visit him
in secret? (p. 86.) What can be
more pretentions, not to say gaudy
and even tawdry, than his paraphrase
of Bt John's passage about the wo-
man taken in adultery? ^ In his
burning embarrassment and confu-
sion," ho says, ^ he stooped down so
as to hide his face. • . . They
had a glimpse perhaps of the glowing
blush upon his face, etc" (p. 104.)
We should be very sony to use a
severe word concerning an honest in-
quirer afler truth, as we believe this
anonymous writer to be ; and we will
confess that Catholics, Idndly as they
may wish to feel toward him, are
scarcely even able, from their very
position, to ^ve his work the enthnsi>
astic reception which it has received
from some other critics. The reason
is plain ; those alone can speak of it
from a full heart, who feel a need,
and recognize in it a supply of that
need. We are not in the number of
such ; for they who have found have
noneedtoseeL Far be itfromos to
use language savoring of the leaven
of the Pharisees. We are not assum-
ing a high place, because we thus
speak, or boasting of our security.
Catholics are both deeper and shal-
lower than Protestants ; but in neith-
er case have they any call for a treat-
ise such as this ^'£coo Homo." If
they live to the world and the flesh,
then the faith which they profess,
though it is true and distinct, is dead;
and their certainty about religious
truth, however firm and unclouded, is
but shallow in its character, and flip-
pant in its manifestations. And in
proportion, as they are worldly and
sensual will they be flippant and shal-
low. But their faith is as indelible
as the pigment which colors the skin,
even though it is skin-deep. This
class of Catholics is not likely to take
interest in a pictorial "* Ecce Homo.**
On the other hand, where the heart
is alive with divine love, faith is as
deep as it is vigorous and joyous;
and, as far as Ottholics are in this
condition, they will feel no drawing
tdWard a work whidi is after all but
an arbitrary and unsatisfactory dissec-
tion of the object of their devotion.
That individuals in their body maybe
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JBoce Homo,
liarassed with doubts, particalarlj ia a
day like this, we are not denying ; but,
viewed as a body, Catholics from their
religious condition, are either too deep
<n* too shallow to suffer irom those ele-
mentary difficulties, or that . distress
of mind, in which serious Protestants
are so often involved.
We confess, then, as Catholics, to
some nnavoidable absence of cordial
feeling in following the remarks of
this author, though not to any want of
real sympathy; and we seem to be
justified in our indisposition "by his
manifest want of sympathy with us.
If we feel distant toward him, his
own language about Catholicity, and
(what may be caUed) old Christian-
ity, seems to show that that distance
is one of fact, one of mental position,
not any fault in ourselves. Is it not
undeniable, that the very life of per-
sonal religion among Catholics lies in
a knowledge of the Gospels? It is
the character and conduct of our Lord,
his words, his deeds, his sufferings,
his work, which are the very food of
our devotion and rule of our life.
** Behold the Man," which this author
feels to be an object novel enough to
write a book about, has been the con-
templation of Catholics from that firat
age when St. Paul said, <' The life that
I now live in the fiesh, I live in the
faith of the Son of God, who loved
me, and delivered himself for me."
As the Psalms have ever been the
manual of our prayer, so have the
Gospels been the subject-matter of
our meditation. In these latter times
especially, since St. Ignatius, they
have been divided into portions, and
arranged in a scientific order, not un-
like that which the Psalms have re-
ceived in the Breviary. To contem-
plate our Lord in his person and his
history is with us the exerdse of
every retreat, and the devotion of
every morning. All this is certainly
simple matter of fact; but the writer
we are reviewing lives and thinks at
so great distance from us as not to
be co^isant of what is so patent and
so notorious a truth* He seems to
imagine that the faith of a Catholio is
the mere profession of a formula.
He deems it important to disclaim in
the outset of his wt)rk all reference to
the theology of the church. He es-
chews with much preciseness, as some-
thing almost pro&ne, the dogmatism
of former ages. He wishes " to trace"
our Lord's ^ biography from point to
point, and accept those conclusions —
not which church doctors or even
Apostles have sealed with their auth-
ority — ^but which the facts themselves,
critically weighed, appear to warrant*
(Preface.) Now, what Catholics,
what church doctors, as well as Apos-
tles, have ever lived on, is not any
number of theological canons or de-
crees, but we repeat, the Christ him-
self, as he is represented in concrete
existence in the Gospels. Theolo^
cal determinations about our Lord are
far more of the nature of landmarks
or buoys to guide a discursive mind
in its reasonings, than to assist a de-
votional mind in its worship. Com-
. mouHsense, for instance, tell us what is
meant by the words, ^ My Lord and
my God;" and a religious man, upon
his knees, requires no commentator ;
but against irreligious speculators,
Arius or Nestorius, a denundatian
has been passed in oecumenical coun-
cil, when ^ science falsely so-called'^en-
croachedupon devotion. Has not this
been insisted on by all dogmatic Christ-
ians over and over again? Is it not
a ropresentation as absolutely true as
it is trite? We had fancied that Pro-
testants generally allowed the touch-
ing beauty of Catholic hymns and
meditations ; and after all is there not
that in all Catholic churches which
goes beyond any written devotion,
whatever its force or its pathos ? Do
we not believe in a presence in the
sacred tabernacle, not as a form of
words, or as a notion, but as an object
as real as we are real? And if in
that presence we need neither profes-
sion of faith nor even manual of de-
votion, what appetite can we have for
the teaching of a writer who not only
exalts his first thoughts about our
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680
SCDB H<0/MO»
Lord into professional lectures, but
implies that the Catholic Church lias
never known how to point him out to
her children ?
It maj be objected, that we are
making too much of so chance a
slight as his allusion in his preface
to " church doctors " involves, especi-
allj as he mentions apostles in con-
neodon with them ; but it would be
affectation not to recogniee in other
places of his book an undercurrent of
antagonism to us, of which the pas-
sage already quoted is but a first in-
dication* Of course he has quite as
much right as another to take up an
anti-catholio position, if he will ; but
we understand him to be putting forth
an investlgatipn, not a polemical argu-
ment and if, instead <^ keeping his
ejes directed to his own proper sub-
ject, he looks to the right or lefl to
hit at those who view it differentlj
from himself, he is damaging the ethi-
cal force of a composition which claims
to be, and mainly is, a serious and
manly search after religious truth.
Why cannot be let us alone? Of
course he cannot avoid seeing that the
lines of his own investigation diverge
from those drawn by others j but he
will have enough to do in defending
himself, without making others the
<^ject of his attack. He is virtually
opposing Voltaire, Strauss, Kenan,
Cidvin, Weslev, Chalmers, Erskine,
and a host of other writers, but he
does not denounce them ; why then
does he single out, misrepresent, and
anathematize a main principle of 0]^
thodoxy? It is as if he could not
keep his hand off us, when we crossed
bis path. We are alluding to the fol-
lowing magisterial passage :
^ If he (our Lord) meant anything
by his constant denunciation of hypo-
crites, there is nothing which he would
have visited with sterner censure than
that tikort cut to belief which many
persons take, when, overwhelmed with
the difficulties which beset their minds,
and afraid of damnation, they suddenly
resolve to strive no longer, but, giving
their minds a holiday, to rest content
with mnfing that they believe, and acU
ing as if they did* A melancholy end
of Christianity indeed I Can there be
such a disfranchised pauper class
among the citizens of the New Jeru-
salem r (p. 79.)
He adds shordy afterward:
<* Assuredly, those who represent
Christ as presenting to man an ab-
struse theology, and saying to them
peremptorily, * believe or be damned,'
have the coarsest conception of the
Saviour of the world,'* (p. 80.)
Thus he delivers himself; ** Believe
or be damned is so detestable a doc-
trine, that if any man denies it is de-
testable, I pronounce him to be a hypo-
crite ; to be without any true know-
ledge of the Saviour of the world;
to be the object of his sternest cen-
sure ; and to have no part or place in
the holy city, the New Jerusalem, the
eternal heaven above." Pretty well
for a virtuous hater of dogmatism!
We hope we shall show less ^ctatorial
arrogance than his, in the answer
which we intend to make to him.
Whether there are pei*8ons such as
he describes. Catholic or Protestants,
converts to CathoUcism or not — men
who profess a faith which they do not
believe, under the notion that they
shall be eternally damned if they do
not profess it without believing — we
really do not know — we never met
with such; but since facts do not
concern us here so much as prin-
ciples, let us, for argument's sake,
grant that there are. Our author
believes they are not only "many,"
but enough to form a " class ;'' and
he considers that they act in this pre-
posterous manner under the sanction,
and in accordance with the teaching,
of the religious bodies to which they
belong. Especially there is a marked
allusion in his words to the Athanasian
creed and the Catholic Church. Now
we answer him thus:
Part of his charge against the
teachers of dogma is, that they im-
pose on men as a duty, instead of
believing, to "act as if they did"
believe ; now in fact this is thcf very
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Bam Homo.
esi
kind of profession which, if it is all
that a candidate has to o£Per, abso-
lutely shuts him oat from admission
Into Catholic communion. We sup-
pose, that by belief of a thing, this
writer nnderstaads an inward convic-
tion of its truth; this being supposed,
we plaiulj saj that no priest is at
iibertjr to receive a man into the
church, who has not a real internal
belief^ and cannot say from his heart,
that the things taught by the church
are true. On the other hand, as we
have said above, it is the very charac-
teristic of the profession of faith made
by numbers of educated Protestants,
and it is the utmost extent to which
they are able to go in believing, to
hold, not that Christian doctrine is cer-
tainly true, but that it has such a
semblance of truth, it has such con-
siderable marks of probability upon
it, that it is their duty to accept and
to act upon it as if it were true be-
yond all question or doubt : and they
justify themselves, and with much
reason, by the authority of Bishop
Butler. Undoubtedly, a religious man
will be led to go as far as this, if he
cannot go &rther ; but unless ho can
go farther, he is no catechumen of the
Catholic Church. Wo wish all men
to believe that her creed is true ; but
till they do so believe, we do not wish,
we have no permission, to make them
her members. Such a faith as this
author speaks of to condemn — (our
books call it ^practical certainty") —
does not rise to the level of the sine
qud nan, which is the condition pre
scribed for becoming a Catholic Un-
less a convert so believes that he can
sincerely say, ^^aA;er all, in spite of
all difficulties; objections, obscurities,
mysteries, the creed of the Church un-
doubtedly comes from God, and is true,
because?he is the truth," such a man,
though he be outwardly received into
her fold, will receive no grace from
the sacraments, no sanctification in
faeptism, no pardon in penance, no life
in communion . We are more consist-
ently dogmatic than this author
imagines | we do not enforce a princi-
ple by halves ; if our doctrine is true,
it must be received as such ; if a man
cannot so receive it, he must wait till
he can. It would be better, indeed, if
he now believed ; but, since he does
not as yet, to wait is the best he can
do under the circumstances. If we
said anything else than this, certainly
we should be, as the author thinks we
arc, encouraging hypocrisy. Nor let
him turn round on us and say that by
thus proceeding we are laying a bur-
den on souls, and blocking up the en-
trance into that fold which was intend-,
ed for all men, by imposing hard con-
ditions on candidates for admission;
for we have already implied a great
principle, which is an answer to this
objection, which the gospels exhibit
and sanction, but which he absolutely
ignores.
Let us avail ouraelves of his quota-
tion. The Baptist said, « Behold the
Lamb of God." Again he says, " This
is the Son of God." « Two of his dis-
ciples beard him speak, and they fol-
lowed Jesus." They believed John
to be ^ a man sent from God" to teach
them, and therefore they believed his
word to be true. We suppose it was
not hypocrisy in them to believe in
his word; rather they would have
been guilty of gross ^ inconsistency or
hypocrisy, had they professed to be-
lieve that he was a divine messenger
and yet had revised to take his word
concerning the Stranger whom he
pointed out to their veneration. It
would have been '' saying that they
believed," and not '^ acting as if they
did ;" which at least is not better than
saying and acting. No^, was not the
announcement which John made to
them "a short cut to belief"? and
what the harm of it? They believed
that our Lord was the promised
prophet, wilhout making direct inquiry
about him, without a new inquiry, on
the ground of a previous inquiry into
the claims of John himself to be ac-
counted a messenger from God.
They had already accepted it as truth
that John was a prophet ; bat again,
what a prophet said must be true;
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682
£ec0 Jffamo.
alse he would not be a prophet ; now,
John saidthat our Lord was the Lamb
of God; this, then, certainly was a
sacred trath.
Now it might happen, that thej
knew exactly and for certain what the
Baptist meant in calling onr Lord ^ a
Iamb f* in that case they would believe
him to be that which they knew the
figurative word meant, as used by the
Baptist. But, as oar author reminds
us, the word has different senses ; and,
though the Baptist explained his own
sense of it on the first occasion of using
it, by adding^ ^ that taketh away the sin
of the world," yet when he spoke to the
two disciples he did not thus explain
it Now let us suppose that they went
offy taking the word each in his own
sense, the one understanding by
it a sacrificial lamb, the other a lamb
of the fold ; and let us suppose that, as
they were on the way to our Lord's
home, they discovered this difference
in their several interpretations, and
disputed with each other which was
the right interpretation. It is clear
that they would agree so far as
this, namely, that, in saying that
the proposition was true, they meant
that it was true in that sense in
which the Baptist spoke it ; moreover,
if it be worth noticing, they did ailcr
aU even agree, in some vague way,
about the meaning of the*wonl, under-
standing that it denoted some high
character, or office, or ministry. Any
how, it was absolutely true, they would
say, that our Lord was a lamb, what-
ever it meant ; the word conveyed a
great and momentous fact, and if they
did not know what that fact was, the
Baptist did^ and they would accept it
in its one right sense, as soon as he or
our Lord told them what it was.
Again, as to that other title which
the Baptist gave our Lord, ^' the Son
of God," it admitted of half a dozen
senses. Wisdom was 'Hhe only be-
gotten ;" the angels were the sons of
God; Adam was a son of God;
the descendants of Setb were sons of
God ; Solomon was a son of God ; and
so is ^ the just man." In which of these
senses, or in what sense, was oar Lord
the Son of God ? St. Peter knew, but
there were those who did not kiiow*
the centurion who attended the cruci-
fixion did not know, and yet he oon*
fessed that our Lord was the Son of
God. He knew that our Lord had
been condemned by the Jews for call-
ing himself the Son of God, and there-
fore he cried out, on seeing the mira-
cles which attended his death, " indeed
this was the Son of God." Bjs words
evidently imply : " I do not know pre-
cisely what be meant by so calling
himself; but what he said ho was, that
he is ; whatever he meant, I believe
him; I believe that his word about
himself is true, though I cannot prove
it to be so, though I do not even un-
derstand it ; I believe his word, for I
believe AiW
Now to return to the passi^ which
has led to these remarks. Our author
says that certain persons are hypo-
crites, because they ^ take a short cut
to belief, suddenly resolving to strive
no longer, but to rest content with
saying they believe." Does he mean
by '^ a short cut," believing on the
word of another ? As far as our ex-
perience goes of religious changes in
individua]b, he can mean nothing else ;
yet how can he mean this with the
gospels before hun? He cannot
mean it, because the very staple of
the sacred narrative is a call on all
men to believe what is not proved to
them, merely on the warrant of divine
messengers; because the very form
of our Lord's teaqhing is to substitute
authority for inquiry; because the
very principle of his grave earnest-
ness, the very key to his regenerative
mission, is the intimate connection of
faith with salvation. Faith is not
simply trust m his legislation, as this
writer says; it is definitely trust in
his word, whether that word be about
heavenly things or earthly ; whether it
is spoken by his own mouth, or
through his ministers. The angel
who announced the Baptist's birth
said, ^Thou shalt be dumb because
thou believest not my words." The
Digitized by CjOOQIC
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688
Baptist 8 mother flai4 of Mary, ^ Bless*
ed is she that believed.'' The Bap-
tist himself ^id, "^He that believeth
on the Son hath everkstiog life; and
he that belieyeth not the Son shall not
see life, but the wrath of God abideth
on him.^ Our Lord, in tdm, said to
Nieodemus, '^We speak that we do
know, and ye receive not our witness \
he that believeth not is oondemned
already, because he hath not believed
in the name of the onlj-begotten Son
of God." To the Jews, "He that
heareth my word, and believeth on
him that sent me, shall not oome into
condemnation." To the Caphar*
naites, " he that believeth on me hath
everlasting life." To St Thomas,
^ Blessed are they that have not seen
and yet have believed.'' And to the
apostles, *^ Preach the gospel to every
creature; he that believeth not shall
be damned." How is it possible to
deny that our Lord, both in the text
and m the context of these and other
passages, made faith in a message, on
the warrant of the messenger, to be a
condition of salvation ; and enforced it
by the great grant of power which he
emphatically conferred on his repre-
sentatives ? " Whosoever shall not
receive you," he says, "nor hear your
words, when ye depart, 6hake off the
dust of your feet." "It is not ye that
speak, but the spirit of your Father."
" He that heareth you, heareth me ;
he that despiseth you, despiseth me ;
and he that despiseth me, despiseth
him that sent me." " I pray for them
that shaU believe on me through
their word." " Whose sms ye remit
they are remitted unto them ; and
whose sins ye retain, they are retun-
ed." <* Whateoever ye shall bind on
earth shall be bound in heaven." " I
will give unto thee the keys of the
kingdom of heaven ; and whatsoever
thou shalt bind on earth shall be
bound in heaven, and whatsoever thou
shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in
heaven." These characteristic and
critical announcements have no place
in this author's gospel ; and let it be '
understood, that we are not asking
why he does not determine the exact
doctrines contained in them— ^r that
is a question which he has reserved
(if we 'understand him) for a future
volume — but why he does not recog-
niae the principle they involve — for
that is a matter which falls within his
present subject.
It is not well to exhibit some sides
of Christianity, and not others; this
we think is the main fault of the au-
thor we have been reviewing. It does
not pay to be ecclectic in so serious a
matter of fact. He does not overlook,
he boldly confesses that a visible or-
ganized church was a main part of
our Lord's plan for the regeneration
of mankind. "Aa with Socrates,"
he says, "'alignment is every thing, and
personal authority nothing; so with
Christ personal authority is all in all
and argument altogether unemployed,'^
(p. 94u) Our Loid rested his teaching,
not on the concurrence and testimony
of his hearers, but on his own authori-
ty. He imposed upon them the decla-
rations of a divine voice. Why does
this author stop short in the delinear
ti(»i of principles which he has so ad-
muably begun? Why does he de-
nounce " short cuts," as a mental dis-
franchisement, when no cut can be
shorter than to ^^ believe and be
saved " ? Why does he denounce re-
ligious fear as hypocritical, when it is
written, " He that believeth not shall
be damned"? Why does he call it
dishonest in a man to sacrifice his own
judgment to the word of Grod, when,
unless he did so, he would be avowing
that the Creator knew less than the
creature ? Let him recollect that no
two thinkers, philosophers, writers,
ever did, ever will, agree in all things
with each other. No system of
opinions, ever given to the world, ap-
proved itself in all its parts to the rea-
son of any one individual by whom it
was mastered. No revelation is con-
ceivable, but involves, almost in its
very idea, as bemg something new, a
collision with t)ie human intellect, and
demands, accordingly, iTit is to be ac-
cepted, a sacrifice of private judgmenu
Digitized by CjOOQIC
684
Eoly SaJbtrda^
If a revelation bo necessary, then also
in consequence is that sacrifice neces-
sary. One man will hare to make a
sacrifice in one respect, another in
another^ all men in some. We say,
then, to men of the day, take Christ*
iani^, or leave it; do not prac-
tise upon it; to do so is as on-
philosophical as it Is dangerous. Do
not attempt to halve a spiritual unit.
You are apt to call it a dishonesty in
us to refuse to follow out our reason-
ings, when faith stands in the way ;• is
there no intellectual dishonesty in
jour own conduct ? First, your very
accusation of us is dishonest ; for yon
keep in the back-ground the circum-
stance, of which you are well aware,
that such a refiisal on our part is the
necessary consequence of our accept-
ing an authoritative revelation; ttoud
next you profess to accept that reve-
lation yourselves, while you dishonest-
ly pick and choose, and take as much
or as little of it as you please. You
either accept Christianity or you do
not: if you do, do not garble and
patch it; if you do not, suffer o<hei8 lo
submit to it as a whole.
[OtfWZKAX^]
HOLY SATURDAY.
Through that Jewish Sabbath day,
Through our Holy Saturday,
Thus he lay:
In his linen winding-sheet,
Wrapped in myrrh and spices sweet,
Angels at his head and feet;
Angek, duteous alway,
Watched the wondrous beauteous day
As he lay.
Through that Jewish Sabbath day,
Through our Holy Saturday.
Thus he lay :
And our mother Church this day
Doth with solemn Office keep
That strange day's mysterious sleep ;
Her " Exultet*' breaks the sadness
With triumphant strains of gladness ;
Paschal hope presaging mom,
As in east just streaks the dawn ;
Darkest night ere brightest day ;
Such is Holy Saturday.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
JEati-BuUim Witddim^s.
ess
TmnhtM from Ihe^tndM BtfiglenMB, Uiatorlqaes ei UtOnOrM.
EAST-INDIAN WEDDINGS.
LSTTEB FBOM FATHEB 6UCHEK OF THE ICADURA. laSSIOK.
A VEvr days ago I blessed a mar-
riage in which great pomp was dis-
played, and I will describe the festival
to you, that you may have an idea of
what Utkos place on such occasions, for
the same ceremonial is always scrupu-
lously observed* Indeed, every action
of an Indian's life from the cradle to
the grave is irrevocably ordered by
custom.
The solemnity I am speaking of
now is called here, ^ a grand marriage^'*
My Christians are generally too poor
to have to do with any but ^ little mar-
riages," which are performed very
quietly, though with some attendant
Circumstances that perhaps deserve a
slight notice*
A remarkable peculiarity, and one
that belongs to both kinds of marriage,
is that tilie bride and bridegroom do not
know each other, do not even seo or
speak to each other, until it is too late
to draw back* This is the decision of
custom, and has its good and bad side,
like many other things in this world.
** Why have you come here P* I asked
the other day of a little girl hardly
twelve years old, who was led into
church. ^ My father said I was to be
married, so I came," she replied* A
few hours later arrived the young man,
pale, exhausted, and writhing in the
grasp of pangs unutterable* Begging
me to serve him first in the quality
of physician, he told me his story : '^I
had just done dinner and was going out
Id my palm-trees, when my father told
rae togo to the church, and be married ;
so I took my bath of oil immediately,
which interfered with my digestion
and oaiiaed my illness*'' ■
The bath of oil is a necessary prc-
Uminaiy on these occasions. That
over, the bridegroom arrays himself in
his finest garments. Two cloths, about
one foot three inches wide, and four
or five times as long, ornamented with
a fringe, compose his costume; one
covers his loins and the other is wrap-
ped around him ; a red kerchief is
rolled about his head, and three pen-
dants, nearly two inches long, and wide
in proportion, adorn each car. If he
is too poor to own these jewels, he
borrows them of his neighbors, and
thus apparelled, goes to the church
and presents himself before the sonami,
(missionary.)
The maiden also lavishes oil or but-
ter upon her toilette, but on the wed-
ding day, she is so completely swathed
in Ihe ten or eleven yards of cloth that
form her raiment, that neither her
jewels nor her face can be distinguish-
ed. Not only is she invisible, but she is
supposed to see nothing herself, and
when she wishes to change her place,
the person who accompanies her, oilen
a poor old woman hardly able to stand
leads her by clasping her round the
waist. I have sometimes beheld the
singular spectacle of a score of little
girls from twelve to fifteen years of
age, muffled in cloth and crouched
against the wall of the church, repeat-
ing their prayers to satiety as they
waited for me to come and hear them
recite.
They pass their examination; both
bride and bridegroom know faultlessly
the pater, ave, credo, the command-
ments of God and the church, the act
of ocmtiition, the confitcor, etc ; they
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
636
£att»£uKan Wedding
recite the seven chapters, that is to
saj the little catechism, quite well ; I
bear their confessioD, and the next
morning at mass I bless their union,
following in every respect the rubrics
of the <£urch, so that there is nothing
especial to notice excepting that the
married pair have no weddmg^-ring. In
its place they have a golden jewel, ra-
ther clumsy in form, through which
passes a cord intended to be &stcned
round the bride's neck. This jewel
is called talu It is the sign of matri-
monial union, and every married wo-
man wears one; when her husband
dies, the relations assemble, and re-
move the taU from the widow's neck
by breaking the cord.
But pardon me for carrying you
without transition from a wedding to a
funeral — let us leave the graveyard
and return to the church. Having
blessed the tally applying to it the
prayer indicated in the ritual for the
blessmg of the ring, I return It to the
young man who presents it to the
maiden ; she receives it on her out^
stretched hands, and her companion^
or if the latter is too old, any other
woman present, fastens it about her
neck. Mass is celebrated ; the bride
and bridegroom receive communion
and the benediction, and then with-
draw. The bride remains hooded
through the whole of the festive day ;
on the next day after she shows her
&ce, and the husband can for the first
lime behold her features: a young
man of my acquaintance learned twen-
ty^four hours after marriage, that his
wife had but one eye.
I forgot to mention another custom,
which is quite generally observed, and
seems to me charming. The bride-
groom buys a nuptial chthy which is
blessed by the pnest at the same time
%Tith the tally and in this the bride ar-
rays herself, when the marriage cere-
monial is ended. She wears tUs cloth
during the days of festivity, but the
husband gives her no other garments,
and the parents continue to fumbh
their daughter's wardrobe until she
brings her first child into the world.
But it is time I arrived at the oere^
monies of the grand marriage i^aXj.
blessed on the eleventh of this mcmtfa.
The young man belonged to Ana-
carei, and the maiden to Santancoa-
1am, a little town where we have a
Christian settlement. As she had been
baptized only two years before, she
still numbered many pagans am(»g
her circle, a fact which made me will-
ingly accede to the desirec^^ her par-
ents that the marriage should be cele-
brated in the presence of her family.
Even before dawn, two bands of
musicians, making their instruments
resound in noble emulation of each
other, announced to the whole town
that on that day there was to be a
grand festival in the Catholic ChurcL
On their side, with one accord, the
Christians devoted themselves to the
preparation of the church and altar ;
the only outlay in decoration was
upon flowers, but of those there were
enough to IcxAd a coach. At last all
was ready, and wearing the alb and
stole, I went forward to receive the
consent of the betrothed, who were
accompanied by their relations and
friends. They joined their right
hands, and I pronounced over them
the sacramental words, after which the
tali was blessed and given first to the
bridegroom and by turn to the bride,
but without being fastened about her
neck, as that ceremony was to take
place afterward at home. I b^gan
mass. In the lectern, two chanters
were shaking the waUs of the church
with a clamor most delightful to In-
dian ears, for singing is valued here
in proportion to the volume of voice
brought to bear upon it. Indeed
never before at Santanooulam had
anything so admirable been heard.
After mass the husband and wife
withdrew in different directions, and
the whole day was spent in festive
preparations. In the house of the
young girl a great tent was built of
the branches and leaves of trees,
draped with cloth of various oolozs.
In the middle of this tent, which b
called the Pandd^ upon a mound a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
EoBt-'Bidian Weddingt.
687
foot and a half in height, and about
eight square feet in extent, arose an
elegantly decorated pavilion support-
ed on fonr little columns. It was truly
an exhibition of painted cloth and
parti-colored paper of erery hue and
every shade, surpassing the rainbow
in briUiancy. There, upon this mound
and under this pavillion, the bride-
groom was to gire the tcdi to his bride.
In the mean time a palanquin had
been constructed elsewhere, even more
elegant and magnificent than the pa-
Yjllon of the PandeL At ten o'clock
in the evening, by the light of thirty
or forty blazing torches, the bride-
groom entered the palanquin, and,
borne upon the shoulders of four men,
made the tour of the town, a band of
music opening the way and summon-
ing the curious who hastened at the
cafl. After promenading the princi-
pal streets with slow steps for two or
three hours, they turned toward the
bride^s home. The young man as-
cended the mound and seated himself,
upon the ground, you understand, for
among Indians there are neither chairs
Ror lounges. But do not bo afraid
that he soiled his fine clothes — a litter
of straw covered the whole surface of
the mound. In this count ry they know
no better way of making an apart-
ment presentable, and all Indian par^
qnets are polished after this fashion.
The bride came in her turn, her father
leading her by the hand. When he
had seated her face to face with the
young man who had been his son-in*
law for twenty-four hours, he declared
in a loud, clear voice that he had given
his daughter in marriage to so and so,
living in such and such a place, that
he announced it to her relations and
friends, begging them to give their
consent. The assistants standing
about the mound extended their hands
in succession, and touched the tali with
the tips of the fingers in token of ap-
proval The catechist intoned the lit*
any of the Blessed Virgin, to which
the Christians made the responses, then
he gaye the tali to the husband, who
held it near his wife's neck, and the
bride's sistcp-in-iaw, standing behind
her, took the cord and tied it. The
ceremonies and festivities were ended
for that night, and every one withdrew
to take a little repose.
The next evening there was a grand
wedding collation, after which the fes-
tival, properiy speaking, the grand fes-
tival, began. The newly married pair
seated themselves in the palanquin,
facing each other, but separated by a
little curtain. The bride, freed from
her veil now, held the curtain with both
hands, trying to conceal her face with
it. By the hght of torches even more
numerous than the night before, and
to the sound of music quite as vocife-
rous, they went to the church, where all
the candles were lighted. The chant-
ers and myself intoned the litany of
the Blessed Yirgm and the $ahe regi^
na ; the catechist recited a few pray-
ers. I gave the benediction to the as-
sembly with a cmciOx, having no sta-
tue of the Blessed Yirgm, and the '
ceremony closed with a tamord chant
The husband and wife re-entered the
palanquin, and then began in the
streets a veritable triumphal march
called here patana^avesccniy (entrance
into the town,) which ended only when
the day began.
What lends to this march a chanM>
racter of beauty and originality is the
caUidf a dance accompanied by songs
and' the clashing of little staves, and
performed before the palanquin for the
whole length of the march. Do not
imagine anything resembling a French
ball ; here dancing, so called, is a dis-
grace, and is only permitted to the Bay-
aderes engaged m the service of the
pagodas. The calliel is quite another
thing Fancy a dozen well-formed,
robust young people, with turbaned
heads, and loins girt with a long strip
of cloth draped like a scarf, some of
them wearing rings of bells upon their
arms and legs, and all carrying in
each hand a little staff about a foot
long, with which they strike the
staves of the dancers, whom they meet
fBuce to face. On leaving the church,
oar young dancers begg^ me to wit-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
638
Bom$ ihi$ CifnUaur of Natunu.
ness tbeir gambols in the presence of
the bride and bridegroom, who were
looking down upon the ossemblj from
their high palanquin* The ckishing
cadence of the staves, the monotonous
but purely harmonious chant of the
dcncerSf their free, elastic bounds and
graceful twirls, the passing and re-
passing of this troop, who spring for-
ward and draw back, falling and rising
as thej drop on their knees and rear
themselves up again, this whirlwind
where all is ordered, timed, and mea-
sured-— ell presents a spectacle that
enchants Hindoos and maj well de*
light a Frenchman.
Meanwhile the big drum, tambou-
rine, tam-tam, clarionet, bagpipe, etc,
etc, announced with jojous din that
the crowd must turn tbeir steps else-
where, and show to others all this po-
rapbemalia of rejoldng. The palai>-
quia was borne toward ^the streets.
From time to time the march was sus-
pended, the music ceased, and the
young dancers resumed and continued
for nearly an hour their agile feats of
strength.
So the night passed, and the first
rays of the sun annouaioed that it was
time to end it alL The husband and
wife descended from the palanquin to
hear mass, and then entered upon real
life ; the wedding was over. In the
evening a car drawn by two magnifi-
cent oxen, transported the bride, ac-
companied by several relatives, to the
village of her husband, who escorted
the family, mounted upon a pret^
white horse.
AiiACAui, Sept 89th, 186S.
IVam tbe Dablla Itorlefr.
EOME THE CIVILIZEB OF NATIONS.
1. L9 Parfum de Rome, Par Louis
Yeuillot. 3me coition. Paris:
Gaume Freres. 1862.
2. Rome ei la Civilisation. Par
EuGEXB Mahok db Monaghan.
Paris : Charles DounioL 1863.
The useful little work which stands
at the head of this article, by M.
Mahon de Monaghan, (whose name
would, perhaps, be more correctly
printed M. MacMahon dc Monaghan,)
may be regarded as a supplement to
the more important volume of the
Abb6 Balmes. " The study of church
history in its relations with civiliza-
tion," he told us, " is still incomplete ;**
and the writer before us seems to
have taken this as a hint, and to have
conceived the laudable plan of pursu-
ing further some of the Spanish di-
vine's arguments, and strengthening
them by new illustrations gathered
from history. " Le Parfum de Rome"
is a work of another description, but
bearing on the same subject. It con-
sists cf many discursive reflections on
Rome, as the residence of the Vicar
of Christ, and is full of pomt, brillian-
cy, and humor.
When a Catholic, who has enjoyed
the advantage of a good education,
and is accustomed to habits of reflec-
tion, arrives for the first time in
Rome, he is usually overwhelmed by
the multitude of objects offered to his
attention, and requires time to select,
arrange, and analyze them. The light
is too vivid, the colors are too varied,
the perfume is too strong. Two thou-
sand years, richly laden with historic
eventSy crowd his memory; the united
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Jhm» (he OunUzer of Nations.
Ivories ot the past And ^ud present
kindle his imagination; the sublune
ttjsteries of religion, marvellously lo-
calized, exercise his faith; long gal-
leries thronged with the rarest produc-
tiona of art court his ^kse, and a pres*
enee pecoHar to the spot, which he
feeds, but cannot yet d^ne, completes
hia pleading bewilderment in heart
and brain. By degrees the tumult of
thought subsides, and order begins to
rise out of chaoticbeauty. The travel-
ler is resolved to render his sensations
precise, and he asks himself empha-
tically, " Wh«ice springs the resist-
less charm of Rome ? Wherein does
the true glory of Rome consist ? What
1$ this nameless presence that mantles
idl things with divinity ? Where does
the Shekinah reside ?"
Then more and more clearly, the
voice of Rome herself is heard in re-
ply : *' This is the home of the vicar
of Christ, the throne of the fisherman,
the seat of that long line of pontiff
who^ like a chain of gold, bind our
erring globe to Emmanuel's footstoeL
This garden is fertilized by the blood
of Peter imd Paul, and of ...thirty
Popes: hence all its amazing pro-
duce; hence its exquisite fragrance
and perennial blodnu These are the
head-quarters of the commander-in-
chief of the church' militant; and
Christ himself h present here in the
person of his viceroy, promulgating a
law above all human laws, inflexible,
uniform, merciful, and strict. J£e dif-
fuses this grateful perfume; he col-
ors every object with rainbow tints ;
he sheds this dazzling light which
causes Rome to shine l&e a gem with
a myriad facets. The Lord loveth
the gates of Rome more than of old
he loved the gates of Zion ; lie lives
in the solemn utterances of his high
priest, and speaks by him as of old
he spoke by the Urun and Thummim
that sparkled on Aaron's breast
Here he so multiplies sacraments,
that all you see becomes sacramental ;
and here you find, in the father of the
faithtul, the most perfect representa-
tion of your Incarnate God, and the
moat certain pledge of his resurrec-
tion."
If the peculiar presence of Christ
thus hallows Christian Rome, it can-
not be matter of surprise that she also
should be an enigma to the world,
and have a twofold character; that
she should be one tiling to the eye and
another to the mind; one thing to
Gibbon and Goethe,* and another
thing altogether to Chateaubriand and
Schlegel; that she should have her
seasons of gloom and jubilee, of per-
secution and triumph; should require
in each to be interpreted by faith:
and that every page of her history
should share in this double aspect.
Thus Rome resembles Christ ; and in
this resemblance lies her glory and
her strength. Other glories she has
which do not directly come from him.
She had them of old before he came ;
the inroad of barbaric hordes, age
after age, conld not trample them out,
and they endure abundantly to this
day. These the world understands ;
these she extols with ceaseless praises,
and sends her children &om every
clime in troops to do homage at their
ancient shrines. The worldlmg, en-
amoured of these, exclaims :
•* Rome I my country I city of the sool I
The orphans of the iieart must tarn to thM,
Lone mother of dead empires.*'t
But the orpnan who turns to her as
Byron did, remains an orphan. Rome
is no mother to him, and he finds no
father in the patriarch who rules
there. To the devout Catholic she is
the mother of arts and sciences as
truly as the Pope is the father of the
Christian family. She is, and has
been for eighteen hundred years, the
centre of true civilization, because
she is the central depository of the
faith. From her, as from a fountain,
the streams of salvation have flowed
through all lands, and, having the
promise both of this life and that
which is to come, they have indirectly
produced a large amount of material
well-being, and also an infinity of ar-
* Pftrftim de Rome, p. 7
t Childe Harold, canto Ir.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
640
£am4 the OivtUztr of NaHem,
tisdc and scientific resnits. Borne
ciYilizes as Christ civilized, by sowing
the seeds of dvilization. ^e does
not aim directly at material well-
being; she does not any more than he
teach astronomy or dynamics; fihe
propounds no system of induct'on;
she invents neither printtng-press,
steam-engines, nor telegraphs;' but
she so raises man above the bmte,
curbs his passions, improves his under-
standing, instils into him principles of
duty, and a sense of responsibiUty, so
hallows his ambition and kindles his
desire for the good of his Lind and the
progress of humanity, that under her
influence he acquires insensibly an
aptitude even for the successful pursuit
of physical science, such as no other
teacher could impart. He looks
abroad into the spacious field of
nature, and finds in every star and in
every drop of dew an unfathomable
depth of creative design. His heart
quickens the energies of his brain, and
he says, smiling, ^'My Father made
them all ; he made them that I may,
to the best of my feeble powers, in-
vestigate and classify them, and that
he may be glorified in science as in
religion.'' He rises to higher studies
than those of physical science; he
looks within, and analyzes his complex
nature. He sees that human minds
in the aggregate are capable of indefi-
nite development as time goes on, and
he concludes that, as the works of na-
ture can be investigated to the glory
of the Creator, so may the mind of
man be developed to the glory of its
Redeemer — ^be trained in philosophy,
and exercised also in the application
of science to the wants and usages of
social life. Thus, to his apprehension,
the links are clear which connect
Borne — the centre of civilization —
with matters which appear at Irst
sight absolutely distinct from rehgion,
with sewing-machines and electric
cables, with Huyghens's undulatory
theory of light, and Guthrie's re*
searches into the relative sizes of
drops and of bubbles.
But here, perhaps, we shall be met
by an objection. ^ Science," it will
be said, ^' surely not merely afpear9i
but tt independent of religion, as the
experience of ancient and modem
times will show. Still more is itinde*
pendent of Papal Bome, which has
always been on the alert to check its
progress, condemned Bishop Viigil for
teaching the existence of the antipo-
des, and Galileo for maintaining the
heliocentric system. Egypt under the
Ptolemies, Etruria and Mexico, A^s-
totle. Lord Bacon, and Sir Isaac New-
ton, alike scatter your assertion to the
winds ; and if any doubt on die sub-
ject could linger in the mind of any
one, the late encyclical would bo suffi-
cient to disabuse him of his fond delu-
sion,"
To this we reply : We will not al-
low that even in ancient times attain-
ments in physical science were made
irrespectively of religion. Without
religion, man lives in a savage state
akin to brutes. Natural rel^ion, on
which revealed religion is founded, ex-
alts him in a degree, and qualifies him
for intellectual pursuits* Yet, even
with its assistance, so corrupt is his
nature, that philosophy and science
can obtain no permanent command
over his passions, and his highest de-
grees of refinement are always suc-
ceeded by periods of degradation, and
no steady advance is made. As natur-
al religion placed the heathen in a con-
dition somewhat favorable to the pur-
suit of science, so revealed religion, or,
in other words, Boman Catholicism,
did the like more completely, in con-
sequence of its divine origin and per^
feet adaptation to the ne^ <^ man-
kind. It brought society step by step
out of a state of semi-barbarism, and
overcame the resistance <^ered to its
social improvements by the Boman
people and Emperors, by Huns and
Vandals, by Islamism, loonodasts, and
Feudalism. It covered Europe with
seats of learning, and kindled the stu-
dent^s lamp in the monastic recesses of
deep valleys and vast forests. It cre-
ated a body of theological science^ and
of philosophical in connection with it.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Same the CivUizer of Ndtiom*
641
which the nu>re profound even of m^
fidel thinkers admit to have been
among the most marvellous products
of the human mind ; and this scien-
tific sjstem — over and above Its higher
purposes — iras the very best intellec-
tual training possible under the cir-
cumstances of the period. Then, as
time went on, religion accepted grate-
fulljr and employed in its own service
the art of printing, and prepared the
human mind for those most energetic
thoughts and often misdirected efforts
which have been made, from the fif-
teenth century downward, for the dis-
covery of physical truth. It is there-
fore manifest to all whose thoughts
reach below the surface of things, that
the services which Lord Bacon ren-
dered to philosophy and Newton to
Bcience, were indirectly due to the
Catholic Church*
Borne, the central civilizer of socie-
ty, exerts an influence far beyond her
visible domain. The earth is hers, and
the fulness thereof. Whatsoever things
are true and holy in faith and morals
among her truants, whatever portions
of her divine creed they carry away
with them to bmld up their sects,
whatever books o\ texts of the mu-
tilated scriptures they retain, whatever
graces shine forth in them, and in part
redeem their delinquency, are all to be
ascribed to her as the primiiry channel
of communication between earth and
heaven, and all belong to her as their
chartered proprietress, although they
liave been wrested fh>m her hands.
^* There is notbing right, useful, plea-
sing Qucundum) in human society,
which the Roman pontifi have not
brought into it, or have not k^flned
and fostered (expoliverint et foverint)
when introduced."* Heresy is always
blended with truth, and the truth U
always Itome's, while the heresy is
theirs who have corrupted it. Wiiat-
ever is good and true in Pi-otestantism
is of Rome ; and as Protestants would
have no Bible but for the councils
which settled its canon, and the de-
Fop* Phw IZ. Lttttr to M. Uahon d« Mom-
VOL. XIX. 41
spised monks who transcribed it age
alter age, so Protestant churches
would never have been founded if
the great old church had not over-
spread Europe. Nay, the Novum
Organon and Principia would in all
probability never have seen the light.
Christianity, on the whole, keeps
science alive ; and but for the popes,
Christianity would soon vaifish from
the face of the caith. As far as
Bacon and Newton are indebted to
Christianity for tfieir philosophy, just
in so far aro they indebted to Rome as
its fountain-head. Whatever stress
is to be laid on the fact of their being
Christians, glorifies Rome indirectly as
the source of civilization. It is her
very greatness and her perfect system
of doctrine which brings her into colli-
sioT* with every form of spiritual re-
bellion ; but those who fly off from her
authority aro still her children, in so
far as they continue members at all of
the family of Grod. The prodigal son,
amid all his degradation and wander-
ings, is yearned over by his father, and
belongs to his father^s house in a cex^
tain sense.
As to Rome being the enemy of
physical science, it is not difficult to see
the causes wliich have led to so ex-
treme a misconception. She has ever
protested, and that most energetically,
against the prevalent tendency to give
physics a supremacy over theology,
where the two seem to clash ; and
she has also steadfastly resisted the
pretension so constantly made by phy-
sical science to thrust into a corner
some higher branches of huinan philo-
sophy. Her conduct in the latter case
has been simply in accordance with
what is now a growing conviction in
the philosophical world ; while in the
former case she has done nothing more
than uphold as infallibly certain the
doctrinal deposit committed to her
charge. But with these most reason-
able qualifications, she has ever been
active in stimulating the keenest phy-
sical researches. Well may the pre-
sent pope say that ^it is impudently
bruited abroad that the Catholic reli-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
642
Rome the CiviUzer of Nations^
gion and the Roman pontificate are ad->
verse to civilization and progress, and
therefore to the happiness which may
thence be expected.*'* To harp upon
Virgil and Galileo, proves how few
and slender are the arguments which
our accusers can adduce in support of
their charge. If we defer to facts, and
regard the entire history of Christen-
dom, we can certainly name ten per-
sons distinguished for physical disco-
veries in our own communion, for
every one whom Protestantism can
boast. In no Catholic country is
such science discouraged, but its pro-
fessors are, on the contrary, every-
where rewarded and honored. No-
where among us has any recent science,
such as geology, been prohibited, or
even combated, except by individuals.
Its conclusions, when really establish-
ed, have been admitted by all learned
Catholics notwithstanding they appear-
ed at first sight to run counter to the
words of inspiration. Cardinal Wise-
man's " Lectures on Science and Re-
vealed Religion" abundantly illustrate
what is here stated ; and his whole life
was a refutation of the calumny with
wliich his creed is so often assailed.
New arts, which are each the visible
expression of a corresponding science,
have been welcomed abroad as readily
as in England ; and Belgium could be
traversed by steam long before the
Great Western line between London
and Bristol was completed. If it so hap-
pened that the greatest English astro-
nomer, naturalist, or mathematician,
were a Catholic, his co-relijcionists
would be the most forward of all Eng-
lishmen to extol his genius. His
scientific pursuits would never make
him an object of suspicion with us,
provided his loyalty to the church were
complete ; nor would his zeal be damp-
ed by any ecclesiastical authority, so,
long as his conclusions involved noth-
ing adverse to religion. The Catholic,
it is true, can never make th6 claims
of science paramount to those of faith,,
but the restraint thus imposed on kim
is of the most salutary kind, and will
* Letter of Fins UC to 21 Itohon d« lioDBghui.
be no real check on his liberty of
thought; for science and revelfl^on,
though it may for a while be difficult to
harmonize some of their statements,,
must ever be found to agree strictly on
closer examination.
It would be easy to mark the suc-
cessive stages in European civilization
by the pontificates of popes remarka-
ble for their energy of character and
the brightness of their abilities. The
average length of the reigns of the
first thirty-seven was rather less than
ten years ; and during this time they
had to struggle for something infinitely
more important than art and science.
They were penetrated with a deep sense
of their sublime mission, and neither
old age, infirmities, nor persecution,
paralyzed their labors. •* They employ-
ed their revenues in maintaining the
poor, the sick, the iuBrm, the widows,
orphans, and prisoners, in burying the
martyrs, in erecting and embellishing
oratories, in comforting and redeem-
ing confessors and captives, and in
sending aid of every description to
the sidfering churches of other pro-
vinces."* Thus, in the wise order of
providence, papal civilization began
in the moral world ^before it extended
to the intellectuaL Yet in the middle
of the fourth century, the pope and
his coadjutors in difierent quarters of
the globe, presented a striking spec-
tacle, when considered merely in their
intellectual aspect. St. Damasus,
the thirty-eighth pope, occupied the
see of St. Peter. While l^e zeal-
ously promoted ecclesiastical dis-
cipline, he won for himself general
admiration by his virtues and his
writings. His taste for letters carried
him beyond the s^h^re of theological
labor ; he coioposed verses, and wrote
several her<5ic poems.f He was the
light of !f!ome, while St. Augustine,
the brightest star that ever adorned the
Catholic episcopate, shone at Hippo.
St. Ambrose, at the same time, was the
glory of Milan ; St Gregory taught
at Nyssa; St, Gregory Nazianzea
• J. Olumtrel, ** La RoyAliM Pootifleale/* p. 74
t St. Jerome, " De Ulustr. Eccles. Script"
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ronu! ihe dvHisur of Nations.
043
TTTotc in Constantinople ; St. Martin
evangelized the Grauls ; St. Basil com-
posed his "Moralia" and his Treatise
on Ihe study of ancient Greek authors
at Cassarea ; St. Hilary and St. Panl-
inus bore witness to the truth in Poi-
tiers and Treves ; St. Jerome unfolded
the sacred stores of his learning in
Thrace, Bithynia, Cappadocia, and
Pontus; St, Cyril wrote beside his
Saviour's tomb ; and St. Patrick con-
verted Ireland from the darkness of
Druldic paganism.
Every faithful prelate at that period
— ^nay, every true Christiaa.; how-
ever humble his condition— stood out
more prominently from the mass of
society than we can now imagine.
Christianity has produced among us
a certain general level of morality.
But it was not so then. The masses
were stiU heathen, and Christians
were often in a very small minority.
Their principles and conduct, there-
fore, were so distinct from those
around them, that each attracted at-
tention, and exerted more influence
than he was aware of. Each Roman
Catholic — ^for we joyfully accept a
designation which is erroneously sup-
posed to limit our claims— each Ro-
man Catholic was then a light shining
in a dark place, and, in his measure,
an apostle of civilization. He pro-
moted science, even though he had
never heard its name, for he diminished
that amount of moral depravity, on
the ruins of which alone science can
build her gorgeous fanes* He was
member of a church, which, wherever
it was estabh'shed, protested by its
institutions against the excessive in-
dulgence of carnal aSections. A
celibate priesthood, societies of monks
and nuns, hermits, and vows of chas-
tity observed by persons living in the
world, like St. Cecilia and St. Scho-
lastica, and expiring in the arms of
wife or husband without ever having
done violence to the pure intentions
which marked their bridal — these
things formed a spectacle so extraor-
dinary to the heathen, who had been
accustomed to make sensual indul-
' gence a feature in their religious so-
lemnities, that it could not but excite
inquiry, and issue in affixing a fresh
stamp of divinity on the faith of
Christ What would have become of
society by this time if the elements of
decomposition which then existed had
been allowed to work unchecked by
the laws of Christian marriage, the
prohibition of divorce, and lastly by
• monasticism — ^monasticism not forced
on any one as a duty, but freely
chosen as a privilege — a higher and
purer state, best suited for communion
with God and activity in his service !
In the fifth century, the efforts
which had been made by Popes In-
nocent, Boniface, Celestioe, and Sixtus .
III. for the conversion of the barbari-
ans who overran the fairest portions of
Europe, were continued with extra-
ordinary perseverance by the great
St. Leo. He formed tlie most con-
spicuous figure in his age. No ele-
ment of greatness was wanting to his
character, and the complicated miseries
of the times only threw into stronger
relief the energy of his mind and will.
His reign, from first to last, is a
chapter in ihe history of civilization.
Atdla, crossing the Jura mountains
with his numerous hordes, fell upon
Italy. Valentinian III. fled before
him, and Leo alone had weight and
courage equal to the task of interced-
ing with the resistless devastator. On
the 11th of June, 452, he set forth to
meet him, and found him on the banks
of the Mincio. Rome was saved, and
with it religion and the hopes of
society. Three years after, Genseric
with his Vandals stood before its gates ;
and though Leo could not this time
altogether stay the destroyer, he
bav^ the lives of the citizens, and
Rome itself from being burnt. If she
had not been possessed of a hidden
and supernatural life, far transcending
that idea of a civilizipg agent which
it so abundantly includes, she would
already have been razed to the ground,
as she was afterward by the Ostro-
goths undec Totila, and from neither
devastation would she ever have been
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ou
Some the CivOiser of NatUme.
able to revive. At this moment she
would bo numbered with Nineveh and
Sidon, the foxes would bark upon the
Aventine as when Belisarius rodo
through the deserted Forum, and shep-
herds would fold thdr flocks upon the
hills where St Peter's and St. John
Lateran now dazzle the 070 with
splendor.*
Happily great popes never fail. All
are great in their power and influence,
and almost all have been good, while
from time to time Providence raises up
some one also who makes an impres-
sion on liis age, and is acknowledged
by friends and foes alike to be gifled
with those qualities which entitle him
to the epithet •* great." Pelagus L
supplied the Romans with provisions
during a long siege, and after the ex-
ample of St. Leo, obtained from Totila
some mitigation of his barbarous se-
verities; John III. and Benedict I.
ministered largely to the Italians who
were dying of want, and driven from
their homes by the remorseless Lom-
bards ; and writers the most adverse to
the papacy — Gibbon, Daunou,t Sis-
mondi—testiiy to the disinterested be-
nevolence of these and other pontifis
during the church's struggle with north-
em devastators. Just a century and
a half had elapsed since Leo the
Great's elevation, when St. Gregory
ascended the papal throne amid the
j>eopIe's acclamation. He was at the
same time doctor, le^slator, and states-
man ; and the plain facts of his ponti-
ficate might be so related as to appear
a panegyric rather than a sober his-
tory. Li the midst of personal weak-
ness and suflering, the strength of his
soul and intelliect were felt in every
quarter of Christendom and while he
composed his "' Pastoral*' and his ^ Dia-
logues," or negotiated with the Lom-
bards in behalf* of his afflicted country,
news reached him frequently of the
success of his missions amongst distant
and barbarous people.) To one of
these we owe the conversion of our
* MonslKnor Manning, " The eternltj of Borne.**—
Lamp, Mot. 18C&
t '' Euai UbUMique/* X. L
$See ChanUel, ** Uist Popalaire dee P»pee/* t. ▼.
Anglo-Saxon fore&thers ; and die r&>
suits it produced extort fitmi Macau-
lay the admission that the spiritual su-
premacy assumed by the pope effected
more good than harm, and that the
lloman Church, by uniting all men in
a bond of brotherhood, and teaching
all their responsibility before God, de-
serves to be spoken of with respect by
philosophers and philanthropists.*
Sabinian, BonifaceHI. and IV., John
IV. and VII., Theodore, Martin, En-
gene, and Benedict IL, trod firmly in
the steps of St. Gregoiy, and encour-
aged the clergy eveiywhere in repair-
ing the evils wrought by the barba-
rians, and in re-establishing law and
order.f The bishops became the na-
tural chiefs of society, and the admin-
istration of justice was often placed
in their hands by common consent
Their counsel was taken by untutored
kings, and they gradually impressed
them with a sense of the distinction
between temporal and spiritual power,
and of the right of the latter to con-
trol the undue exercise of the former.
They raised by turns all the great
quesUons that interest mankind, and es-
tablished the independence of the in-
tellectual world.| Such is the impar-
tial testimony of writers unhappily
prejudiced against the institution tbey
applaud.
In their protracted conflict with
Islamism, the Soman pont^ were
the champions of social improvement.
It needs only to survey the opposite
coasts of the Mediterranean, in order
to gaui some idea of the paralyzing in-
fluence which the creed of Mohammed
would have exerted over human prep-
ress, if it had not been vigorously re-
sbted* Its prevailing dogma being
fatalism, and its main precept sensual-
ity, it has, after a lapse of twelve cen-
turies, failed to ameliorate the condi-
tion of the tribes who profess it. If,
in any respects, they enjoy advantages
unknown to the r forefathers, these are
due, not to Mohammedanism^bat to that
♦"Hlrt.- of ftifland/'clmp. L
t Gibbon, " Decline nnd Fall,** chna. Ixv.
tOuiiot,"mst. de la aTillsaUon en Burope.**
«'UUt.deUCIvillnyoawirrMioe,"LU.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Same the CiviUzer of JVcaiam.
G45
yeiy anti-Saracenic moTement which
the popes headed, and which, under
different conditions, tnej cany forward
to this day. Permanent degradation
was all that Islamism could promise.
The Arabs alone kindled for a while
the lamp of learning, bat even their
Bubdetj and genius did not suffice to
keep its flame alive. Everywhere, and
with all the forces at their command,
the popes repelled its encroachments.
More than once they girded on the
sword, and led their warriors to the
charge against the Moslem host
During a hundred and seventy years
—from 1096 to 1270— they roused
and united the nations again and
again in the common cause. Other
statesmen were unable to form exten-
sive combinations, but they were often
successful where diplomacy failed. In
dght successive crusades, the flower of
Europe's chiyalry was marshalled on
the Syrian plains, and if Catholic arms
fledled in retaining possession of the
city of Jerusalem and the sepulchre
of Christ, they at all events saved
the cause of European civilization,
and ultimately drove back the intru-
der from the vineyards of Spain and
the gates of Vienna, and sank their
proud galleys in the waves of Lepan-
to. When the zeal of crusaders died
away, the Roman pontiffs ever tried
to rekindle it, constantly rebuked the
princes who made terms with the
false prophet, and exhorted them to
expel the conquered Saracens from
their soil. Such was the policy of
Clement IV., xmder whom, in 1268,
the last crusade was set on fooL*
Two centuries later, Calixtus m.
was animated with the same senti-
ments. He was appalled, as his pre-
decessor had been, at the progress
the Turks made in Europe after the
capture of Constantinople, and made
a strenuous appeal to the Catholic
kingdoms against the Mussulman in-
Tasions. At an advanced age he pre-
served in his soul the fire of youth,
sent preachers in every direction to
* See bla letter to the King of Amgon. Vleaiyi
"BlBt Eccles." An. 1286w
rouse the slumbering sseal of the faith-
ful, and himself equipped an army of
60,000 men, which he sent under the
conunand of Campestran, his legate,
to the help of the noble Hunyad in
Hungary. Pius II. succeeded him in
1458. He was at once theologian,
orator, diplomatist, canonist, historian,
geographer, and poet. He struggled
hard to organize a crusade against
the Ottomans, formed a league to this
end with Mathias Corvin, king of
Hungary, pressed the king of France,
the duke of Burgundy, and the re-
public of Venice into the cause, and
placed himself at the head of the ex-
pedition. He was on the point of
embarking at Ancona, and in sight of
the Venetian galleys, waiting to trans-
port him to the foreign shore, when
fever surprised him, and he died.
" No doubt," he said, " war is unsuit-
able to tiie weakness of old men, and
the character of pontiffs, but when re-
ligion is ready to succumb, what can
detain us ? We shall be followed by
our cardinals and a large number of
bishops. We shall -march with our
standard unfolded, and with the relics
of saints, with Jesus Christ himself in
the holy Eucharist,'' The spectacle
would cert£unly have 'been grand, if
Pius 11. had thus appeared before the
walls of Constantinople; but Provi-
dence had not willed it so.
These are but a few of the great
names which lent weight to the appeal
in behalf of the harassed pilgrims in
Palestine, the outraged tomb of the Re-
deemer, and the Christian lands over-
ran by Saracens and Turkish hordes.
To whatever causes the worldly-wise
historian may attribute the overthrow
of the Ottoman power in Europe, the
Catholic will ascribe it without hesi-
tation to the untiring activity of the
popes. Divided as the petty kingdoms
and principalities of the west were
by mutual jealousy and ceaseless
war&re, they would never have been
able to oppose a compact front to the
advances of Islamism, if they had^ot
been persuaded by popes and prelates,
by Peter the hermit, St. Bernard, and
Digitized by CjOOQIC
646
Rome the Civitizer of Nations,
FouIquCy to laj aside their miserable
disputes, and unite against the com-
mon enemy. Thus, by the crusades,
immediate benefit accrued to Europe-
an society, and the character of the
church as a ruler and leader was nev-
er borne in upon the minds of men
with greater force than when Adho-
mar, the apostolic legate, put himself
at the head of the Crusade under Ur-
ban II., " wore by turns the prelate's
mitre and the knight's casque," and
proved the model, the consoler, and
the stay of the sacred expedition.*
The presence of bishops and priests
among the soldiery impressed on the
Crusades a religious stamp favorable
to the enthusiasm and piety of the
combatants, and corrective of the
evils which never fail to follow the
camp.f Kations learned their Christ-
ian brotherhood, which former ages
had taught them to forget; minds
were eidarged by travel, and preju-
dices were dispelled ; civilizing arts
were acquired even from the infidel,
and brought back to western towns
and villages as the most precious
spoil As Rome had, at an earlier
period, resisted the superstition and
mpacity of Leo the Isaurian,J and
rescued Christian art from the hands
of the image-breakers, so now she
opened the way to conmierce with the
cast and rewarded the zeal of Catho-
lic populations with the costly bales
and rich produce of Arabia and S^^ria.
Having turned the feudal system to
good account in its conflict with Mo-
hammedanism, the Church, with Rome
for iis centre, rejoiced to find that sys-
tem, at the close of the struggle, con-
siderably weakened. It had grown to
maturity in a barbarous age, and was
but a milder form of that slavery
which had so deeply disgraced the in-
stitutions of Pagan Rome. § It per-
petuated the distinctions of caste, and
the privilege enjoyed by one family of
oppressing others. It was seliishnesa
* Michaad et Poi^pnUt, "Hist, des CrolsadM.**
tAw Ueeren, *'KasAi sar TlnflueMce des Orol-
t " Parfum de Rome," 1. 1 p. 124.
S See '* Kome under PaganUm," etc., toL 1. pp. 6O-03.
exalted by pride — the right of the
strong over the weaL It exacted
forced tribute, and held in its own vio-
lent hands the moral, mental, and ma-
terial well-being of its subjects. It
required blind and absolute submis-
sion, and often refused to dispense jus-
tice even at this price. Immobility
was its ruling principle, and there was
nothing on which it frowned more
darkly than amelioration and progress.
In all these particulars it was at vari-
ance with the religion of Christ, and
for this reason Rome never ceased to
combat its manifold abuses.
At the close of the Crusades the
nobles began to learn their proper
place. Petty fiefs and small republics
disappeared, and one strong and regal
executive swallowed up a multitude
of inferior and vexatious masteries.
The barons became the support of the
throne whose authority they had so
long weakened, and ceased to oppress
the people as they had done for ages.
Cities multiplied, and rose to opulence;
municipal governments Nourished, ac-
quired and conferred privileges, and
horded to the industrious abundant
scope for wholesome emulation, and
laudable ambition. All the arts of
life were brought into exercise, and a
new and middling class of society was
called into being. The merchants, the
tradesmen, and the gentry obtained
their recognized footing in the commu-
nity, and numberless corpomtions,
guilds, and militia testified to the
growing importance of the burgess as
distinguished &*om the noble and the
villan.*
Well-ordered governments on a
large scale involved of necessity the
cultivation of the soil. Myriads of
acres which, before the Crusades, had
been barren or baneful, now smiled
with waving com, or bore rich har-
vests of luscious grapes. The want of
bulky transports to convey large car-
goes of men and munitions to the East
had caused great alteration and im-
provement in the construction of ships.
• See Mabljr, "ObMrrfttlons for fEktotxe de
France," Ml. 7.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Same the OivOizer of Nations,
647
l^avigation and commerce gained firesh
vigor; maritime laws and customs
came to be recognized, and were re-
duced, about the middle of the thir-
teenth century, into a manual called
Consolato del mar, * Venice, Genoa,
Pisa, and Marseilles rose to wealth
and splendor; sugar and silks were
manufactured; Rtuffi were woven
and djed; metals were wrought;
architecture was diversified and im-
proved » medicine learned manj a
precious rule and remedy from Arab
leeches; geography corrected long-
standing blunders; and poetry found
a new world in which to expatiate.
Xone of these results were unfore-
seen by the prescience of Rome* She
knew that it was her mission to re-
new the face of the earth ; nor, in pur-
suing her unwavering policy in re-
ference to Islamism, did she ever for-
get that it was given her from the first
to suck the breasts of the Gentiles,
and to assimilate to her own system
all that is rich and rare in nature,
wonderful in science, beauteous in art,
wise in literature, and noble in man.
The Roman Church had ever been the
friend and patron of those slaves
whom Cato and Cicero, with all their
philosophy, so heartily despised.t
She did not indeed affirm that slavery
was impossible under the Christian
law, but sbe discouraged it. '^At
length," says Voltaire, whpse testi-
mony on such a point none will sus-
pect, ** Pope Alexander m., in 1167,
declared in the name of the Council that
all Christians should be (devaient itre)
exempt from slavery. This law alone
ought to render his memory dear to
all people, as his efforts to maintain
the liberty of Italy should make his
name precious to the Italians."} Lord
Macaulay has spoken frankly of the
advantage to which the Catholic
Churcb shows in some countries as
contrasted with our forms of Christ-
ianity, and says it is notorious that the
antipathy between the European and
African races is less strong at Rio
* E. M. de Monagfaan, p. 919.
t Cic. Orat de Uarasp, Kesp. xiU
i Bur lea Moeurs, ch. 88.
Janeiro than at Washington.* On
the authority of Su: Thomas Smith,
one of Elizabeth's most able counsel-
lors, he assures us that the Catholic
priests up to that time had used their
most strenuous exertions to abolish
seridom. Confessors never failed to
adjure the dying noble who owned
serfs to free his brethren for whom
Christ died. Thus the bondsman be-
came loosened from the glebe which
gave him birth; many during the
Crusades left their plough in the fur
row, and their cattle at the trough, and
escaped from service they had long
detested ; and many knights and lords
who returned from the Holy Land
emancipated their serfs of their own
accord. Free hirelings took the place
of hereditary bondsmen; and the
peasant's life assumed a pleasant and
civilized aspect. In proportion as
Rome's genuine iafiuence prevails in
any country over clergy and people,
the traces of the fall diminish, and
those of paradise are restored.
The Roman pontiff have often been
accused of interfering in the private
affairs of princes. But the charge is
unjust It is part of their mission to
repress aU moral disorders, and es-
pecially to punish the licentiousness of
sovereigns whose bad example pro-
motes immorality among their subjects.
Their jurisdiction is fully admitted;
their right of granting or refusing a
divorce no Catholic prince disputes any
more than their right of inflicting pen-
ances in case of adultery or incest.
To deny them, therefore, the opportu-
nity of investigating the very cases on
which they must ultimately decide,
would be manifestly inconsistent and #
absurd. When Lothaire IL of Lor-
raine drove away from his court the
virtuous Teustberghe, and accused her
of disgracefiil crimes, who can blame
Nicholas I. for having espoused the
cause of this persecuted queen, and
excommunicated in council her unjust
lord? Did the popes "interfere" in
such matters otherwise than in the in-
terests of humanity ; and if they had
* Ulak of England, dbapi i.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
048
JRame the CXmli'^er of Nations,
ooQsnlted their own eaee and comfort,
would thc7 not have abstamed from
Buch interference altogether ? Let the
world call it papal aggression, usur-
pation, political scheming, or what
other hard name it will, the true Christ-
ian will see in it nothing but disinter^
ested devotion to the voice of con-
science and the good of society. God
himself seems to have declai-ed in fa-
vor of Pope Nicholas in the affair al-
luded to ; tor when Louis le German-
ique took up arms to avenge his bro-
ther, and marched on Rome, the pon-
tiff met his armies with fasting and
litanie^, and with no other standard
than the crucifix given by the Empress
Helena containing a fragment of the
true cross. The victorious king was
overcome by these demonstrations, and,
imploring the pope's pardon, submit-
ted to all his conditions.* We hesitate
not to affirm that the "interference**
of the popes in temporal affairs has
more than once saved Europe from
Islamism, even as at the present time
they are saving her from total infideli-
ty. Whether successful or unsuccess-
ful, they struggled with equal con-
stancy and vsdor against that formi-
'^kble power. About the year 876
Mussulman hordes infested the country
around Rome to such an extent that
at last scarcely a hamlet or drove of
oxen remained to suffer by the wide-
spread disaster. Three hundred Sar-
acen galleys menaced the mouth of the
Tiber, and John VIII., deserted and be-
trayed by neighboring dukes, implored
by letter the aid of Charles the Bald
and the Emperor Charles of Germany.
Yet he failed, and that not so much
through, the strength of the Moham-
medans as through the base conduct of
princes called Christian, who cast him
into prison, and then drove him to find
refuge in France. Oflen have the
popes been obliged to follow the ex-
ample of John YIII., and look forth
from their retirement in foreign lands
on the tempest they have braved and
escaped. His 820 letters show how
much temporal affairs occupied his at-
HUman't Ulst. of LaOa Chrlstlaultj.
tention, because God willed that bis
spiritual authority should show forth
its civilizing tendency in temporal in-
tervention. His conflict with Islam-
ism, which seemed unproductive at
the time, bore fruit in after ages.
The difierences which arose and
lasted BO long between the popes and
the emperors of Germany are con-
stantly misrepresented by writers ad-
verse to the Church. Their origin
lay in the attachment of the Roman
pontiffs to principles which they can
never abandon. The investiture quar-
rel was a long struggle of spiritual
authority against imperial aggression,
and the apparent compromise in which
it issued left the divine prerogatives
of the Holy See intact. Simony was
one great plague of the middle ages,
and but for the popes the princes of
Europe would have filled the Lord's
temple with impious traffic. But (or
the popes, too, many of them would
have been unchecked in their proud
dreams of universal empire, which, if
realized, would have been as injurious
to the liberties of mankind as to the
free action of the church. Frederick
II., who was bom in Italy, and lived
to spend long years in its delicious
climate, without once visiting his €[er-
man domains, desired to establish in
her the throne of the CaBsars. This
was the secret of all his disputes with
the pope, and this ambitious project
every successor of SU Peter felt bound
to resist. But amid all these struggles,
from Gregory VII. to Calistus IL,the
life of the church was a continual
child-bearing, and while the popes
battled with crowned princes, they
labored also for the souls of the poor.
If you would find the inexliaustible
mine of that salt which keeps the
whole world from corruption, you
must seek it in (he hill where Paul
was buried, and Peter expired on his
inverted cross. Proceeding thus by
regular stages in the work of improve-
ment, the Roman Church had the
satisfaction of seeing every formula of
enfranchisement signed by prince or
baron in the name of religion* It was
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Borne the Oimllzer of NoHom.
649
always with some Christian idea, some
hope of future recompense^ some re-
cognitiou'of the eqaalitj of all men in
the sight of Grod, that the strong Tol-
nntarilj loosened the bonds of the
weak. Absurd and barbarous legisla-
tion was gradnallj reformed under the
same influence; and trials by single
eombat, oaths without evidence, and
passing through fire or cold water as
a test of innocence, were supphinted
by more rational processes. M. Gnizot
has pointed out the great superiority
of the-laws of the Visigoths over those
of other barbarous people around them ;
and he ascribes this difference to their
having been drawn up under the direc-
tion of the Councils of Toledo. They
laid great stress on the examination of
written documents in all trials, accept-
ed mere affirmation on oath only as a
last resource, and distingnished be-
tween the different degrees of guilt in
homicide, with or without premedita-
tion, provoked or unprovoked, and the
like. If M. Guizot's observation is
well founded m the case of an Arian
code, how much more weight would it
have, if made in reference io laws
framed under Catholie influence.
Civilization and theology weut hand
in hand. Every question was consid-
ered in its theological bearing. The
habits, the feelings, and the language
of men continus^y bespoke religious
ideas. Barbaric wisdom was guided
by the Star of the East to Bethlehem,
and matured in the school of Christ.
The public penances imposed by the
church becune the form to which
penal inflictions were moulded by the
law ; the repentance of the culprit, and
the fear of c^endmg inspired in by-
standers, being the twofold object kept
in view. The progress mode by the
nations under such tutelage has been
allowed by many Protestant historians,
and it would be easy to cite the testi-
mony of Robertson, Sismondi, Leib-
nits, Coquerel, Andllon,* and De Mul-
]er,t to the truth of our statements.
Dneb in the middle ages, and even
* Tablefta des B^toIqUodil
tUIatUnlTmcUc
down to the time of Louis XIV., raged
like an epidemic, produced deadly
feuds between families, abolished all
just decision of disputes, and gave the
advantage to the more agile and skil-
ful of the combatants. From 1589 to
1607 no less than 4000 French gen-
tleman lost their lives in duels.* The
genius of Sully and Richelieu was un-
equal to the task of crushing this two-
fold crime of suicide and murder. But
the church had never ceased to de-
nounce it, and, in the Council of Trent
especially, launched all her thunders
agamstitf At length temporal princes
were guided by her voice in this mat-
ter. Charles V. forbade it in his vast
dominions ; in Portugal it was punished
with confiscation and banishment to
Africa; and in Sweden it was visited
with death.
The pitiless character of human
legislation was exhibited for ages in
the practice of refusing those who were
condemned to death the privilege of
confession; and it was not till the
reign of Philip the Bold, in 1397, that
this cruel restriction was removed.
The church had always protested
against it, and her remonstrances at
last prevailed. Chivalry itself owed
something to her inspiration. Min-
gled as it was with rudeness and vio-
lence, it had also many noble ele-
ments, which religion encouraged. It
was ^ step toward higher civilization,
because it vindicated the dignity of
womankind; true gallantry sprang
from honest purposes and virtuous
conduct, and if Sir Galahad said —
*' My good blade carvM the essqnes of mra,
My ioQgh lance tbrusteth t«re,"
he added —
" My strength is as the strength of tea,
Sir James Stephen, in a paper on St.
Gregoxy YI1,,X has avowed his con-
viction that the centralization of the
ecclesiastical power did more than
counterbalance the isolating tendency
of feudal oligarchies. But for the in-
t Sess. xxT. c 19.
t Bdlnbargh B«Tleir, 184B.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
650
Same the CiviUzer oflfatians.
tervention of the papacy, he sajs, the
vassal of the west, and the serf of
casteni Europe would, perhaps to this
day be in the same state of social
debasement, and military autocrats
would occupy the place of paternal
and constitutional governments. Feu-
dal despotism strove to debase men
into wild beasts or beasts of burden,
while ** the despotism of Hildebrand,'*
whether consistent or no, sought to
guide the human ^race by moral impul-
ses to sanctity more than human. If
the popes had abandoned the work
assigned them by Providence, they
would have plunged the church and
world into hopeless bondage. St.
Gregory VII. found the papacy de-
pendent on the empire, and he sup-
ported it by alliances with Italian
princes. He found the chair of the
apostles filled, when vacant, by the
clergy and the people of Rome, and
he provided for less stormy elections
by making the pope eligible by a col-
lege of his own nomination. He
found the Holy See in subjection to
Henry, and he rescued it from bis
hands. He found the secular clergy
subservient to lay influence, and
he rendered them free and active
auxiliaries of his own authority. He
found the highest dignitaries of the
church the slaves of temporal sover-
eigns, and he delivered them from
this yoke, and bound them to the
tiara. He found ecclesiastical func-
tioas and benefices Oie spoil and traffic
of princes, and he brought them back
to the control of the sovereign pon-
tifi; . He is justly celebrated as the
reformer of the profane and licentious
abuses of his time, and we owe him
the praise also of having left the im-
press of his giant character on the
history of the ages that followed.
Such are the candid admissions of a
professor in the University of Cam-
bridge. The highest eulogies of Home
are often to be found in the writings
of aliens.
Up to the time of the Reformation
the Roman church was manifestly in
the forefront of civilization. After
that terrible revolntion she was stUI
really so, but not always manifestly.
Her position was the same, but that of
society had changed. It no longer
accepted her laws ; it cavilled at her
authority, gt openly spumed it. Peo-
ple forgot their debt of gratitude to
the power which had always inter-
fered in behalf of the oppressed, and
princes jibed at the restraints which
the papacy imposed on their absolute
rule. The printing-press was wrested
from the church's hands, and made the
chief engine for propagating misbelief.
A new and spurious civilization was
set up, and was so blended with real
and amazing progress in many of the
sciences and the arts of life, that when
the popes opposed what was corrupt
in it and of evil tendency, they often
appeared adverse to what was genu-
ine. Of tins their enemies took every
advantage, and constantly represented
them as the mortal foes of the liberty,
enlightenment, and progress of man-
kind. Pontiff after pontiff protested
against this wilful misrepresentation,
which has lasted three hundred years,
and continues in full force to this day.
Seldom has it been put forward more
speciously than in reference to the re-
cent Encyclical of Pius IX. We
shall endeavor to show its utter
falsity in the remainder of this ar-
ticle.
Thrown back in her efforts to evan-
gelize Europe, the church turned with
more ardor than ever toward the
other hemisphere. Already Alvarez
di Cordova had planted the cross in
Congo. Idolatry vanished before it
almost entirely in the African territory
reoently discovered, and upon its
ruins rose the city of San Salvador.
The ills inflicted on the Americans by
the first Spanish settlers were repair-
ed by the Benedictine Bernard di
Bull, and other missionaries who trod
in his steps. The Dominicans set
their faces sternly asainst reducing
the Indians to the raiu: of slaves, and
Father Monterino, in the choreh of
St. Domingo, inveighed against it in
the presence of the governor^ with all
Digitized by CjOOQIC
jRome the Civilizer of Nations.
651
the fervor of popular eloquence.*
The life of Bartholomew de Las Casas
was one long struggle against the cu-
pidity and cruelty of Spanish masters
and in favor of Indian freedom.
The labors and successes of Su
Francis Xavier are too well kno%vn to
require recapitulation in this place ; it
is more to the purpose to remark that
the missionaries of Rome, from Mexi-
co and the Philippine islands, to Goa,
Cochin-China, and Japan, everywhere
exposed to adverse climate, Imrdship,
and martyrdom, carried with them
the two-fold elements of civilization —
religion and the arts of life. The
Jesuit who started for China was pro-
vided with telescope and compass.
He appeared at the court of Pekin
with the urbanity of one fresh from
the presence of Louis XTV., and sur-
rounded with the insignia of science.
He unrolled his maps, turned his
globes, chalked out his spheres, and
taught the astonished mandarins the
course of the stars and the name of
him who guides them in their orbits.t
Bufifon,! Robertson, and Macaulay
have alike extolled the missionary
zeal of the Jesuit fathei*s, and have
ascribed to them,« not merely the
regeneration of the inward man, but
the cultivation of barren lands, the
building of cities, new high roads of
commerce, new products, new riches
and comforts for the whole human
race.
In teaching barbarous nations the
arts of life and the elements of scien-
tific knowledge, the missionaries acted
in perfect accordance with the spirit
of the papacy and the example of the
religious orders. Each of these had
its appointed sphere, and each civil-
ized mankind in its own way. The
templars, the knights of St. John, the
Teutonic knights, and half a dozen
other now forgotten military orders,
defended civilization with the sword ;
the Chartreux, the Benedictines, the
Bemardines, in quiet and shady re-
* Robertoon, Hlsi. of America,
t G6nle du Ghiistianisme.
X HUi. NatureUe de rHomme.
treats, preserved from decay the
precious stores of heathen antiquity,
compiled the history of their several
epochs, and gave themselves, under
many disadvantages^ to the study of
natural philosophy; the Bedemptor-
ists,the Trinitarians, and the Brothers
of Mercy devoted themselves to the
redemption of captives and the eman-
cipation of slaves. Voltaire cannot
pass them over without a burst of ad-
miration, when touching on their
benevolent career during six cen-
turies.* Some orders made preach-
ing and private instruction their
special work, and among these were
the Dominicans, the Franciscans, the
Carmelites, and the Augustines. The
pulpit is the lever that raises the
moral world; and it civilizes city,
village, and hamlet the more effectual-
ly because its work is constant and
systematic. It explains, Sunday after
Sunday, and festival after festival, the
sublimest and deepest of all sciences,
while it guides society, with persuasive
might, in the path of moral improve-
ment. With all that social science
has devised for the comfort and wel-
fai'e of mankind, nothing that it has
ever invented is so essentially civiliz-
ing, so dignified and lovely, so un-
pretending and strong, as the self-de-
nying labors of brothers and sisters
of cliarity, sacrificing youth, beauty,
prospects, tastes, and indulgence, on
the altar of religion, and passing tiieir
days among the lepers and the plague-
stricken, the ignorant, the degraded,
the squalid and the infirm.
. And of these orders, none, be it ob-
served, has railed against kuowledge.
By no rule, in any one of them, has
ignorance been made a virtue and
science a sin. All have admired the
beauty of knowledge — ^the fire on her
brow — ^her forward oountenance — ^her
boundless domain. All have wished
well to her cause, and have maintain-
ed only that she should know her
place ; that she is the second, not the
first ; that she is not wisdom, but wis-
* Sor iM Mflran, ch, cxx.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
652
Rome the CMKxer of Naiioni*
dom's handmaid; that she is of earth,
and wisdom is of heaven ; she is of the
world for the church, and wisdom is of
the church for the world. Severed
fi*om religion, they regarded her as
some wild Pallas from the brain of
demons; but science guided oy a
higher hand, and moving side by side
with revelation, like the younger
child, they believed to be the most
beautiful spectacle the mind could
contemplate.
To repeat these things in the ears
of well read Catholics, is to iterate a
Uirice-told tale. But there are others
who need often to be reminded of
facts of history which our adversaries
are apt to ignore. Besides the vast
body of priests and religious orders,
whose office was to disseminate
thought and piety through the world,
the papacy constantly sought new
vehicles by which to promote science.
The greater part of the universities of
Europe owe their existence to this
agency. Oxford, Cambridge, Glas-
gow, Naples, Padua, Vienna, TJpsal,
Lisbon, Sahunanca, Toulouse, Mont-
pellier, Orleans, Nantes, Poictiers,
and a multitude beside, were made
centres of human knowledge under
the patronage of the popes, and
Clement V., Gregory IX., Engenius
IV., Nicholas V., and Pius II., were
among the most illustrious of their
founders.
The writings of Leonardo da Vinci
were not published till a century after
his death, and some of them at a still
later period. They are more like
revelations of physical truths vouch-
safed to a single mind, than the fabric
of its reasoning on any established
basis. He laid down the principle oi
Bacon, that experiment and observa-
tion must bo our chief guides in the
investigation of nature. Venturi has
given a most interesting list of the
truths in mechanism apprehended by
the genius of this light of the fifteenth
century.* He was possessed in the
• Bstal sur lea OaTrages Phjsico-Math^mftUqaei
de Leonard de VlncL ParU. 1797. UaUAm*s lito-
X9XJ History, toL i. pp. 823^
highest degree of the spirit of physical
inquiry, and in this department of
learning was truly a seer.
Let the reader transport himself in
idea to the beautiftil borders of the
Henares, and there , in the opening of
the sixteenth century, look down on
the rising University of Alcala. Let
him admire and wonder at the varied
energy of its founder — ^Ximenes, the
prelate, the hermit, the warrior, and
the statesman. There, in bis sixty-
fourth year, he laid the corner-stone
of the principal coU^e, and was often
seen with the rule in hand, taking the
measurement of the buildings, and en-
couraging the industry of the work-
men. The diligence with which he
framed the system of instruction to be
pursued, the activity of mind he pro-
moted among the students, the liberal
foundations he made for indigent scho-
lars and the regulation of profes-
sors' salaries, did not withdraw him
from the affairs of state, or the
publication of his famous BiUe, the
Complutensian Polyglot. When
Francis I., visited AlcaU, twenty
years after the university was open-
ed, 7000 students came forth to re-
ceive him, and by the middle of the
seventeenth century the revenue be-
queathed by Ximenes had increased
to 42,000 ducats, and the colleges
had multiplied from ten to thirty-
five. * Most of the chairs were
appropriated to secular studies, and
Alcala stands forward as a brilliant
reftitation of the calumnies against
Catholic prelates as the patrons of ig-
norance.
The Same country and epoch which
produced Ximenes gave birth also to
Columbus. It was neither accident
nor religion, but nautical science and
the intuitive vision of another hemi-
sphere, that piloted him across the at-
landc to the West-India shores. Ame-
rigo Vespucci followed jn his wake,
emulous of like discoveries. He pub-
lished a journal of his earlier voyages
at Vicenza in 1507, and gave his name
* Qolntanilla: Archetypo. PrMcott^t Ferdinand
aadlMbellA,U.836^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
SwM (he OiviHzer of Nations.
653
to tlie oontbent of the western world.
Thus, while two great nayigators, each
of them Catholics, explored new lands
on the sarface of our globe, Copemi-
cas at the same time, and Galileo not
many jears af^r, presaged the motion
qf the planets round the sun, and the
twofold rotation of the earth. To
Galileo, indeed, far more is due. To
him we owe the larger part of expe-
rimental philosophy. He first pro-
pounded the laws of gravity, the in-
yention of the pendulum, the hydro-
static scales, the sector, a thermometer,
and the telescope. With the last he
made numberless observations which
changed the face of astronomy. Among
these, that of the satellites of Jupiter
was one of the most remarkable. He
came, it is true, into a certain collision
with the church, but it is remarkable,
that all the provocation given by Ga-
lileo never reduced authority to the
QOJQStiflable step of impeding the full-
est scientific investigation of his theo-
ry. Nay, those astronomers who
taught on the Copemican hypothegU
were more favored at Rome than their
opponents. It was at Galileo's re-
quest that Urban appointed Castelli to
be his own mathematician, and the let-
ter in which the pontiff recommended
Galileo to the notice of the Grand
Duke of Tuscany, after his condemna-
tion, abounds with expressions of sin-
cere friendship. As to the dungeon
and the torture, they are simply fabu-
lous. During the process Galileo was
permitted to lodge at the Tuscan em-
bassy instead of in the prison of the
holy office — a favor not accorded even
to princos. His sentence of imprison-
ment was no sooner passed, than the
' Pope commuted it into detention in the
Villa Medici, and, afler he had resided
there Bome days, he was allowed to
instal himself in the palace of his
friend, Ascanio Piccolomini, arch-
Inshop of Sienna. Subsequently he
retired to his own house and the bo-
som of his fiimily; for, as Nicolini's
correspondence with him testifies, *^his
holiness treated Galileo with unex-
pected and, perhaps, excessive gentle-
ness, granting all the petitions present-
ed in his behalf."* These facts are
surely sufficient to prove that physical
science received all due honor at this
period in Rome. In due time — ^long
after Galileo's death — ^his theory was
scientifically established ; and not very
long afterward the Congregational
decree was suspended by Benedict
XIY. Galileo's famous dialogue was
published entire at Padua in 1744
with the usual approbations; and in
1818 Pius Vn. repealed the decrees
in question in full consistory. What
could the church do more? It was
her duty to guard the Scriptures from
irreverence and unbelief, and to pro-
hibit the advocacy of theories abso-
lutely unproved which seemed to op-
pose them. To her physical science
is dear, but revealed truth is infinitely
dearer. Already she had opposed as-
trology as a remnant of paganism, and
liad studied the motions of the moon
and planets to fix Easter and reform
the Julian calendar. Already Gregory
XIU. had brought the calendar which
bears his name into use; and the
works of Aristotle, translated into
Arabic and Latin, had become the
model of theological methods of dispu-
tation and treatise. St. Thomas Aqui-
nas had written commentaries on them,
and on Plato ; and thus, as well as by
his essay on aqueducts and that on
hydraulic machines, had proved how
inseparable is the alliance between
sound theology and true science. *^ The
sceptre of science," says Joseph de
Maistre, '^belongs to Europe only
because she is Christian. She has
reached this high degree of civilization
and knowledge because she began with
theology, because the universities were
at first schools of theolc^y, and be-*
cause all the sciences, grafted upon
this divine subject, have shown forth
the divine sap by immense vegeta-
tion."t
Voltaire has observed that ^the
sovereign pontiffs have always been
remarkable among princes attached to
• Brithhlt«Ti«w.l861. MutTnlom of CkUtoo.
t Bolr^ de Sfc. P6t«riboofv, Xme eatrelieo.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
G54
Rome the CivUizer of Nations,
letters," and the remark is equally
trae as regards science and art Sil-
vester II. was so learned that the
common people attributed his rast
erudition to magic. He collected all
the monuments of antiquity he could
find in Germanj and Italj, and de-
livered tbem into the hands of copy-
ists in the monasteries. St. Gregory
VII. conceived the design of rebuild-
ing St Peter's, and gathered around
him all the first architects of his day.
Gregory IX. interfered in behalf of
the University of Paris, and, as Guil-
laume do Nangis says, ^prevented
science and learning, those treasures
of salvation, from quitting the king-
dom of France." Nicolas V. was a
great restorer of letters, and Macaulay
speaks of him as one whom every
friend of science should name with
respect Sixtus IV. conferred the
tittle of Count Palatine on the prin-
ter Jenson, to encourage the noble art,
then in its infancy. Pius III. en-
riched Sienna with a magnificent
library, and engaged Raphael and
Pinturicchio to adorn it with frescoes.
Paul V. endowed Rome with the most
beautiful productions of sculpture ^nd
painting, with splendid fountains and
enduring monuments. Urban Vm.
loved aJl the arts, succeeded in Latin
poetry, and filled his court with men
of learning. Under his pontificate
** the Romans," as Voltaire says, ^ en-
joyed profound peace, and shared all
the charms and glory which talent
sheds on society." Benedict XIV.
cultivated letters, composed poems,
and patronized science. The infidel
himself just mentioned paid him hom-
age, and professed profound veneration
for him, when sending him a copy of
•his " Mjahomet"* Every pop6 in his
turn has been a Maecenas. Not one
in the august line has lost sight of the
interests of society and the preroga-
tives of mind. The usefiil and the
beautiful were always present to their
thoughts ; and even in those few in-
stances where they failed in good peiv
• Letter to Pope Benedict XIV.
sonally, they encouraged in their of-
ficial capacity whatsoever things are
true, lovely, and of good fame.
Many names dear to science and
religion occur to us in illustitttion of
these remarks — names of men who,
in the two last and in the present
century, have devoted their lives to
secular learning without losing their
allegiance to the Catholic faith, or
confounding it with other sciences
which lie within human control for
theu* extension and modification. Of
these honorable names we will men-
tion a few only by way of example,
feeling sure that our readers* memory
will supply them with many others.
Cassini, among the astronomers, enjoy-
ed so high a reputation at Bologna
that the Senate and the pope employ-
ed him in several scientific and polifi-
cal missions. Colbert invited him to
Paris, where he became a member of
the Academy of Sciences, and died at
a good old a^ in 1712, crowned with
the glory of several important dis-
coveries, among which were those of
the satellites of Saturn and the rota-
tion of Mars and Venus. His son
James followed in his footsteps, and
bequeathed his name to fame. Andre
Ampere, again, a sincere Catholic,
was one of the most illustrious dis-
ciples of electro-magnetism. He de-
veloped the memorable discovery of
Oersted, ranged over the entire field
of knowledge, and acquired a lasting
reputation by his " theory of electro-
dynamic phenomena drawn from ex-
perience." When between thirteen
and fourteen years of age, he read
through the twenty folio volumes of
D*Alembert and Diderot's Encyclo- ,
psedia, digested its contents wonder-
fully for a boy and could long after-
wards repeat extracts from it But
his reading was not confined to such
books. A biography of Descartes,
indeed, by Thomas, inspired hun with
his earliest enthusiasm for mathe-
matics and natural philosophy > but
his first communion also left an indeli-
ble stamp on his memory and charac-
ter. The love of religion then, once
Digitized by CjOOQIC
RofM the OiviKzer of Rattans*
655
and for ever, took poasession of hia
soul, and fired him through life, like
the electric currents into which he made
such profound research* When his
days, which were fall of trouble, came
to a close at MarseUles in 1837, he
told the chaplain of the college that
he had discharged all his Christian
duties before setting out on his jour-
ney ; and when a iriend began read-
ing to him some sentences fix>m ^ The
Imitation of Christ," he said, ^I
know the book by heart.** These
were his last words.
By the liyes and labors of such men
the church's mission on earth is effectu-
ally seconded. They inspire the think-
ing portion of society with confidence
in rdigion, and though, from their con-
stant engagement in secular pursuits,
they frequently err in some minor
point, and cHng to some crotchet which
ecclesiastical authority cannot sanction,
yet in consideration of their loyal in-
tentions and exemplary practices, the
clergy everywhere regard them as able
and honorable coac^utors. True civili-
zation, (observe the epithet,) far from
being adverse, must ever be favorable
to the salvation of souls. Many wri-
ters still living, or who have recently
passed away, have united happily
Catholicism with science. Santarem,
in his long exile, gave his mind to the
history of geography and the discover-
ies of his Portuguese fellow-country-
men on the western coast of Africa.
Cassar Canth, in his historical works,
uniformly defended the cause of the
popedom in Italy, and persisted in
holding it forward as his country's
hope. M. Capefigne, among his nu-
merous works on French history, has
'included the life of St. Vincent of
Paul; and Cardinal Mai has rendered
incalculable service to the study of
Greek MSS. But for his diligence
and sagacity, the palimpsests of the
Vatican would never have yielded up
their ail-but obliterated treasures.
Samtp-Hilaire, eminent alike as a zo-
ologist and natural philosopher, who
demonstrated so clearly the organic
structure in the different species of
animals was destined in his youth for
holy orders; but although he preferred
a scientific career, he retained his af-
fection for the clergy, and saved sev-
eral of them, at the risk of his own
life, during the massacres of Septem-
ber, in 1 792. Blainville, another great
naturalist, and Cuvier's successor in
the chair of comparative anatomy, was
deeply religious. He felt the import-
ance of rescuing physical science from
the hands of infidelity, by which it is
so often perverted into an argument
against revelation. Epicurus is said
to have maintained that our knowledge
of Deity is exactly commensurate with
our knowledge oif the works of na-
ture, and to have allowed no other
measure of our theology out physics.
Lucretius devoted the whole of his
beautiful but atheistic poem, ^De
Rerum Natur^" to the task of proving
that the soul is mortal, that religion is
a cheat, and that natural causes suffi-
ciently account for all the phenomena
of the universe. In our day the dis-
ciples of Epicurus and Lucretius arc
legion, but they are not always so
plain spoken as their masters. Hap-
pily they are everywhere opposed by
men wlu> recall physics to their true
place, and make them a corollary of
revealed truth — ^the science of the
Creator, as Catholicism may be termed
the science of the Divine Redeemer
and Ruler. But useful as such labor-
ers in the field of secular learning are,
the truth cannot be too often repeated,
that the vivifying principle of civiliza-
tion lies in the cross and the ministry
of reconciliation, of which the Pope is
the head. No man whose knees have
never bent on Calvary is truly civil-
ized. If his passions chance to be
tamed, his reason is rampant, or his
conscience is asleep. He has no clear
perception of things divine, and his
views of things earthly and human arc
erroneous and confused. Oh! that
philosophers would learn that ih^ glory
of their intellect consists in its dutiful
subordination to the church! Then
would she ehine forth more conspicu-
ously in the sight of all men as the
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656
I%e Ourse of Sacrihge.
civUizer of nations. Then, and then
odIj, should we be able to encourage
without reserve or misgiving the spec-
ulations of science and the enterprises
of art, and should join with loud voices
and full hearts in the ardent aspinip
tions of the poet:
l\j. happy happr wiili, and bear the Press ;
Knit land to land, and blowing havenirard
Fly^ happy wilh the mUHon qf the CroM ;
With silks, and fraits, and spices, clear of toll,
Enrich the markets of the golden year.
That which delays the golden year,
and prevents the knitting of land to
land in the bonds of religious brother-
hood, is the want of unity among na«
tions called Christian. The terrible
disruptions effected under Photins, Lu-
ther, and Henry VIII^ have rendered
the conversion of the world for the
present morally impossible. But if
the East and West were again united
bnder their lawful lord and pope; if
Protestant sects were deprived of regal
support, re&bsorbed into the Catholic
body, or so reduced in numerical im-
portance as to be all but inactive and
voiceless ; if the vaunted utility of as-
sociation were duly exemplified; if
European populations were emulous
of spiritual conquests in distant coun-
tries ; if under the guidance and con-
trol of a common idea each of them
launched its missionary ships on the
waters in quick succession; if each
town and university sent it^ quota of
zeal and learning to the glorious work ;
if missionaries in large numbers went
forth cheered with the apostolic bene-
diction, and on whatever shore they
might converge found other laborers in
fields already white for the harvest,
speaking with many tongues of one
Lord, one faith, one baptism — ^then
would the heathen no longer be stupe-
fied by the feeble front and incongruous
claims of those who now call them to
repentance, nor would infidels scoff and
jeer at a religion which has been made
the very symbol of disunion; unbe-
lieving nations, astonished at the strict
coincidence of testimony borne by
preachers arriving from every quarter
of the globe, would distrust their
prophets, desert their idols, and seek
admission into the one ubiquitous fold.
Then^ also, the moral and intellectual
energies of European prelates would
be no longer engrossed by resisting
aggression and weeding out disaffec-
tion nearer home, but would have lei-
sure to organize missions on a. large
scale, and to fortify them with every
auxiliary modem art and science can
supply The honor and glory of civ-
ilization would then be given to her to
whom it belongs of right ; and the na-
tions, at length disabused of popular
fallacies, would perceive that Protest-
antism and spurious liberty really
hinder the progress they are supposed
to promote.
[OBIOIKAL.]
THE CURSE OF SACRILEGE.
Jin Che Bubturbs of the ancient and enrloas oity of Angers in France Is a beaatlfbl chatean, sltoaied In the
Ist of eztensire and fertile groands. The chapel contains some very remarkable pieces of statoar/, nov
nearly eight hundred ycari old. The place was formerly a eonrent of monks, and wrested firom them during
the great revolution. The family into whose posseaaion it came, has ever since been afflicted with the sud-
den death and insanity of its members. The death of the last male heir, a youth of great promliti Wtikdi oo-
corred but a few years ago, is described in the following Yerses.]
A TOUTH of twenty summers
Sat at his mother's knee ;
Ne'er saw you a youth more noble,
Nor fairer dame than she.
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TliB Curat of Sacrilege, (J57
Half-reclining he swept the lute-strings,
Murmuring an oldei^ rhjrmc ; ^
"While the clock in the castle tower
Rang out a moraing chime :
" In the bright and happj spring-time
Ring the bells merrily ;
"When the dead leaves fall in autumn,
Then toll the bell for me.'
The face of the lady-mother^
Writhed as with sudden pain :
^ Oh I sing noty my son, so sadl}%
Choose thou a happier strain."
Sang the youth, ^ When the siminicr sunshine
Falls o'er the lake and lea,
And the com is springing upward,
Then youll remember me,"
r
The matron" smiled Km the singer :
" My dear and my only one
When I shall not remember,
The light will forget the sun."
Tot her eyes smiled not, but were standing,
Brimful of glimmering tears,
Tell-tales <^ secret anguish,
Dead hopes and living fears.
For he was the heir, and the only
Child of the house of La Barre ;
A name that was known for its sorrow u,
By all, both nciar and far.
Lay in a charming valley
Its rich and fair domain ;
But a curse seemed to hang around iU
Worse than the curse of Cain.
For this was a holy convent
Of monks in olden time ;
From God men had dared to wrest il,
Nor recked the awful crime.
The mild men of God were dri>'en
Houseless and homeless afar :
And he who rifled their cloister,
Became the Lord of La Barre.
But a curse came down on his household,
That time did not abate :
And ne'er did the mourning hatchment
Pass from the castle gate
VOL. IIL 42
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Cod Tie Curse of Sacrilege.
The Loid of La Barre fell sudidenly
Dead in his banquet-hall ;
And madness seized his first4x)ni,
Bearing the funeral pall.
Calamitj sudden and fearful.
Haunted the sacred place.
Striking the lords and their children,
And blighting their hapless race.
One is thrown from his saddle,
Dashing his brains on the ground ;
One in his bridal chamber.
Dead bj his bride is found ;
One is caught hj the mill-wheel.
And cruelly torn in twain ;
One is lost in the forest,
Ne'er to return again*
Death-traps for wolves, the herdsmen
Set in the woods with care ;
The wolves devour the master,
Caught in the fatal snare.
Killed bj the forked lightnings ;
Drowned in the flowing Loire ;
Crushed bj some falling timbers ;
Conquered and slain in war.
Idiots and stlll-bom cluldren,
Come as the first-bom heirs.
Those are seized with madness,
Whom death a few years spares.
Thus did they aU inherit
A curse with the rich domain,
Who dared on the holy convent
To lay their hands profane.
The autumn winds are blowing
Across the lake and lea,
As the youth of twenty summers
Sings at his mother's knee.
He ceased, and from him casting
His lute upon the floor,
Listened, as sounds from the court-yard
Came through the open door.
Hearing the dogs' loud barking,
As their keeper his bugle wound ;
" To-day I go a hunting,"
Said he, "^ with hawk and hound.'*
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I%e Our$e of Sacrilege. 659
The rastiing of dead leaves only
Heard the Lady of La Barre,
And thought of her lordly husband
Drown^ in the flowing Loire.
The autumn winds were moaning
Among the yellow trees,
•* Stay, Ernest," said she sadly,
^ My soul is ill at ease. '
^ Shadows of dire mischances
Fall on my widowed heart ;
I could not liye if danger
Thy life from mine should part."
<« Fear not," said he, while laughing
He kissed her sad fair face ;
*^ I hear the hounds* loud baymg
All eager for the chase.
** Over the hill by the river
m bring the quarry down,
And homeward pluck the roses
To weave for thee a crown."
" The rose-crown, my child, will wither,
rris but a passing toy ;
But thou art the crown of thy mother—
Her only life and joy.
** Follow the hunt to-morrow —
With me, love, stay to-day ;
For dark and sad forebodings
My anxious heart affray."
The autumn winds are blowing,
The dead leaves downward fall,
The lawn and flowers covering
Like a Aineral pall.
But he heedeth not the warning,
And hies with haste away.
The lady seeks the chapel,
With heavy heart, to pray.
*^ May God and his blessed Mother
Spare me my only one.
Yet teach me and strengthen me ever
To say, Thy will be dene !"
Well may the lady tremble,
Hearing the wind again ;
The dead leaves are falling in showers
Like to a summer rain.
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$60
Pmico the Sad.
Hark I a sonnd from the ooortpjud
Blanches the lady's cheek--"
The hantsmen call not surely
In snch a feariid shriek I
Say, « Thy will be done,*' O lady !
As thou e'en now hast said,
For the last of thy race is lying
Stark in the court-yard, dead.
TnnalAted ftrom the Spuilah.
PERICO THE SAD; OR, THE ALVAREDA FAMILY.
CHAPTEB Vni.
AuTuio had shortened the days,
and winter was knocking at the door
with fingers of ice. It was the hour
when laborers return to their homes,
and the sun casts a last cold glance
upon the earth he is abandoning.
Perico came slowly, preceded by
his ass, and followed by Melampo,
who rivalled his ancient friend and
companion in gravity. The latter
still remembered with horror the en-
try of the French, though six years
had passed since ; for the flight of her
masters caused her the wildest gallop
she had taken in her whole life. She
had not yet recovered from the fa-
tigue.
When they entered their street,
two little children, brother and sister,
ran to meet Perico, but at the mo-
ment they reached him, the deep and
solenm sound of a bell called to pray-
er. Perico stood still and uncovered
his head. The ass and the dog, that
from long habit knew the sound,
stopped also, and the little ones re-
mained immovable. When their
father had concluded the prayers of
the mystery of the annunciation, the
children drew near and said —
" Your hand, father."
" May God make you good !" an-
swered Perico, blessing his children.
The boy, who was impatient to be
mounted on the ass, asked his father
why people must be still when the
bell rung for prayer.
"Don't you remember," said his
sister Angela, J^ what Aunt Elvira
tells us, that when it strikes this hour
dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, our
guardian angels stand still, and if wc
go on then, we shall be alone — without
them?"
" That is true, sister," answered the
hoy, giving, with all his little might, a
blow to the ass upon which his father
had placed him, a blow of which, for-
tunately, the patient creature took not
the least notice.
Six years had passed since the
occurrence of the sorrowful events we
have related. To make the remem-
brance of them still more sorrowful,
the unhappy Maroela, who witnessed
&om her hidmg-place the insult to her
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Perico the Sad.
661
TMber, the terrible vengeance token
bj her brother^ and the flight of the
latter, had gone mad.
No tidings of Ventara had ever
been received, and all believed that
he was dead^ Notwithstanding, in
their tenderness for Elvira and their
friendship for Pedro, the others spoke
to them in the words of a hope which
did not exist in their own hearts.
Time, the great dissolvent, in which
joje and griefe alike are lost — as in
water disappear both the sugar and
the salt — ^had made those memories, if
not less bitter, at least more endurable.
Only from Pedro's lips, instead of his
lively songs and habitual jokes, was
often heard, " My poor son ! my poor
daughter I"
Elvira, alone, was excepted from
this influence of time. She was wast-
ing in silence, like those light clouds
in the sky, which, instead of falling to
the earth in noisy torrents, rise softly
and gradually until they are lost from
sight She never complained, nor did
tlie name of Ventura, of him upon
whom she had looked as the compan-
ion the church would give her, pass
her lips.
** A worm is gnawing at her heart,"
said Anna to her son; '* the rest do not
see it, but it is not hidden from me."
** But, mother,' he answered, " where
do you see it? She complains per-
haps?"
"No, my son, no: but, Perico, a
mother hears the vdice of the dumb
daughter," replied Anna with sad-
ness.
Rita and Perico were happy, be-
cause Perico, with his loving heart,
his sweet temper, and his conciliatory
character, made the happiness of both.
A year a^cr their marriage, Rita had
given birth to twins. On that occa-
sion, she was at death's door, and
owed her life to the tender care of
her husband and his family. She re-
mained for a long time feeble and
aiHng, but at the moment in which wo
take up the thread of our story, she
was entirely restored, and the roses
of youth and health bloomed more
brightly than ever npon her counte-
nance.
When they were reunited that even-
ing, Maria exclaimed : ** Blessed moth-
er, what a fearfnl storm we had last
night ! I was so frightened that my
very bed shook with me ! I recalled
all my sins and confessed them to
God. I prayed so much that I think
I must have awakened all the saints :
and I prayed loud, for I have always
heard say that the lightning loses its
power from where the voice of pray-
ing loaches. To the Moors ! To the
Moors ! I said to the tempest, go to
the Moors, that they may be converted
and tremble at the wrath of God!
Not until day-break, when I saw the
rainbow, was I consoled : for it is the
sign Grod gives to man that he wiU
not punish the world with another
flood. Why do men not fear wben
they see these warnings of God !"
"And why would you have them
tremble, mother, for a thing which is
natural," said Rita.
" Natural T retorted Maria. « Per-
haps you will also tell me that pesti-
lence and war are natural I Do you
know what the lightning is? For I
heard a farmer say that it is a frag-
ment of the air set on ^ by the
wrath of Grod. And where does not
the air enter ] And. where is the place
the wrath of God does not reach?
And the thunder — ^the thunder, said a
certain preacher, is the voice of God
in his magnificence ; and that Grod is
to be feared above all when it thun-
dcrs.'*
" The rain has been welcome. Mam-
ma Maria, for the ground is thirsty,"
said Perico.
" The ground is always thirsty," ob-
served Rita, " as thirsty as a sot."
" Father," said Angela, " hear what
I sung to-day when I saw the pewets
running to the pools," and the little
girl began to sing :
" Open jour windows, Ood of Ohristlana {
liet the rain come down,
Sse the Blessed Virgin comes riding
From the inn of the little town ;
Riding ahorse of snowy whiteness .
Over the fields 80.browD,
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662
Perico the Sad.
Lighting all the Aelda with the brightness
Of the glory which shines ftround.
Blessing the fields, the fields of the king :
King firom the big church, let nil the bells ring !"
Angel, not wishing to let his sister?
who was the brighter of the two, gain
the pahn — instantly said: "And I,
father, sung :
* Rain, my Ood,
I ask it from my heart.
Have pity on me,
For I am little, and I ask for bread.* "
" Enough, enough," cried Rita, " you
are as noisj as two cicadas, and more
tiresome than frogs."
" May we play a game, mother T
said the boy.
•* Play with the cat's tail," respond-
ed Rita.
" Mamma Maria," said the girl, " I
will say the catechism to you, if you will
tell us a story. Now hear me : * The
enemies of the soul are three, the
devil, the world, and the flesh.' "
" I like that enemy," said the boy.
*^ Hush, little one; it don't mean the
flash in the stew."
« What then?" asked the boy.
" Learn the words now," answered
Ilia grandmother, "and when you know
more, apply what you have learned.
For the present, I will tell you that
your fleshy that is to say, your appe-
tite, tempts you to be so gluttonous,
and that gluttony is a mortal sin.''
"They are seven," said the girl
quickly, and recited them.
"I, Mamma Maria," said Angel,
" know the Three Persons, the Father
who is Grod,the Son who is God, and the
Holy Ghost, who is a dove."
" How stupid you are !" exclaimed
his mother.
" Daughter," remarked Maria, " no
one is bom instructed. Child," she
continued, " the Dove is a symbol, the
Holy Spirit is God, the same as the
Father and the Son."
Each child pulling at its grand-
mother as it spoke :
"I know the commandments of
God," said one.
" And I, those of the church," said
the other.
" I the sacraments."
"And I tlie giAs of the Holy
Spirit."
« J ?»
" Enough, and too much," exclaimed
Rita ; " you are going to say the whole
catechism ; or perhaps this is an infant
school ] What a pleasant diversion !"
" Is it possible," said Maria, grieved,
for she had been in her glory listening
to the children, "is it possible, Rita,
diat you do not love to hear the word
of God, and that it does not delight
you in the mouths of your children?
I remember how I cried for joy, the
first time you said the whole of Our
Father."
"That is so," said Rita; "you are
capable of cr3ring at a fandango."
The poor mother did not answer;
but, turning to the children, said : " I
am so pleased with you because you
know the catechism so well, that I am
going to tell you the prettiest story I
know."
The children seated themselves on
a low bench in front of their grand-
mother, who began her story thus :
" When the angel warned the holy
patriarch Joseph to flee into Egypt,
the saint got his little ass and set the
mother and child upon it« Then they
started on their journey through woods
and briery fields. Once, when they
were in the thickest part of a forest,
the lady was afraid because the way
was so dark and lonesome. By and
by they came to a cave. Out of it ran
a band of robbers and surrounded the
holy family. When the mother and
child were going to get down from the
ass, the captain of the band, whose
name was Demas, looked at the child ;
as he looked, his heart smote him, and
he turned to his companions and said :
^Whoever touches as much as a
thread of this lady's garment will have
me to do with/ and then he said to the
holy pair: <The night is coming on
stormy ; follow me, and I wOl shelter
you.* They went with the robber,
and he gave them to eat and drink,
and the holy pair accepted what ho
offered them, for Grod himself receives
the worship of all the bad as well as
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad.
663
tlie good. And for this reason, chil-
dren, never cease to praj, even though
yoa should be in mortal sin ; for this
robber, when at last he was taken and
condemned to die, found repentance
and pardon on the cross itself, which
served him for expiation, as it served
oar Lord for sacrifice. He was con-
verted and was the tirat of all to en-
ter ioto glorj, as Christ promised him
when he was djing for him." Mean-
time, the wind howled withont in pro-
longed gusts. The doors shook, moved
by an invisible hand. The old orange-
tree murmured in the court, as if re-
monstrating with the wind for disturb-
ing its calm.
"Listen," said Perico, "the very
nettles will be swept from the ground/'
" And how it rains !" added Pedro.
"Tlie clouds are torn to bits. The
river is going to overflow the fields.**
" Did yoa see how the clouds ran
this afternoon 1'* said Angela to her
brother. "They looked like grey-
hounds."
"Yes,'* answered the boy, "and
where were they going? '
" To the sea for water."
"Is tliere so much water in the
sear
" Yes indeed, and more than there
is in Uncle Pedro's pond."
"The voice of the wind saems to
me like the voice of the evil spirit,
that comes leading fear by the hand,"
said Maria.
"You are always frightened,
mother," remarked Rita. "I don't
know when your spirit wiU rest. Look
here, lazy-bones," she proceeded, giv-
ing a push to the boy who had re-
clined against her, " lean upon what
you have eaten."
The child, being half asleep, lost his
balance. Elvira gave a cry, and Per-
ico, springing forward, caught him in
his arms. Anna dropped her distaff,
but took it up again without a word.
" If you ever lose your son," said
Pedro, indignant, " you will not weep
for him as I do for mine. You have
that advantage over me.*'
"She is so quick, so hasty," said
Maria, always ready to excuse and
slow to blame, " that she keeps me in
hot water."
^ So, then. Mamma Maria," Perico
hastened to say, "yon are afraid of
everything — and witches T*
"No; oh! no, my son I The church
forbids the belief in witches and en-
chanters. I fear those things which
God permits to punish men, and, above
all, when they are supernatural."
" Are there any such things ? Have
you seen any ?" asked Rita.
"If there are any? And do you
doubt that there are extraordinary
things ?''
" Not at all. One of them is the
day you do not preach me a sermon.
But the supernatural I don't believe
in. I am like Saint Thomas."
" And you glory in it ! It is a won-
der you do not say also that you are
like Saint Peter in that in which ho
faUed I"
" But, madam, have you. seen any-
thing of the kind, or is it only because
you can swaDow eveiything, like a
shark ?"
" It is the same, to all intents, as if
I had seen it"
"Aunt, what was it?" asked El-
vira.
"My child," said the good old
woman, turning toward her niece, " in
the first place, that which happened to
the Countess of Villaoran. iter lady-
ship herself told it to me when we
were superintending her estate of
Quintos. This lady had the pious cus-
tom of having a mass said for con-
demned criminals at the very hour
they were behig executed. When the
infamous Yillico was in those parts,
committing so much iniquity, she al-
lowed herself to say that if he should
bo taken, she would not send to liave
a mass said for him, as she had for
others. And when he was executed,
she kept her word.
"Not long alter, one night when
she was sleeping quietly, she was
awakened by a pitiful voice near the
head of her bed, calling her by name.
She sat up in bed terrified, but saw
Digitized by CjOOQIC
664
Perico the Sad.
Doth'iDg, though the lamp was burning
on the table. Presently she heard the
same voice, even more pitiful than at
first, calling her from the yard, and
before she had fairly re'^overed from
her surprise, she heard it a third time,
and from a great distance, calling her
name. She cried oat so loudly that
those who were in the house raa to
her room, and found her pale and ter-
rified. But no one else had heard the
voice,
** On the following day, hardly were
the candles lighted in the churches
when a mass was being offered for the
poor felon, and the countess, on her
knees before the altar was praying with
fervor and penitence, for the clemency
qI( God, which is not like that of men,
excludes none. And now Rita, what
do you think ?"
**• I think slie dreamed it.''
^ Goodness, goodness ! what incre-
dulity," said Uncle Pedro. " Rita
will bo like that Tucero, who, the
preachers say, separated from the
church."
^Ave Maria! Do not say that,
Pedro," exclaimed Maria, "even in
exaggeration ! Mercy ! you may well
say, what perverseness, for she talks
so just to be contrary.'
A noise in the direction of the door
which opened into the back-yard,
caused Maria's lips to close suddenly.
« What is that?" she said.
** Nothing, Mamma Maria," an-
swered Perico, laughing ; '* what
would it be ? The wind which goes
about to-night moving everything."
" Mother," said Aiigi^la, " hold me
in your lap, as father docs Angel, for
I am afraid."
** This is too much," excla'.med Rita,
who was in bad humor. " Go along
and sit on the lap of earth, and don't
come back till you bring grandchil-
dren."
" I should like to know," said Pedro,
*• if those who laugh at that which
others fear have never felt dread."
" Perico ! Perico !" cried Maria, in
terror, " there is a noise in the yard."
'* Mamma Maria, 3'ou are excited
and frightened. Don't you bear that
it is the water in the gutter 7*
« I, for my part," said Pedro, in a
low voice, as if to himself, " ever since
there was a stain of blood in my
house — "
** Pedro! Pedro ! are we always to
go back to that ? Why will you make
yourself wretched? Of what use is it
to return to the past, for which there
is no remedy ?" said Anna.
^ The truth is, Anna, what I suffer
at times overwhelms me, and I must
give it venL Often at night, when I
tun alone in my house, it faUs upon me.
Anna, believe me, many a night, when
all is still and sleep flies from me, I
see him ; yes, I see him — the grenadier
my son sle w« I see him just as I saw
him alive, in bis grey capote and fur
cap, rise out of the well and come into
the room where he was killed, to look
for tlie stains of his own blood. I sec
him before my eyes, tall, motionless,
terrible."
At this moment the door opened,
and a figure, tall, motionless, terrible,
with a grey capote and a grenadier s
cap stood upon the threshold.
All remained for an instant con-
founded and fixed in their places.
^ God protect us 1" exclaimed Maria.
Angel clung to his fisither^s breast,
Angela to the skirts of her grand-
mother.
"Ventura!" murmtired Elvira, as
her eyes closed and her head fell
upon her mother's bosom.
The woman for whom thero had been
no forgetfulness, had recognized him.
Pedro rose impetuously and would
have fallen, the poor old man not hav-
ing strength to sustain himself; but
Ventura, who had thrown off his cap
and capote, sprung forward and caught
him in his arms. The scene wluch
followed, a scene of confusion, of
broken words, of exclamations of sur-
prise and delight, of tears and fervent
thanks to heaven, is more easily com*
prehended than described.
When Ventura had freed himself
from the embrace of his father, who
was long in undoing his arms from
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perica ihs ScuL
665
the neokof the soa whom he could
liardly persnade himself he held in
them, he fixed his eyes upon Elvira.
She was sdll sapported by her mother,
who held to her nostrils a handkerchief
wet wilh vinegar. But she was no
longer the Elvira he liad lefl at his
departure. Pale, attenuated, changed,
she appeared as if bvlding farewell to
life. Ventura's brilliant eyes became
sofltened and saddened with an expres-
sion of deep feeling, and, with the
frank sincerily of a comitryman, he
said to her:
« Have you been sick, Elvira? You
do not look like yourself/'
^ Now she will be better," exclaimed
Pedro, in whom joy had awakened
some of the old festive teasing hu-
mor. ^'Tour absence, Ventura, and
not hearing from you, nothing less, has
brought her to this. Why, in heaven's
name, did you not send us a letter, to
tell U3 where you were ?*
" Why, our sergeant wrote at least
six for me," replied Ventura, " and be-
sades, I have been in France, I have
been a prisoner. All that is long
to tell — But how well you look,
Rita," he said, regarding the latter, who,
from the moment he entered, had not
taken her eyes from the gallant youth,
whom the moustache, the uniform, and
the military bearing became so wclL
^ Bless mo I but you have become a
fine woman I The good care Perico
takes of you — and you Perico, always
^'oo^^o ^ -^^ these your children 1
How handsome they are I Grod bless
them 1 Hey I come here, I am not a
Frenchman nor a bluebea^."
Ventura sat down to caress the
children. Maria, coming behind him
at this moment, caught his head in her
hands, and covered his face with tears
and kisses — ^Ventura in the mean while
saying, " Maria, how much you have
prayed for me ! I suppose you have
made a hundred novenas, and more
than a thousand promises."
" Yes, my son, and to-morrow I shall
sell my best hen, to have said in Saint
Anna's chapel the thanksgiving mass
I have promised."
^'Aunt Anna is the one who has
nothing to say," observed Ventura.
'' Are you not glad to see me, ma-
dam P'
** Yes my son, yes ; I was minding
my Elvira. Ood knows," she con-
tinued, observing the pallid counten-
ance of her child, ^ how glad I am of
your return, and what thanks I give
him for it, if it is for the best"
" And w;hy not," exclaimed Pedro,
"for the best? for all except my kids
and your fowls, which are going to give
up the ghost within a month, the time
it will take to publish the bans "
** Don't be so hasty," answered Anna,
smiling, ^' a wedding, neighbor, is not a
fritter to be turned, tossed, and fried in a
moment"
" Well, * every owl to his own olive/ "
said Pedro after a while. ^ Good peo-
ple, there is a wicket in the street that
is tired of being solitary."
« To-night, Uncle Pedro," said Rita,
laughing, " the horrors will go to the
bottom of the well with the Frenoh-
man, never to return.'*
"Amen, amen. I hope so," re-
sponded the good old num.
chapteh ix.
The next evening, Ventura brought
with him to their reunion a small black
water-dog, called Tambor. Never be-
fore had a strange dog been permitted
at one of those meetings, so that he
had hardly entered, wagging his tail,
well washed, well combed, and with all
the confidence of an exquisite, when
Melampo, who held these graces to be
of very little consequence, and an idler
in lowest estimation, flew at him with
might and main, and with a single
blow of his paw flattened the creature;
but without the remotest ambition to
affect in this action, either the atdtudc
or the air of the lion of Waterloo.
"In the first place," said Perico,
" will you tell me, Ventura, how you
managed to appear here yesterday, as
if you had leaked through the roof,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
666
Perico the SacL
without any one's opening the door to
yon?"
^ Well, it is difficult to guess,** an-
swered Ventura. " When I arrived I
went to the house, and Aunty Curra,
to whom my father gives a home for
taking care of him, opened the door,
and to get here sooner, and take you
all by surprise, I jumped over the wall
of the yard, as I used to when I was
a bov.^'
** I was sure last night," observed
Maria, " that I heard (he door of the
enclosure, and some one walking in the
yard,"
" Now,"' said Perico, " tell us what
has happened to you. Have you
been wounded?'
** Ho has been wounded," cried Un-
cle Pedro. '^ Look at his breast, and
you win see a hole, which is the scar
left by a ball that ho received there,
and that did not lay him dead, thanks
to this button which deadened its force.
See how it is flattened and hollowed
out like the pan of a fire-lock. Look
at his arm ; look at the wound — *'
" And what matter, father," inter-
rupted Ventura, ** since they are cured
now ?"
" When I ran," he continued, " I took
ray course down river, reached Sanlii-
car, and embarked for Cadiz. There
I enlisted in the regiment of guards
commanded by the Duke del Lifanta-
do. I struck up a friendship with a
young man of noble family, who was
serving as a private, and we loved
each other like brothers. Wo soon
embarked for Tarifa, for the purpose
of approaching the French in the rear,
while the English attacked them in
front. The result was the battle of
Barrosa, from which the French fled
to Jerez, and we took possession of
their camp.
" In the midst of the fight, I said to
my friend, ' Come, let us take from that
Frenchman the eagle he carries so
proudly, it is continually vexing my
eyes, come f and without recommend-
ing ourselves to God, we threw our-
selves upon the bearer, killed him,
and took the ugly bird; but as we
tamed we found ourselves surronnded
by Frenchmen, friends of the eagle.
^ Comrades,' said we, ^ it's of no use ; as
for the bird, he is eaged and shall not
go out even if Pepe Botellas • or Na-
poleon himself, the big thief, should
come for him.'
^ We set it up against a wild olive,
and placed ourselves before it, and now,
we said. Come and get him — and they
came, for those demons, the worse the
cause the more impetuous they are.
They killed my poor friend, and had
nearly killed me, for they were many.
What I felt at the thought of losing
the bird I but it was the will of hea-
ven that it should never sing the mam-
brut f in French, for our men came
and drove them back. They conduct-
ed me with my trophy before the
colonel, who said that I had behaved
well, and should receive the cross of
San Fernando, for having captured the
eagle. ^I did not capture it, my
colonel,' I answered, * it was my friend,
the young noble, who is killed. And I
fainted. When came to, I found myself
in the hospital and without the
crosfiu"
**That was your own fimlt," said
Bita. "Why did you tell the col-
onel it was not you ? *
Ventura looked at her as if he
could not comprehend what she was
saying.
^ You did your duty," said Pedro.
A tear ran down Elvira's cheek.
" I was hardly convalescent when
we embarked &r Hueha, and I found
myself in the battle of Albuera
against the division of Marshal Soult.
I was soon after taken prisoner;
made my escape, and joined the army
of Granada, commanded by the Duke
del Paryne, in which I remained, pur-
suing the enemy beyond the Pyrenees.
Then I returned to Madrid, where I
have been waiting until now for my
dismissal."
" Goodness I Ventura," said Maria,
* Pepe Botellas, Bottle Joe ; Joseph Napoleon was
io called by the people, beeaaae, they said, lie used
to get drunk.
f Mambrul, a hamorons military aongt popalar
among the Spanish soldierti
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad.
667
ia astonishment, ^joa have been fiir^
iher than the storks fly P
**I — ^no,** answered Ventura, "but
I know one, and he indeed, he had
been with General La Romana, far in
the north, where the ground is cover-
ed with snow so deep that people are
sometimes buried mder it."
^ Maria SantissimaT said Maria,
shnddering*
"But they are good people, they
do not carry knives."
^ God bless them !" exclaimed
Maria.
^^In that land there is no oil, and
they eat bladk bread.*'
** A poor country for me,'* observed
Anna, ^ for I must always eat the
best bread, if I eat nothing else."
^What kind of gazpachos* can
they make with black bread, and with-
out oil ?*' asked Maria, quite horrified.
"They do not eat gazpacho," re-
plied Yentunu
« Then what do they eat?"
. ** They eat potatoes and milk,", he
xmswered.
"Much good may it do them, and
benefit their stomachs."
** The worst is. Aunt Maria, that in
all that land there are neither monks
nor nuns."
" What are you telling me, my son ?"
** What you hear. There are very
few churches, and those look like hos-
pitals that have been plundered, for
they are without chapels, without al-
tars, without images, and without the
blessed sacrament."
"Mercy, mercy!" exclaimed all,
except Maria, who remained as if
turned to stone with surprise. But
presently crossing her hands, she ex-
claimed, with satisfied fervor.
"Ah my sunshine I Ah my white
bread! My church I My blessed
Mother ! My country, my faith, and
my God in his sacrament 1 Happy a
thousand times, I, who have been bom,
and through divine mercy, shall die
here I Thank Grod, my son, that yon
*0«ipMho. DIth made of brad, oil, onions,
TiiMgar, M!t, ftod Eod-pepper mixed together in
did not go to that country, a lan4 of
heretics ! How dreadful !"
"And is heresy catching, mother,
like the itch ?" asked Rita ironically.
"I do not say that, God forbid,"
answered the good Maria ; " but — "
"Everything is catching, except
beauty," said Pedro, " and one is bet-
ter off in his own country. I will bet
my hands that those who have been
there, will bring us nothing good."
"What do not the poor soldiers
have to pass through !" sighed Elvira.
"That must be the reason why I
have always been so fond of them,"
added Maria. "That, and because
they defend the faith of Christ. And
therefore, I am also very devoted to
San Fernando, that pious and valiant
leader. I have him framed m my
parlor, and around him on the wall, I
have stuck little paper soldiers, think-
ing it would be pleasing to the saint,
who all his life saw himself surrounded
by soldiers. When Rita was about
twelve years old, I went to Sevilla,
and she gave me a shilling to buy her
a little comb. I passed by the shop
of an old man who had a lot of little
paper soldiers exposed for sale.
What a guard for my saint, I thought ;
but my quarters were all spent. I
had nothing lefl but Rita*s shilling.
The price of the set was a shilling.
Go along i said I to myself, it is bet-
ter that Rita should do without the
bauble than my saint without his
guard; and I bought them. I told
Rita, and it was the truth, that my
money did not hold out. The next
day when I was taking them out to
stick them up around the picture of the
king, Rita came into the room. * So
then,' she said, 'you had money
enough to buy these dirty soldiers, and
not enough for my little comb,' and
she snatched them from my hands to
throw them out of the window.
* Child,' I screamed, * you are throw-
ing my heart into the street with the
soldiers I' And seeing that she paid
me no attention, I caught up the
broom and beat her. The only time
I ever beat her in my life."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
668
Ptfico the Sad.
."It would have been better for
you," said Pedro, "if you Lad left the
marks of your fingers upon her some-
times."
" Who can please you, Uncle Pe-
dro?" said Rita. "My mother erred
in not chastising her cbild, and I err
in not spoiling mine."
" Daughter 1" replied Pedro, "nei-
ther Heil till they run away, nor
Whoa ! till they st(^ short*"
"But since you like soldiers so
much, mother," proceeded Rita,
" why did you take such trouble to
prevent my cousin Miguel from be-
coming one ?"
"I love soldiers because they suf-
fer and pass through so much, and for
the ss^e reason, I wished to save my
nephew."
" How I laughed then I" continued
Rita, directing her conversation to
Ventura. " Her grace burned lights
to all the saints while the lots were
being drawn. As she had not candle-
sticks, she stuck empty shells to the
walls with cement ; put wicks in them ;
filled them with oil, and began to
pray. While she was praying, in
came MigueFs mother, and told her
that he had been drafted. My mother,
on hearing that, put out the lights, as
if to say to the saints, < Stay in the
dark now, I need you no longer 1' **
"How you talk, Rita,** answered
the good Maria. ^^ I trust that God
does not so judge our hearts. I re-
signed myself, my daughter. I re-
signed myself, because be had made
known his pleasure, and when God
will not, the saints cannot."
CHAPTEB X.
The joy of Elvira was as brief as
it had been keen. What can escape
the eyes of one who loves ? Is it not
known that there are things, which,
like the wind of Guadarrama, though
scarce a breath, yet kilL Before
either Rita or Ventura had acknow-
ledged even to their own consdousnessi
the mutual attraction which tb^ ex-
ercised upon each other, Elvira was
offering to God, for the second time,
the pangs of her lost love. This time,
however, without a remote hope. The
prudent and patient girl looked upon
a rupture as the sure forerunner of
some catastrophe, and« like a martyr,
endured without daring to repulse
them, the evidences of an affection as
pale and feeble as she was herself; an
affection that was vanishing before the
vivid fiame of a new love, which al-
ready sparkled, active, brilliant, and
beautiful like the object tliat inspired
it. While the visits at the grating
became every night colder and less'
prolonged, there was no occasion that
did not, by gesture, look, or word,
bring into contact those two beings,
who, like moths, took pleasure in ap-
proaching the fiame, drawn by an in-
stinctive impulbc, which they obeyed,
but did not pause to define ; of which
no one warned them, because among
the people, a married woman unfaith-
ful to her duties, or a lover neglectful
of his, is an anomaly ; and one which,
in the family whose hislory we ore re-
latmg, would have been looked upon as
incredible to the point of impossibility.
But Rita acknowledged no rein, and
the life of a soldier had been a school
of evil habits to Ventura. One day
Perico, on setting out for the field,
found Elvira in the yard, and said to
her:
"Here is money, sister, to buy
yourself colored dresses. You have
fulfilled your promise to wear the
habit of our Lady of Sorrows till
Ventura came back, and now I wish
to see your face, your dress — every-
thing about you gay."
Elvira answered, with difficulty re-
pressing her tears :
" Keep your money, brother, every
day I feel myself worse. It is better
for me to think of making my peace
with God, than of buying wedding
clothes, or of changing the colors
which are to wrap me in the coffin."
" Do not say that, sister !" exclaim-
ed Perico. "You break my heart!
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad.
609
It has become a habit with jou to be
melancholy. When yon and Yentara
are as happy as Rita and I, when
you have two little ones like these of
oars, to occtipy you, your i^iprehen-
sions will fly awafy. Gome,'' he add-
ed, catching the children, ^ come and
play with your aunt''
Elyira's eyes followed her brother.
Her heart was torn with grief; grief
all the more agonized and profound
for being repressed. She considered
that a complaint from her would be
like an indiscreet cry of alarm at an
inevitable misfortune.
^ Aunt," said Angel, <' nothing can
keep Melampo when father goes.**
^ He does what he ought, like the
good dog he is," answered Elvira.
" And why is he called Melampo ?*
the chUd continued, with that zeal for
asking questions which older people
ridicule, instead of respecting and en-
couraging.
** He is caRed so," answered Ehira,
'< because Melampo is the name of
one of the dogs that went to Bethle-
hem with the shepherds to see the
child Jesus. There were three of
them, Melampo, Cubilon, and Tobina,
and the dogs that bear these names
never go mad.**
^ Aunt," said Angela, running after
a little bird, ^ I can't catch this swal-
low.'*
** That is not a swallow. Swallows
do not come till spring, and these you
must never catch nor molest"
** Why not, aunt?'
" Because they are friends to man,
they confide in Um and make their
nests under his eaves. They are the
birds that pulled the thorns out of the
Saviour's crown when he hung upon
the cross.
At this moment Angel fell and be-
gan to cry. Rita rushed impetuously
out of her room and snatched him up,
exclaiming :
^What has he done to himself?
what is the matter with mother's
glory ?" Wiping his face, which was
dirty, with her apron, she continued :
<< What is the matter ? Sweet little
&ce, covered with mud. Bless his
pretty eyes and his mouth, and his
poor little hands I"
And covering him with kisses, pas-
siooate caresses, she took him and his
sister into her mother's house* Be^
turning presently she went into the
back-yard to wash*
It has already been said that this
yard was next to that of uncle Pedro,
separated from it by a low wall.
Rita according to the popular cus-
tom began to sing.
Among the people of Andalucia,
one can hardly be found whose
memory is not a treasury of couplets ;
and these are so varied that it would
be difficult to suggest an idea, for the
expression of which a suitable verse
would not immediately be. found.
A fine voice, well modulated and
dear, answered Rita from the adjoining
yard ; in this manner a musical collo-
quy was carried on, concluded by th6
male voice in this couplet, which indi-
cated the wings that the preceding
one had given to his desires :
*' with BO loM of tlin«f
To succeed I intend ;
Withoutslghtotheair,
Or compUmt to the wind.**
In the mean time Elvira sat sewing
beside her mother. Her sweet and
placid countenance betrayed none of
the pain and anguish of her heart.
Nevertheless, Anna looked at her with
tlie penetrating eyes of a mother, and
thought, " Will the hopes fail which I
placed in Ventura's return? Docs
our Lord want her for himself?**
At this moment the children rushed
in, wild with delight.
^ Mamma Anna! Aunt Elvira I"
they shouted. "Uncle Pedro says
the ass had a little colt last night.
She is in the stable with it, and we
did not know it here. Come and see
it ! come and see it I"
And one pulling at the grandmother
and the other at the aunt, they went,
to the yard and threw the door wide;
open.
What a two-edged dagger for the
heart of Anna, the honorable woman,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
670
Pmco the Bad.
the loving mother I Ventura was
there with Rita *
Qaick as lightning Yentora stepped
apon the wheel of a cart wliich stood
close to the wkll, and with one spring
disappeared.
Rita, enraged, continued her wash-
ing, and with unparalleled effrontery-
began to sing :
" No mother-in-law plagned Ere ;
No sister-ln-Uw vorrled Adam ;
Nor caused their souls to grlere,
For in £den they never had them.**
The children had run on to the sta-
ble without stopping. Anna led her
daughter, almost fainting, into the
house, and there upon the bosom of
her mother, from whom the cause of
her grief was no longer a secret, Elvi-
ra burst into sobs.
"And you knew it," said her
mother ; " silent martyr to prudence.
Weep, yes, weep, for tears are like the
blood which flows from wounds, and
renders them less mortal. I knew
what she was and warned him. I
knew that reprobation must follow the
union of kindred blood, and I told him
'so. He would not listen. It would
have been better to let him go to the
war. But the heart errs as well as
the understanding."
In the mean time the impudent
woman went on singing :
" If others-in-Iaw, and sisters-in-law.
See a cargo passing go ;
What a Ikmous load 'twould be.
For Satan's regions down below."
CHAPTEB XI.
After a night of sleepless anguish,
Anna rose, apparently more tranquil ;
drawing some slight hope from the
determination she had taken to speak
with Rita ; show her the precipice to-
ward which she was running blindlj,
and persuade her to recede.
Anna had a dignity that would have
impressed any one in whom the noble
quality of respect had not been suffo-
cated by pride — ^the worst enemy of
man because the most daring ; no other
like it elevates itself in the presence
of virtue ; no other is so obsdnate and
so lordly ; no other so hides perversity
under forms of goodness ; no other so
falsifies ideas and qualifies and con-
demns as servile that sentiment of re-
spect which entered into the world
with the first benediction of God.
Pride sometimes wishes to elevate it-
self into dignity, but without success,
for dignity never seeks to set itself up
at the cost of another, but leaves and
maintains everything in its own place;
its attitude being even more noble
when it honors than when it is honored.
Dignity owes its place neither to riches
nor knowledge, and least of all is it
indebted to pride. It is the simple
reflection of an elevated soul which
feels its strength. It is natural, like
the flush of health; not put on like the
color of those who paint But there
are beings who place themselves above
everything else, and rest with porten-
tous composure upon a fake and In-
secure base, parading an intrepidity
and an arrogance which they do not
assume who rest on the firm rock of in-
fallible justice and eternal truth. Rita,
treading a crooked path with fearless
step and serene countenance, was one
of these beings.
The good sense of the villager, who
felt profoundly what we have ex-
pressed, and understood perfectly the
character of both women, defined it
better in their concise laconism when,
in speaking of Anna, they said, ^Aunt
Anna teaches without talking;" and
of Rita, " She fears neither God nor
the deviL
Rita was sewing when Anna entered.
The latter deliberately drew the bolt
of the door and sat down facing her
daughter-in-law.
" You already know, Rita," she said
calmly, ^Hhat I was never pleased with
your marriage."
**And have you come to receive my
thanks?"
Without noticing the question Anna
continued :
** I had penetrated your character."
" It was not necessary to be a seer
to do that," replied Rita, «Iampcr-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perieo (he Sad.
671
fectlj open and frank. I saj wbat I
think.**
<<The evii is not in saying what jou
think, but in thinking what you saj."
^ It is plain that it would be better
for me to play the dead fox, or still
water, like some who appear flakes of
snow, but are in reality grains of salt."
This was a fling at Elvira which
Anna fully understood, but of which
she took no nbtice, and proceeded.
^ Notwithstanding, I was deceived.
I had not entirely fathomed you.''
''Go on," said Rita, ''there is a
squall to^y.^'
"I never thought that what has
come to pass would happen."
"Now it escapes and nuns pitch-
forks,' said Rita.
"Since," proceeded Anna, "you do
not fear to deceive my son — ^"
"Ho is that the matter?'' said Rita
coolly.
"And kill my poor daughter — *^
"That will do, interrupted Rita,
"there is where the shoe pinches ; be-
cause Ventura does not want to marry
a spectre, that to go out has to ask
permission of the gravedigger, I must
answer for it And for no other rea-
son than because he is gay and likes
better to jest with one who is cheerful
like me than to drink herb-tea with
her, ^ I help it ?*
Anna allowed Rita to conclude, her
countenance showing no alteration ex-
cept a mortal paleness.
" Rita," she said, when the latter had
finished, " a woman cannot be false to
her marriage vows with impunity."
"What are you saying!" exclaimed
Rita, springing to her feet and throw-
ing away her work, her cheeks and
eyes on fire. " What have you said,
madam? I fake to my marriage
vows ? To that which your eyes did
not see you have brought in your
hand! I false! II You* have al-
ways borne me ill-will, like a mother-
in-kiw in fact, and a bad mother-in-
law, but I nevejT knew before that the
saint-eaters bore tuck testimony."
" I do not say that you are so," re-
plied Anna, in the same grave and
moderate tone which she had observed
from the beginning, " but that you are
in the way, that you are going to be
false if God does not prevent it by
opening your eyes.'
"Now, as formerly, and always a
prophetess, Jonah in person, and" (she
added between her teeth) "may the
whale swallow jou also."
" Yes, Rita, yes," said Anna, " and
I have come — "
" To threaten me T asked Rita, with
an air of bold defiance.
" No, Rita, no, my daughter; I have
come to beg of you in the name of
Grod, for the love of my son, for the
sake of your children, and for your
own sake, to consider what you are
doing, to examine your heart while
there is yet time."
" Did Perieo send you ?"
" No, my dear son suspects nothing,
Grod forbid that we should awaken a
sleeping lion,"
" Well, then, why do you put yourself
into 60 wide a garment ? Go along !
The one w^o is being hanged does not
fetA it but the witness feels it I Perieo,
madam, is not and never has been
jealous; neither does he suspect the
fingers of his guests, or go in quest of
trouble. He is no dirty hypocrite,
crying to heaven because people joke,
and he does not bully because some-
body draws a few budgets of water for
his wife when she is washing. Do
you think that I shall lose my soul for
that?"
" Rita, Rita, do not trifle with men."
" Nor you with women. Grood hea- *
vensi it would seem that I am scandal-
izing the town."
"Consider, Rita," continued Anna
with increased severity, "that with
men an afiront is often the cause of
bloodshed."
" You would bathe in rose-water,"
responded Rita " if matters seemed to
be running a little toward the fulfil-
ment of those predictions of yours about
kindred Hood not harmonizing^ and
others of the same kind, by which you
wished to prevent your son from mar-
rying; and you were disappointed;
Digitized by CjOOQIC
672
Perico the Sad.
and you will be now if joa attempt, as
I see joa are attempting, to make trou-
ble between us. I know what I am
doing ; Perico is a lover of quiet, and
knows the wife he has. Leave us in
peace, and we will live so, if you do
not heatyoar son's skull by yourmed-
dHng ; you take care of the wedding
finery of your daughter, the flower of
the family/'
At this string of taunts and insults,
the prudent long-suffering of that re-
spectable matron, waver^ for an in-
stant ; but the angel of patience that
God sends to women firom the moment
they become mothers, to help them
bewr their crosses, vanquished, and
Anna went out, looking at Hita with a
sad smile, in which there was as much
or more compassion than contempt.
The worthy woman remained in a
state of depression and anguish, on
account of the failure of the step she
had taken, and determine;<i to open her
heart to Pedro, in order to have him
send his son away. Finally there was
a guard wanting at the esta^ on which
Ventura had served, and he was call-
ed to fill the place. This absence,
though interrupted by frequent visits
to the village, gave some respite to
the afiSdcted Anna, who said to her-
self, ^ a day of life is life.*'
CHAFTEB XTL
Ik the mean time the happy Christ-
mas holidays arrived. They had ar-
ranged for the chiklren a beautiful
birth-place, which occupied the whole
front of the parlor, covering it with
aromatic pistachio, rosemary, laven-
der, and other odorous plants and
leaves. Perico brought these thmgs
from the field with aU the pleasure of
a lover bringing flowers to his bride.
On Christmas day, Perico heard
mass early, and went to take a walk to
his wheat-field, having been told that
there were goats in the neighborhood.
He returned home abont ten o'clock,
and found the children alone.
^ How glad we are, father, that you
have come," they shouted, running joy-
ftilly toward him. "They have all
gone and left us.''
^' Where then are Mamma Anna,
and Aunt Elvira ?"
** They went to high mass.**
•* Who staid with you r
"Mother.''
" And where is she ?*
" How do we know ? We were in
the parlor with her grace, dancing be-
fore the birth-place. Ventura came
in, and mother told ns to go some-
where else with the music, for it made
her head ache, and when we were going
out Ventura told her, I heard it, fath^,
that she did right to put the door be-
tween, for the little angels of God
were the devil's little witnesses* Is it
true, father, are we the devil's little
witnesses ?"
To whom has it not happened, at
some time in his life, in great or in
less important circumstances, that a
single word has been the key to open
and explain ; the torch to illuminate
the present and the past ; to bring out
of oblivion and light up a train of cir-
cumstances and incidents which had
transpired unperceived, but which now
unite, to form an opinion, to fix a
convicti<m or to root a belief? Such
was the effect upon Perico of the
words, which the decree of expiation
seemed to have put into the mouth of
innocence.
Late, but terrible, the truth present-
ed itself to the eyes which good faith
had kept closed, and doubt took pos-
session of the heart so healthy and so
shielded by honor that a suspicion had
never entered it.
<* Father, father 1" cried the chil-
dren, seeing him tremble and turn
pale. Perico did not hear them.
" Mamma Anna," they exclaimed, as
the latter entered, " hurry, father is
sick !"
As he heard his mother enter, Pe-
rico turned his perplexed eyes toward
her, and seemed to read again in her
severe countenance the terrible sen-
tence she liad once pronounced upon
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad,
673
a futare from which her loving fore-
sight would have preserved him : " A
be^ daughter will be a bad wife.''
Overwhelmed, he rushed out of the
house, muttering a pretext for his
flight which no one understood.
Anna put her liead out of the win-
dow, and felt relieved as she saw that
he went toward the fields.
** Could any one have told him that
goats have broken into the wheat 7*
" It is very likely, mother ; he bus* *
pected ityestei^y,** ai|swered Elvira.
But dinner-time came, and Perico did
not appear.
It was strange, on Christmas day ;
but to country people, w^bo have no
fixed hours, it was not alarming.
In the evening Maria arrived at
the usual time.
" Did Ventura not come to the vil-
lage to-day P' asked Anna.
*^ Yes,'^ answered Pedro, " but there
IS an entertainment, and his friends
carried him off. He has always been
so fond of dancing that he would at
any time leave his dinner, for a fan-
dango."
" And Eita," said Elvira, " was she
not at your house. Aunt Maria ?**
** She came there, my daughter, but
wanted to go with a neighbor to the
entertainment. I told her she had
better stay at home, but as she never
minds me — ^"
"And you toM her right, Maria,"
added Pedro, " an honest woman's
place is in the house."
They were oppressed and silent
when Perico abruptly entered.
The light was sodeadenedby the lamp-
shade that they did not perceive the
complete transformation of his face.
Dark lines, which appeared the effect
of long days of sickness, encircled his
burning eyes, and his lips vrere red
and parched like those of a person in
a fever. He threw a rapid glance
around, and abruptly asked, '* Where
is Rita ?"
All remained silent ; at length Maria
said timidly,
** My son, she went for a little while
to the feast with a neighbor — she must
VOL. III. 48
be here soon— ^he tookit into her head
-—and as it was Christmas day — *'
Without answering a word, Perico
tamed suddenly, and left the room.
His mother rose quickly and followed,
but did not overtake him.
" I tell you, Maria,** said Pedro,
** that Perico ought to beat her welL I
would not say a word to stop him.'*
" Don't talk so, Pedro," answered
IVIaria, '^ Perico is not the <me to strike
a woman. My poor little girll we
shall see. What harm is there in ^Vf-
ing two or three hops ? Old folks,
Pedro, should not forget that they
have been young^'
At this moment Anna entered,
trembling.
•* Pedro,"* she said, " go to the
feast r
" I P' answered Pedro ; " you arc
cool 1 I am out of aH patience with
that same feast. If Perico warms his
wife's ribs, he will be well employed ;
she shall not dry her tears upon my
pocket-handkerchiefl**
" Pedro, go to the feast T said Anna
again, but this time with such an ac-
cent of distress, that Pedro turned
his head and sat staring at her.
Anna caught him by the arm.,
obliged him to rise, drew him aside,
and spoke a few rapid words to him in
a low voice.
The old man as he listened gave a
half-suppressed cry, clasped his hands
across his forehead, caught up his hat
and hastily left the house.
CHAPTER xnx.
VEirmiA and Rita were dancing at
the feast, animated by that which
mounts to heads wanting in age or
wanting in sense; by that whicji
blinds the eyes of reason, silences
prudence, and puts respect to flight ;
that is to say, wine ; a love entirely
material, a voluptuous dance, executed
without restraint, amid foolish drunk-
en applauses.
la truth they were a comely pair..
Digitized by CjOOQIC
r,7d
Perico the Sad.
Rita moved her charming head,
adorned with flowers, and tossed her
person to and fro with that inimita-
ble grace of her province, which is at
will modest or free. Her black eyes
shono like polished jet, and her fin-
gers agitated the castanets in defiant
provocation. She had in Ventura a
partner well suited to her. Never
was the fandango danced with more
grace and sprightliness.
The excited singers improvised (ac-
cording to custom) couplets in praise
of the brilliant pair :
" Tliroir roMf, r^ ro>es,
The belle of the ball,
For her beauty and grace
She merits them all
And to-night in the f^^t,
Sy public acclaim.
To her and Ventura
l3 given the palm."
During the last changes when the
clappings and cheers were redoubled,
Perico arrived and stopped upon the
threshold.
Occupied as all were with the
dance, no one noticed his arrival, and
Ventura conducting Rita to a room
where there were refreshments pass-
ed close beside him as he stood in
shadow, without being aware of bis
presence. As they passed he heard
words between them which confirmed
the whole extent of his misfortune;
.all the infamy of the wife he loved so
fondly, of the mother of his children ;
•all the treachery of a friend and
brother.
The blow was so terrible that the
unhappy man remained for a moment
stunned ; but recovering himself, he fol-
lowed them.
Rita stood before a small mirror
•arranging the flowers that adorned
her head.
"Withered," said Ventura, "why
do you put on roses ? Is it not known
that they always die of envy on the
head of a handsome woman ?"
" Look here, Ventura," said one of
'his friends, " you appear to like the
forbidden fruit better than any other."
" I," responded Ventura, " like good
• fruit though it be forbidden."
**That is an indignity," said a friend
of Perico's.
One of those present took the
speaker by the arm, and said to him,
as he drew him adsie.
" Hush, man ! don't you see that he
18 drunk ? Who gave you a candle for
this funeral ? What is it to you if
Perico, who is the one interested, con-
sents?'
"Who dares to say that Perico
Alrareda consents to an indignity T*
said the latter presenting himself in
the middle of the room, as pale as if
risen from a bier.
At the sound of her husband's
voice, Rita slid like a serpent among
the bystanders and disappeared.
"He comes in good time to look
afler his wife," said some hair-brained
youths, who formed a sort of retinue
to the brilliant dancer and valiant
young soldier, bursting into a laugh.
"Sirs," said Perico, crossing his
arms upon his breast with a look of
suppressed rage, " have I a monkey
show in my face ?"
" That or something else which pro-
vokes laughter," answered Ventura,
at which all laughed.
"It is lucky for you," retorted
Perico, in a choked voice, " that I am
not armed."
"Shut your i>:outh!" exclaimed
Ventura, with a rude laugh. " How
bold the pet lamb is getting! Leave
off bravado, pious youth; don't be
picking quarrels, but go home and
wipe your children's noses."
At these words Perico precipitated
himself upon Ventura. The latter
recoiled before the sudden shock, but
immediately recovered himself, and
with the strength and agility which
were natural to him, seized Perico by
the middle, threw him to the groutfd,
and put his knee upon his breast.
Fortunately Perico did not carry a
knife, and Ventui^ did not draw his ;
but instead the latter clenched both
hands upon Perico's throat, repeatmg
furiously :
"You I You! that I can tear to
pieces with three fingers ; do you lay
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ptrieo the Sad.
C75
yotfr hands upon mc ? You ! a killer
of locust8, a coward, a chicken,
brought up under your mother's wing.
You to me I to me T*
At (his instant Pedro entered.
" Ventura I" he shouted, ** Ventura I
What are you doing ? what are you
doing, madman ?'*
At the sight of his father, Ventura
loosed his grasp upon Perico and
stood up.
^ You are drunk," continued Pedro,
beside himself with indignation and
grief "You are drunk, and with
eril wine.* Go home,*' he added
pushing Ventura by the shoulder, " go
home, and go on before me."
Ventura obeyed without answering,
for with Pedro's words, it was not
alone the voice of his father that
reached his ears, it was the voice of
reason, of conscience, of his own
hearL His noble instincts were
awakened, and he blushed for the
affair which had just taken place, and
for the cause which had occasioned it.
Therefore he lowered his head as in
the presence of all he respected, and
went out, followed by his father.
In the mean while they had raised
Perico, who was gradually recovering
from the vertigo caused by the
pressure of Ventura's fingers.
He passed his hand across his fore-
head, cast upon those who surrounded
him the glance of a wounded and
manacled Eon, and left the room, say-
ing in a hollow voice,
** He has destroyed us both.**
As Ventura had gone, accompanied
by his father, those present allowed
Perico to leave without opposition.
**This is not the end,* said one,
shaking his head.
**That is clear,** said another.
** First deceived, and afterward beat-
en who is the saint that could bear
ar
Perico went home muttering in dis-
jointed and broken sentences — ^ Chick-
en T* "Coward I" "Something in
my face which provokes laughter I'
♦ " Drnnlc with erll wine," Bald when iht dnmkcn
. penon Is ill-tompered.
"And he tells me so, hoP "Pet
himbP* <'No one cast a doubt upo.i
my honor until you spat upon it and
trampleditunder your feet! Oh! wo
shall see!'* He entered his room
and seized his gun.
"Father !*' cdlled the little voice of
Angela from the next apartment,
" father, we are alone."
" You will be yet more alone," mur-
mured Perico, without answering her.
Tlie children's voices kept on calling
" Father, father !"
" You have no father!" shouted Per-
ico, and went out into the court. Ho
placed his gun against the trunk of the
orange-tree, in order to take out ammu-
nition to load it, but, as if the ancient
protector of the family repulsed the
weapon, it slid and fell to the ground.
The leaves of the tree murmured
mournfully. Were they moved by
some dismal presentiment ?
Perico was leaving the court when
he found himself face to face with bis
mother, who, made watchful by her
inquietude, had heard her son enter.
"Where are you going, Perico?'
she asked.
"To the field.' I have told you al-
ready that there were goats around."
** Did you go to the feast ?"
" Yes."
"And Rita?"
"Was not there. Mamma Maria
dotes."
Anna breathed m<H:e freely; stiD,
the unusual roughness of her son s
tone and the asperity of his replies
surprised the already alarmed mother.
"Don't go now to the field, my
child," she said in a supplicatii^
voice.
" Not go to the field, and why ? '
"Because I feel in my heart that
you ought not, and you know that my
heart is true."
" TeSf I know t7/" he answered, with
such acerbity and bitterness that Anna
began to fear that although he might
not have found Rita at the feast, he
had, nevertheless, his suspicions.
"Well, then, since you know it, do
not go," she said*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
676
Perico the Sad,
« Madam,*' answered Pftrioo^ ^ wom-
en sometimes exasperate men bj try-
ing f o govern them. Thej say that
I have been bronght up under your
wing. I intend now to fly alone,'' and
ho went toward the gate
'^ Is Has my son r'' ciied the poor
mother. ^Something is the matter
with him ! Somethmg is wrong !**
As Perico opened the gate, his
faithful companion, the good Melampo,
came to his side.
"Go back!** said Perico, ^ring
him a kick.
The poor animal, little used to ill
treatment, fell back astonished, but
immediately, and with that absence of
resentment whidi makes the dog a
model of abnegation in his afiection,
as weU as of fidelity, darted to the
gate in order to follow his master. It
was already shut. Then he began to
howl mournfully, as if to prove the
truth of the instinet of these animals
when they announce a catastrophe by
their lamentations.
CHAPTEn XIV.
On the following day, when sleep
had dispelled from Ventura's bram the
remaining fumes that confused his
reason, he rose as deeply ashamed as
he was sincerely penitent. He, there-
fore, Hstened to the just and sensible
charges which his father made against
his proceedings, past and present, with-
out contradicting them.
"All you say is true, father,^ he
answered, "and I can only tell you
that I did not know what I was doing,
but I fedL it enough now ! The wine,
the cursed wine ! I will ask Pence's
pardon before all the village. I owe
it more to myself than even to him I
bave ^rfTended."
"You promise, dien, to ask his par-
don r
" A hundred times, father."
" You wiii marry Elvira?*'
"With all my heart."
" And treat her well ?"
" By tiu ) cross," said Yentui^iy mak-
ing the sign with bis fingers."
*• You and she will go to Alcala?*'
" Yes, sir, if it were to Peiion."*
Pedro kx>ked at him a moment with
deep emotk>n, and said :
"Well, then, God bless you, my
son,"
Both went to Anna's in search of
Perioo, but he had gone out, Anna told
them. At sight of them, but still more
on noticing the joy and satisfaction
which shone iu Pedro^s face^ Anna's
vague but distressing fears were tran-
quillLsed, and, more than all, Yentura^s
manner filled her with hope, for she
saw that he approached £lvira and
talked to her with interest and tender-
ness, while Pedro said, with a mys-
terious air and winking toward Ven-
tura, " That young fellow is in a hurry
to be married. You mustn't take so
long to prepare the wedding things,
neighbor ; young people are not so
sluggish as we old ones."
They soon lefl, Ventura for the
hacienda at which he was employed ;
Pedro, who was going to his wheat-
field, accompanied him, their road
being the same. The wheat was very
fine, hot full of weeds.
" The weeds are awake," «ud Ven-
tura.
" Give them time," replied Pedro,
"and they will vanquish the wheat, be-
cause they are the legitimate o&pring
of the soiL The wheat is its foster
child. But, with the favor of God,
wheat will not be lacking in the house
for us and for more that may come."
They separated and Ventura disap-
peared in die olive-grove. Pedro re-
mained looking afler him.
" Not even a king," he said to him-
self, "has a son like mine. Nor is
there his equal in aU Spain. If he is
noble in person, he is more noble in
souL*
Ventura had advanced but few steps
into the grove when he saw Perico at
a little distance, coming from behind a
tree with his gun.
• OibnIUr, In other words, to Um «Dd of Um
world.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad.
677
''I have something in mj face,
thanks toi^ou/' he shouted^ << that pro-
vokes laughter. I have 4il80 gome-
thing^in mj hand that stops laughter.
I am a coward and a kiUer of locasts,
hut I know how to rid mjself of the
reproach you have put upon me.**
** Perico^ what are you doiog ?* cried
Yentura, running toward him to arrest
the action. But the shot had been
sent on its dreadful errand, and Yen-
turn fell mortally wounded. Pedro
heard the report and started.
<* What is that ?* he exclaimed, « but
what would it be?'' he added upon re-
flection. ^ Yentura has perhaps shot
a partridge. It sounded near. I will
go and see."
He hurriedly follows the path his
son has taken, sees a form lying upon
the ground ; approaches it — God of
earth and heaven ! It is a wounded
man ! and that man is his son I The
poor old man falls down beside bun
« Father,"" Yentura says, " I have
some strength left ; cahn yourself and
help me get to the hadenda ; it is not
far and let them send for a confessor,
for I wish to die like a Christian.'*
The God of pity gives strength
to the poor old man. He raises his
son, who, leaning upon his shoulder
walks a few steps, repressing the
groans which anguish wrings from his
breast.
At the hacienda, they hear a piti-
ful voice calling for suceor; all run out
and see, coming along the path, the
unfortunate father supporting upon his
shoulder his dying son. They meet
and surround them.
"A priest! a priest P* moans the ex-
hausted voice of Yentura.
A suitable person, mounted on the
fleetest horse, leaves for the village.
^The sargeon, bring the suigeonP
calls the father.
^And the magistrate f adds the su-
perintendent
In this manner passes an hour of
agony and dread.
But now they hear the swifl ap-
proach of horses' feet, and the messen-
ger comes aecompanied by the priest.
The aid which arrives first is that of
religion.
The priest enters, carrying in his
bosom the sacred host. All prostrate
themselves. The wretdAd father finds
relief in tears.
They leave the priest with the dy-
ing man, and through the house, broken
only by the sobs of Pedroy reigns a
solemn silence.
The mbister of God comes out of
the room. A sweet calm has spread
Itself over the face of the reconciled.
Hie surgeon enters^ probes the wound,
and turns silently with a sad move-
ment of his head toward those who
are standing by. Pedro awaiting,
with hands convulsively clasped, the
sentence of the man of science, falls to
the floor, and they^cany him away.
'' Sir magistrate,** the surgeon says,
<< he is not capable of making a declara-
tion, he is dying.''
These words rouse Yentara. "With
that energy which is natural to him,
he opens his eyes and says distinctly :
^Ask, for I can still answer."
The scribe prepares his materials
and the magistrate asks :
^ What has been the cause of your
death?"
** I myself," distinctly replied Yen-
tura.
"Who shot you?"
" One whom I have forgiven,"
" You then forgive your murderer ?"
'< Before Grod and man."
These were his last words.
The priest presses his hand and
says, " Let us recite the creed." All
kneel, and the guardian angel em-
braces as a sister, even before hearing
the divine sentence, the parting soul of
him who died forgiving his murderer-
OH AFTER X7.
The women were together in Anna's
parlor, and although not one of them,
except Rita, knew of the events of the
night before, they sat in oppressive
Digitized by CjOOQIC
678
Ptrico the Sad.
Bilence, for even Maria was wanting
in her accustomed loquacity.
**I don't know why,'* she said at last,
"nor what is the matter with me, but
my heart to^y feels as though it
could not stay in its place.**
**It is the same with me," said El-
vira, ^ I cannot breathe freely. I feel
as if a stone lay on my heart. Pei*^
haps it is the air. Is it going to rain,
Aunt Maria ?''
^My poor child," thought Anna,
"the remedy comes too late. Earth
is calling her body and heaven her
soul."
"Well, I feel just as usual," said
Bita, who was in reality the one that
could hardly sit still for uneasiness.
Angela had made her a ra$; baby,
which she was rocking in a hollow tile
by way of cradle, and the painful si-
lence which followed these few words
was only broken by the gentle voice of
the little girl as she sung, in the sweet
and monotonous nursery melody to
which some mothers lend such simple
enchantment, and such infinite tender-
nessy these words :
" I hold tbee In my anm,
And never cease to think.
What would become of thee, my imgtt!.
If I should be taken from thee.
The little angels of heaven—"
The childish song was interrupted
by 'a heavy solemn stroke of the
church belL Its vibration died away
in the air slowly and gradually, as if
mounting to other regions*
^IRs MajettyP* said all, rising to
their feet
Anna prayed aloud for the one who
was about to receive the last sacra-
ments.
" For whom can it be ?** said Maria.
"I do not know of any one that is
dangerously sick in the place.**
Rita looked out of the window and
asked of a woman that was passing,
who was the sick person ?
"I do not know," she answered,
"but it is some one out of the vdiage."
Another woman cried as i^he ai>*
proached, "Mercy! it is a murder, for
the magistrate and the sorgeoa have
followed the priest as fast as they
could r
"God help him!" they all ex-
claimed, with that profound and ter-
rible emotion which is excited by those
awful words, a murder 1
" And who can it be V* asked Bitn.
"No one knows/' answered the
woman.
Then the bell tolled for the passing
soul; solemn stroke; stroke of awe;
voice of the church, which announces
to men that a brother is striving in
weariness, anguish, and dismay, and is
going to appear before the dread tri-
bunal — momentous voice, by whitsh
the church says to the restless multi-
tude, deep in frivolous interests which
it deems important, and in fleetiug fma-
sions which it dreams will be eternal:
Stand still a moment in respect for
death, in consideration of your feUow-
being who is about to disappear from
the earth) as you will disappear to-
morrow.
They remained plunged in silence,
but nevertheless deeply moved, as
happens sometimes with the sea, when
its surface is calm, but its boram
heaves with those deep interior waves
which sailors call a ground-swelL
And not they alone. The whole
village was in consternation, for death
by the hand of violence always ap-
palls, since the curse which God pro-
nounced upon Cain continues, and
will GontinuCy in undiminished solemn-
ity throughout all generations.
" How long the time is !*' said Maria,
at length. "It seems as if the day
stood still.**
" And as if the sun were nailed in
the sky," added Elvira. " Suspense is
so painfuL Perhaps robbers have
done iU" ^
"It may have been unintentiaDal,''
answered Maria.
" Mamma Anna, who has killed a
man, and what made him do it ?" asked
the little Angela.
"Who can tell," replied Anna, " what
is the cause, or whose the daring hand
that has anticipated that of God in ex-
tinguishing a torch which ho lighted \^
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Irish Folk Hooka of (he Last Century.
679
At that instant thej heard a distant
ramor. People moved hj curiosity
are ninning throagh the street, and
confased exclamations of astonish-
ment and pity reach their cars.
"What is itr asked Blta, ap-
proaching the window.
'' They are bringing tho dead man
this way/' was the answer.
Elvira felt herself irresistibly im-
pelled to look oat.
" Come away^ Elvira,** said her
mother, "you know that you cannot
bear the sight of a corpse."
Elvira did not hear her, for tho
crowd, that drawn by curiosity, sym-
pathy, or friendship, had surrounded
the body and its attendants, was com-
ing near. Anna and Maria, also
placed themselves at the grating. Tho
corpse approached, lying across a
horse and covered with a sheet. An
old man follows it, supported by two
persons. His head is bowed upon bis
breast They look at him — ^merciful
God I it is Pedro I and they iiiter a
simultaneous cry.
Pedro hears it, lifts his head and
sees Rita. Despair and indlgnatiCHi
give him strength. He frees himself
violently from the arms that sustain
him, and precipitates himself toward
the horse, exclaiming : <* Look at
your work, heartless woman ! Perioo
killed him." Saying this, he lifts tho
sheet and exposes the body of Ventura,
pale, bloody, and with a deep wound
in the breast.
Vrom Tho Dublin Untrenlty Magasine.
IRISH FOLK BOOKS OP THE LAST CENTDKY.
In the eighteenth century Ireland
did not possess the boon of Conmiis-
sioners to prepare useful and interest-
ing school books. However, as tho
mass of the peasantry wished to give
their children the only education they
could command, namely, that afforded
by the hedge schools, and as young
and old liked reading stories and pop-
ular histories, or at least hearing them
read, some Dublin, Cork, and Lime-
rick printers assumed the duties ne-
glected by senators, and published
'* Primers," " Reading-made-easie's,'*
"Child's -new -play -thing," and the
widely diffused "Universfijj Spelling
Book" of the magisterial Daniel Pen-
ning, for mere educational purposes.
These were " adorned with cuts," but
the transition from stage to stage was
too abrupt^ and the concluding por-
tions of the early books were as diffi-
cult as that of die ** Universal Spell-
ing Book" itselP« which the author, in
oi^r to render it less practicalJy use-
ful, had encumbered with a dry and
difficult gr^immar placed in the centro
of the volume.
Two Dublin publishers, Pat. Wo-
gan, of Merchants' quay, and Wil-
liam Jones, 75 Thomas street, |«rere
the educational and miscellaneous
Alduses of the day, and considered
themselves as lights bui-ning in a
dark place for the literary guidance
of their countrymen and country-
women, of the shop-keeping, farmer,
and peasant classes. In the frontis-
piece of some editions of the spelling-
book grew the tree of knowledge*
laden with fruit, each marked with
some letter, and ardent climbers pluck-
ing away. Beneath was placed this
inscription :
** The tree of knorrledge here you see.
The fruit of which is A, B, a
But if you neglect it like itUe drones,
Yott*ll not be respected by William Jones.**
That portion of the work contain-
ing ^'spelb" and exphmations was
Digitized by CjOOQIC
680
Ifuh FoUs Bool't of the Lcut Century.
thorougblj stnclied by the pupils.
The long class was arrangod in line
in the eveniii*^, every one contributed
a brass pin, and the boy or girl found
beet in the lesson, and most successful
at the hard "spells** given him or
her by the others, and most adroit in
defeating them at the same exercise,
got all the pins except two, the por-
tion of the second in rank, (the qtteen,)
and one, the perquisite of the third,
(the prince.)
Every neighborhood was searched
carefully for any stray copies of
£ntick'd or Sheridan's small square
dictionaries, (pronounced Dix!ienry$
by the eager students,) for hard spells
and difficult explanations to aid them
in their evening tournaments.
The grave Mr. Fenning was censu-
ruble for admitting into some editions
the following jest (probably imported
from Joe Miller) among his edifymg
fables and narratives :
" A gay young fellow once asked a par-
son for a guinea, but was stiffly refused.
* Then/ said he, ' giye me at least a crown/
* I will not give thee a farthing/ answered
the clergyman. 'Well, father/ said the
rake, Met me have your blessing at all
events.' * Oh I yes : kneel down, my son,
and receive it with humility.* * * Nay,* said
the other, * I will not accept it, for were it
worth a farthing you would not have offered
it.' »
We cannot, however, quit the
school-books without mention of the
really valuable treatise on arithmetic,
composed by Ellas Vorster, a Dutch-
man naturalised in Cork, and subse-
quently improved by John Gongh, of
Meath street, one of the society of
Friends. <^ Book-keeping by DouUe
Entry," writen by Dowling and Jack-
son, was so judiciously arranged that
it is still looked on as a standard
work.
The same followers hngo intervaOo
of Stephens and Ebsevir published,
besides prayer and other devout books,
a series of stories and histories, and
literary treatises such as they were,
printed with worn type, on bad grey
paper, cheaply bound in sheep-skin,
and sold by the peddlers through the
country at a tetter {^^>) each. Of
history, voyages, etcl, the peddler's
basket was provided with ^ Hugh
Beilly's History of Ireland," "Ad-
ventures of 8ir Francis Drake," « The
Battle of Aughrim,** and ^ Siege of
Londonderry," (the two latter being
dramas,) ^Life and Adventures of
James Freney the Robber," "The
Irish Rogues and Rapparees," ^The
Trojan Wars,'' and *« Troy's Destruc-
tion," <'The Life of Baron Trenck,"
and "The Nine Worthies— Three
Jews, Three Heathens, and Three
Christians.^'
The fictional department embraced,
chiefly in an abridged state, " The Ara-
bian Nights," " The History of Don
Quixote, ' "Gulliver's Travels," "Esop's
Fables," ''Adventures of Robinson
Crusoe," "Robin Hood's Garland,"
"The Seven' Champions of Christen-
dom," "The History of Valentine and
Orson," "The Seven Wise Masters and
Mistresses of Rome," " Royal Fwry
Tales," etc, etc
In the department of the Belles
Lettres may be classed, " Lord Ches-
terfield's Letters to his Son," "The
Academy of Compliments," Tlie Fash-
ionable Letter Writer," " Hocus Pocus»
or the Whole Art of Legerdemain,"
" Joe Miller's Jest Book," etc
The list would not be c<»npletc
without mention of the books of bal«
lads. These were sold in sheets, each
forming 8 pages, 18mo, and adorned
with cuts, never germain to the bal-
lads they illustrated. Some of tliese
sheets contained only one production,
the ** Yarmouth Tragedy," or some
early English ballad sadly disfigured.
One related how a " servant-man" was
accused by an envious livened brother,
of being a con firmed card-player. On
being examined he obtuned a complete
victory over the informer^ convincing
his master that what he, the master,
called cards, was to him a prayer-book,
a catechism, a calendar, and what not*
The different numbers reminded him
of the six days of the creation, the seven
churches of Asia, the ten command-
ments, the twelve Apostles, etc Tlie
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Irhh Folk Books of ike Lent Century.
681
king recalled to lum the duty he owed
that supreme magistrate, the ace of
hearts, the love due to God and our
neighbor. ** How, ia it," said the
master, ^ thxit you mse always passed
over the knave in your reckoning^'
" Ah ! I wished to speak no ill of that
crooked disciple that went to backbite
me to your honor." The reader an-
ticipates the victory of the ingenious
roj^e.
The purchasers of these sheets
sewed them as well as they couM in a
book form, but they were so thumbed
and abused, that it is at this date near-
ly impossible to procure one of those
rcpertories of song printed toward the
close of the last or the beginning of the
present centuiy.
Of all these works that we delight
i n most at present, (it was not so when
wc were young,) is the unmatched
** Academy of Compliments," which
was the favorite of boys and girls just
beginning to think of marriage, or its
charming preliminary, courtship. Very
feelingly did the writer in his preface
insist on the necessity of eloquence.
^ Even quick and attractive wit,'' as he
thoughtfully observed, '* is often foiled
for want of words, and makes a man
or woman seem a statute or one dumb."
He candidly acknowledges that several
treatises like his have been published,
" but he assures the courteous reader
that none have arrived to the perfec*
tion of this, for good language and di«
version."
This is the receipt for accosting a
lady, and entering into conversation;
with her:
" I believe Nature brought you forth to be
a scourge to lovers, for ahc hath been so pro*
digal of her favor toward you, that it rcn«
dcra you as admirable as you ore amiablej'
Another form :
"Your presence is so dear to me, your
conversation so honesty and your humour so
pleasing, that I could desire to be with you
perpetually."
The author directs a slight depart-
ure from this form, in case the gentle-,
man has never seen the lady before,
and yet has fallen passionately in love
with her.
" If you accuse me of temerity, you mrust
lay your own beauty in fault, with which I am
so taisen, tliat my heart is raviahed from mc,
and wholly suljecicd to you."
Decent people would scarcdy tliank
us for troubling them with many of the
^ witty questions and answers for the
improvement of conversation.* * A few
must be quoted, however, with discreet
selection.
*'Q. What said the tiler to the xnan
when he fell through the rafters of his
house?
*' A. Well done, fiith ; I like such an as-
sistant as thou art, who can go through his
work so quickly.
'* Q. What said the tulor's boy to the
gentleman who, on his presenting his bill,
said tartly, he was not running away ?
" A. If you arc not, nr, I am sorry to say
my master is.
** Q. Why is a soldier said to be of such
great antiquity?
*^A. Because he keeps up the old fash-
ions wheii the first bed was upoa the bare
ground."
THE BATTLE OF AtTGHBm.
It may appear strange that <*The
Battle of Aughrim," written by an
adherent to the Hanoverian succession,
should so long have continued a popu-
lar volume among the Boman Catholic
peasantry. This has, perhaps, been
due to the respectful style in whicli
the author treated the officers of Irish
extraction. All his contempt and dis-
like were levelled at St. Ruth, the
French Grcncral, and his masters,
English James and French Louis.
Though the style of the rhymed play is
turgid enough, there are in it occasion-
al passages of considerable vigor and
beauty, and a brisk movement in the
conduct of the piece ; and sentimental
youth have an opportunity of sheddmg
a tear over the ill starred love of GoS'
frey and Jemincu It was scarcely fair
of the author to represent St. Ruth as a
stabber in cold blood, but hear the
moving periods he makes Sarsfield
utter:
'* heavens I can imtare bear the shocklns sound
or death sr slavery on our native ground.
Why was I nartared of a noble race,
And taught to stai'e destruction in the face f
Why was I not laid out a useless «cru5,
And formed for eome poor hungry peasant's cnb.
To hedge and dltoh, and with unwearied toU
To cuIUvat^ for grain a Certllt soU,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Msh Folk Books of As Last Centurg.
To vatch my flocks, mid range my postures through,
With all my locks wet with the morning dew,
Kathertlian being great, give up my fame,
And lose the ground I never coq regain V
Those Irishmen, who, like ourselres,
hare read and enjoyed this drama in
early boyhood, before the birth of the
critical faculty, will find it out of their
power to divest themselves of early
impressions when endeavoring to form
a just estimate of its merits. We
vainly strive to forget the image of a
comely and intelligent country house-
wife, spiritedly reciting the interview
o£ the Irish and Engljsh officers afler
the day was decided, and bravely hold-
ing out the tongs at the point where
Sarsfield presents his weapon. Tal-
mash, Mackay, and Sir Charles God-
frey confront the Irish chiefs, Dor-
rington, 0*Neil, and Sarsfield, and
Talmash courteously addresses them.
" Take qnarters, gentlemen, and yield on sight.
Or otherwise prepare to stand tho fisht.
Yet pray, take pity on yourselves and yield.
For blood enough has stained tho sanguine field.
'Tlj Brltaln*8 glory, you yourselves can tell,
To use the vanquished hospitably well.
iSir^tfW— Urge not a thought, proud victor, If you
dare.
So far beneath tho dlgnlty.of war.
I am a peer, and Sarsfield is my name.
And where this aword oan reach I dare malntoia.
Life I contemn, and death I recommend ;
lie breathes not vital air who'd make me bend
My neck to bondage, so, proud foe, decline
Tho length of this, {extending hU noord,) because
tho spot U mine.
TcUmash.—U you arc Sarsfield, as you bravely
show,
Tea*re that brave hero whom I longed to know,
And ly^ished to thank you on tho reeking plain
For that great feat of blowing un our train.
Then mark, my lord, for what I here contend ;
'TIS Britain's holy clmrch I now defend.
Great William's right, and Mary's crown, these
three.
Sarsfield. — ^Why, then fhll on— 'Louis and James for
me. (^They JighUy*
Sarsfield's declaration ends the ani-
mated discussion rather lamely ; but
what poet has maintained a uniform
grandeur or dignity ? The writer was
a certain Robert Ashton. The play
when printed was dedicated, circa
1756, to Lord Carteret, and if peasant
tradition can be trusted, it was only
acted once. The Jacobite and Hano-
verian gentlemen in the pit drew their
swords on one another, probably at
the scene just quoted, and bloodshed
ensued. This is not confirmed by the
written annals of tho time.
" The Siege of Londonderry" was,
and still is bound up with ^ The Bat-
tle of Aughrim," but there is nothing
whatever in it to recommend It to the
sympathies of the populace. There
is nothing but mismanagement and
bad feeling on the part of the native
officers from beginning to end ; and if
fear or disloyalty shows itself in one
of the besieged, his YQry wife cudgela
him for it.
Tlierc is something very natve and
old-fashioned in the observation in-
serted at the end of the list of tho
dramatis persoius :
** Cartel agreed upon— No exchango of
prisoners, but bang and quarter on both
sides."
DON BELLIANIS OF GREECE ; OR THE
HONOR OF CHIVALRY.
The re-perusal of portions of this
early favorite of ours has not been
attended with much pleasure or edifi-
cation. There is a sad want of style,
accompanied by a complete disregard
of syntax, ortfa(^raphy, and punctua-
ti(Hi. The objects to be attamed are
so many and so useless, one adventure
branches ofiT into so many otliers, and
there arc so many knights and giants
to be overcome, and emperors so care-
lessly leave their empresses in the
dark woods exposed to so many dan-
gers, while they go themselves to
achieve some new and futile exploit
that the narrative has scarcely more
continuity and consistence than a
dream.
The author had ten times as many
separate sets of adventures to conduct
simultaneously as ever had the esti-
mable G. P. li. James. So he was fre-
quently obliged to suspend one series,
and take up another, a mode of com-
position which all novelists who read
this article, are advised to eschew.
Leaving Don Bellianis investing the
emperor of Trebizond, who stoutly
disputed the possession of the fair
FlorisbeUa's hand with him, he pro-
ceeds to tell what happened at the
joustings of Antioch in consequence of
the happy union of Don Brianel and
the peerless Aurora. Thither came
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ItUh Fdlh Booh$ of the Latt CnUwy.
68d
Peter, the knight of the Keys, from
Ireland. He wag eon to the king of
Monster, and, being anxious to seek
foreign adventures, embarked at Cbr-
lingfordy and performed prodigies of
valor in Britain and France, and then
sailed for Constantinople. Being with-
in sight of that citj, a storm forced
his ship awaj and drove it to Sardinia,
where Peter won the heart of the fair
piincess, Magdalcna, by his success in
the tournament, and his beauty of fea-
tures when he removed his helmet af-
ter the exercise. The princess has a
claim upon our indulgence, for as the
text has it, ''he looked like Mars and
Venus together.'* The knights of those
happy times being as distinguished for
modesty as courage, the princess ran
no risk in desiring an Interview with
the peerless Peter, and they vowed
constancy to each other till death.
A neighboring king demanding the
hand of the lady for h'n son, the lovers
decamp, and find themselves on a
strange island in a day or two. Peter
having given the princess a red purse
containing some jewels, she happened
to let it fall by her, and it was at once
picked up by a vulture, on the suppo-
sition of its being a piece of raw meat.
Flying with it to a tree overhanging
the river, and finding his mistake, he
dropped it into the water, and there it
lay on the sandy bottom in sight of
the lovers.
The knight, arming himself with a
long bough, and getting into the boat,
would have fished up the purse, only
for the circumstance of being unpro-
vided with oars. The tide having
turned, he was carried out to sea, and
by the time he had got rid of his armor
he was nearly out of sight of the poor
princess, now left shrieking behind,
who was conveyed away after a day
and a night's suffering, in a ship bound
for Ireland, where she took refuge in
a nunnery, and in time became its su-
perioress. This was near the palace
of her lover^s parents, and to match
this strange coincidence by another
equally strange, their cook, one day
preparing a codfish for dinner, discov-
ered within it the identical purse of
jewels carried away by their, son, and
lost in the manner described in the
distant Mediterranean. They gave
him up then for lost, but he was merely
searching through the world for his
mistress, jousting at Antioch, killing a,
stray giant here or there, and rescuing
from the stake at Windsor an innocent
countess accused of a faux pas — all
these merely to keep his hand in prac-
tice. Don Clarineo with whom he
had fraternized at Antioch is also en-
gaged on the same quest, and comes
to Ireland in the course of his rambles.
In that early time Owen Roe O Neill
was chief king, MncGuire, father of
Peter, was king of Munstcr as before
stated, Owen Con O'Neill and Owen
MacO'Brien niled two of the other
provinces, but the territory claimed by
each is not pointed out. The compiler
was probably not well up in the old
chronicles ; he would else have given
O'Brien the territory of Munster, and
settled MacGuire somewhere near
Loch Erin.
. Bo that as it may, the reigning king
of Ulster refusing his fair daughter to
the prince of Connaught, was minded
to bestow her on the terrible giant
Fluerston, whose inhospitable al)odo
was in the mountains of Carlingford.
The father of the rejected prince de-
termined to resist this >' family com-
pact," sent out knights and squires to
impress every knight errant Aey met
into his Bervice. Being rather moro
earnest than polite on meeting with
Don Clarineo, he slew about a score
of them, and after he eucoeeded in
learning their business with him ho
was inclined to slay another score for
theur stupidity in not being more ex*
plicit at iho beginning, whereas ho
would have devoted ten lives if he had
them to the cause of prinoe verstis
giant.
Having easily massacred the Car- «
lingford ogre, he began to bestir him-
self in his quest for the lost princess,
and so quitted the Connaught court
which accordmg to our author was
held at that era in Dublin, and his
Digitized by CjOOQIC
684
3-uh Folk Book$ of iJu Lout Cknhmf.
loyalty was suitably rewarded in dis-
oorerhig his own true k>ve«
It was origioaJly written in Spaoishf
and part translated into French by
Claude de Bcnil, and published by
Dn Bray, Paris, 16i5 in an 8ro^
THE HEW HISTOBT OF THK TBOJAN
WABS AKO trot's DSSTBUCTION*
The compiler of this Burton did
not share in Homer's excusable pre-
judices in favor of his countrymen;
ho was a Trojan to the backbone.
This might be excused in compliment
to the noble and patriotic Hector, but
he disturbs commonly received no-
tions of family relationship among
the ancients, a thing not to be pardon*
ed.
Afler proposing the true histories
of Hercules, The.!iens, the destruction
of Ilion, and other equally authentic
facts, he proceeds to relate —
** now Bmte, King of the Trojani, arrived
in Britaia, and conquered Albion and his
giants, building a new Troy where London
now stands, in memory of whicli the effigies
of two giants in Guildhall were set np, with
many other remarkable and very fiunoas
passages, to revive antiquity out of the dust,
and give those that shall peruse this elabor^
ate work, a true knowledge of what passed
in ancient times, so that they may be able
readily to discourse of things thai had been
obliterated from the memories of most peo-
ple, and gain a certainty of the famous deeds
of the renowned worthies or the world.^'
Our truthfnl historian then relates
with many corrections of the legend-
ary accounts of the lying Greeks, the
histories of Hercules, Theseus, Or-
pheus, Jason, and the other Ante-
Trojan heroes; and either through
mere whim, or better information,
tells us that Proserpine at the time
she was snatched awaj to hell, was
the bride of the enamored Orpheus,
and the wicked King Pluto putting
armor on his equally wicked follow-
ers — ^the giant Cerberus and others—
and festal garmenta over the armor,
carried her away despite the resist-
ance of the bridal party. OrpheuB
obtained her, as mentioned by the
fabulists, but looking back, Cert)erus»
who was dose behind arrested her
progress, and the unfortunate hus-
band zetumed to upper mr half-dead.
Thereupon Theseus and Pirithous
tried the adventnre^ but the giant
Cerberus slew the last named, and
would have slain Theseus," but Her-
cules dosely following, gave the giant
such a knodc of hia dub as left him
lying in a swoon for some hours.
Ad\'«ncnig to the throne of the black
tyrant, he administered another crush-
ing blow on his helm, and leaving him
for dead, conducted the trembling but
ddi^ted Proserpine to her mother
and husband in the pleasant vales of
8iciiy, and ^ if they didn't live happy
that we mayT As for the traitor
Cerberus, he was presented to Hip-
podamia, the discousolate widow of the
murdered Pirithous, who found a
melanchofy satisfaction in putting him
to death after first subjecting him to
well-deserved tortures.
In the rest of the history of Her-
cules our compiler does not think it
necessary to depart from the state-
ments of the early writers. He gives
him indeed as second wife, Jotl,
dan^ter of King Pricus, neither of
whose names we recollect.
Our authority being keenly alive to
the injustice done by Homer to the
Trojans, corrects his statements on
sundry occasions. Well disposed as
we are to rectify prejudices, he has
not convinced us that the knights on
both sides, mounted, armed in plate,
and setting their strong spears in
rest, charged each other in full career
in the manner of Cranstoun and Wil-
liam of Deloraine. These are his
words:
** Hector and Achilles advanced in the
fhmt of either army, and ram at each other
with great fury with their spean, giving sadi
a shock as made the eartli to tremble, with
which Achilles was thrown from his horse ;
whereupon the noble Hector scorning to kill
a dismounted man, passed on, maldng lanes
through the eneiiiy*s troops, and paving his
way with dead bodies, so that in a fearful
manner they fled before him«
**By this time Achilles being remounted
by his Myrmidons, a second time encoun-
tered the Tiotorious Heotor| wbo^ notwitb-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Irish Folk £ooh of ihe Last Century.
685
stan^Bg lus vtmoftt GffiDrts,agMa boro hSn to
the eftrth, and went on mftking a dreadful
havoc as before."
It is probable that this aocoont of
the death of Hector will prove the
least digestible of his emendations to
the admirers of the early Greek poets.
The version here given appears to de-
pend on the sole authority of ourcon^
piler, and we do not feel here at lib-
erty to interpose in the literary
quarrel sure to arise on the publication
of this article :
" Hector, baTng taken prisoner Menesteiu,
Duke of Athens, who had on a curious silver
armor, he was conrejing him out of the bat-
tle when thinking himsdf secure, and being
overheated with action, he threw his shield
behind him, and left his boeom bare.
** AchiUes, spying this opportunity, ran with
all his might his spear at the breast of the
hero, which piercing his armor, entered his
undaaorted heart, and he fell down dead to
the earth. And this not satisfying the un-
generous Greek, he fastened his dead body to
the tail of his horse, and dragged him three
times round the city of Troy ui revenge for
the many foils and disgraces he had receiTcd
of him."
Th.e rest rf the narrative corre-
sponds tolend>ly with the old accounts,
but we have not heart to accompany
the author through the burning of
Troy, the adventures of Eneas, and
tJiose of Brutus in his descei^ on
Britain, and ins victory a^et Albion,
Gog, and Magog. Besides, the death
of the " Guardian Dog of Troy " has
disturbed our equanimity, for we ac-
knowledge as great an esteem for
Hector and as strong a dislike to the
ruthless Achilles, as was ever enter-
tained by the compiler of the ^New
History of the Trojan Wars."
The prerjodices of the romanoers of
the middle and later ages in &yor of
the Trojans were probably due to the
history of the war supposed to have
been writtefh by Dares, a Phrygian
priest mentioned by Homer. It is in
Greek, and the work of some ingeni-
ous person of eomparativdy recent
times. It was translated by Postel
into French, and published in Paris
1558. The fiiiBt edition in Greek
came out at Milan in 1477. Another
spurious book on ihe same subject in
Latin, was attributed to Dietys, a fol-
lower of Idom^ieus,' Kmg of Crete.
The first edition of it was printed at
Mayenoe, but without date.
THE XRrSH BOGTJES AND BAPPA&SfiS.
The literary caterers for our pea-
santry, young and old, hare been
blamed for submitting to their in-
spection the lives of celebrated high-
waymen, torles, and "rapparees."
Without undertaking their defence we
cannot help pointing out a volume ap-
propriated to gentry of the same chiss
in the Fafndly lAbraryy issued by John
Murray, whom no one could for a mo-
ment suspect of seeking to corrupt tho
morals of families or individuals. Wc
find in Bums* and Lamberfs cheap
popular books, another given up to
these minions without an apprehension
of demoralization ensuing among the
poor or the young who may happen to
read it. So it is probable that J. Cos-
grave contemplated no harm to his
generation by publishing his ''Irish
Bogues and Kapparees.^' It were to
be wished that the motto selected for
his work had either some attic salt or
common-sense to recommend it :
" Behold het«*t imth hi «v6r7 pftge exprenad ;
O^Darby^s all a »ham in flctioD dresaedf
Save what frovn hence hia treacheroua master itole,
To aenre a koaviih torn, and aot the IboL'*
The reader will please not confound
tlie terms **tory" and ^rapparee."
The tories, though that generic for
Irish robbers is as old as Elizabeth,
are yet most fietmiliarly known as lega-
cies iefl us by the Cromweliian wars,
and diiefly consisted of those rascals
who, pretending to assist the parlia-
mentary cause, plundered tho mere
Irish &rmers, and every one of both
sides who had anything worth taking.
They were a detestable fraternity.
The rapparees were the Irish outlaws
in the Jacobite and Williamite wars,
indnding many a scoundrel no doubt,
but many also who, while they sup-
ported themselves in outlawry, at the
expense of those who in their eyes
were disaffected to the. rightful king,
yet kept their hands unstained by n^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
686
JErM Folk Booh of the Last OejUtKrt/.
gar tbefl or needless bloodshed. Many
who at first kept to the hills and the
bogs as mere outlaws, and exacted
Toluntarj and involuntarj black mail
for mere support, according as the as-
sessed folk were Jacobites or William-
ites, gradually acquired a taste for the
excitement and license of their excep-
tional life, and became bona Jide plun-
derers, preferring (all other things be-
ing equal) to wasting the Sassenach
rather than the Gael, and that was all.
Such a gentleman-outlaw was Red-
mond Count (yUanlon, who flourished
after the conclusion of the Cromwel-
lian wars. Redmond was worthy of
a place beside Robin Hood and Rob
Roy, and has been made the hero of
two stories, one by William Carleton
and the other by W. Bernard M'Cabe.
We now proceed to quote a few of
the exploits of those troublesome indi-
viduals of high and low degree, who
disturbed their country in the end of
seventeenth and first half of the eighth
centh century and furnished amuse-
ment to tlic peasantry and their chil-
dren, during the golden days of the
peddlers.
The great Captain Power of the
South travelled* northward to meet
and tiy the skill of Redmond, and
they had a shrewd encounter with
broadswords for nearly half an hour,
neither gaining a decided advantage.
They swore to befriend each other in
all future needs, and, in consequence,
Redmond rescued bis brother from the
soldiers when they were conducting
Jiim to execution.
Power coming into Leinster, lodged
at the house of a small farmer, whom
he observed to be very dejected all the
evening. On inquiry he found that
his landlord and the sheriff were ex-
pected to make a seizure next day for
rent and arrears amounting to £60.
Afler some further discourse. Power
offered to lend him the sum on his
note of band, and the offer was grate-
fully accepted* Nej^t day the fanner,
after much parleying, acknowledged
tliat he had £60 given him to keep,
and that he would produce it rather
than have his little property distrained,
and trust to God's goodness to be en-
abled to put it together again. The
landlord, after sufficiently abusing bim,
gave him a receipt in full, and, parthjg
company with the sheriff's posse, re-
turned home. In a lonely part of the
way, he was set on by Power and
robbed of the £60 and his watch and
other valuables. In a day cr two the
robber called on the farmer, said he
was going away, and the promissory
note would be of no use to him. Sio
he took it out and tore it in pieces.
How the unreflecting hearts of the
fireside group glow over such quasi-
generous deeds of robbers, and how
little they think on the sel6sh and
abandoned and iniquitous poilions of
the lives of their favorites ! " Bah !
they took from the rich that could af-
ford it, and gave to the poor that
wanted it. l)ickcns a bit o' me 'ud
betray Redmond O'Hanlon or Captain
Power if I got a stocken' o' goold by
it."
Strong John MacPherson is admit-
ted among the Irish worthies by Mr.
J. Cosgrave, though he was more prob-
ably a Highlandman. There was
much of the milk of human kindness
about strong John. If a horseman
would not lend, (John merely requested
a loan,) he never used the ugly words
" stand and deliver,'' he pulled him off
his horse and gave bim a squeeze. If
that failed, ho carried him away firom
the highway, giving the horse his lib-
erty, and rifled him in some quiet nook.
Being set on one vight by a crowd in
an inn kitchen, he threw the hostess
over his shoulder, and no better shield
could be. Making bis escape, he laid
her on the ground, set his foot appar-
ently on her body — it was only on her
gown, however — and extorted twenty
pieces from her friends before he re-
leased her.
Strong John was in no instance
guilty of murder. He never even
struck but in self-defence, and always
betook himself to defence by a woman
when practicable. Ha met the usual
destiny of his tribe about 1678.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Irish Folk BooU of the Last Gentury.
687
WUl Peters, born amon^ the ro-
mantic scenery of the Slieve Bloom
monntains, might have lived and died
a respectable man, or at least have ac-
qairiHi the flame of a highwayman, had
it not been for two trifling impedi-
ments. His father was a receiver of
stolen cattle, which, being commonly
kept in a neighboring field, whose
owner remained out of eight, the crime
could not be brought home to him.
The other mischance consisted in his
staying at school only till tie had mas-
tered "Reynard the Fox." It was
the opinion of Mr. J. Cosgmve that if
he had got through " Don Bellianis,"
the " Seven Champions," and " Troy's
Destruction," he would have arrived
at the honors of the high-road. Afler
a few mistakes in his cattle-stealing
apprenticeship, he became acquainted
with the renowned ^* Charley of the
Horse," and thus made use of him.
He was placed in durance for stealing
a sorrel horse with a bald face and
one white foot, and committed to Car-
low jail, the horse being intrusted to
the cai-e of the jailer. Peters' pere, on
hearing of the ugly mistake, revealed
the family sorrow to the great Cahir,
and he being fully informed of the
marks, color, etc., of the bcast^ sent a
trusty squire of his to the assize
town a few days before the trial,
mounted on a mare with the same
marks as those above noted. The
jailer's man took the horse down to
the Barrow's edge every morning to
diink, and the agent, making liis ac-
quaintance, invited him to take a glass
at a neighboring " shebeen" the morn-
ing before the trial. While they were
refieshing themselves, the squire's
double mounted on the mare ap-
proached where the horse was tied
outside, substituted his own beast, and
rode off on the other. The refreshed
man, on coming out, observed nothing
changed, and rode the new-comer home
to the stable.
The trial coming on, the prosecutor
swore home to his property, but Mr.
William Peters said he was as inno-
cent of the thefl as the lord lieu ten-
^ ant. " My lord," said he, " ax him, if
you plase, what did I steal from him."
The answer came out that was ex-
pected, " a sorrel horse, such and such
marks." "It wasn't a sorrel marc
you loetf "No." "My lord, will
you plase to send for the baste, and if
it's a horse, let me be swung* as high
as Gildheroy." The animal was sent
for, the whole court burst into a roar,
and Will Peters demanded compen-
sation, but did not get it.
Being taken up again he was exe-
cuted, as far as hanging for fifteen
minutes could effect it. However,
being at once taken away by his peo-
ple, he was resuscitated. Once more
he was seized and conveyed to Kil-
mainham, whence ho escaped rather
than be transported.
Being at last secured in Kilkenny
for running away with a roll of tobac-
co from a poor huckster-woman, he was
once moro placed on the drop and
hung.
Such were the unedifying subjects
presented to the consideration of the
young in Mr, J. Cosgrave's collection.
He certainly had no evil in his mind
when composing it, but its moral
effect was at best questionable. It
would be a book very ill suited for
rustic fire-side reading in our day.
The same may be said of the " Wars
of Troy," though no indication of evil
intention is apparent. We subjpin
the names of those books that still
continue in print* Why they should
still find buyers seems strange, when
such care is expended in supplying
useful, pleasant, and harmless read*
ing for the lower classes. However,
any evU inherent in them is slight
compared to that of 9ome of the Lon-
don halfpenny and penny journals.
The followmg still form portions of
tlie peddler 3 stock : " The Academy
of Compliments,'* ^ The Arabian
Nights," "^ The Battle of Aughrim,"
« Esop," « Gulliver, ' " O'Reilly's In-
land," "Hocus. Pocus," "Irish
Rogues," "James Freney," " Robin
Hood's Garland," "Seven Cham-
pions,'* "Talcs of the Fairies," "The
Digitized by CjOOQIC
688
As8c$f Bogs, Cats, eic,
Trojan Ware," « Valentine and Oi*-
son," and die " Seven Wise Mastere
and Mistreeses of Home,'* Bome of
tbem abeolutelj harmless.
la the whole eoUeetion, there wafi
not one volume racj of the Irish soil,
or ealcalated to excite love of the
country^ or interest In its ancient
histoty, or literature, or legends. The
eighteenth centuiy was certainly a
dreary one in many respects. For-
mality, affectation, and cynicism pre-
vailed in the manners and literature
of the upper classes, and the lower
classes were left to tiieir own devices
for mental improvement It sa^s
something for the sense of modesty
inherent in the Celtic character, that
there were so few books of a gross or
evil character among their popular
literature.
Translated trom the Frencli.
ASBES, DOGS, CATS, ETC
I Ale not a member of the society
for the prevention of cruelty to ani-
mals, but I deserve to be ; for no one
has praised the worthy efforts of these
gentiemea more than I have; and no
one sees with greater satisfaction, how
justice sometimes gets hold of those
brutal drivers who wreak their uncon-
trolled anger upon their poor steeds,
guilty only of not being able to help
themselves* And if, even, in place of
their being condemned to pay a paltry
fine, they were paid back in kind for
the undeserved blows which these af-
flicted animals receive from their
hands, I for one would make not the
slightest objection.
It would be contrary to the progress
and civilization of the nineteenth cen-
tury, I agree, but it would not be con-
trary to justice, civilized or uncivilized.
However, who knows how things
may turn out 1 Considering the mis-
eries and sufferings of those uncom-
plaining creatures when they are un-
fortunate enough to get under the lash
of the unfeeling boors who ought to
be in their place, it would not surprise
me over much, if it should turn out
that —
That — what*?
Wait a moment, Til tell you. One
day, as I happened to be out walking
along a certain road, I noticed an ass
tied to a post, around which, within the
full length of his rope, there was not
a single blade of grass to crop. The
poor fellow was «labsided, and his
skin scraped, and half tanned by the
frequent application of bark on the
living wood; evidently getting few
caresses of a softer kind, but enjoying
in the most complete sense of the
word, *' the right to work.'* Naturally,
I stopped a mommit to bid him good-
day and ask after his ass-ship s health,
after which I plucked a fine thistle
growing within tantalizing reach of his
rope, and gave it to him. He gobbled
it down with great gusto.
^'How do you like that, my old
chap V said I to him, mechanically.
"First rate," said he, ''hand us
another.'*
I jumped back in astonishment.
** What ! you can talk, can you, my
Bucephalus, and in English too?
That is something new."
" Not 80 new as you think, my dear
sir, for I will let you into a little bit of
a secret. Ass as I am, and as you sec
me to be, I was a man in my time and
a butcher by trade. I had an ass that
1 treated most scurvily, just as they
^o me now ; giving him his beUyfnl
of blows and kicks, but of very little
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Asses, DoffSf CatSy eic.
689
ehc Poor Jack — that waa his name —
kept Lent all the year round, it being
in the interest of mj customers, as I
often said to myself, to quiet the ^
qualms of conscienco when I gave
him but half what he could eat. Let
him stuff himself said I, and he will
get £it and lazy, the meat will come
late to the cook, the cook will be late
with the dinner, and the hungry fam-
ily will lose their temper, and I shall
lo^e their custom, while good doses
of the oil of strap will help his diges-
tion wonderfully, and keep him lively.
Howeyer, Ihis last end was not at-
tained, for the poor ass kicked the
traces — professional term, you under-
stand—and went to the bone-boilers
before his time. When it came to my
tarn to tie up — again pnifessional—
and go off the cart, my soul was con-
demned to go into an ass's body to
suffer for a certain time the punish-
ment of retaliation. Drubbing for
drubbing, kicks of hobnailed shoes for
kicks of peg boots, I got what I gave,
and good measure too, I assure yon.
Do you see that half starved, thin-
flanked old horse over there ? Well,
he is a companion in misery to me.
In his time he was a hack-driver, and
many a time in his fits of anger and
drunkenness, he made an anvil of the
backbone or the jawa of his horses.
Only in those times, now and then,
yon understand, but those times hap-
pened often enough, say once an hour
or BO, every day. As to hay and oats,
he tried to teach them, but without
eocoess, to go without those articles of
hixnry. When his turn came to pay
up old debts, his soul was condemnea
to go into that sorry old carcass, in
whidi he passes many a miserable
quarter of an hour. He is a rag-
picker's property now. How do you
like that specimen of * the noblest con-
quest that man has ever made'? As
to me, Sawney, at your service, I
think the end of my pmiishment is
not far off. It was given me to under-
stand that when a benevolent gentle-
man would offer me a thistle for
ffiendship's sake, it would end, and it
VOL. III. 44
is to you I owe this act of kindness,
my dear Mr. Miller."
^ Good agam, you are a wiser as3
than I took you for. How do you
know my name, master Sawney P'
" This way, sir. The other day I
chanced to be tied to a post, near a
hedge, on the othei side of which, in
a meadow, some folks were having a
little picnic on the grass. Ailer
a while a tall lady in spectacles took
out some papers and began to read for
the company. She seemed to be
reading, from what I could make out,
in some magazine or other. I soon
understood that the subject was asses,
and then of course I cocked up my
ears to their full height. It was true,
it was about us, abused and misunder-
stood beasts that we are. The articles
read by the tall Ix^y were so full of
kindness, and contained such flattering
remarks upon our species, that it al-
most brought the tears to my eyes.
The name signed to those articles was
Jeremiah Miller. Oh ! said I to my-
self, that is a man whom one could
call a man. There is one at least who
understands us and loves us; I pro-
mise myself that if I ever have the
good fortune to meet him I will give
him — in lieu of anything better — ^my
blessing. Tou see that when you
spoke to me just now so kindly, I said
to myself, I wonder if this be not Mr.
Jeremiah Miller, and then I called you
by that name, and I see that I have
just hit it"
"But"— my reader wiQ say «of
course you don't tell this story for a
true one I Tou would never have the
face to ask us to believe that this
braV^r actually spoke to you T
And, pray, why not ? But, after all
it is possible I fell asleep on a mossy
bank, in a meadow, near where an ass
was tied, and that I dreamed what I
have told you. But dreams with the
Ses shut are not always so very un-
e the dreams we sometimes have
when our eyes are open. As for my-
self, whenever I see a poor beast of
burden brutally maltreated by another
beast, who stnkes and kicks as if he
Digitized by CjOOQIC
690
AsseSy J)ogSf GaUy etc.
meant murder, I allow mj fancy to
be tickled with a vision of this latter
brate obliged to creep into the skin of
a horse or ass, and take his torn at
being unjustly whipped; w ithout hav-
ing any attention paid to his bray or
his neigh of expostulation or defence.
You see that I am in e%'ery respect
worthy of figuring among the members
of the society for the prevention, etc,
etc^" but—
II.
But — ^I hold to the great principles
of '76, and first of all to that of equa-
lity. If we must have a law for the
protection of domestic animals against
the men who torment them^ I would
like to see a law devised to protect
men against the animals who are a
pest to poor humanity, for the shoe
sometimes gets on the other foot.
For example ; look at that pack of
dogs of all sizes, of all tastes, (I mean
human,) and in every stage of canine
civilization, which their masters permit
to run at large in the streets of our
city, even in the worst of the dog days,
without counting the free and inde-
pendent dogs who know no master but
themselves. You have a friend who
is a diligent reader of the chapter of
accidents in the daily papers. He tells
you about this or that dog who was
seen running mad, that he had bitten
two or three persons, one of whom has
since died of hydrophobia, and adds
with a peculiar relish that " the dan-
gerous animal is still at large I" These
gentlemen — I mean the owners of the
dogs — are provokingly careless and
in£fieretit about the muck which their
dogs are running in the midst of a po-
puktion biteable to any extent. You
are kindly informed that if you happen
to get bitten by some suspicious-looking
cur — and what cur is not of a suspi-
cious character in these days — ^it will
be necessary to squeeze the wound,
wash it, then cauterize it with a red
hot iron, or cut it out, and then, etc.,
etc These are most excellent re-
cipes, I have no doubt^but I think I
know of a better, which would be to
prevent the bites altogether.
But, you say, there is the procla-
mation of his Honor, the Mayor, and
there is the police, etc., etc Dogs at
large are to be muzzled or held by a
chain. Oh! yes; very fine, indeed,
when Ihey are. The proclamation is
very good, but since the dog owners
pay so little heed to it, it is not sur-
prising that the dogs themselves pay
no more respect to it than they do to
the proclamations of patent medicines
pasted on the lamp-posts or fences.
As to the country places outside of
the city, whither we of the heated
streets and close shops fly to get a
breath of fresh air, and a moment of re-
pose — there you will see fat men and
thin ladies who never dream, either
asleep or awake, of muzzling their fa-
vorite bull-dogs, lap-dogs, pointers, set-
ters, tan terriers or greyhounds. Muz-
zle Vieir dogs I that would make the
poor dogs, and their owners too, very
uncomfortable. A pretty piece of
impudence indeed for a village consta-
ble to presume to carry out the law
against the dog, errant in delicto,
which is the property of a Mr. or a
Mrs.^or a Miss who is a " somebody,"
as if they were nobodies. Mr. Con-
stable knows better than that, and so
does Mr. Puffer, the magistate.
Besides, there is a learned doctor of
the society for the prevention, etc,
who deplores with astonishment min-
gled with grie*", etc., etc, that any one
should be so inhumane as to gag
"man's companion and friend" for
the sake of the prevention of a few
despicable cases of hydrophobia- He
has never been bitten by a mad dog,
and don't expect to be. He does not
see why anybody else need expect
to be.
Then there are our nurses and the
children, whose daily promenade is
embittered by the sight and often the
attacks of some Snarleyow. "It was
as good as a play," says Snarl-
eyow's master ; " Snarley nearly
frightened them to death, I thought I
should die of laughter to see them
Digitized by CjOOQIC
AsieSf DogB^ CfaiSf etc*
691
Bcamper. It was great fun for Soar-
ley." Very well, gentlemen, there is
also Bomething which is great fun for
me too, and Sat is to kick Snarley
whenever he presumes to be too
<< playful" with me or my particular
friends the children*
Protect your "friends of man" if
you will, gentlemen, but don't let
them interfere with my friends, or-—
III.
Permit me here to make a digres-
sion, which is not altogether one ;
Ulan is defined, a reasonable ani-
mal
Now the question arises whether
woman is incdaded in this definition.
Don*t get angry, ladies — ^the horrid
men, you know, are so curious I
IT.
From the friend of man let us pass
to the subject of the friend of woman.
And here I find myself face to face
with a celebrated document which
produced such a deep, or rather such a
lively impression upon the public, a
few weeks since* Who is there in
the whole five parts of the world that
has not heard pf the noted " cat trial"?
That learned decbion and sentence
given by Squire Pouter, justice of the
peace in Dullville, is yet ringmg in my
ears, by which were avenged, as far
as a fine from five cents to a dollar
could avenge, a litter of fifteen cats
illegally drowned. Illegally ! — that
at least was the opinion of the wise
magistrate, who rendered his judg-
ment at great length, and after his
well known comprehensive style, cit-
ing his authors, complimenting the
one, and refuting the others, bringing
under contribution the code of Justini-
an, the English common law, the state
statutes, and the discussions of the
Legislature at Albany. In short, our
modem Solon decided as follows:
The cat, in its nature, is both a do-
mestic and wild animal. As a wild
' animal, it is true, it is lawful game for
the hunter ; but, as a domestic animal,
it has a right to live, and is under the
august protection of the law. Now,
since the wild part of its nature revolts
agsunst captivity, it has a right to
come and go according to its instinc-
tive desire for daily exercise, and
housekeepers are not bound in con-
science to make a raid upon them in
their tender feline infancy under pre-
tence that some day or other they
will make a raid upon their pantry.
Eaids of prevention in the times of
peace are unheard of in the history of
the . republic Therefore they are
condemned (the raiders, in the pres-
ent case, not the cats) to pay such and
such fines, for the benefit of the fifteen
victims, or their heirs or assigns. Yes,
indeed, this splendid judgment made a
good deaW)f noise, and well it might.
I, who a^^peaking to you reside in
my own house, and have no evil inten-
tions toward any one, but — there are
three cats who come each evening from
as many points of the compass for the
purpose of making strategic attacks
upon my eatables. Infinite ore the
precautions that I am forced to take
to save my daily bread from the ene-
my. I must keep up an incessant
fight, and a running fine, not to speak
of the difficulty I experience in vain
attempts to sleep with one eye open
and my car, which is not on the pil-
low, on the alert. I will not speak
of their defiant caterwauling and spite-
ful spitting when they find my barri-
cades impassable ; it is too painful a
subject for me to dwell upon.
Who are the victims of oppression,
most eminent and sage magistrate ?
Is civilized man positively to be given
over in the name of the society for
the prevention, etc., as a victim to the
instincts and caprices of cats ? Not
at all, not at all, O illustrious Pouter !
1 will see you and the cats— well —
some distance, if not further, first.
Bring on your grimalkins, for my soul
bums to avenge the rights of man !
It is not all. Here, for example,
next door, lives Miss Lambkin ; age
unknown. She, by some unexplained
perversion of taste, is keeping some-
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692
Card from Oancumero.
thing in ber hoii8« which is either an
old sheep or a middle-aged goat. This
cad-chewer, who lapses into eonni de-
spite the charms of its mistress^ bleats
incessantly three times a minate,
seyeral Uioosands of times in the
twentj-foor hours. Is such an eter-
nal see-eaw of sound bearable ? Is
not my life a burden to me ? Is not
my liberty to think, to play my Tioliui
to take my usual nap after dinner
abridged by the liberty of Miss Lamb-
kin s detestable foster child ? And if
I happen to be sickj or suffering from
the tooth-ache or the headache, or
melancholy, or perchance am senti<
mental, this beast, I suppose, must not
be thwarted in its monotonous sing-
song. MUter Pouter, is there liberty
for wolves ? for most assur^y I shaU
soon play the part of one I ^
I have not finished yet. Since the
first of May a family has 4X)me to live
in the house on the other side of mine*
l^th &ther, mother and furniture
comes a tall, wasp-wiusted damsel who
now passes hours, yes, hours banging
upon an aged piano. It is her method
of bleating, and it is full as amusing as
the other, if not a little less. Will the
* president of the society for the preven-
4ion, etc, inform us if there is any
protection for aged pianos ? A society
for the protection of men and pianos
woMld find in me one of its most elo-
quent orators, diffuse writers, and act-
ive members* I would have all wan-
dering Jews of unmuazled dogs exe-
cuted on the spot, knocked on the
head or drovmed, at choice. These
at least have not the fiflhr cents in their
pockets to pay for a livmg release.
As to the cats, I intend to memo-
rialise the supreme court to declare
the decision of our immortal justice of
the peace non»constitutionaL I wish
it to be "IjSgaP to kill, drown, or other-
wise destroy any cat or cats found on
strange premises, understood, of course
that they are to be buried at the killer^s
expense, and the government not to be
made Uable to pay handsomely for pub-
lic obsequies with military procession.
Bleating goats, or sheep, or parrots,
ef ttOH qucmtij to be invited to keep
still, and not to speak until spoken
to.
Lastly, as to the piano-bangcrs, I
acknowledge the case is a little deli-
cate, and any remedy whatsoever has
its difficulties. I am not malidous,
and am inclined to the side of resigna-
tion and toleration. For after all, yon
know, they are ladies, and when yon
say that, it is enough. Without asso-
ciation you cannot accomplish anything
nowadajTs; and where in the world
could be found a suffident number of
men to form a society for their protec-
tion against them. After that, I do
not see that it is necessary I should
say anything further.
From Th« DabUa Unlrenitr Magarine.
CABOL FROM CANCIONERO.
* VIiU ciega, l«s oaenn.**— OcHiofofMfO Oeneral, ValendA, ISll.
LiGBTSOif K darkness, seeing blindness.
Life in death, and grief in gladness,
Cruelty in guise of kindness,
Donbtfol laughter, joyful sadness,
Honeyed gall, embittered sweetness,
Peace whose warfare never endeth,
Love, the t^ of incompleteness, ^
Proffers joy, but sorrow sendeth.
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693
Tnuulated firom tb« Jr«acb.
THE PEARL NECKLACK
Thbbb liTed at Cordova, many
years ago, an old Jew who had three
passions: he loved science, he lored
gold^he loYcd his onlj child^ who bore
the sweet name of BacheL He loved
science, not for its own sake, not be-
cause it was the means of the acquisi-
tion of tnithybut for himself, that is to
saj, through piide.
He loved gold, a little perhaps be-
cause it was gold, very much because
it gave him the means of providing
luxuries for his darling chOd, greatly
also because without it he could' not
have made the costly experiments ne-
cessary in the pursuit of science.
He loved his daughter alone, with
the pure and disinterested, but passion-
ate tenderness of paternal love. In a
word he was a savant, a father, a
Jew.
His name was Rabbi Ben-HarZelah,
and he practised medicine. He
wrought such wonderful cures that veiy
soon his &me spread throughout Spain,
and from all parts of the kmgdom the
people came in crowds to consult him.
He received his patients in the afker^
noon. In the morning he slept, it was
said ; but how his nights were passed
none knew, and many were the specu-
lations concerning it. This only was
known, that they were passed in a se-
cret chamber, of which he alone pos-
sessed the key, and it had been ob-
served that tins mysterious apartment
was sometimes flluminated withmany-
ocdored flames, blue, or red, or green,
while a dense smoke issued frcmi the
efaimney.
The police of the kingdom at length
resolved to penetrate the mystery,
which seemed to them very suspicions*
Boerything is suspicious to the police
of aU countries.
One evening, Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah
saw two dark, grave men watching
his house. He listened and heard
these words of sinister import :
^ To-morrow, at dawn, we will know
whether this wretch is a money-coiner
or a magician."
The con^ippce of the poor old Jew
did notreproSc^ him, for his life was pure
and innocent ; but he had had great ex-
perience of the world, and held as on
axiom tha^ innocence is worth abso-
lutely nothing in a court of justice.
He went still further, he considered it
an aggravating drcuinstance. He often
quoted the old Arabian proverb : "• If
I were accused of having stolen and
pocketed the grand mosque at Mecca, .
I would immediately run off as fust a^*
I could." He said that justice was a
game of cards— and he was no player.
What misanthropic ideas I How dif-
ferent would his conclusions have been .
had he lived nowadays! However,
as he had not the happiness of living
in that Eden of justice, France of 1866,
he put the philosophy of the proverb
into practice, and left Cordova that
very night, taking with him all his
treasures. The next morning at dawn
the two dark, grave men, found an un-
inhabited, dismantled dwelling ; which
made them stall more dark and grave.
u.
Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah, disguised as a
merchant and mounted on a strong
mule, passed rapidly through Spain.
On either side of his saddle, and so.
curely fastened to it was a long wicker
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694
Th€ Petxti NecUace.
basket, in the shape of a cradle. Ben-
Ha-Zelah looked from time to time at
these baskets with satisfaction, mingled
with sadness, and then urged on his
mule, casting many a backward ghmce,
to be quite sure he was not pursued.
In one of the baskets were his trea-
cures and his books ; in the other
olcpt peacefully the young daughter of
the fugitive. Having reached a small
seap<M:t town, the old Jew took passage
in a vessel which was about to sail for
Egypt
Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zelah had oflen heard
of the caliph Achmet Beschid, who was
celebrated throughout the East for his
love of science, and the high considera-
tion in which he held scientific men.
As for impostors, charlatans and em<*
pirics, he held them in sovereign con-
tempt and took real plea^^ in impal-
ing them.
This good princd' reigned in Cairo.
Thither Ben-Ha-Zelah bent his steps ;
ibr he believed himself^ and with reason^*
to be a true savant
The profound and extensive acquire-
ments of the old Jew, together with his
astonishing skill in eveiything appei^
taining to the healing art, soon made
iMm as famous in Cairo as he had
ten iu Cordova, and he was at once
ie court physician.
•The caliph Achmet Beschid was
never weary of admiring the almost
universal knowledge of the old man,
and often invited him to the palace to
converse with him for hours upon the
secrets and marvels of nature. Sud-
denly a terrible plague broke out in
the city, and threatened to decimate
the population. Ben-Ha-Zelah com-
pounded a wonderful lotion, which
cured six tunes in seven. He con-
tended that in nothmg could evil be
conquered in a greater proportion than
this ; that a seventh was a mmunum of
disorder, of sorrow, of vice, in the im-
perfect organization of this world, and
that when the proportion of evil in the
human body, in the soul, in society, in
nature, had been reduced to a seventh,
all the progress possible in this world
had been made.
However that may be, he was sum-
moned one night in great haste to the
pahice ; the n^eandson of the caliph
were stricken down by the pestilence.
Ben-Ha-Zelah applied the miiaculoua
lotion and the son was restored to
health — but the wife died.
The caliph Achmet Beschid was
overcome with gratitude for so signal a
service and throwing himself into the
arms of the old physician, exclaimed :
^ Venerable old man I to thee I owe
the life of my son and my happiness !
As a proof of my gratitude^ I appoint
thee Grand Vizier !'*
The old Jew prostrated himself on
the ground before his generous bene-
factor.
^ Yes,^ continued ihid calipli, who had
a truly noble heart; ''yes, I need a
friend in whom I can confide, as I
have, one afler another, beheaded all
those whom I had in a moment of im-
pulse honored with that title."
« Thanks, mighty caliph T hum-
bly replied Ben-Ha-Zelah. "How
shall I find fitting words to thank my
gracious prince for such unmerited
condescension ! Surely never did kind-
ness like this rejoice the earth Y*
*^ Thou sayest well and truly, child
of Jacob/' answered the puissant ca-
liph.
Time, far from diminishing the love
of the caliph for Ben-Ha-2^1ah,
only increased it The jealousy of
the courtiers had always succeeded in
poisoning the mind of the caliph against
any one on whom he had conferred
the dignity of Grand Vizier; but the
prudence of the old Jew baffled all
their schemes, and Achmet Beschid
had learned how to guard against
calumniators. At the first word
breathed against the new favorite that
benevolent prince and faithful friend
ordered the rash slanderer to be be-
headed, and very soon the oourtiers
vied with each other in their praises
of the Grand Vizier. The good caliph,
seeing the harmony of feeling among
his people with regard to the new
favorite, congratulated himself on his
firmness.
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1%$ Pearl Necklaee.
C95
« I knew very well," said he, "that
the whole court would at last do him
juatioe. I talk of him with eveiy one
and no man sajs aught against hizn.''
HI.
A3 for B^-HaaZelah, he seemed to
beperlbetlj indifferent to the immense
power which his favor with the caliph
gave bim in the state. In vain did
the conrtiers try to entangle him in
the intrigoes of the court. In vain
did the noblemen of the kingdom, in
h(^»e3 of gaining his protection, laj
oostlj gifbs at his leet. He gentlj re-
fused them alL Devoid of ambition,
and prudent to excess, the old Jew
withdrew as mnch as possible from
public a&irs. He even begged the
caliph to excuse his attendance at the
palace, except at certain hours of the
daj, that he might devote himself
more uninterruptedly to scientific pur»
snks. The love of the caliph grow day
by day, and the courtiers as well
as the common people, seeing the
fanmiiityand disinterestedness of the
Grand Vizier, acknowledged him to
be indeed a sage.
At court, as everywhere else, he
was clad in a coarse brown robe, and
was in no way distinguishable from
the crowd, had not the intellectual ex-
pression of his face, and the strange
brilliancy of his eyes, revealed at a
^ance a superior mind. He might
often be seen in the streets of Cairo,
carrying in his own hands the metals,
stones or medicinal plants, which
he bought in the bazaars, or gathered
in his solitary rambles. Wherever
he went he heard his own praise ; but
never did he in any way betray that
it was agreeable to him.
"No oue is so poor and humble,"
said the common people to each other,
^' as the Grand Vizier of our high and
mighty caliph."
The tmtfi was, however, that with
the exception of Achmet Beschid, no
one in Cairo possessed such vast
riches as the " poor'* Vizier ; but after
the manner of the Jews he carefully
coDcealed them, and lived in a very
modest mansion situated outside the
walk of the city. This humble dwell-
ing was completely hidden by the palm
and cedar trees which surrounded it,
and for still greater security was en-
closed by a high walL
In this quiet and mysterious retreat,
where he admitted no guests, he had
centered all that made his life; there
dwelt his child, the young Bachel, just
budding into wonumhood.
When, after passing weaiy hours
in the unmeaning ceremonial of the
court, be reached his garden gate, and
stealthily opened it, his usually impas-
sive &ce was suddenly illumined as
with a sunbeam. It was as if he had
passed from death unto life.
His daughter, clad like a queen of
the east, ^^ to meet him, and em-
braced him so tenderly that it seemed
as if a portion of her young life was
breathed into the worn and exhausted
frame of the aged father. Ben-Ha-
Zelah forgot his sorrows and his cares,
and seem^ to revive as with the breath
of spring. <^ I gave thee life, my daugh-
ter ; thou dost restore it to me I" mur-
mured the old man.
Bachel was just entering her sia^^
teeoth year. Her hair was of ^ '
beautifnl golden color which
love. Her eyes, her voice, her si
her bearing, carried with tbem an ir-
resistible charm. She looked, it was
a ray of light ; she spoke, it was a
strain of music ; she smiled, it was the
opening of a gate of Paradise. Her
heart was pure and innocent as was
that of the Rachel of old, whom Jacob
loved. Can we wonder that the heart
of her father was bound up in her ?
Who indeed, could help loving a being
80 pure and bright ?
IT.
Ben-Ha-Zelah was old, but hid was
a vigorous old age— and the young
daughter and aged father, as they
walked under the grand old trees of '
the garden, made a. beautiful picture. .
The long white head, piercing ejeq,,.
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C96
I%e Pearl Ikcidaee.
eagle noee, and broad bxow of the old
man, formed a striking eontrast to his
hnmble dress, and when no longer un-
der constnunt, it revealed a mysterioas
and profound satisfaction in his own
personalitj and intelligenoe* There
was so much pride thai there was no
place for vamty in his sonL
What cared he for the admiration or
contempt of others, the vain clamors of
the multitade, whom he considered in-
finitely his inferiors ? When he said to
himself, «I am Ben-Ha-Zelah," the
rest of the world no longer existed foi;
him.
His pride was like that of Lacifer :
it was not relative bnt absolute ; he
contemplated himself with a terrible
satisfaction. Thence his disdain for
all the miserable trifles which gratify
the self-love of inferior men. The
pride of seeming comes when the pride
of heing is not absolute.
Whence then came the gigantic
pride of the old Jew ?
!Rabbi Ben-Ha-Zeloh was the most
learned man of his time.
He had carried his investigations far
beyond those of the most scientific
men of the ago ; he was well versed in
^^jsics, mechanics, dynamics, arith-
Jmetic, music, astronomy, medicine,
■^'"^•feery, and botany ; but the science
h^'^most loved, was that which, at first
known under the name of aJchemy,
was destined to become the greatest
science of modem times— <^emistry.
He passed night after night shut up
in his laboratory, as he had formerly
done at Cordova, seeking to penetrate
one after the other all the mysteries
of nature. There, bending over his
glowing furnaces, surrounded with re-
torts and crucibles of strange shapes,
filled with metals m a state of fusion,
by all sorts of instruments and alem-
bics, 'old Ben-Ha-Zelah interrogated
matter and demanded the mystery of
its essence ; ho pursued it from tbrm
to form, he tore it with red-hot pincers ;
he melted it in the glowing fires of his
famoces ; ho made it solid only to re-
duce it again to a liquid state, decom-
posing it a hundred times in a hundred
difibrent ways. He tortured it, as
does the lawyer the prisoner at the bar,
that he may wring from him his most
hidden secrets*
Matter, thus pursued by the indefii-
tigable alchemisc, bad revealed more
than one of its mysterious laws, which
he had made useful in the practioe of
his profession, so that he was con-
sidered in Cairo little less than a
domi-god. However, in his labors he
sought not the good of his fellow-men,
but the barren satisfaction of the pas-
sion which was consuming him, tkB
pride of knowledge ; he sought to pen-
etrate the secrets of the most high
God. The promise of the tempter to
our first parents; Eritie sictU deiy
scienteiy ^ You shall be as gods,
knowing good and evil," had pen&*
trated his soul ; and he desired to
plant in his garden that fatal tree to
which the first4)oni of our race stretdw
ed out their guilty hands. Like his
ancestor Jacob, he wrestled with Je-
hovah.
One can readily understand that
the old man, absorbed in this gigantic
struggle,, was dead to all vanity, so
far as men were concerned. He bad
reached such dizzy heights that he
had almost lost sight of them. To
him they were like the brute beasts
vhich crossed his path ; he believed
them to be of an inferior nature to
him, who had been gifted with such
vast genius — such indefatigable indus-
try. His high thoughts were not for
such miserabb pigmies.
Sometimes seating hinself in dreamy
mood in his garden, at the foot of a
grand old cedeir, his favorite seat, and
takmg in his hand a pebble, a blade of
grass or a fiower he was plunged in
profound meditation.
What makes this " a body" thought
he. This "body" is brown, heavy,
hard, square, or has many other prop-
erties which come under my notice*
But it is evident that neither the col-
or, weight, cohesion, nor form consti-
tute its essence. They are its man-
ner of beings — ^not its being. If I
modify it^ destroy it evon, it will still
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Tke Pearl NteUact.
W!
bo the same bodj, and I Bball, after all,
have only attacked its manner of be*
ing ; the essence which heretofore has
always escaped mo — the smU of the
hod^y if I may say so— will have suf-
fered no change. It is as if I were
suddenly to become honchbacky lame,
idiotio— I would still be the same
man* I must discover the substance
quod tub Stat; in the first place, what
causes this to bo ; in the second place,
what constitutes it a body ; and finally,
what makes it this pafticular body
which I hold in my hand and not
another.
The problem was formidable; it
was the mystery of the omnipotence of
the God who created the world, and
nevertheless this unknown Promethe*
us shrank not from the task, and
flattered himself he could wring from
created matter the secrets of its Cre-
ator.
In his experiments' Ben-Ha-Zelah
had started with the axiom that all
bodies were formed from certain ele-
ments which were invariable, but
combined in difierent ways. Moreover,
his researches had proved to him that
many element8,formerly believed to be
primary, were composed of different
elements into which they might again
be readily resolved. So that seeing
their number decrease as his investi*^
gations became more abstruse and his
analyses more delicate, he had ar-
rived at the conclusion that there ex-
isted an original and absolute sub-
stance of which all bodies, even those
apparently the most different, were
only variations.
He affirmed the identity of the base
under the infinite variety of the forms.
This primary substance which he con-
sidered as co6temal with Grod, was,
he thought, that on whidi Jehovah
breathed in the beginning, and in his
Satanic pride he believed two thmg^—
first that the Almighty had combined
the atoms of matter in so wondrons-
ly complex a manner only to conceal
from man the secret of its creation—
and secondly, that the Rabbi-Ben-Ha-
Zelah would be able to baffle the pre-
cautions of the Almighty, and by analy«
sis after anaylsis, at length succeed in
finding the simple primary substance
from which all things were originally
formed.
Such were the thoughts which con-
tinually filled his mind— such the gi-
gantic plan he had conceived. Again
and again he said to himself that by
taking from a body one after the other
its contingent qualities, as one takes
the bark from a nut, he would suc-
ceed at length in penetrating its most
hidden depths, to that matter eseenee
from which was made, as he believed,
all that existed in the universe.
He had inscribed on the door of his
laboratory MatertOj mater. And as
soon as he should be able to imprison
in his alembics this primary matter he
could at Willi disposing it after certain
forms, make in turn bron2se, stone,
wood, or gold. Nay more, he hoped
to surprise with the same blow the
mystery of life — and then, thought he in
his impious pride, I shall be a creator,
like unto Him before whom every
knee bends in adoration. I shall be
God I JEritis eieut dei.
The old man, lost in the vain search
for the absolute basis of matter, little .
suspected that the final word of all^
science is ; *< The essence of matter^tf •
inunateriaU'
However, he deyoted himself most
sealously to the great work ho had
undertaken, and passed night after
night in the recesses of his laboratory
which would have reminded one of
the entrance to the infernal regions but
for the sweet presence of the yoong
and lovely Bachel, who glided in and
out, bringing order out of confusion,,
and in the evening beguiled the long
hoars by singmg to her father snatch-
es of the old Hebrew songs of which
such touching and beautifiil fragments
have come down to us.
One night, Ben-Ha-Zelah, regard-
less of fatigne, was stall bencUng over
his g^wing futnaces. For more than
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698
77ie Pearl IMdace.
a week be had allowed himself no
sleep, nor had be permitted bia eyes
to wander from the vast crucible which
had been heated to white beat for six
consecu tive months. He had diaoover •
ed phenomena hitherto unknown. His
bony hands dotched conyulBivelj the
handle of the bellows, and his ea^er,
caje-wom £ace was ilhimined wid^ a
two-fold radianoe, that fxom the purple
light of the famace and from the into*
rior flame which consumed his souL
He was motionless from intensity of
emotion. At last then he was about
to attain the aim and desire of his
whole life I
The primary substance, the absolute
essence of matter, he was about to
seize it-*-to be its lord. The old man
still watched; a whitish vapor rose
slowly firom the crucible; matter de*
composed in this onicible seemed to
be a prey to a fearful travail^-4o strug-
gle in an internal conflict.
The old man raised his tall form to
its full height and at that moment ap*
peared like a second Luci^sr. He
shouted in triumph, "I have created r
Then rushing to the casement he
gazed upward to the starry heavens,
not in prayer, but in defiance.
<< I have created 1" he repeated, << I
have created I I have conquered I I
am the equal of God T
A noise, slight in reality, but to the
excited senses of Ben-Ha*Zelah, load-
er than the crash of thunder, was
heard behind him. He turned with
agitated countenance. The erucibley
un watched during his delirium of pride,
had fallen, and was shivered to atoms*
AH was lost ; the creation of him who
aspired to an equality with the Most
High was but a heap of ashes.
Ben-Ha-Zelah was stunned by this
unlooked-for calamity. He fell baek
famting, as if, while he rashly sought
to penetrate the mystery of life, pale
death, entering his dwelling had touched
him with her sombre wing.
VI.
When conseiouaness returned, the
Are of the &mace, which had been fed
with so much care for six weary months,
was extinguished. Through the open
casement he saw myriads of stars
blazing in the firmament. The ma-
jestic silence of the night hovered over
the unchanged immensity.
The old man was seized with an in-
definable terror^ He understood that
he was punished for his pride, and he
had a presentiment that the sudden
failure of the labor and research of so
many yearp was but the beginning of
his punishment It seemed to him
that in the midst of the thick darkness
the living God had looked into the
depths of his guilty soul and had
stretched out his all-powerful hand to
smite him. Suddenly^ as by a revela-
tion, there came to him a knowledge
of the point where God was about to
strike him.
"My child! my childr' cried he, in
a voice broken by terror and remorse.
He ran to the chamber of his daugh-
ter.
The old man opened the door gen-
tly^ taking, in spite of his terror, a
thousand paternal precautions not to
awaken the sleeper. The trembling
light of a small idabaster lamp cast its
faint rays aboat the apartment. Gen-
tly he drew back the curtains of the
bed and gazed fondly upon his
child.
Bachel slept profoundly, her breath-
ing was as peaceful as innocence.
Ben-Ha-Zelah looked upon the sweet,
calm &£& with a transport of delight.
The tranquillity of this peaceful sleep
of childhood was communicated to him,
and for a moment stilled the agitation
of his soul.
He leaned fondly over the sleeping
form; listened joyfully to the calm
breathing of his darling child, to the
regular beating of her heart; then
stocking, imprinted a kiss of fatherly
love on the beautiful brow.
Bachel remained immovable, and
her sleep was unbroken. ^ It is strange
she has not awakened," said the old
man to himself looking at her again.
" Sleep is so like death.**
A3 he allowed this thought to takct
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The Pearl Necldacc.
form a va^e terror took poesession of
him*
^Bah! she sleeps! I bear her
breathing," said he aloud.
The secret indefinable fear which be
could not banish, and for which be
could not account, still remained; be
could no longer contain bimself.
<< Rachel T' cried he in a loud voice.
The young girl slept on.
^ Rachel I mj child !" be cried again,
at the same time shaking her gently
by the arm.
Still the calm sleep was unbroken ;
and the peaceful breathing which at
first had delighted the fond father now
seemed like a fatal spelL
<< Rachel I Rachel!"
Ho took her in bis arms ; be placed
her on a couch ; he tried to make her
walk; and in vain essayed with bis
trembling fingers to open the sealed
eyelids.
The young girl slept on ; her respir-
ation as calm, and -the rhythm of her
heart still preserved its frightful mono-
tone. All the efforts of the despairing
father were vain. Day dawned, night
came, the next day, and weeks and
months, and Rachel awoke not.
vn.
The' distracted father, remembering
that he was a physician, sought in
medical science a remedy for this
strange malaay. He tried eveiy
known medicine, he essayed new ones ;
but nothing could break the fearful
sleep. He no longer went to the pal-
ace of the caliph, but bis days and
nights were passed in bis laboratory as
they had formerly been at Cordova ; his
researches, however, were no longer to
feed his pride. Sorrow concentrated
his mighty genius on one thought — ^to
discover a remedy for bis idolized
child. Bitterly did be expiate the old
anxieties of his pride by the torturing
perplexities of this new sorrow.
More than six months passed thus*
A last and desperate remedy to which
be had recourse, bad, like all the otberSi
failed; Ben-Ha-Zelah on a night like
that on which this weight of sorrow
bad come upon him, was in his labora-
tory bending as ever over bis retorts*
He bad made every research, every
experiment that genius, quickened by
affection, could suggest, and bad failed
in alL Rachel still slept. Then the
broken-hearted old man, convinced of
his own impotence, let fall his arms at
bis sides and burst into tears*
At that moment be heard a voice
which seemed to come at once from
the depths of immensity, and from the
inmost recesses of his own heart.
^ All thy efforts are vain,'' said the
voice. "Thou wilt cure thy child,
only by passing about her neck, a
pearl necklace, not the pearls which
bountiful nature gives, and God makes,
but pearls which thou thyself hast
fashioned. Thou tbou^est thyself
the equal of God, the equal of Him
who created the world ; and he pun-
ishes thee, by condemning thee to cre-
ate only a few pearls, and he is will-
ing to lend thee all the riches and
treasures of bis beautiful world. Go
and seek ! And when thou hast made
enough of these pearls to fill the box
beside thee, make a necklace of them.
Put it on Uie neck of thy child, and
she will awake."
It was not an illusion. The old
man bad seen no one, but the box was
there beside him. It was a little box,
of a wood unknown to him, which ex-
halted a delicious odor. On the lid in*
scribed in letters of gold, was a He-
brew word, meaning "Treasure of
God."
Ben-Ha-Zelah, re-kindled the fires.
of bis furnaces and again applied him-
self to explore the arcana of alchemy*
He took from his coffers all the pearls
he possessed, and after having analy-
zed them, tried in vain to form them
again; but the aecret of omnipotence
wluch he attempted to grasp, fied from
him* He decomposed precious stones
and succeeded only in making a gross
calcareous substance* Againand again
he flattered himself, he hoA penetrated
the mystery of the Creator; but all
his hopes ended in nothingness* Na-
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700
7^ Pearl NeeJdace.
tare, wblch he had once attempted to
conquer to BaUsfj his pride as a sa-
yant, he now wooed in vain to still the
passionate yearnings of his fiuherlj
heart
One daj he said to himself: ''Mj
knowledge is reiy little ; and with the
very little I know, I shall never suc-
ceed in solving this problem, and nev*
ertheless it is possible I '
The voice which spoke to me is a
voice wiiich does not deceive.
Then an inspiration came to him
which lighted with a pale ray of hope,
the sorrowful face long unused to
happiness. The idea occurred to him,
that if he should go and study the
shells of the Persian gulf where
pearls are formed, he might succeed
in wmning from nature the mystery
which he had so much interest in
learning.
He set out the next morning on his
long and wearisome journey, leaving
his child to the faithful care of the old
Jewish slave who had been so many
years in his service, and in whom he
reposed the most perfect confidence.
She had been the nurse of Rachel,
and loved her almost with a mother s
love. He spent two months in study-
ing the pearl oyster of the Persian
gulf; but there, as in his laboratory, all
his efforts were vain.
Providence, thought he, (he no long-
er said '^ nature,") Providence has se-
crets which will never be known to
mortals!
Convinced of the utter folly of his
painful researches — anxious, moreover,
to see his poor child again. He sadly
turned his fa<*/) homeward.
vin.
As be slowly and sadly pursued his
way toward Egypt, he saw on the
second day of has journey across the
desert, a group in the distance, appar-
ently just in his route ; continuing to
advance, he saw a dead camel covered
with blood, beside him the dead body
of a knight, pierced with sabre-strokes ;
on the road^fiide a woman, apparently
dying, holding in her anna a young
infant
Ben-Ha-Zelah, moved with oompaa«
sion, approached and accosted the wo-
man. She told him that in crossing
the desert with her husband and child,
they had been attacked by brigands,
who had killed her husband, left her
mortally wounded, and had rifled them
of all their treasures; even their
water-bottles— more precious than aU
in the desert
«I am dying,'* said she, "but my
bitterest sorrow is in leaving my poor
little babe, who must perish thus fdone
in the desert.**
The poor mother for one moment
thousht of asking the kind old man to
take her child, but she saw that one of
his water-bottles had been broken by
some accident, and that he had hardly
enough water to cross the desert
Ben-Ha-Zelah had had the same
thought, but he calculated the quantity
of water remaining to him, and acid
to himself that it was impossible.
The woman was dying.
There, in the presence of the
mother's despair, with the wail of the
infant so soon to be an orphan, in his
ears, he thought of his own child.
" Woman," said he, " I will take your
babe, and will care for him as for my
own. I will save his life, even at the
cost of my own."
The mother died, invoking blessings
on his head*
Ben-Ha-Zeloh resumed his journey
across the desert, placing before him
on the saddle, the infant, who at first
wept, then laughed in infantile glee,
then amused himself by teasing the
patient nurse, pulling his beard, or
tangling the reins of the cameL The
old man who had become as gentle as
a mother, sought eveiy means which
affection could suggest to amuse the
helpless little creature, so strangely
given to his charge — sometimes with
the gold tassels of his bridle, some*
times with his bright fire-arms, some-
times by rattling in his ears the gold
sequins in his purse. Again he would
sing to him a lullaby, bng-^ugotten*
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The Pearl NecUaee,
701
The child was pleased with each new
amusement devised by the old savant,
but it was only for a few moments, and
was again loosing about for something
he had not yet seen.
How much we all resemble chil-
dren !
Poor old Bcn-Ha-Zelah knew not
what to do to satisfy this restless crav-
ing for amusement. Suddenly he
thought of the beautiful Httle box,
which the child had not seen, and drew
it out from the folds of his robe.
The child eagerly grasped this new
plaything and turned it about in every
possible way.
To the amazement of the old Jew,
there was a slight sound, as of some
small object rolling about in the
box.
The child shouted with delight
The old man was breathless and tremb-
ling. He grasped the box convulsive-
ly from the hands of the infant, who
licld it out to him, smiling. Ho
opened it His blood froze in his
veins, with an emotion not of tenor
but of joy and hope.
He beheld in the box a pearl, pure
and more beautiful than any he had
ever seen.
Speechless with emotion he could
only raise his eyes to heaven in a
wordless prayer of gratitude.
Then he heard a voice which
seemed to fill the immensity of the
desert, and nevertheless, was as low
and sweet as the loving murmur of a
fond mother.
"O Ben-Ha-Zelah I every tear
which thou shalt dry, is a pearl which
thou dost create."
Ben-Ha-2ielah looked about him.
All around him was the desert Be-
fore him, in his arms, the little babe,
suddenly growif calm, and smiling in
his face.
A few more days and his journey
through the desert was ended. But
many were the privations he endured
that the helpless little infant, now so
dear to him, might not want ,
Ben-Ha-Zelah was rich, and n^
he was good. His goodness made use
of his riches to dry the tears of
misfortune — ^there are as many, alas I
in this world of suffering, as there are
dewdrops on a summers morning —
and very soon his box was quite mlL
When he again saw his child, the
mysterious sleep was unbroken. She
came not to welcome him, but he put
the pearl necklace about her beautiful
throat, aiid she awoke, smiling.
^ Oh ! what a lovely necklace, papa,"
she cried.
^ It is the first I have ever given
thee, my darling,'' said the happy fath-
er, ^ but I hope it may not be the last
My pearl-casket is now empty, but I
trust in God that I may fill it many
times before I die.**
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702
7%e Gipsies.^
THE GIPSIES.*
Aboxtt the beginning of the 15di
century there appeared in Germany
a strange mjsterioos people, such as
had never been seen in Europe be-
fore;
A ragnnt erew, fkr ttnggled tlxroagh the glade,
• With toiflcs busied, or in alumt>en Ijtid.
No man knew who they were op
whence they came« Their swarthy
complexions, long black hair, sharp
eyes, high cheek-bones, narrow months
and fine white teeth, were marks of an
eastern origin. They spoke a lan-
guage which had never been heard in
Europe before, and followed a strange
way of life, which savored more of the
rude nomadic habits of primitive Asia,
than the comparatively civilized cus-
toms of the cou])try into which they
had come. They travelled about in
bards or tribes, each under the com-
mand of a leader, slept at night in
tents or abandoned out-houses, and
occupied themselves by day in a sim-
ple sort of smith work, basket-weav-
ing, tinkering, fortune-telling, juggling,
and stealing. Vagabonds as they
were, filthy in their habits, and addict-
ed to the eating of carrion and other
disgusting things, they were fond of
wearing gay dresses, whenever they
could beg, buy, or steal them, and
many of the women, with their lithe
and agile figures, were not without a
certain dark sort of beauty which
found many admirers.
Whether they knew anything about
their own origin or not, is doubtful ; ^
but if they did, they kept it so carefully '
* " A History of the Gipsies : with Spedmem of the
Gipsy Languyi." By Walter Slmson. Edited, with
preface, IntrolRiction, and noteSf and a dlsqalsition
on the pa^ present, and future of Glpsydonu By
James Slmson. 12nio, pp. 6T6. New York : M. Doo-
h^y. London: Sampson Low, Boo, A Manton.
secret, that the knowledge has been
completely lost At all events they
made their first appearance in France
in 1427, with a great lie in their
months, and a forged confirmation of
it in their pockets. They called them-
selves Christian pilgrims from Lower
^gyp^ ^bo h^d been expelled by the
Saracens. They had imfortunately
committed a few sins on the way, and
having confessed to Pope Martin Y.,
his holiness had enjoined upon them
as a penance to traverse the world for
seven years without sleeping in beds.
In support of this story they exhibited
documents purporting to be issued by
the holy see, but they had probably
manufactured these testimonials them-
selves. However, the world was not
very wise in those days, and the mys-
terious strangers were accepted for
what they professed to be ; and for
some years the wandering penitents
pursued a brilliant career of theft and
imposture, while their leaders galloped
over the continent with the high-sound-
ing titles of dokes, counts, and lords of
Little Egypt When they first came
to Paris they had among them a duke,
a count, and ten lords. The authori-
ties would not let them enter the city,
but assigned them quarters at La
ChapfeUe near St Denis, where they
were consulted on occult matters by
great numbers of the citizens. But
our Egyptian pilgrims were sooq found
to be such incorrigible rascals that the
bishop of Paris caused them to be
removed, and excommunicated those
who had consulted them. Similar
treatment was shown them in other
parts of Europe. For a time their
forged credentials had enabled them
to obtain passports and letters of se-
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TAs Oip$ie$.
703
caritj fram Tftrioos Eaiopeaa poten-
tates ; but the wanderers everywhere
made themselves nnisanoes, and were
banished under threats of the severest
punishments. Fortnnatelj for them,
however, these edicts were not pub-
lished simultaneously all over Europe^
so that they were not exactly driven
into the ocean, but only exiled from
one part of the oontment to another.
In Germany they were called Zi&eu'
ner^ or wanderers ; in Holland, J%y-
denSf or heathens, in Spain, Oitanos;
in Italy, Zin^ari ; in France, Bohe-
mians, because they entered that
countiy from Bohemia. The name of
gipsy, by which they were known in
England and Scotland, is evidently
a corruption of their self-chosen appel-
lation Egyptians.
More than four hundred yeHrs have
passed since these swarthy penitents
made their seven years' pi%rimage of
cheating and pilfering through Europe,
and they are still a people as distinct
from all other races in their essential
characteristics as they were on the day
they first humbugged our ancestors.
The general improvement of society
all over the world has compelled them
to abandon many of their vagabond
ways. They have no longer that com-
plete o^anizatioH in tribes and com-
panies which they used topre8er\'c;
they no longer claim the privilege of
governing themselves in all things by
their own laws, and their earls and
captains no longer exercise the au-
thority of life and death over their sub-
jects. A large gipsy encampment is
a rare sight nowadays, and even the
gipsy features, owing to fineqnent in-
termarriages between the tribes and
the European race, are in a fair way
of being obliterated. But there are
still many thousands of gipsies roam-
ing about Europe in smaU companies ;
they still preserve thehr ancient cus-
toms in secret ; and under all the re-
straints of dviUzation, even the most
orderly of them cherish their old va-
gabond propensities. The Gipsy phy-
siognomy is quite as marked as the
Jewish, and the gipsy race is far more
distinctly separated from the rest of
the world than * are the children of
Abraham. Their speech, whidi is
not, as some people suppose, a mere
farago of slang or thieves' lathn, but a
genuine language, has been handed
down from mother to child, and is still
a Kving tongue— « f^t whidi 13 not a
little remarkable, because the lan-
guage has no literature, and can only
be perpetrated by tradition. The
gipsies have no written characters.
And yet it would be hard to find a
gipsy who cannot speak the language,
though few of them are willing io ac-
knowledge it.
The problem of the origin of this
strange people has exercised learned
brains ever since the ciTilized world
became dvilized enough to perceive
that there was a mystery abovt their
presence in the midst of Christendom.
It seems to be pretty well agreed that
they came into Europe from Hindostan;
but why they camej and why they
called Ibemselves Egyptians are mat-
ters of dispute. Grellman in Ger-
many, and Hoyland^and Borrow in
Enghmd have hitherto been the most
esteemed authorities %a the subject of
gipsies ; but we havei now a new work,
by Walter and James Simson, which
promises to shove the older books aside.
It is a rather outlandish production,
but on that very account perhaps more
appropriate to its subject, Mr. Walter
having spent some seventeen years
poking about gipsy encampments,
peeping into their huts, studying their |
cookery, scraping up odds and ends of *
tiieir language, learning how they
picked pockets, told fortimes, robbed
hen-roosts, stole horses, married their
wives and divorced th^, fought with
each other, protected their friends, and
pursued their enemies with unrelent-
ing vengeance ; having gathered up a
great store of tntefesting anecdotes
»aad historical notes, and got to know,
in fine, more about the gipsies of
Scotland than any other »amn, proba-
bly, who ever lived— -havn% done all
this, Mr. Walter Simsoa died 3tie day
and left an ill-digested manuscript
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704
5n» CKptUu
book on his pet snbject, which Mr.
James Simson took up, annotate^ en*
larged, and pablifihed* Mr. Walter^s
book, if it was not a model of literary
neatness, was unpretentious, entertain-*
mg, and full of valuable infoimation.
Mr. Jamesy howerer, must needs add
to it, first an advertisement, then a pre*
face, then an introduction, and lastly
a long-drawu disquisition, all of which
are tiresome to the last degree, and
not worth a tenth of the space they
filL Besides, Mr. James Simson has
a bad temper, and it is not pleasant to
read his arguments, even when ho
argues against an imaginaiy advex^
sary. He has a theory of his own
about the origin of the gipsies, to
which wo do not purpose to commit
ourselves ; but it is curious enough to
be stated, so that our readers may
judge of it for themselves.
An intelligent gipsy once told Mr.
Simson that his race sprang irom a
body of men-*<i cross between the
Arabs and Egyptians — who left Egypt
in the train of the Jews. Now we
read m Exodus zii. 88, that ^a mixed
multitude went up also with them,**
[i. «., with the tIPews out of Egypt ;]
and f^m the fact stated in Numbers xi.
4, that '^the mixed multitude that was
among them fell a lusting^ for flesh, it
would appear that these refugees had
not amalgamated with the Jews, but
only journeyed in company with them.
Sinoe this muldtude were not children
c^ the promise, and had no call from
I €h)d to go out from among the Egyp-
' tians and journey to a land of peace
and plenty, their condition in Egypt
must have been a hard one, or they
would not have entered upon a long
and painful wandering to escape from
it No doubt, says Mr. Simson, they
were slaves, like the Jews ; probably
descendants of the Hyksos, or ^ Shep-
herd Kings," who possessed the land
before its conquest by the Pharaohs ;
perhaps desc^dants of these Hyksos
by Egyptian women. God had prom*
ised Cwidbi, however, only to die Is-
raelites'; the ''mixed multitudes" could
have no share in the inheiitanoe; so
they probably separated from the Jews
in the wilderness, and wandered east-
ward into Hindostan. Cknning into
that country from a long servitude,
they would naturally have been timid
of minng with the native inhabitants,
disposed to cling together fb^ mutual
protection, loose in their notions of
right and wrong and the laws of prop-
erty. Every man's hand would have
been against them, and they would
have been no man's friend. The law-
less and migratory habits engendered
iby their isolation would soon have be-
come fixed and hereditary ; and so^ to
hasten to a conclusion, the mixed mul-
titude of Egyptians would have grown
to be, in the course of a few hundreds
of generations, more or less, a race of
horse-thieves and fortune-tellers.
This theory accounts for the fact
that the gipsies call themselves Egyp-
tians, while their language and many
other peoUiarities are strongly redo-
lent of Hindostan. It is true that no
Egyptian words have been detected in
their speech, while its resemblance to
Hlndoetance dialects is very strong;
but then just think what an uncon-
scionably long time it is sinoe they
came away from Egypt, and how easy
it would have been for them, in the
absence of an alphabet and a literature,
to forget the language of captivity and
acquire that of freedom.
Why they came out of Hindostan
into Europe, or why they waited to
come until the fifteenth century, is
purely matter of conjecture. But
that ]ffindostan was their last abidiag
place before their appearance in Ger^
many, about 1417,tiiere is, for various
reasons which we need not here enu-
merate, no reasonable doubt
Of dieir history and diaraeter in
oontinental Europe, Mr. Simson telk
us but little, and tliat little is not new.
W« pass at once therefore to the por-
tiim of his book which is devoted to
the Scottish gipsies ; and when we have
read that, we i^tt have a pretty dear
idea of the peculiarities of the race all
over the world.
It is Dol certahi when they first ap-
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The Gipnet.
705
pearod in Great Britain; bat tbej
were in Soodaad at least aa earlj as
1506 in which year thej so far im-
posed upon King James 1 V.» that his
majesty addressed a letter of commen-
dation to the King of Denmark, in fa*
Tor of ^ Anthoniufl Gawino, Earl of
Little Egypt, and the other afflicted and
lamentable tribe of his retinue/' who,
having been ^pilgriming" by com-
mand of the pope, over the Cliristian
world, were now anxious to cross
the ocean into Denmark. ^ Bat,'' con-
duded the Scottish monarch, with
beantifdl simplicity, ^ we believe that
the fates, manners, and race of the
wandering Egyptians are better known
to thee than to us, because Egypt is
nearer thy kingdom." We see from
this that the vagabonds still kept up
the fiction of a penitential pilgrimage,
though it must have seemed a long
seven years' wandering which, begin-
ning about 1417, was not finished in
1506. In 1540 a still more remark-
able document appears on record, being
nothing less than a sort of league or
treaty between James V. and his '^loved
John Faw, Lord and Earl of Little
Egypt," whereby the officers of the
realm were commanded to assist the
said John Faw ^ in execution of jus-
tice upon his company and folk, con-
form to the laws of Egypt, and m pun-
ishing of all them that rebel against
him." But this state of things did not
last long. James, as we all know,
liked to go a masquerading now and
then, in the character of ^ the Gaber-
lunzte Man,"* or " the Guid Man of
BallaiDgiegh," and on one occasion,
while in this dignified disguise, he fell
in with a gang of gipsies carousing in
a cave, near Wemyss, in Fifeshire.
His majesty heartily joined in the re-
vels ; but before long a scuffle ensued,
in the course of whidi one of the men
*^ came crack over the royal head wit]i
a bottle." Nor was tills indignity-
enough, for suspecting that the ^ guid
man '' was a spy, the trampers treated
him with the utmost harshness, and
when they resumed their march com-
*<€, »Bi«|cdbeggBr.**
TOL. Z2X. 45
polled him to go along with them,
loaded with tbeir budgets and wallets,
and leading an ass. The king passed
several days in this disgusting captivir
ty, but at length found an opportunity
to send a boy with a written message
to some of his nobles at Falklandi He
was then rescued. Two ot the gipsies
he caused to be hanged at once; a
third, wJio had treated him with some
kindness, he let go free ; and he caused
an edict to be published banishing the
whole race from the kingdom under
penalty of death. James died the next
year, however, and the edict was never
enforced; nor were subsequent laws,
of equal severity, able either to got
the gipsies out of the country or to
check their wandering and thievish
propensities. A great many of the
race attached themselves, nominally as
clansmen, to chieflains and noblemen,
who were willing and able to afibrd
them protection. But a great many
were nevertheless hanged merely for
being ^ by habit and repute Egyptians.' '
So they got to look upon themselves aa
a persecuted race. They learned to
deny their origin, to keep their lan-
guage a secret, and to resent with all
the savage fierceness of their fiery na-
tures, the slightest attempt on the part
of the ** gorgios," (a3 they called the
Europeans among whom they had cast
their lot^ to pry into the hidden mys-
teries of gipsy Ufe.
In this country we know little
about gipsies except what we have
learned trom novels, and from those
curious books by Mr. Borrow, on the
gipsies of Spain, in which tact and
fiction are so strangely blended that
it is difficalt to tell Siem apart The
gipsy, tonhe average American mind,
is a dark-featured woman in a red
skirt, and with a shawl drawn over
her head; who tells fortunes and
steals little babies ; who lives in a tent
and cooks her meals m the open air,
with the aid of an iron pot suspended
from two crossed sticks. And the pic-
ture is not very far from the tHith after
all ; for all the actions it paints, the
gipsies have many a time performed.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
706
I^ O^mu.
Child-stealing, however^thej are sot
so much given to as we commonlj
suppose; for they have too many
children of their own to indulge in
such a costly luxury ; nor do many of
them profess palmistry, although the
few who do lay claim to a knowledge
of the mysterious art drive a thriving
business in it. We purpose to collect
from Mr. Simson's book on account
of the Scottish gipsies as he found
them ; but we ought to warn our read*
crs that the author wrote many years
agOy and that the progress of society
in Scotland has made great changes
in the condition of the tribe. If wan-
dering gipsies, however, are not so nu-
merous as they were, and if they do not
practice their peculiar arts and customs
so openly as they formerly did, they
are very far from being extinct;
and, according to Mr. James Simson^
have merely carried unsuspected,
into the bosom of orderly and respecta-
ble society, the vagabond propensities,
itching palms, savagery, wickedness,
appetite for loathsome carcasses—
nay, even that dork unwritten lan«
guagc, spoken by none but a gipsy
of the true Wood — which character-
ized them in the days of Meg Merrl-
lies or the Gaberlunzie man.
The Scottish gipsies almost always
traversed the country in bands of
twenty, thirty, or more, though so
many were seldom seen tc^cthcr on
the road. While travelling they broke
up into parties of twos and threes,
having according to all appearance
no connection with each other, and
at night they used to meet in some
spot previously agreed upon. It was
not their general custom to sleep in
tents. They preferred for their lodg-
ings deserted kilns, or bams or out-
houses. The usual way was for one of
the women to precede them, if possible
with a child in her arms, and coax from
some tender-hearted fanner permis-
sion to shelter herself for the night in
one of the farm buildings. When ^ic
family awoke in the morning they
were pretty sure to find the one mis-
erable vagrant surrounded by a gang
of sturdy traiiipefs, and some tnrenlf
or thirty asses tethered on the green.
For twenty.fonr hours afler their ar-
rival they expected to receive food
gratia from the family on whose land
they halted. After that, no matter
how long they remained, they provid-
ed for themselves. The farmers gen-
erally fottnd it for tlieir interest to
treat the gipsies kindly, for these
curious people never robb&i their en-
tertainers. A farmer's wife whom
Mr. Simson knew, on granting the
customary privilege of lodging to one
of the tribe, added by way of caution :
^< But ye must not steal anything
from me then." " We'll no play ony
tricks on you, mistress,'' was the reply ;
^ but others will pay for that.** The
men of the band seldom or never set
foot within the door of the farm*
house, but kept aloof from observa-
tion. They employed themselves in
repairing broken china, and utensils of
copper, brass, ajad pewter ; and nuik-
ing horn spoons wool-cards, smooth-
ing-irons, and sole-cloute for ploughs,
which the women then disposed o£
A good deal of their time was passed
in athletic exercises. They were
famous leapers and cudgel players,
and desfHte their instinct of retirement
they could rarely resist a temptation
^ to throw the hammer,'' cast the put-
ting-stone, or beat the farm laborers
at quoits, golf, and other games.
They were musicians, too, and their
skill with the violin and the bagpipes
of\cn assured them a night's lodging
or a hearty welcome at fairs, wed-
dings, and other country merry-mak*
ings. Working in horn was their fa*
vorite and most ancient occupatioo,
and such was the care they bestowed
upon it that one tribe could always
distinguish the handiwork of another.
Their devotion to the art of tmkermg
ojbtained for them the name of Tink-
lers, by which they are generally
known in Sootlond. They were also
great horse-dealers, or, what in their
case meant very nearly the samo
thing, horse-thieves. They were nol
scrupulous as to how they obtained
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7^ G%p$U9.
707
the nnimab, but they were rare hands
at Belling them to adYantage^ though
when a customer trusted to their hon-
or many of them would serve him
with strict honestj.
The women concerned themselves
in domestic cares and in helping the
men to sell the articles thej had made.
It was the women who managed all
their intercourse with the farmers and
other country people, and who did
most of the begging. In this art
they displayed an aptitude which par-
took of the character of genius. They
never closed a bargain without de-
manding a present of victuals and
drink, which they called "boontith";
and as they were ready enough to
take by foul means what they could
not gefc by fair, the closest-fisted house-
wife in Scotland seldom resisted their
importunities very long. The fortune-
telling, of course, fell to the women.
But petty larceny, after all, was
their principal means of support.
They were expert pickpockets and
daring riflers of hen-roosts. The
bolder spirits rose to the dignity of
highwaymen, coiners, and cattle
thieves. The children were trained
from infancy to thievish pursuits, and
almost every gipsy encampment was a
school of practice like that kept by
Fagin the Jew, to which poor little
Oliver Twist was introduced by the
Artful Dodger. When legitimate
business was dull, they picked each
other's pockets in a friendly way, just
for the sake of keeping their hands in.
Sometimes a pair of breeches was
hung aloft by a string, and the chil-
dren were required to abstract money
from the pockets without moving the
garments. If the young -rascal suc-
ceeded, he was praised and rewarded ;
if he failed, he was beaten. Having
passed through this stage of his pro-
bation, the neophyte was admitted to
a higher degree. A purse watf laid
down in an exposed part of the en-
campment, in plain view of all the
gang, and while the older members
were busied in their daily pursuits, tiie
children exercised all their ingenuity
and patience to carry off the purse
wixhout bdng peroeived. The in«
stnictor in thig tiaining-aehool was
generally a woman. By the time he
was ten years old, the gipsy boy was
thought fit to be let loose upon the
community, and became a member of
an organized band of thieyes. The
captains, whose dignity was usually
hereditary, dressed well, carried them*
selves gallantly, and could not be
taken for what they really were, es-
pecially as they never showed them-
selves in the company of their men.
The inferior thieves travelled to fairs,
singly, or at most two together, and as
fast as they collected their booty re-
paired with it to the headquarters of
their chief. This latter personage
always had some ostensible business
— such as that of a horse dealer — and
it was easy for the gang to communi-
cate with him under cover of a bar-
gain, without arousing suspicion! For
rippmg pockets open they had a short
steel blade attached to a piece of
leather, like a sail-maker's palm, and
concealed under their sleeves ; or the
women wore upon their forefingers
large rings containing sharp steel in-
struments which were made to dart
forth by the pressure of a spring,
when the hand was closed. Of the
dexterity of these light-fingered gentry
Mr. Simson tells the following story :
** A principal male gipsj, of a very rospeela-
blo appoarance, whose name it is unnecessary
to mention, happened, on a market day, to
be drinking in a public houae, with acYeral
farmers with whom ho was well acquainted.
The party observed from the window a coun-
tryman purchase something at a stand in the
market, and, after paying for it, thrust his
parse into his watch-pocket, in the band of
bis breeches. One of the company remarked
that it would be a very difficult matter to rob
the cautious man of his purse, without being
detected. The gipqr immediately offered to
bet two bottles of wine that ho would rob the
man of his purse, in the open and public
market, without beinff perceived by him.
The bet was taken, and tbe gipsy proceeded
about the difficult and delicate business.
Qoing up to the unsuspecting man, he re>
quested as a particular favor, if ho would
ease the stock about his neck, which buckled
behind— an article of dress at that time in
Digitized by CjOOQIC
708
The Gipnei.
fashion. The eonntrTman most readily
ngreed to oblige the etranger gentleman — as
lie euppoeed mm to be. The gipsy, noir
stooping down, to allow his stock to be ad«
justed, placed his head against the country-
man^a, stomach, and, pressing it forward a
little, he reached down one hand, under the
pretense of adjnsting his shoe, while the
other was employed in extracting the far-
mer's purse. The purse was immediately
brought into the company, and the cautious,
unsuspecting countryman did not know of his
loss, till he was sent for, and had his proper-
ty returned to him."
At one time the gipsies had all
Scotland divided into districts, each of
which Tfos assigned to a particular
tribe, and wo to the Tinkler who at-
tempted to plunder within the limits of
any other territory than his own ! The
chleflains issuedtokensto the members
of their respective hordes when they
scattered themselves over the face of
the country, and these tokens protected
the bearers within their proper dis-
tricts, A safe-guard from the Baillie
family, who held a royal rank among
the gipsies, was good all over Scot-
land.
Besides their common Scottish
Christian and surnames, they had
names in their own language, as well
as various pseudonyms which they as-
sumed from time to time in different
parts of the country. When they were
travelling they used to take new names
every morning, and retain them till
money was received in one way or
another by eveiy member of the com-
pany, or at least until noon-tide ; for
they considered it unlucky to set out
out on a journey uuder their own
names.
They appear never to have at a loss
for " the best of eating and drinking,**
and might sometimes be seen seated at
their dinner on the sward, and passing
about their wine, for all the world like
gentlemen. Sir Walter Scott's fa-
ther was once forced to accept the hos-
pitality of a party of gipsies carous-
ing on a moor, and found them sup-
plied with " all the varieties of game,
poultry, pigs, and so forth.'* That
nch and savory decoction known to
the modem cuisine as potage d la Meg
MerriUet de Demdeughj is a soap of
gipsy invention, composed of nurnr
kin(& of game and poultry boiled to-
gether. Their style of cookery seems
rather barbarous, but we must admit
that it is admirably adapted to the
wants of a rude and barbarous people,
among whom oyens, spits, pots, and
stew-pans are unknown and oflen im-
attainable luxuries. To cook a fowl,
they wind a strong rope of straw tightly
around the body of the bird, just as it
has been killed, with its feathers on
and its entrails untouched. It is then
covered with hot peat ashes, and a
slow dre is kept up around it till it is
sufficiently done. When taken out,
the half-burnt straw and feathers peel
off like a shell, and those who have
tasted the food thus prepared, say it is
very palatable. One advantage the
method certiunly has : it affords a safe
way of cooking a stolen fowl unper-
ceived. Meat is roasted ia a similar
manner. The flesh is covered with a
wrapping of rags, and then encased
in well-wrought day. Being now
covered with hot ashes or turned before
a Are, it stews in its own juices, which,
being skived from escape by the day,
combine with the rags, Mr. Simson
says, to form a thick sauce or gravy*
A gipsy has a keen zest for this juicy
dish ; but we doubt whether most peo-
ple would devour it with a very good
appetite. Their favorite viand of all,
however, can certainly not be relished
outside of the tribe. This is a kind
of mutton called hraxyy being nothing;
less than the flesh of a sheep which
has died of a certain disease. It has
a sharp flavor which tickles their pa-
lates amazingly. So fond of it are
tlicy, that Mr. Simson attributes the
great number of gipsies in Tweed-dale
partly to the abundance of sheep in
that district, and the consequent plen-
ty of braxy. '^ The flesh of a beast
which God kills,** say the gipsies,
^^ must be better than that of one which
man kills." Neverthdess they are
not loath, on occasion, to take the
killing into their own hands, by Btofif-
ing wool'down a sheep^s throat, so that
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ne Gipiiei.
709
it may die as if by disease ; and then
they beg the carcass from the owner.
As far as can be ascertamed, the
^psiesbave no religious sentiments
whatever, so that an old proverb rans :
** The gipsy church was bnOt of lard
and the dogs ate it** They have a
word in their language for devil, but
none for God. Of hue yeara it has
been common for them to have their
children baptized, and sometunes they
attend the service whidi seems to be
most in repute in the place where they
happen to be ; but this is only because
they do not want to be known as gip-
sies* They marry very young, seldom
remaining single beyond the age of
twenty. Their courtship used to be
performed somewhat after the Tartar
fashion, the most approved way of get-
ting a wife being to steal one ; not that
the girl was unwilling, but they seem-
ed to have a natural propensity to
carry their dishonest practices into all
the relations of life. One Matthew
Baillie, a celebrated chieftain of the
tribe in the latter part of the 18th cen-
tuiy used to say that the toughest bat-
tle he ever fought (and he fought
many) was when he stole his bride
from her mother. The ceremonies of
marriage are very curious, and also,
we must add, very disgusting. The
mariUil relation seems to have been
on the whole pretty well respected,
though there is an old reprobate named
Geoige Drummond, mentioned in Mr.
Simson's book, who used to travel
about the country with a number of
wives in his company, and chastise
them with a cudgel, so that the blood
followed every blow. Sometimes, af-
ter he had knocked them senseless to
the ground, he would call out to them,
'' What thedeevil are ye fighting at>-*
can ye no' 'gree ? Tm sure there's no
sae mony o* ye V* Divorces, however
were very common, and were attended
with great parade and many curious
ceremonies. The act of separation
took place over the body of a horse
sacrificed for the occasion. The rites
were performed if possible at noon,
^ when the sun was at his height" A
priest fhr the nonce was chosen by lot,
and the horse, which must be without
blenush and in no manner of way lame,
was then led forth.
** The priest, with a long pole or etaff in his
hand,* walks round and round the animal
sevenl times ; repeating the names of all the
persons in whose possession it has been, and
extolling and expatiating on the rare quali-
ties of so useful an ammaL It is now let
loose, and driven from their presence to do
whatever it pleases. The horse, perfect and
free, is put into the room of the woman who
Is to be divorced; and by its different move-
ments is the degree of her guilt ascertained.
Some of the gipsies now set off in pursuit of
it, and endeavor to catch it If it is wild and
intractable, kicks, leaps dykes and ditches,
scampers about and will not allow itself to
be easily taken hold of, the crimes and guilt
of the woman are looked upon as numerous
and heinous. If the horse is tame and do-
cile, when it is pursued, and suffers itself to
be taken without much trouble, and without
exhibiUng many capers, the guilt of the
woman is not considered so deep and aggra-
vated ; and it is then sacrificed in her stead.
But if it is extremely wild and vicious, and
cannot be taken without infinite trouble, her
crimes are considered exceedingly wicked
and atrodous; and my informant said in-
stances occurnKl in which both horse and
woman were sacrificed at the same time ; the
death of the horse, alone, being then con-
sidered insuffident to atone for her excessive
guilt The individuals who catch the horao
bring it before the priest They repeat to
him all the &ults and tricks it had commit-
ted ; laying the whole of the crimes of which
the woman is supposed to have been guilty
to its charge ; and upbraiding and scolding
the dumb creature, in an angry manner, for
its conduct They bring, as it were, an accu-
sation s^uist it, and plead for its condemna-
tion. When this part of the trial is finished,
the priest takes a large knife and thrusts it
into the heart of the horse ; and its blood is
allowed to flow upon the ground till life is
extinct The dead animal is now stretched
out upon the ground. The husband then
takes his stand on one side of it, and the wife
on the other ; and, holding each other by the
hand, repeat certain appropriate sentences in
the gipsy language. They then quit hold of
each other, and wtdk three times round the
body of the horse, contrariwise, passing and
crossing each other, at certain points, as they
proceed in opposite direcUons. At cer-
tain parts of the animal, (the comert
* It appetfi all the giiwica, male aa well aa female,
who perform oeremomes for tlieir tribe, carry Ion;
atallk In the Inatltutes of Menu, page 23, it la writ-
ten : " The staff of a prieet moat be of such a lensth
aa to reach his hair ; thai of a soldier to reach hia
forehead; and that of a merchant to reach the aoee."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
710
ne efip$ie$.
of the hone, wis ihe gipey^e ezpreaaion,)
such as the hind and fore feet, the shoulders
and hauDches, the head and tiill, the parties
halt, and face each other ; and again repeat sen-
tences, in their own speeeh, at each time they
halt The two last stops they make, in th^r
circait round the sacrifice, are at the head
and tail At the head, they again face each
other, and speak ; and lastly, at the tail, they
again confront each other, utter some more
gipsy expressions, shake hauda, and finally
part, the one going north, the other south,
never again to be united in this life.* Im*
mediately after the separation takes place,
the woman receives a token, which is made
of cast-iron, about an inch and a half square,
with a mark upon it resembling the Boman
character, T. After the marriage has been
dissolved, and the woman dismissed from the
sacrifice, the heart of the horse is taken out
and roasted with fire, then sprinkled with
vinegar, or brandy, and eaten by the husband
and his friends then present ; the female not
being allowed to join in this part of the cere-
mony. The body of the horse, skin and
every thing about it, except the heart, is
buried on the spot; and years after the cere-
mony has taken place, the husband and his
friends visit the grave of the animal to see
whether it has been disturbed. At these
visits, they walk round about the grave, with
much grief and mourning.
** The husband may take another wife when-
ever ho pleases, but the female is never per-
mi tted to marry again.f The token, or rather
bill of divorce, whicn she receives, must
never be from about her person. If she loses
it, or attempts to pass herself off as a woman
never before married, she becomes liable to
the punishment of death. In the event of
her breaking this law, a council of the chiefs
is held upon her conduct, and her fate is de-
cided by a majority of the members ; and if
she is to suffer death, her sentence must be
confirmed by the king, or principal leader.
The culprit is then tied to a stake, with an
iron chain, and there cudgelled to death.
The executioners do not extinguish life at
one beating, but leave the unhappy woman
for a little while, and return to her, and at
last complete their work by despatching her
on the spot.
** I have been informed of an instance of a
gipsy falling out with his wife, and, in the
heat of his passion, shooting his own horse
dead on the spot with his pistol, and forth-
* That I might distinctly understand the glpsjr,
xrhea he described the manner of crossing and wheel-
ing round the comers of the horse, a common sitting-
chair was placed on its side between ns, which repre-
sented the animal lying on the ground.
t Bright, on the Spanish gipsies, says : *' Widows
nerer marry again, and are distinguished by moum-
Ing-yells, and black shoes made like those of a man ;
no sUgbl mortification, in a country where the
females are so remarkable for the beanty of their
feet" It is moti likely thai Oivorosd fvmaU gip-
«iM are oonfoiiiidod kevs wUh t0Mo«M.— Cix
with performiog the -oeremony of diirom
over the animal, without allowmg himsdf a
mementos time for reflection on the subject
Some of the country-people obeerved the
trusactioD, and were horrified «t eo eztnof^
dinary a proceeding. It was oonsidefed by
them as merely a mad frolic of an enraged
Tinkler. It took place many years ago, in a
wild, sequestered spot between Galloway and
Ayrshire."
The burial oeremomes of the tribes
are not very fullj described ; but we
are told that the fiineral is, or naed to
be» preceded bj a wake, during which
furious feasting and carousing w^dt on
for several dajs. Li England, at one
time, the gipsies burned their dead,
and the J still keep as close as thej
can to that ancient practice, by burn-
ing the clothes and some of the other
erocts of the deceased. It is the cus-
tom of some of them to buiy the
corpse with a paper cap on its head,
ttnd paper around its feet. AU the
rest of the body is bare except that
upon the breast, opposite the heart, is
placed a cockade of red and blue rib-
bons.
The coonizy people stood in dread-
ful awe of th^ savage hordes, and in
many places the ma^trates them-
selves were afraid to punish thenu
Their honors did not disdain now and
then to share a convivial bowl with the
wandering Tinklers, and the man who
sat to-day with his legs under the pro-
vosts mahogany, may have slept last
night in a deserted limo-kiln, and
dined yesterday off a ^ sharp "-Aar
vored joint of ^ brazy.^ As we have
said already, the farmers knew it was
safer to be the friend of the gipsj
than his enemy, for he was equallj
generouB to tiiose he liked, and vindicK
tive toward those he hated. Mr.
Simson tells many an anecdote kA fib-
vors shown by the tribe to their neigh-
bors and favorites. A widow who had
often given shelter to a chief named
Qiarlie Graham, was in great distress
for want of money to pay her rent.
Charlie lent her the amount reqiiired,
then stole it back again &om the agoit
to whom it had b^ pad, and gave
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Tke Gipsies.
711
llie widow a fall discharge for the 6Qtn
she had borrowed of him. This same
Graham was hanged at last, and when
asked before bis execution if he had
CTer performed odj good action to re-
commend him to the mercj of God,
replied that he remembered none but
(he incident wo have just narrated
A dissolute old xogne of a gipsj,
named Jamie Bobertson, had been
often befriended by a decent man
named Robert or Bobin Gray. One
day a countryman passed him on the
road, and as he trudged along was
singing "Auld Robin Gray," which
unfortunately Jamie had never heard
before. The only Robin Gray he
knew of was his kind-hearted friend,
and he made no doubt the song was
intended as an insult When the un-
conscious stranger came to the words
^Auld Robin Gray was a kind man
to me," the gipsy started to his feet
with a volley of oaths, felled the poor
man to the ground, and nearly killed
him with repeated blows. ''Auld
Robin Gray was a kind man to iiim,
indeed," exclaimed Jamie in his
wrstb; ^but it was not for him to
make a song on Robin for that!"
The §ppsy chieftains often gave safe-
guards to their particular friends, which
never failed to protect them from rob-
bery or violence at the hands of any
of the gang. These passports were
generally knives, tobacco-boxes, or
rings bearing some peculiar mark.
To those who had ever ii^ured them
or their people, and to vagrants of
another race who were found poach-
ing on their allotted district, they were
savagely vindictive. A man named
Thixnson, who had offended them by
encroaching on one of their supposed
privileges — ^that of gathering rags
through the country, was roasted to
death on his own fire.
^ But the .most terrible instances of
^psy ferocity were witnessed in their
fluent battles among themselves
— battles by the way, in which the
women bore their full share of wounds
and glory. It was in an engagement of
this sort in the shire of Angus, where
the Tinklers fought with Highland
dirks, that the celebrated gipsy Lizzie
Brown met with the mishap which
spoiled her once comely face, and ob-
tained for her the sobriquet of " Snip-
py." When her nose was struck off
by the sweep of a dirk, she clapped
her hand to the wound, as if little had
befallen her, and cried out in the heat
of the scuffle to those nearest her:
" But in the middle o* the meantime,
where is my nose ?** In the spring of
the year 1772 or 1773 an awful bat-
tle was fought between two tribes at
the bridge of Hawick :
" On the one Bide, in this batttlc, waa the
celebrated Alexander Keniiedy^ a handsome
and athletic man, and head of his tribe. Nest
to him, in consideration, was little Wull Ruth-
▼en, Kennedy's father-in-law. This man was *
known all over the country by the extraor-
dinary title of the Earl of Hell,* and, al-
though he was above five feet ten inches in
height, he got the appellation of Little Wull
to distinguish him from Muckle William Ruth-
ven, who was a man of uncommon staturo
and personal 8trength.f The earl's son was
also in the iray. These were the chief men
in Kennedy's band Jean Ruthven, Ken-
nedy's wife, was also present, with a great
number of inferior members of the clan,
males as well as females, of all ages, down to
mere children. The opposite band consisted
of old Rob Tait, the chieftain of his horde,
Jacob Tait, young Rob Tait, and three of old
Rob Tait's sons-in-hiw. These individuals,
with Jean Gordon, old Tait's wife, and a
numerous train of youths of both sexes and
various ages, composed the adherents of old
Robert Tait These adverse tribes were all
closely connected with one another by the
ties of blood. The Kennedys and Ruthvens
were from the ancient burgh of Lochmaben.
'*The whole of the gipsies in the field, fe-
males as well as males, were armed with
bludgeons, excepting some of the Taits, who
carried cutlasses and pieces of iron hoops
notched and serrated on either side, like a
saw, and fixed to the end of sticks. The bold-
est of the tribe were in front of ^eir respeo-
* This seems a favorite title among the Tinklers.
One. of the name of Toung, bean It at the present
time. Bat the glpeiea an no singular in these ter-
rible titlra. In the late Bnrmeae war, we find his
Burmese majesty creating one of hlsjcenerals " King
of Hell, Prinoe of Darkness. '*»See (AfnaQbWs AOt-
celiany.
t A friend. In writing me, says : *' I sUH think I
see hhn (Hackle Wall) bruising the charred peat
orer tilie name of his ftimaoe, wlUi hands equal to
two pair of hands of the modem daj, while his with-
ered and hairy shackle-bones were more like the
postern Jolata^f a sorrel cart-horse than anything
Digitized by CjOOQIC
712
I%e Gipsiet.
tlve bands, irith their children and the other
members of their clan in the rear, forming a
long train behind them. In this order both
parties boldly advanced, with their weapons
i;plifled above their heads. Both sides fought
with extraordinary fury and obstinacy. Somo-
times the one band gave way, and sometimes
the other; but both, again and again, re-
turned to the combat with fresh ardor. Not
Q word was spoken during the struggle ; noth-
ing was heanl but the rattling of the cudgels
and the strokes of the cutlasses. After a
long and doubtful contest, Jean Ruthven, big
with child at the time, at last received, among
many other blows, a dreadful wound with a
cutlass. She was cut to the bone above and
below the breast, particularly on one side. It
was said the sbshes were so large and deep
that one of her breasts was nearly severed
from her body, and that the motions of her
lungs, while she breathed, were observed
through the aperture between her ribs. But,
notwithstanding her dreadful condition, she
would neither quit the field nor yield, but
continued to assist her husband as long as
she was able. Her father, the Earl of Hell,
was also shockingly wounded ; the flesh being
literally cut from the bone of one of his legs,
and, in the words of my informant, * hanging
down over his ankles, Uke bee&teaks.* The
carl left the field to get his wounds dressed,
but, observing his daughter, Kennedy's wife,
so dangerously wounded, he lost heart, and,
with others of his party, fied, leaving Ken-
nedy alone to defend himself against the
whole of the clan of Tait
*' Havuig now all the Taits, young and old,
male and female, to contend with, Kennedy,
like an experienced warrior, took advantage
of the local situation of the place. Posting
himself on the narrow bridge of Hawick, he
defended himself in the defile, with his blud-
geon, against the whole of his infuriated ene-
mies. His handsome person, his undaunted
bravery, his extraordinary dexterity in hand-
ling his weapon, and his desperate situation,
(for it was . evident to all that the Taits
thirsted for his blood and were determined to
dispatch him on the spot,) excited a general
and lively interest in his favor among the
inliabitants of the town who were present and
had witnessed the conflict with amazement
and horror. In one dash to the front, and
with one powerful sweep of his cudgel, he
disarmed two of the Taite, and, cutting a
third to the skull, felled hun to the ground.
He sometimes daringly advanced upon hia
. assailants and drove the whole band before
hun pell-melL When he broke one cudgel
on his enemies, by his powerful arm, tiie
town's people were re^iy to hand him
another. Still the vindicUve Taits rallied
and renewed the charge with unabated vigor,
and every one present expected that Kennedy
would fall a sacrifice to their desperate fury.
A party of messengers and constables at last
amvcd to his relief, when the Taits were all
apprehended and imprisoned, but ^ none of
the gipsies were actually slain hi the fray,
they were soon set at liberty.*
** In this battle, it was said that every gipsy,
except Alexander Kennedy, the brave chief,
was severely wounded, and that the ground
on which they fought was wet with blood.
Jean Gordon, however, stole unobserved from
her band, and, taking a circuitous road, came
behmd Kennedy and struck him on the head
with her cudgel. What astonished the inhabi-
tants of Hawick the most of all,waa the fierce
and stubborn disposition of the ^sy fe-
males. It was remarked that, when they were
knocked down senseless to the ground they
rose again, with redoubled vigor and eneiigr,
to the combat. This unconquerable obstin-
acy and courage of their females is held in
high estimation by the tribe. I once heard
a gipsy sing a song which celebrated one of
their battles, and in it the brave and deter-
mined manner in which the girls bore the
blows of the cudgel over their heads was par-
ticuhirly applaud^
" The battle at Hawick was not oedsive to
either party. The hostile bands a short time
afterward came in contact in Ettrick Forest,
at a place on the water of Teema called
Deephope. They did not, however, engage
here, but the females on both sides, at some
distance from one another, with a stream be-
tween them, scolded and cursed, and, clapping
their hands, urged the males again to fight.
The men, however, more cautious, only ob-
served a sullen and gloomy silence at this
meeting. Probably both parties, from experi-
ence, were unwilling to renew the fight, being
aware of the consequences which would fol-
low should they again close in battle. The
two clans then separated, each taking dificr-
ent roads, but both keeping possession of the
disputed district In the course of a few-
days, they again met in Eskdale moor, when
a second desperate conflict ensued. The
Taits were here completely routed and driven
• Thli gipsy battle 1« alluded to by Sir Walter Scott,
In a postacrtpt to a letter to Captain Adam Vergaaoa,
16th April, 1819.
**By the by. old Kennedy, the tinker^ Bvam fm*
bis life at Jedhnrgh, and was only, by the sophisti-
cated and timed evidence of a seceding doctor, who
differed from all his brethren, saved from a well-
deserved gibbet He goes to botanlse for fourteen
years. Pray tefl this to the Oulce, (of Baodeucli,)
for he was an old soldier of the duke and Um
dake's old soldier. Six of hla brethren were, I am
told. In the court, and kith and kin. without end.
I am sorry so many of the clan are left. The
cause of the quarrel with the murdered man was
an old feud between two gipsy clans, the Kennedys
and Irvings, which, about forty years since gave
rise to a desperate quarrel and battle at Hawick-
green, in which the grandfather of both Kennedy
and the man whom he murdered were engaged.'^ —
Lockharf9 Ufe of Str Walter SooU, Alexander
Kennedy was tried for murdering Irving at Yarrows-
ford.
[This gipsy tn.7 at Hawick Is known among the
BDgUsh gipsies aa ''the BatUe of the Bridge."— Eo.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ns G%pne$.
713
from the Strict, in which they had attempted
to trarel bj force.
'*The eoantrj people were horrified at the
■<^ht of the wounded Tinklers after these
tanguinary engagements. Sereral of them,
lame and exhausted in consequence of the
seTerity of their numerous wounds, were, by
the assistance of their tribe, carried through
the country on the baolcs of eases, so much
were they cut up in their persons. . Some of
them, ii was sidd, were shdn otutright, and
ucTer more heard of. Jean BnthTcn, how-
ever, who was so dreadfully slashed, recov-
ered from her wounds, to the surprise of all
' who had seen her mangled body, which was
sewed in diilerent parts by her dan.''
The Bnthvens mentioned in tibis
extract belonged to a distinguished
family among the gipsies. Their
male head, in those days, was a man
over six feet in height, who Hved to
the age of one hundred and fifteen.
In his jouth he wore a white wig, a
ruffled shirty a blue Scottish bonnet,
scarlet breeches and waistcoat, a fine
long blue coat, white stockings, and
silver shoe-buckles. The male gip-
sies at that time were often very
handsomely dressed, and so too were
the women. A favorite color with
them was green. Mary Yoriuton, or
Towston, the wife of the same Mat-
thew Baillle, whose rough manner of
courting we mentioned just now, went
nnder the appellation of " my lady,"
and ^ the duchess," and bore the title
of queen among her tribe. Her
appearance on the road, when she
was pretty well advanced in life, is
thus described : She was full six feet
in height, of a stout figure, with harsh,
strongly-marked features, and altp*
gether "very imposing in her manner*
She wore a large black beaver hat
tied down over her ears with a hand-
kerchief; a short dark blue cloak, of
Spanish cut; petticoats of dark blue
camlet, barely reaching to her calves ;
dark blue worsted stockmgs, flowered
and ornamented at the ankles with
scarlet thread; and silver shoe-
buckles. Sometimes instead of this
garb she wore a green gown trimmed
with red ribbons. All her garments
were of excellent, substantial quality,
flpd there was never a rag or rent to
be seen about her person* Her outer
petticoat was folded up round her
haunches for a lap, with a lai^
pocket dangling at each side; and
below her cloak she carried, between
her shoulders, a small pack containing
her T^uables. She bore a largo
clasp-knife, with a long, broad blade,
like a dagger, and in her hand was a
pole or pike-sta£f that reached a foot
abovA her head. The male branches
of the royal gipsy family of the Bail«
lies, a hundml years ago, used to
traverse Scotland on the best horses
to be found in the country, booted and
spurred, and clad in the finest scarlet
and green, with ruffles at their wrists
and breasts. They wore cocked hats
on their heads, pistols at their belts,
and broad-swords by their sides ; and
at their horses* heels followed grey-
hounds and other dogs of the chase.
They assumed the manners and char-
acters of gentlemen with wonderful
art and propriety. The women at-
tended fairs in the attire of ladies,
sitting their ponies with all the grace
and dignity of . high-bred women.
Two chieftains of inferior degree to
the Baillies were Alexander McDon-
ald and James Jamieson, brothers-in-
law, remarkable for their fine personal
appearance and almost incredibljS
bodily strength* They were often at-
tired in the most elegant and fashion-
able manner, and McDonald frequent-
ly changed his dress three or four
times in one market-day. Now he
would appear in the best of tartan,
as a Highland gentleman in full cos-
tume. Again he might be seen on
horseback, with boots, spurs, and
ruffles, Hke a body of no little import-
ance. And not infrequently he wan-
dered through: the fiur in his own
proper garb, as a travelling Tinkler.
He had a piebald horse which he had
trained to help him in his depreda-
tions. At a certain signal it would
crouch to the ground like, a hare, and
so conceal itself and its rider in a
ditch or a hollow, or behind a hedge*
There was a gaUant gipsy in the
seventeenth o^tury named John Faa,
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714
ns C^piiet.
•who, if tradition Is to he trosted, woo
tlie heart of a fiiir countess of Cassilis,
BO that she abeoonded with him.
Many years later there was an exten-
sive mercantile house at Dunbar, the
heads of wliicliy named Fall, were
descendants of this same gay deceiver.
One of the Misses Fall married Sir
John Anstmther, of Elie, baronet, but
her prejudiced Scottish neighbors
eonld not forget that she carried
Tinkler blood in her veins, and poor
*^ Jenny Faa,** as they persisted in
calling her, was exposed to many an
insult Sir John was once a candi-
date for election to Parliament, and
whenever Lady Jenny entered the
burghs during the canvass, the streets
resounded with the old song of " tfohn-
ny Faa, the gipsy laddie," which re-
counts how —
** The gipsies came to my Lord CasslIIs' yett,
And oh 1 but ihcy sang bonnle ;
They sang sae sweet, and tae complete.
That down came our fair ladle/'
It was not all a romance of love,
and fine dresses, and free ranging up
and down the realm, this life of the
gipsies. Magistrates were found
pretty often, not only to' punish their
repeated crimes of robbery and mur-
der, but even to put in force the old
savage law against ^ such as were by
habit and repute Egyptians'* — ^name-
ly, that ** their ears be nailed to the
tron or other tree, and cut off." It is
an odd fact that in this act were de-
nounced not only gipsies, but " stick
as make themselves fooU^ strolling
bards, and *' vagabond scholars of the
universities of St. Andrew's, Glasgow,
and Aberdeen, not licensed by the
rector and dean of faculty to ask
alms.'' There was an old John
Young, an uncle of the Charlie Gra-
ham before mentioned, who had seven
sons, and when asked where they
were, he used to say ^ **They are all
hanged." It was a pretty &mily
record, but a just one.' Peter, one of
the seven, was captain of a band of
thieves whose exploits were long re-
membered in the north of Scotland.
He was several times taken and sen-
tenced to the gallows, but managed to
escape. Once being recaptured at a
distance from the jail out of which he
had broken, the authorities were about
to hang him on the spot, when some
one in the crowd cried out, "Peter,
deny you are the man ;'' whereupon
he insisted that his name was John
Anderson. Strange as it may appear,
he managed to get off by this device,
as there was no one present who
could or would identify lum.
Alexander Brown, a dashing fellow,
but a dreadful rascal, and one of the
principal members of Charlie Graham's
band, after repeated escapes, was
hanged at last at Edinburgh, together
with his brother-in-law, "Wilson. Mar-
tha Brown, the mother of one of the
prisoners, and mother-in-law of the
other, was apprehended in the act of
stealing a pair of sheets, while attend-
ing their execution. When Charlie
Graham was hanged, it was reported
that the surgeons meant to disinter his
body and dissect it. To prevent this
his wife or sweetheart filled the coffin
with hot lime, and then sat on the
grave, in a state of beastly intoxica-
tion, until the corpse was destroyed.
The last part of the volume l)eforo
us, namely, the editor's disquisition,
we approach in fear and trembling.
Old Mr. Walter Simson seems to
have been a good sort of a gentleman,
for whom we cannot help feeling a
kindness, even though he did not write
quite as well as Addison ; but this Mr.
James Simson, editor, is a terrible fel-
low. He assures us that all creation
is ftill of unsuspected gipsies, who
have crept into every circle of society,
insidiously intruded themselves into
the most respectable trades and pro-
fessions; ana contaminated the best
blood in Christendom. No matter
where we live now, or where our an-
cestors came from ; it is quite possible —
we are not sure that Mr. James does
not consider it almost as good as cer-
tain—that we may all of us have some
of that dark blood in our veins. Our
great^grandjbthers may have been
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Tk0 GipsUi.
716
hanged for horse-atealiogt and our
grand-motbers, horrible thought I maj
have eaten <*braxy."
England, Irebuid, Scotland, and
Wales, France, Spain, Germany, and
Italy, all have contributed their quotas
to the gipsy population of the world,
and even America itself is infested
with descendants of the vagabond
tinklers of the last century. It is
only about a fortnight since the news-
papers told us of the arrival of a band
of wandering "Egyptians'* at Liver-
pool, on their way to the United States,
fugitives from the advancing civiliza-
tion of Scotland, to the new settle-
ments and i'ree woods and plains of the
great west, l^ow and then, though
not very oflen, gipsy encampments of
the old orthodox kind are seen in this
country, and there have been tented
fipsies near Baltimore, says Mr.
imson, for the last seventy years.
He adds that a colony of them has ex-
isted in New England for a hundred
years, and ^' has always been looked
upon with a singular feeling of dis-
trust and mystery by the inhabitants,
who are the descendants of the early
emigrants, and who did not suspect
their origin till lately. . . . They
follow pretty much the employments
and mode of life of the same class in
Europe; the most striking feature
bein^ that the bulk of them leave the
homestead for a length of time, scat-
ter in different directions, and reunite
periodically at their quarters, which
are left in cBarge of some of the
feeble members of the band." Penn-
sylvania and Maryland contain a great
many Hungarian and German gip-
sies, who leave theur farms to the care
of hired hands during the summer,
and proceed South with their tents.
"In the Suite of Pensylvanla, there Is •
settlement of them, on the J river, a lit-
tle way abore H , where they have aair-
mills. AboQi the Alleghany moontains,
there are many of the tribe, following some-
what the original ways of the race. In the
United States ffenerally there are many gtpqr
peddlers, British as well as oontinental.
There are a good many gip^M in New- York,
English, Irish, and continental, some of whom
keep tin, crockery, and basket stores; but
these are all mixed gipsies, and many of
them of fair complexion. The tin-ware
which they make is generally of a plain,
coarse kind ; so much so, that a gipey tin
store is eaaiij known. They frequently ex-
hibit their tin-ware and baskets on the
streets, and carry them about the city. Al-
most all, if not all, of those ithierant cutlers
and tinklers, to be met with in New-York,
and other American citieB are gipsies, prind-
jpudly German, Hungarian, and French.
There are a good many gipsy musicians in
America. ^WbatT said I to an English
gipsy, Uhose organ-grinders!' * Nothmg
so low as that Gipsies don^t grind their
music, sir ; they make W But I found in
his house, when occupied by other gipsies,
Vi hurdy-gurdy and tambourine ; so that gip-
sies sometimes grind music, as well as make
it. I know of a Hungarian gipsy who is a
leader of a negro musical band, in the city
of New- York; his brother drives one of the
avenue cars. There are a number of gipsy
musicians in Baltimore, who play at parties,
and on other occasions. Some of the for-
tone-telling gipsy women about New- York
will inake as much as forty dollars a week in
that line of business. Thoy generally live a
little way out of the city, into which they
ride in the morning to their places of busi-
ness. I know of one, who resides in New-
Jersey, opposite Now- York, and who has a
place in the city, to which ladies, that is, fe-
mdes of the highest classes, address their
cards, for her to call upon them.**
We forbear quoting more about tho
American gipsies : the information be*
comes fearfully suggestive, and it is
all the more terrifying because these
people never acknowledge their de-
scent, and however sharply we may
suspect them, we have no way d*
bringing the offence home to them.
The friend who shakes our hand to-
day may be the grandson of a vagar
bond who camped on our grandfathcr^s
fiurm, stole our grandmother's eggs and
ponltiy, and picked our great-uncle's
pocket The ancestor of that beauti-
ful girl we danced with at the last ball
may have bad his ears nailed to the
tree and then cut off, and the gentle-
man who asks us to dinner to-morrow,
may purpose entertaining us with
** sharps-flavored mutton and a savory
stew rf beef juice and old rags.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
716
New PuiUMtiUnu.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Tbirtt Years of Armt Life os ras
BoBDBB. Comprising descriptions of
tho Indian Nomads of the Plains; ex-
plorations <^ new territory; a trip
across the Rocky Mountains in the
winter; descriptions of the habits of
different animals found in the West,
and the methods of hunting them;
with incidents in the life of different
frontier men, etc, etc By Colonel R.
B. Marcy, U. S. A., author of **The
Prairie Traveller." With numerous il-
lustrations. New-York: Harper k
Brothers. 1866.
Colonel Marcy, as appears from tho
title of his book, has passed the greater
portion of his life among the trappers
and Indians of the frontier. His descrip-
tions are consequently authentic, and
his lively, picturesque style makes them
also extremely interesting and agreeable.
When wo add to this the pleasant accom-
paniment of fine typographical execution
and numerous spirited illustrations, we
have said enough to recommend the book
to the lovers of information combined
with entertainment, and will leave the
following specimen to speak for the whole
work
THE OOLOBAOO CaKoN.
I refer to that portioa of the Colorado, ex-
tending from near the oonfluenoe of Grand
and Green rivers, which is known as the " Big
Caflon of the Colorado.** This caiLon is without
doubt one of the most stupendous freaks of
nature that can be found upon the face of
the earth. It appears that by some great
paroxysmal, convulsive throe in the myste-
rious economy of the wise laws of nature, an
elevated chain of mountains has beeii reft
asunder, as if to admit a passage for the river
along the level of the grade at the base.
The walls of this majestic defile, so far as
they have been seen, are nearly perpendicu-
lar; and although we have no exact data
upon which to l»8e a positive calculation of
their altitude, yet our information is amply
sufficient to warrant the assertion that it far
exceeds anything of the kind elsewhere
known.
Tho first published account of this remark-
able defile was contelned in the works of
Castenada, giving a description of the expe-
dition of Don Francisco Yaaquez de Coroniulo
in search of the ^* seven citieB of Cibola"^in
1540-1.
He went from the dty of Mexico to Sono-
ra, and from tbenoe penetrated to Cibola ;
and while there despatched an auxiliary ex-
pedition, under the command of Don Garcia
Lopez de Cardenas, to explore a river which
emptied into the Gulf of California, called
^ Rio del jHison," and which, of coarse, was
the JUo Colorado.
On reachmg the vicinity of the river, he
found a race of natives, of very great stature,
who lived in subterranean tenements covered
with straw or grass. He say?, when these
Indians travelled in very cold weather, they
carried in their hands a firebrand, with
which they kept themselves warm.
Captain Sitgreaves, who in 1862 met the
Mohave Indians on the Colorado river, savs
**they are over six feet tall ;*' and Mr. R. U.
Kern, a very intelligent and reliable gentle-
man, who was attadied to the same expedi-
tion, and visited the lower part of the great
cafion of the Colorado, says: **The same
manners and customs (as those described by
Castenada) are peculiar to all the different
tribes inhabiting the valley of the Colorado,
even to the use of the brand for warming
the body. These Indians, as a mass, are tho
largest and best-formed men I ever saw, their
average height bemg an inch over six feet*'
The Spanish explorer says he travelled for
several days along the crest of the lofty
bluff bordering the cafion, which he esti-
mated to be three leagues high, and be
found no place where he could pass down to
the water from the summits He once made
the attempt at a place where but few obsta-
cles seemed to interfere with the descent,
and started three of his most active men.
They were gone the greater part of the day,
and on their return informed him that they
had only succeeded in reachmg a rock about
one third the distance down. This rock, he
says,- appeared from the top of the cafion
about six feet high, but they informed him
that it was as high as the spire of the cathe-
dral at Seville in Spain.
The river itseff lookM. from the summit
of the cafion, to be sometbiog like a finthom
in width, but the Indians assured him it was
half a league wide.
Antoine Lereux, one of the most reliable
and best informed guides in New Mexico,
told me in 1858, that he had once been
at a point of this cafion where he estimated
the walls to be tliree mUea hiffh,
Mr. Kem says, hi speaking of the Colon-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
N€W PuhUeatiam.
717
do: "NodCher river in North America panes
through a cafion equal in depih to the one
aUnded ta The description (Gastenada's) is
made ont with rare truth and force. We
had a view of it from the San Francisco
mountain, N. M., and Judging from our own
elevaUon, and the character of the interven-
iog country, I have no doubt the walls are at
least fire thousand feet in height*
The mountaineers in Utah told me that a
party of trappers many years mnce built a
lai^ row-boat, and made the attempt to de-
scend the rirer through the defile of the
cafion, but were never heard from afterward.
They probably dashed their boat in pieces,
and were lost by being precipitated over
sunken rocks or elevated falls.
In 185- Lieutenant Ives of the United
States Engineers, was ordered to penetrate
the cafion with a steamer of light draught
He ascended the river from the gulf as high
as a little above the mouth of the gorge, but
there encountered rapids and other obstacles
of BO serious a character that he was forced
to turn back and abandon the enterprise, and
no other efforts have since been made under
goveniroent auspices to explore it
A thorough examination of this cafion
might, in my opinion, be made by taking
small row-boats and ascending the river from
the debouche of the gorge at a low stage of
water. In this way there would be no dan-
ger of being carried over dangerous rapids
or falls, and the boats covAd be carried round
difficult passages. Such an exploration could
not, in my judgment, prove otherwise than
intensely interesting, as the scenery here
must surpass in grandeur any other in the
universe.
Wherever we find rirers flowing through
similar formations elsewhere, as at the
" dalUt'* of the Ckilumbia and Wisconsin
rivers, and in the great cafions of Bed and
Canadian rivers, al£ough the escarpments at
those places have nothing like the altitude
of those upon the Colorado, yet the l<mg con-
tinued erosive action of the water upon the
rock, has produced the most novel and inter-
esting combmations of beautiful pictures.
Imagine, then, what must be the effect of a
large stream like the Colorado, traversing
for two hundred miles a defile with the per^
pendicular walls towering five thousand feet
above the bed of the river. It is impossible
that it should not contribute largely toward
the formation of scenery surpasnng in sub-
limity and picturesque character any other In
the world. Our landscape painters would
here find rare subjects for their study, and I
venture to hope that the day is not far dis-
tant when some of the most enterprising of
them may be induced to penetrate this new
field of art in our only remaining unexplored
territory. I am confident they would be
i^undantly rewarded for their trouble and
exposure, and would find snljeets for the
exercise of genius, the sublimity of which the
most vivid imaginations of the old masters
never dreamed of.
A consideration, however, of vastly greater
financial and national importance than those
alluded to above, which might and probably
would result from a thorough exploration of
this part of the river, is the development of
its mineral wealth.
In 1849 1 met in Santa Tk that enterpris-
ing pioneer, Mr. F. X. Aubrey, who had fust
returned from California, and en route had
crossed the Colorado near the outlet of the
Biff Canan^ where be met some Indians,
with whom, as he informed me, he exchanged
leaden for golden rifle-balls, and these In-
dians did not appear to have theslishtest ap-
preciation of the relatite value of the two
metals.
That gold and silver abound in that region
is fully established, as those metals have been
found in many lo<»lities both east and west
of tiie Colorado. Is it not therefore proba-
ble that the walls of this gigantic crevice will
exlubit many rich deposits? Companies are
formed almost daily, and large amounts of
money and labor expended in sinking shafts
of one, two, and three hundred leet with the
confident expecUtion of findmg mineral de-
posits ; but here nature has opened 4md ex-
posed to view a continuous shaft two hun-
dred miles in length, and five thousand feet
in depth. In the one case we have a small
shaft blasted out at great expense by manual
labor, showing a surface of about thirty-six
hundred feet, while here nature gratuitously
exhibits ten thousand millions of feet, ex-
tending into the very bowels of the earth.
Is it, then, at all without the scope of ra-
tional conjecture to predict that such an im-
mense development of the interior strata
of the earth— such a huge gulch, if I may
be allowed the expression, extending so
great a distance through the heart of a coun-
try as rich as this in the precious metals,
may yet prove to be the £l Dorado which
the early Spanish explorers so long and so
fruitlessly sought for ; and who knows but
that the government might here find a source
of revenue sufficient to liquidate our national
debt?
Regarding the exploration of this river as
highly important in a national aspect, I in
1858 submitted a paper upon the subject to
the War Department, setting forth my views
somewhat in detail, and offering my services
to perform the work ; but there was then no
appropriation which could be applied to that
object, and the Secretary of War for this
reason decUned ordering it
GsBismni ; a Tbovbadottb^s Sono, and
other Poems. By George H. Miles.
New York : Lawrence Eehoe. 1866.
Mr. Milea'B poem, ''Christine," has
Digitized by CjOOQIC
718
New PuMkatiotu.
been already before otir readers, in the
pages of tbe Catholic World, and wo
nro sure that its appearance in book form
will be welcomed by all who have perused
its beautiful verses.
It is the work of an artist, and as
such, one likes to have it, as it were,
completely under view, and not scattered
in fragments amidst other productions
which intrude upon our vision, and in*
tcrrupt its continuity.
Mr. Hiles has given us a poem of no
ordinary merit. Powerfully dramatic, it
not only paints tho scenes of the story
in strong, vivid colors, but brings tho
actors into a living reality as they pass
before us. Few writers of our day pos-
sess much dramatic power, and this ac-
counts for their short-lived fame. He
who would write for fame must give us
pictures of real life, and not pure reflec-
tive sentiment
Poetry and its more subtle-tongucd
sister, music, are as much nobler and
worthier of immortality than are paint-
ing or sculpture, as the reality is supe-
rior to tho image. Poetry and music aro
the true clothed in the beautiful, whilst
painting and sculpture can only give us
beautiful yet lifeless images of the
true. The Psalms of David remain, but
the Temple of Solomon and all its glory
is departed. Poetry, tho purest form of
language, is also the best expression of
divine, living and eternal truth, in so far
as. humanity can express it Being the
expression of absolute truth, poetry and
music are the truly immortal arts which
will live in heaven. No one ever yet
imagined that the blessed, in presence of
the Unveiled Truth, will express their
beatitude in painted or sculptured im-
ages ; but tho revealed vision of the in-
spired poet, who drew his inspiration at
the Source of truth, upon whose bosom
he leaned, telling us of the saints, ^* harp-
ing upon their harps of gold," and
V singtng'tbe song of tho Lamb," finds a
responsive assent in all our minds.
Caught up into the embrace of the infi-
nitely true, and the infinitely beautiful,
they must necessarily give expression to
that upon which the soul lives, and with
which it is wholly enlightened.
' There, too, they must possess a ^uasi
creative power of expression of the true,
(in so far as they are thus endowed by
virtue of their union with God, who is
pure act, through the Word made Flesh,)
just as we possess it here in germ by the
dramatic form, which actualizes to us the
oHierwise abBtnict trath expressed.
Hence the superiorky of the dramatic^
in which of course we include the de^-
Bcriptive, over the sentimental. Mr.
Miles possesses this genius in no mean
degree, as ho has already shown in his
"Mahomet'* The poem before us
abounds in dramatic passages of rare
beauty. Let our readers turn to the
third song, and read the flight of Chris-
tine. They will find it to be a descrip-
tion unsurpassed in the English lan-
guage. The death of *' faithful Kalipb,"
and the knight's tender plaint over his
"gallant grey," forgetful of even his
rescued spouse, introduced to us in the
flush of victory over the demon foe, just
when our stronger passions are wrought
up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, is
one of those sudden and thrilling transi-
tions from the sublime to the pathetic
which may crown Mr. Miles as a master
of the pocCs pen.
'^Raphael Sanzio'* dying, the first of
the additional poems, possesses much of
the merit we have signalized, but its vers-
ification and wording are too harsh for
the subject It is not the death of him
whom we have known as Raphael. It
reads as though told by one who was
forced to admire, yet did not love, the
great artist There is a charming little
poem, entitled, "Said the Rose," which
is worth all the minor poems put toge-
ther, if poetry can be valued against
poetry. We may say, at least, tiiat it
alone is worth many times the price of
the whole volume ; and our readers, who
may have already enjoyed the perusal of
" Christine" in our pages, will not fail to
thank us for this hint to purchase the
complete volume.
Mr. Kehoe, the publisher, is giving us
some creditable books, as tlie "Life and
Sermons of Father Baker," the "May
Carols of Aubrey de Vere," *nd " The
Works of Archbishop Hughes," bear
testimony. The present one is got up in
a superior manner, both in type, paper,
and binding, and is a worthy dress for
author's work.
History op England, prom the Fall of
WoLSEY to the Death of Elizabeth.
By James Anthony Froude, M.A.,
late Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford.
Vols. V. and VL 8vo, pp. 474, 495.
New York : Charles Scribner & Ca
Mr. Froude's thorough-going Protest*
antism is by this time too faxuiiiar to our
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Nm PiMieatums.
719
readers for them to expect a very Uvely
gatisikction in reading the story of the
reigns of Edward VI. and Mary which
he has given in these Tolames. We
have neither the space nor the inclioa-
tion to follow him in his review of those
melancholy times. We prefer to accord
a hearty recognition to the undoubted
merits of his work; his graphic and
picturesqne style; bis artistic eye for
effect; his excellent judgment in the
examination of old-time witnesses ; and
the rare self-control which in the midst
^of his abundance of hitherto unused
material has saved him from encumber-
ing his pages and overloading his narra*
tive with facts and illustrations of only
minor interest He gives us sometimes
little bits of truth where we had least
reason to look for them. Cordially as
he detests Mary the queen, he is tender-
er than most historians of his ultra sort
to Mary the woman. **From the pas-
sions which in general tempt soTereigns
into crime/' he says, ^' she was entirely
free ; to tho time of her accession sho
had lived a blameless, and in many re-
spects a noble life; and few men or
women hare lived less capable of doing
knowingly a wrong thing. Philip's con*
duct, which could not extinguish her
passion for him, and the collapse of tho
inflated imaginations which had sur-
rounded her supposed pregnancy, it can
hardly be doubted, affected her sanity.
Those forlorn hours when she would sit
on the ground with her knees drawn to
her face ; those restless days and nights
when, like a ghost, she would wander
about the palace galleries^ rousing her-
self only to write tear-blottcd letters to
her husband ; those bursts of fury over
the libels dropped in her way ; or tho
marchings in procession behind the Host
in the £>ndon streets [I]— these are all
symptoms of hysterical derangement,
and leave little room, as we think of
her, for other feeling than pity." The
persecution, for which her reign is re-
membered was partly the result, Mr.
Froude thinks, of "the too natural ten-
dency of an oppressed party to abuse
suddenly recovered power." Moreover,
** the rebellions and masSAcres, the poli-
tical scandals, the universal suffering
throughout the country during Edward's
minority, had created a general bitter-
ness in all classes against the Reform-
ers; the Catholics could appeal with
justice to the apparent consequences of
heretical opinions^ and when the Re-
forming preachers themselves denounced
so loudly the irreligion which had at-
tended their success, there was little
wonder that the world took them at
their word, and was ready to permit the
use of strong suppressivo measures to
keep down the unruly tendencies of un-
controlled fanatics."
Mr. Fronde's history will be complet-
ed in two more volumes.
A General Histobt of the Caii9ouc
Church : (Vom the Commencement of
the Christian Era until tlie Present
Time. By M. r Abbe J. E. Darras. Vol.
III. P. O'Shea, New-York.
The period comprised by the third
volume of this admirable history extends
from the pontificate of Sylvester II.
A.n. 1000 to that of Julius II. a.d.
1513. To our mind the terrible struggle
which the churdi sustained during those
four eventful -centuries is more wonder-
ful than her deadly strife in the days of
Roman persecution and martyrdom. The
church is a divine-human institution ;
and inasmuch as it is human, it must
suffer from human infirmity, but tho
Spirit of God abideth for ever in it, pre-
serving tho truth amidst heresies, the
purity of tho Christian law amidst moral
degradation, and at last crowning His
spouse with new glories for her patiently
borne sufferings.
On every page of the church's history,
and on none more clearly than that'
which records her life from the elovQpth
to the sixteenth century, is that promise
written, *' And the gates of hell shall not
prevail against it" We again add our
cordial commendation of the work of ^f.
Darras, and hope its publication will
prove to the enterprising publisher as
successful as it is opportune.
The AaCERiGAif Annual Cyclop jboia
AND Register of CtRRENT Events or
THE Year 1866. Vol. V. Now-York:
D. Appleton. 1867.
This is a valuable compendium of in-
formation respecting the current events
of the year. It is particularly completo
as regards American politics and tho
literature of the English language. On
other topics it is more general and siipcr-
flcial, especially so in its history of tho
progress of science. For instance, thero
is no record whatever of the history of
geology during the year. The grfsM do-,
feet of the Cyclopaedia, as a whole, is an
unneoessary minutenesa in regard .td
Digitized by CjOOQIC
720
Nno JPuhlieatiaHi,
persona and things of our own time and
country which have no real and perma-
nent interest, and a corresponding lack
of minuteness in regard to matters of
other times and countries which are
really important It would be a good
idea for the publishers to invite all the
scholars in the country to send in a list
of titles of articles whose absence they
have noticed in consulting the work for
information, and from these to prepare a
supplementary volume. In regard to all
questions relaUng to the Catholic Church,
the Cyclop»dia is remarkable through-
out for its fairness and impartiality — ^a
merit which is to be ascribed in great
measure to its learned and genial editor,
Mr. Ripley.
AuxT HoNOB^s Kebpsake. a Chapter
from Life. By Mrs. J. Sadlier.
Ten Stobies from the French of Bal-
LEYDiER. TranslatedbyMrs. J. Sadlier.
The Exile op Tadmor, and other Tales.
Translated by Mrs. J. Sadlier.
Talks and Stories. Translated from tho
French of Viscount Walsh. By Mrs.
J. Sadlier.
Yalebia, or the First Christians, and
other Stories. Translated from the
French of Balleydicr and Madame Bow-
don. By Mrs. J. Sadlier.
The Blighted Flower, and other Tales.
Translated from the French of Balley-
dicr. By Mrs. J. Sadlier.
Stobies on the Beatitudes. By Agnes
M. Stewart, authoress of ** Stories on
the Virtues," etc New-York: D.&J.
Sadlier & Co. 1866.
A Father's Tales of the French Revo-
LtTTioN. First Series. By the author
of " Confessors of Connaught"
JIalph Berrien, and other Tales of the
French Revolution. Second Series.
By tho author of "Grace Morton,"
"Philip Hartly," etc
Charles and Frederick, or a Mother's
Prater, and Rose Blanch, or T^velfth
Night in BRnTANT.
The Beauforts. A Story of the AUo-
ghanies. By Cora Berkley.
Silver Grange. A Catholic Tale, and
Phillipine, a Tale of the Middle
Ages. Compiled by tho author of
"Grace Morton."
Helena Butler. A story of the Rosarr
and the Shrine of tho " Star of the Sea."
Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham.
These volumes are a valuable addition
to our list of books for Catholic children.
"Aunt Honov^s Keepsake,*' by Mrs. J.
Sadlier, presents a vivid picture of tho
wrongs and outrages suffered by Catholic
children and parents from the agents of
the so-called "Juvenile Reformatories."
We also have a translation of several in-
structive tales from the French by the
same talented writer. Agnes Stewart
gives us a number of well-written stories
on the beatitudes. We heartily com-
mend this effort to provide suitable read-
ing for Catholic children. It is a press-
ing want Their active minds eagerly
demand something to read. If we do not
provide safe and proper reading for them,
they will find thatywhich is not so.
We have also an addition of six new
volumes to the "Young Catholic Libra-
ry," published by P. F. Cunningham,
Philadelphia. The subjects are well cho-
sen and most of the stories beautifully
written. We notice, however, at times,
a straining alter high-sounding expres-
sions — an absence of that simplicity so
necessary in such tales for children.
There is also a tendency in writers for
children to sprinkle in so much of the ro-
mantic and unreal as to make their story
a kind of "novelette." Sueh reading
creates in the mind of tho young a fever-
ish desire for romance, which can only be
satisfied in after years by the novel.
There is enough in the realities of life
to startle and fix the attention of any
child if properly presented. We trust
a larger number of books suitable for
children may be provided by those writ-
ers who have the time and talent requis-
ite for the work. Wo know of no way
in which they can more usefully employ
their pen.
The style in which these volumes are
issued makes them suitable for gift-books
and is creditable to the publishers. We
would also like to see some in plain,
durable bindings, better suited for the
bard usage they receive in a Sunday-
school or parish library.
From D. * J. Ekvum A Ca, New-Tork. •* the Mt
O* WiiUn," uid OMier Tales. *' Mayor of Wlnd>
Gap and Canvaftalng,^* by the O'Hara Family.
ISmo, pp. 406 and 414 (^le above are tvo nev
volomes of Banim's works.) I>art8 21, S2, 88, and
M of d*Artaad'8 Uyes of the Popes.
Ffom P. DovoBUK. Boston. Annual Report of the
Association fbr the Protection of Destitute RonMO
Catholic Children in Boston, fh>m January 1, 1863^
to January 1, 1861 Pamphlet.
From P. F. CumnsoBiM, Philadelphia. Alnhonso;
or, the Triumph of ReUgton. A CathoUo Tiile.
Itmo, pp. 878.
From RoBUT H. JomiBTOii t Ob'., New-Tork. The
Valley of Wyoming : The Romance of Its Poetry.
Also specimens of Indian Eloquence. Compiled by
a natlTTof the vallcj. ISmo^ pp. 138.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD
VOL, m., NO. 18.— SEPTEMBER, 1866,
[OEIOniAU]
THE DOCTRINE OF THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH CONCERN-
ING THE NECESSITY OF EPISCOPAL ORDINATION *
Within the past few years, certain
circles of the Protestant Episcopal
Church have been thrown into no
gmall commotion bj a controversy
which has arisen between the two
great parties, into which she is divided,
over the question, Whether or not it is
her doctrine that episcopal ordination
is necessary to constitute a valid min*
istry? The contest seems to have
been opened by the Rev. Wilham
Groode, rector of All Hallows, London,
who in the year 1852 published a
treatise maintainmg the negative of
the proposition ; ''Is it the doctrine of
the Church of England that episcopal
ordination is a mie qua non to consti-
tute a valid ministry r* In support of
his position, he adduced those arti-
cles and other formularies of his
church, which relate to this subject;
* " A Vlmllcaiion of the Doctrine of the Church of
EnffUnd, or the Validity of the Orders of the Scotoh
and Foreign Non-Episcopal Charches." By W. Ooode,
M.A., P S.A., Rector of All Hallowa the Great and
Less. London. 1863.
" ]>oes the Episcopal Ghnrch teach the ExclnsWe Va-
lidity of Episcopal Orders V By WlUlam Goode, M. A.
NewYorlc. 186-
*' Vox Ecclesia» ; or. The Doctrine of the Protestant
Episcopal Church on Episcopacy," etc Philadelphia.
1868.
VOL. III. 46
the testimony of those divines who
drew up these standards, as interpret-
ing the same, together with the sense
in which they were received by their
successors in the clerical office for the
ensuing hundred years ; and the conduct
of the church toward the Continental
Protestant societies and in the ordering
of her own hierarchy for the same
period of time. So successful was this
author in his argument, and so trium-
phant was his vindication of this pecu-
liar principle of the Low Church party,
that his work was at once hailed by
them, in England and in America, as
the ^ End of Controversy " upon this
point; was adopted by their publication
societies as an ^ unanswerable defence
of the validity of non-episcopal orders,"
and was claimed by one of their lead-
ing journals to be effectual in ^ ban-
ishing and driving away the last doubt,
which hung upon some minds, from
the boldness and continuity of assertion
that the Episcopal Church disallowed
the validity of other than episcopal
orders."
How completely '' banished and
driven away" fromsome minds thatlast
Digitized by CjOOQIC
722
2%0 Doctrine of the Epteeopal Okurch
doubt was, events of a startling char-
acter soon made manifest
" Certain clergymen of the diocese of New
Tork adopted a course destined to change
the settled practice of the church, if not to
change Its whole character. They turned
their backs upon all existing laws and all pre-
yious usage in connection with such matters,
and openly admitted to their pulpits minis-
ters who had not had episcopal ordination.
. . . . Of course, an innovation so
startling and so daring occasioned much ex*
citement The Bishop of the diocese issued
a pastoral letter, in which, in the kindest
language and most reasonable spirit, he
pointed out to those gentlemen the unlawful-
ness of their course. And tfure, if they had
been lovers of order and of peace, the whole
matter might have rested. Bu^ however
gentle the reproof or remonstrance, it was
still an exercise of authority, and that was
hard to bear. Therefore the reverend gen-
tlemen rushed into print at once, and strove
to give to the whole matter the air of simple
controversy, on equal terms, between the
Bishop and themselves. They represented
him as the advocate of a narrow partisan poll-
cy, and not as theur ecclesiastical superior to
whom they had solemnly promised obedience,
and whose duty compelled him to give them
a reproof. Their * letters.' "reviews,* and
* replies to the pastoral' have been sent
everywhere throughout the country, and have
served to show thEtt some Episcopalians pay
but little respect *to those who are over
them in the Lord ;' that they are not much
disposed to 'submit to their judgment,' and
* to follow with a gUd mind and will their
godly admonitions.' " (Vox £ocleBi», vi.)
Such was the state of affairs, when
a reply to <* Groode on Orders * issued
from the Philadelphia press, professing
to demolish its conclusions and to clear
the doctrine of the Episcopal Church,
on the point in question, from all am-
biguity. This was the work of an ele-
gant and judicious but anonymous
writer, who, though disclaiming all
tendencies to Puseyism, is, neverthe-
less, manifestly a High Churchman of
strong and well-founded principles, and
who has received on account of this
reply, the highest commendations from
many of the bishops and clergy of his
church. His book is entitled ^Yox
Ecclesiae." The proposition he seeks
to demonstrate is, ^ That the answer
of the Episcopal Oiurch to the question,
*What is the true and scriptural
mode of church govenunent, and what
constitutes a true and proper organizal
tionf would be, *That episcopal
government and ordination by bishops
are the only modes of government or
ordination recognized by that church
as scriptural or proper.' " In support
of this, he also, like his antagonist, re-
lies upon the doctrinal and devotional
standards of the church ; her laws and
principles as set forth in her canons
and other official acts ; those works
which by her special endorsement
have been raised to a semi official au-
thority ; and, lastly, the opinions of her
eminent divines. The conclusion,
which this exhaustive argument
claims to have established, is that the
church of England never recognized
the validity of Presbyterian orders, as
suchj but, on the contrary, has ever
held the doctrine of episcopacy by
divine right and apostolical succession ;
a conclusion diametrically opposite to
that of the first writer, whose book
has, by this one, in the language of the
American ChurcJiman, been **8o efiec-
tually answered that we believe it will
ask no more questions for all tame to
come." This work in its time has re-
ceived the highest encomiums from the
Right Bev. Bishops Hopkins, Kem-
per, Atkinson, Coze, WilKams,
Clark, and Randall, the Rev. Drs.
Coit, Adams, Morton, Mason, Wil-
son, Meade, and other leaders of that
party of the Episcopal Church, whose
views it professes to embody, is already
catalogued by them *^ among the best
standwl works of the church," and
has been gratuitously circulated in its
general seminary at New York, as a
thorough antidote to the dangerous
heresy of Mr. Goode.
From these two works, it might
fairly be presumed, that we may, at
last, gain a tolerably correct idea of
the doctrine of the episcopal Church
concerning the necessity of episcopal
ordination. ** Goode on Orders" is
the ^unanswerable" organ of one
great party of that church. *'Vox
Ecclesise" is the equally unanswer-
able organ of the other. And in these
two great parties, and in the undefina-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Concerning ike Neeeeaiiy of I^ntcopal OrdincUian*
728
ble middle ground between them, maj
be ranked at least ninety«nme one
handredths of the laity and nearly all
the clergy of that large and inflaential
religious body.
To us Catholics it certainly^ at first
sight, seems a little singular, that in a
church which bases npon an unbroken
episcopal succession its whole claim to
external unity with the primitive Cath-
olic Church, there should be any doubt
whether or not that church iierself be-
lieves and teaches that such an un-
broken succession is essential to the
existence of a visibte church ; that in
a denomination, which, for agest has
claimed superiority to other Protestant
sects on almost the sole ground of her
episcopally ordained ministry, there
should be' any controversy as to her
doctrine on the necessity of such a
ministry. But it is only otie of those
anomahes which meet us everywhere
outside the Ark of Peter; which are
the inevitable results of deviation, how-
ever slight, from the true source of
apostolic unity. The ocean is as deep
beneath the Ship of Christ as it is
miles away. He that goes down un-
der her very shadow is as effectually
drowned as he that perishes beneath a
sky whose horizon is unbroken by a
single saiL It is as well among those
who are most near us ns among those
who are most removed that we must
look for the old marks of error, and
this boldness of assertion and internal
doubt is one of them. Before we
close, it may be given us to show that
this'doubt is indeed well grounded and
that this inconsistency is more consist-
ent with the actual status of the Epis-
copal Church than many, even of her
enemies, would dream.
Upon that fundamental principle
whidi underiies the whole fabric of an
organized Christian society, namely,
the necessity of some authoritative
ordination, there seems to be no ques-
tion in the Episcopal Church. That
man cannot originate a church ; that
Christ did originate one*; that, convey-
ing his power of mission and orders to
his apostles, he left it to them to coa«
vey to their successors ; that by them
and by their successors it ever has
been so conveyed; and that, at this
day, no man has any right or power
to ftilfil the office of a minister of Christ
unless he has received authority
through this source ; are tenets common
to all Christians who recognize a visi-
ble church and believe in and maintain
a regular ministry. However they
may differ as to the channel through
which this power has descended:
whether, like the Presbyterians, deny-
ing the existence of a third order in
the ministry, they claim that priests
and bishops are the same, and thus
that presbyters are the appointed
agents of tlhrist in perpetuating the
line of Christian teachers, or whether,
like denominations far more radical,
they confer on individual preachers, of
whatever grade, tlie right to raise
others at their pleasure to the same
dignities and power — this principle is
still maintained. It is, therefore, but
natural* that while Mr. Goode and his
Low Church followers scout the title
^Apostolical Succession'' as <' mon-
strous ** and ^heretical," their whole
ailment should presuppose the ex-
istence of the very state of facts, to
which, in its most general construction,
that title is applied, and should admit
the necessity of such a ^'succession,"
through some channel, as the basis of
aU external, collective Christian life.
That the High Church party also
abide in this doctrine every page oi'
''Vox EcclesifB " makes manifest, and
from what one thus necessarily implies
and the other expressly declares, we
feel safe in concluding that ''succession
in the midsion and authority of the
apostles" is held and taught by the
Episcopal Church as necessary to the
existence of a valid ministry.
We may even go a step farther. If
"tactual succession" signifies merely
that some visible or audible commis-
sion must pass from the minister or-
daining to the man ordained, without
supposing any particular act or word
to be necessary to such " tactual suc-
cession," we may regard this also as
Digitized by CjOOQIC
724
I7ie Doctrine of the Epucopcd Church
being a point upon which Episcopalians
raise no issue. The High Churchman
may know no other ^tactual*' ordina-
tion than ^the laying on of hands."
]Mr. Goode and his party might per*
haps scruple to adopt such an inter-
pretation, for, though scriptural and
primitive, it \a not of the essence of
the mmisteriRl commission. But that
^succession," perpetuated by means
of some actual commission, visibly or
audibly moving from the ordainer to
the ordained, is necessary, neither of
these adversaries will deny.
Here, however, all acknowledged
unity of doctrine ceases. '^What is
the appointed channel of this ministe-
rial authority?* "Is it confined to
one rank of the ministry, or possessed
by two?" "Is episcopal succession
necessary to the validity of holy
orders T* are questions on which their
disagreement appears, to them, irre-
concilable. The organs of both par-
ties here speak with no uncertain
sound. Each denounces the teachings
of the other with unsparing acerbity.
Mr. Groode characterizes the doctrines
of his opponents as ^' at variance with
the spirit of Christian charity" and
"the facts of God's providence,** as
" having no foundation in Holy Scrip-
ture, and leading to consequences so
dreadful that it is simply monstrous in
any one to teach them." The " voice
of the church*' with equal plainness
of speech replies, " He who looks upon
Episcopacy as a thing of expediency,
who talks of parity between bishop
and presbyter, and who denounces
'Apostolical succession ' as a monstrous
theory, has no place among them. He
IS KOT A Low Chubchman? he is
not an Episcopalian in any proper
sense at all." (p. 487.)
The formal statement of the Low
Church doctrine, as explained by Mr.
Goode, may thus be made : That the
highest order of ministers, appointed
by Christ or enjoying any direct scrip-
tural authority, is that of presbyters
or elders, in which order inheres, ex
ordine^ the powers of government and
ordination ; that the apostles, selecting
from among the presbytery certain
men called bishops, appointed them to
exercise these powers; that, conse-
quently, government by bishops and
episcopal ordination rest upon apos-
tolic precedent, and are sanctioned by
the constant observance of fifteen hun-
dred years; that this appointment,
however, in no wise conferred upon
such bishop any power of onier
which he had not before, or deprived
the remaining presbyters of those
equal powers which they possessed
already: and, therefore, thai ordina-
tion by presbyters 'alone, although not
regular or in accordance with estab-
ished precedent, is truly valid, and
confers upon the person so ordained
all the rights and authority of a min-
ister of Christ This doctrine is es-
sential Presby terianism. On the ques-
tions of hiGdorical fact — whether the
apostles did appoint bbhops and
confine to them the office of ordainmg
others, and whether such practice was
adhered to unvaryingly from their
day till that of Calvin ; as, also, on
the relative weight and importance of
such a precedent, if it does historically
exist — they certainly disagree. But
on the main question their decision is
identical : that ordination is a power
of the presbyter by divine institution
and of the presbyter only, and that the
episcopate, wherever it exists, possess-
es these powers solely by virtue of
the presbyterate which it includes.
The doctrine of the High Church
party, on the other hand, is thus laid
down in "Vox Ecclesiae:" That
Christ instituted, either by his own act
or that of his apostles, three several
orders of ministers in his church, and to
the first of these, called bishops, and to
them alone, intrusted the power and
authority of ordaining pastors for his
fiock f that this episcopate is, therefore,
of divine commandment, and cannot
be neglected or abolished without sin,
neither can any ordination be valid or
confer authority to preach the word or
minister the sacraments unless per-
formed by bishops ; that, consequently,
presbyterian orders, bemg bestowed
' Digitized by CjOOQ IC
Concerning the Nece$sity of Epueoptd Ordination*
725
by men who faavo no power or com-
mission to ordain, are, ipsofactOj void :
BXCEPT in cases of real necessity,
where, if episcopal ordination cannot
be obtained, presbyters may validly
ordain. This doctrine is, in the
main, that which we have always sup-
posed the great majority of Episcopa-
lians help. As we have never seen
the "exception'* so fully stated in
any authoritative work as it is in this,
we give it in the author*s own lan-
guage, as it occurs in several portions
of his book. Thus on page 62 —
" ^Necessitas non habet legem' was a
Roman proverb, the propriety and force
of which must be acknowledged by alL
In reference to our present subject,
one of the most eminent of the defend-
ers of our church uses almost the
very words, viz. *i\^« coegerit dura
necessitas cud nulla lex est posita*
(Hadrian Saravia's reply to Beza.)
The principle then is fully admitted.
Necessity excnseth every defect or ir-
regularity which it recdlg occasions."
On page 313, an extract from the same
Saravia is given, as follows: "Al-
though I am of opiniouihat ordinations
of ministers of the church properly be-
long to bishops, yet NECESSITY
causes that, when they are wanting
and CANNOT BE HAD, orthodox presbg-
ters cariy in case of necessity^ ordain a
presbyter ;^* and Uie author says of it,
•* We take this as Mr. Goode gives it."
It is the strongest sentence in the
whole passage, and yet it contains no
more than what nine tenths of all Epis-
copal writers gladly allow, viz., (to use
the words of Ajrchbishop JParker,)
" Extreme necessity in itself implieth
dispensation with all laws.'' Again,
on page 70, after noticing certain ob-
jections to this plea of necessity, put
forward by individual writers in the
church, he continues ; " There is great
force in these objections : neverthe-
less we think it far better to. grant all
that the foreign churches claimed in
the way of necessity, inasmuch as the
English Church certainly did so at the
time.'' A still more definite state-
ment of the same "exception" occurs
on pages 82 and 83 : " As regards the
question before us, the High Church-
man and the Low Churchman unite in
considering episcopacy a divine institu-
tion, and a properly derived authority a
sine qua non to lawful ministering in
the church. They also agree in be-
lieving that real necessity in this, as in
every other matter, abrogates law and
makes valid whatever is performed
under it.*' We have no wish to mul-
tiply quotations, but on this important
point we desire to fall into no error
and to be guilty of no misrepresenta-
tion. We have preferred to give the
" voice of the church" in its own words,
rather than in ours, and have no hesi-
tation in repeating the definition we
have already given, aa setting forth
the High Church doctrine, strictly ac-
cording to its acknowledged organ:
"Episcopacy is a divme institution,
and necessary, where it can be had.
Where it cannot be had, presbyters
may validly ordain.**
The doctrine of the Episcopal Church,
as a church, if, as a church, she has
any doctrine on the subject, must lie
within these definitions. Mr. Goode
must be wholly right, and the " Vox
EcclesisB* wholly wrong, or vice versa^
or else both must have ^e truth, min-
gled in each case with more or less of
mlsehood and confusion* If we can
reconcile the two, or if the teaching of
either has that in it which disproves
itself, we may at last define the real
position of their church upon the ques-
tion which involves herlife.
And here we must premise, that
the words " order," " Office,** etc,
which seem to be the- gist of much
of this controversy, are names, not
things. They mean, in the mouth, or
on the pen, of any Individual, just
what that individual means by them,
no less, no more. They have never
been defined authoritatively by Scrip-
ture or by any other tribunal to which
these psdties own allegiance. When
Mr. Goode uses them, they may imply
one thing. In the pages of " Vox
Ecclesiae,** they may signify another.
The whole contest, therefore, so far as
Digitized by CjOOQIC
726
!%€ Docfyrim of tke EpUcopal Okurek
it relates to tlie number of ^ orders,^
or whether that of the bishop is a dif-
ferent '* order," or only a different
^ office," from that of the presbyter,
is, in otir view, one of names and titles
only. The real question stands thus :
*- Has a bishop, by divine institution,
a power which the presbyter has not,
or is the same power resident in both,
and ordinarily made latent in the one,
and operative in the other, by virtue
of ecclesiastical law and usage P*
The answer to this question will show
how far the High and Low Church party
really differ from each other, and what
id the variance, if any, between the
^ Vox EcclesiBB" and Mr. Goode.
It seems to us that the ^ excbf-
TiON,** which, equally with the rule, is
admitted by the High Church doctrine
to be fundamental law, answers this
question once for all. For if, in any
supposalde emergency, presbyters may
validly ordain, and if persons so by
them ordained have power to preach
the word and minister the sacra-
ments, then either (1.) Necessity con-
fers a power to ordain upon those
who have it not, or else (2.) The
]x>wer to ordain is resident alike in
presbyters and bishops, and the re-
strictions on its iexerdse by pres-
byters are, by that necessity, re-
moved. K the second of these posi-
tions truly represent the High Church
theory, then, between them and Mr.
Goode's adherents, there is no essen-
tial difference, and their war, with all
its bitterness and pertinacity, is one of
human words and human facts, and
not of Christian doctrine. If, to avoid
this fate, the first alternative be the
one adopted, the following difficulties
must be met and answered.
1. It overthrows the entire doctrine
of ^ succession.'' This fundamental
law of organic, collective, Christian
life presupposes the existence of an
unbroken chain of ministers, transmit-
ting their authority, throng genera-
tion after generation, from Christ's day
to our own. It presupposes that every
man, who has himself possessed and
transmitted this authority, has received
it in fais turn from some other man
who possessed it and transmitted it to
him, and so on back to Christ him-
self. Christ thus becomes the sole
source, and man the sole channel, of
ecclesiastical authority, and the right
or power of any individual to exer-
cise the fonctions of the ministerial
office depends on his reception of au-
thority therefor from this only source
and through this only channel.
But if necessity can also confer au-
thority, or rather, to put the case in
words more expressive of its real char-
acter, if, whenever the appointed chan-
nel cannot be had and necessity of
ministers exists, Gkid will himself from
heaven confer the authority in need,
the value of this ^ succession'' amounts
to nothing. Orders, wherever neces-
sary, will be had as well without it as
witb it, and they who have it can
never with any certainty deny the va-
lidity of orders which have it not
Christ still may be the sole source, but
man is not the only, nay, nor the most
perfect and available, channel of this
authority. There is another, surer,
nearer, more direct, conveymg, only to
proper persons, the gifts of God, and
free from all the doubts and dangers
which result from a residence of hea-
venly ^ treasure in earthen vessels,''
and the necessity which demands it is
the sole condition of its use. The
High Church party, if they adopt this
position, must, therefore, become more
radical than any Christian church upon
the globe. They out-Herod even
their great Herod, Mr. Goode, and
are m<u*e dangerous to the cause of
^apostolic order" and ecclesiastical
authority than any Low Chuidmian
or Separatist that ever lived.
2. Itelevates human necessityabove
di^dne law. The law, by which holy
orders exist, and by whieh their trans-
mission from man to man is regulated,
is unquestionably divine. ^ Vox £o-
desiae" goes so far as to claim that
their transmission, from bishop to
bishop only, is of divine precept, bat,
waiving that, it is acknowle^ed by aU
parties, with whom we have to do at
'Digitized by CjOOQ IC
Concerning the Neeemty of EpiBeapal OrtUnaiian.
727
preseoty that whatever be the human
channel, it is of Christfs appointment,
and rests upon divine authority. It is
thus a divine law which ^necessity
abrogates," a positive institution and
command of God which is to be dis*
regarded and disobeyed, and that be-
cause ^ necessity" demands it
But this necessity is a merely hu-
man one. Orders confers on the or-
dained only the power to preach and to
administer the sacraments, and it is
only that those things may be done,
that God's law is despised and set
aside. Yet, though the eternal salva-
tion of the human soul may ordinarily
depend upon the preaching of the
word and on the sacraments, still
nothing is abeoUudy necessary to eter-
nal life that may not take place be-
tween the soul and Grod, independently
of bishop, priest, or church. It is
thus no necessity of God^s creation,
no necessity inevitably involving the
eternal destinies of man, that substi-
tutes itself for the admitted law of
God, but a mere earthly need, a need
based upon human views and customs
and opinions, which never received en-
dorsement from on high, and finds no
sanction for its existence in Holy
Writ. There is no irregularity whidi
such a position would not justify, no
departure from God's ordinances which
it could consistently condemn. It
would come with fearful self-rebuke
from that portion of the Episcopal
Church, who for three hundrcKi years
have pi'actically ignored their brother
Prot^tants, because they judged of
their own necessities and set aside the
institutions of Grod in order that those
necessities might be supplied.
3. It legitimates every form of error
and schism. For, if ^^ necessity cof»-
fers orders," the sole question in every
case is, whether the neccs3ity existed.
If there was such necessity in Ger-
many and Switzerland in the sixteenth
century, then Lutheran and Calvinistic
orders were as valid as Episcopal, and
iP that necessity continues, they are
valid still. If there was such neces-
sity in Scotland, after the abolition of
the prelacy, and that necessity con-
tinues, the orders of the kirk are valid
at this day. If there was such neces-
sity when John Wesley ordained Dr*
Coke, and that necessity contmues,
Methodist orders are as valid as his
Grace of Canterbury's are. There
is no stopping-place f(»r these deduc-
tions. If "^necessity confers orders,"
not even the channel of preehyten is
necessary. No human instrument at
all stands between God and the re-
cipient of his extraordinary &vor.
In every case where the necessity ex-
ists, there God confers the power of
orders, and there is no sect so wild
and heretical, no ministry so danger-
ous and erratic, that may not claim
validity upon this ground, and tliat
must not, on these principles, when
necessity is proven, be adjudged Inti-
mate.
But of this necessity who shall be
the judge? Shall God, who, of
course, knows all the circumstances of
mankind and estimates them at their
proper value? But then, to us his
judgment is useless without expres-
sion, and his expression is revelation.
Are those who allow the force of this
plea of necessity prepared to admit
all who claim it, for the sake of Chris-
tian charity, or will they demand a
revelation from God to satisfy them
that the " necessity'* was recd'^ Yet,
if God be the only Judge, they must
admit all or reject aU until he speaks
from heaven, and in the latter case,
the ^ excbftion" might as well have
been lefl unmade. Or shall the
church judge] And if so, what
church 1 The church, from which
Luther, and Calvin, and Cranmer, and
Parker separated? She had her
bishops ready to ordain all proper
men, and if her judgment had been
taken, there would have been no occa-
sion for men to plead necessity. The
church, from which came forth the
Puritans and Methodists? She also
had her bishc^is, and in her view no
necessity ceuld ever have existed. So
widi every church. N(me that axe
founded in EpisoopaxT* could ever ad*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
728
l%e Doctrine of the Bpiicapal (MnA
mit a necesBity withoat supplying it
in the appointai waj. And none that
reject Episoopacy would care to in*-
quire whether or not there was any
such necessity. The church could,
therefore, be no judge* She is, in
every issue of this sort, a par^, not
an umpire ; but, were she competent to
judge, wherein is her decree less valid,
when from Rome she excommunicates
the Church of England, than when
from London or New York she de-
nies ministerial authority to Presbyte-
rians and Universalists 1 Or is it the
individual? There can be no doubt
in this answer. It must be. No man
can judge of a necessity except he
who is placed in it. A little colony of
Christians, cast away on some Pacific
island, must decide for themselves,
whether tiiey will ordain a pastor for
their flock or utterly dispense with
Christian teaching. A man, whose
creed differs from that of the church
in which he lives, and yet who feels an
inward call to preach the Gospel, as he
understands it, must be the sole judge
of the necessity of call, upon the one
hand, which commands him to preach,
and of conscience, en the other, which
forbids him to subscribe the creed
which is the unrelenting condition of his
ordination by authority. Extend it to
societies and communities of men, and
the rule is the same. These societies
become liiemselves the judges, whether
or not, in their case, necessity exists,
and no other can judge for them. The
law is universal If necessity be a
justification, it must be necessity as
judged of by the parties in necessity,
and not as judged of by God, unknown
to men, or by a church which either
will supply the need or treat the whole
matter as of little moment. There
thus becomes no limit to necessities.
They are moral as well as physicaL
They grow out of duties and responsi-
bilities, as well as out of distances and
years. Obedience to the voice of con-
science is an indispensable condition of
salvation, and no necessity is greater
or more potent than the necessity of
that obedienoe. When the Rev. Gar-
diner Spring was moved, as lie be-
lieved it, by the Holy Ghost, to do the
work of a minister in the church of
God, there was not a regularlj or-
dained bishop in the world who would
have ordained him, while holding the
doctrines he professed. In his case,
without a violation of his conscience
and the loss of his soul, bishops
^ COULD NOT BE HAD,'' and presbjters
must have validly ordained. When
Charles Spurgeon, rejoicing in the new-
found light of the Gospel, burned to
tell other men the good that God had
done to him, the moral necessity was
the same, a necessity which compelled
him to disobey what he believed to be
a command of God, or to receive or-
ders from non-Episcopal hands. Is
there any need of multiplying in-
stances 1 Where is the imaginaT)Ie
lunit to which validity must be acknow-
ledged and beyond which it must
cease? The High Churchman who
starts with the admission, that in case
of " necessity," God confers the power
of order, can never stop till he has
bowed the knee before every Baal
which claims the name of Qiristian
and opened the gifts of God to every
man who demands priestly recognition
at his hands.
There are other objections to this
theory, equally insuperable with those
already suggested. It can hardly be
necessary, however, to mention them*
No candid mind, af^er seeing the real
bearing of this position on the whole
question of a visible church, can hesi-
tate a moment to reject it There re-
mains only the other alternative, name-
ly, that necessity renders operation in
presbyters a power possessed by, but
latent in, them, by removing the re-
strictions which, in ordinary circum-
stances, apostolic precedent and ec-
clesiastical usage have imposed; and
as this is essentially the position advo-
cated by Mr. Groode, and as the differ-
ence between these parties is thus re-
duced, in every case, to a question qf
historic 0|; contemporaneous fact, which
no one but the individuals who plead it
can adequately settle, we conclude that
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ckmceming the Necettihf of Episcopal Ordination.
729
the sole contest as to doctrine is one of
words and definitions^ and that on all
material points of theory and faith they
perfectly agree. We thns feel justi-
fied in the conclasion that the Episco-
pal Church of the present age has a
doctrine oonceming the necessity of
episcopal ordination, and that her
doctrine is no less, no more, than this :
^The power of order is resident in
bishops and presbyters both, ex ordiney
ami is operatire, nnder ordinary cir-
cumstances, in bishops cmly, though in
cases of necessity, presbyters may ex-
ercise that power and validly ordain.''
This doctrine is logical, coherent,
and conserratiTe. No divino institu-
tion is thereby set aside for a mere
human necessity. No destructive prin-
ciple antagonistic to the doctrine of
"^ succession" is thereby introduced ; no
gate is thereby opened for a multi-
tudinous throng of orthodox and here-
tics, ordained and unordained, to bring
disorder and confusion into the Church
of Grod* However fatal to the high
pretensions of the Episcopal Church
in generations past, and to any claim
of exclusive apostoHcity at present,
this doctrine is, nevertheless, moat con-
sistent with her actual statug in the
religious world* Thoroughly Protes-
tant in doctrine and in worship, all her
affinities and tendencies are toward the
Presbyterian and other non-Episcopal
denominations of the age. No church
on earth, whose episcopal succession
can be traced to any apostolic source,
has ever recognized hers as beyond
question, or admitted her claim to be
a portion of the Catholic Church of
Clurist Her very episcopate itself is,
practically, as the recent events in
New York have shown, a rank of
honor and of ofiloe not of power. Her
alleged superiority, for her bishops'
sakes, can never bring her one step
nearer to the Catholic Church, while
she retains her heresies or remains in
schism ; and, on the other hand, her
alienation from her protesting sisters
must increase with eveiy generation
while this all^ation is maintained.
Far better, far more accordant with
her actual position, is her doctrine as
thus evolved by Mr. Goode and *^ Vox
Ecclesiae," and while its enunciation
cannot change her in our estimation,
it will doubtless draw nearer to her,
in the bonds of love and brotherhood,
all those by whom she is surrounded
and to whose fraternity she naturally
belongs. It is only a matter of regret
that the barrier now destroyed was
not broken down long ago, and that
the good infiuences, which the Episco-
pal Church is so well calculated to
exert, have not been working on the
masses of our non-Catholic brethren
in America during all the past eighty
years.
Nothing now remains but to retrieve
that past Let it be understood that
the Episcopal Church does not deny
the validity of presbyterian orders,
but that at most she holds them irrregu-
lar, and onlv that when not given in
necessity ; that men of other denomi-
nations have clergymen and sacra-
ments equally beneficial with her own.
Let her throw open her doors to all
religious bodies who thus preserve the
''succession,'' and unite with them in
prevailing on those to receive it who
have it not, and make common cause
with all such in stemming the tide of
infidelity and *^ liberalism " which is
deluging our land. Then may her
self-adopted mission, however faulty
in its origin, however riskful in its
progress, fiilfil at least one portion of
the work of Christ's Church in the
world, and, if she cannot feed men
with the bread of truth, she may pre-
serve them from the more fearful poi-
8<ms.
Li conclusion, we desire to correct
an error into which the author of " Vox
Ecdesiflo" has fallen, concerning the
view of this same question taken by
Catholics. On page 57, he says :
**Th6 exaggerated or Romish theory is, that
the poaeeflrion of the Apostolical Ck}nstitation
and a properly transmitted succession is
enoogh to constitote a true and perfect church.
Thus suooessiovis held to be eTerything|"etc
In one sense of these words, namely,
that to ie the actual organization found-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
780
3%« Doctrine of the .Epueopal Chturekf ete»
od bj Christ and constitated, aa he left
ity in the hands of the apoetles, is to
be a true and perfect church; thej are
the faith of Catholics. Bat this is not
the sense in which the author uses
them. The idea he thus expresses is,
that we regard an external suooession
in the line of apostolic orders as suffi-
cient to make a man a priest or bishop^
as the case maj be, and that such a
succession oonstitutes a church. This
is a Tciy prevalent, but very thought*
less, error. It is true that we believe
apostolic orders, in the apostolic line,
to be so absolutely necessary that no
man, under any circumstances, caH
perform any official act without them.
But we do nU believe, that the posses-
sion of such orders by any organiza-
tion makes it a true church. Cranmer
was lawfully ordained as priest and
bishop of the Catholic Church, and,
whether as a schismatic under Henry,
or a heretic under Edward, his orders
went with him and rendered every act
in pursuance of them valid. The
bishops he consecrated were bishops,
the priests he ordained were priests,
and if Archbishop Parker were in &ct
consecrated by Barlow and Hodgkins,
and either of them were consecrated
by Cranmer, and if the English suc-
cession be otherwise unbroken, then
every priest of tSat succession is a
true priest, and every bishop a true
bishop. Their acts are valid acts,
whatever their doctrine or their schism.
But tliis does not make the Church
of England ^^ a true and perfect church.''
If the- fact of her full apostolical suc-
cession were established to-day, beyond
the shadow of a doubt, and we would it
could be, her position would differ noth-
ing, in our view, from that of the Arian
and Donatist churches of the fourth
century, or of the Greek Church for
the past nine hundred years, churches
whose orders were all valid, whose doc-
trines were more or less at variance
with Catholic truth, whose sacraments
conferred grace, but who were cut off
from the body of Christ's Church by
their state of schism.
The Catholic test of CathoUci^ is
short and simple, ^Ubi Petrus, ibt
Ecdesise," said Ambrose of Milan,
(Comm. in Ps. xL,) and wherever Peter
is, Peter, who, ^like an immovable
rock, liolds together the structure and
mass of the whole Christian &bric,"
(Ambrosii serm. xlvii.,) and '^who,
down to the present time and forever,
in his successors lives and judges,"
(Care Eph. a.d. 431, serm. Phil.,)
wherever Peter is, there, and there only,
do we see the church. Catholics, col-
lectively and individually, say with
Sl Jerome, ** Whoever is united with
the See of Peter is mine," and, through-
out the world, whatever church, society
or man is joined by the bonds of visi-
ble communion with the Roman See,
is in and of the body of the Catholic
Church, they and none others. No
union with that See is possible to those
who do not profess, at least implicitly,
the entire Catholic doctrine, and sub-
mit to the legitimate discipline of the
church. No validity of orders without
true doctrine no truth of doctrine and
validity of orders without union with
the Apostolic See, can remedy the evIL
To all outside that unity, however
similar to us in one point or another,
we must repeat the words which St
Optatus of Mela wrote to the African
Donatists about a.d. 384 :
^ Tou know that the Episcopal See
was first established for Peter at the
city of Rome, in which See Peter, the
head of all the apostles, sat, and with
which one See unity must be main-
tained by all ; that the apostles might
not each defend before you his own
see, but that he should be both a schis-
matic and a sinner who should set up
any other against that one See." (Adr.
Donat. ii.) Would that, of all who
know the truth of that which Optatus
has written, and whom a thousand
hindrances are keeping firom that rock
of unity, we might say, as St. Cyprian
wrote of Antonianus, in the first ages,
to the Holy Pope Cornelius, (ad au-
ton,) ^< He is in communion with yon,
that is, with the Catholic Church."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Beauties of Virttu.
781
From All the Year Bound.
STATISTICS OF VIBTDE.
Small predents, it has been shrewd-
ly fiaid, prevent tiie flame of friend-
ship from dying out A Stilton cheese,
a bouquet of forced flowers, a maiden
copy of a " jnst-published " book, a
pdte de foie gras^ a basket of irait that
wiU keep a day or two, a salmon in
spring, or a fresh^illed hare in aatamn
— any thing that answers, as a feed of
com or a bait of hay, to one's own
private hobby-horse — very rarely in-
deed gives offence.
Be the influence such offerings exert
ever so small, it is attractive rather
than repulsive in its tendency. They
are silken fibres which draw people
together, ahnost without their knowing
it ; and although the strength of any
single one may be slight, by multipli-
cation they acquire appreciable power.
Even if they come from evidently in-
terested motives, they are a tribute
which flatters the receiver's self-esteem,
for they are an unmistakable proof
that he is worth being courted* They
are a mutual tie which bind friendly
connections into a firmer bundle of
sticks than they were before. The
giver even likes the person given to all
Sie better for having bestowed gifts
upon him. There may exist no
thought or intention to lay him under
an obligataon ; but there always must,
and properly may, arine the hope of
increasing his good-will and attach-
ment. It is dear that, when it is de-
sirable that kindly relations should ex-
ist between persons, any honorable
means of promoting such relations are
not only expedient but laudable. One
stone of an arch may fit its fellow-
stones perfectly, but a little cement
does tbdr union no harm.
As there is a reciprocal social at-
traction between individuals of respect-
ability and worth, so also there ought
to be a gravitation of every individual
toward certain excellences of charac-
ter and conduct And here likewise
small inducements, trifling bribes, minor
temptations, help to increase the force
of the tendency. Virtue is, and ought
to be its own reward ; stUl, an addi-
tional bonus of extraneous recompense
cannot but help the moral progress of
mankind. It sounds like a truism to
say that a motive is useful as a mover
to the performance of any act or course
of action. The fact is implied by the
meaning of the word itself. If good
deeds can be rendered more frequent
by increasing the motives to their
practice, the world in general will be
all the better and the happier for that
increase.
The problem in ethics to be solved,
is, simply, how men and women may
be most easily led to behave like very
good boys and girls. We urge chil-
dren to do their best by rewards of
merit Why should not the minds of
adults be stimulated by shnilar persua-
sive forces ? Nor can worldly motives,
if pulling in the same direction as
moral and religious motives, be pro-
ductive of anything but good. And
we want motives to excite the good to
become still more persistently and ex-
emplarily good, all the more that terror
of punishment is unfortunately insuffi-
cient to make the bad abstain fix>m
deeds of wickedness.
With this view a philanthropic
Frenchman, M. de Montyon, founded
in 1819 annual prizes for acts of be-
nevolence and devotedness, which, be-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
732
&atMe9 of Virtue.
side addressing our higher •• feel^igs,
appeal to two fitrong passioi^s^ interest .
and vanity. And why should integrkj^
pass unrewarded ? Why should hright
conduct be hid under a bushel] '"^^a
darksome night, how far the little can-
dle throws his beams I So auffht to
shine a good deed in a naughty world.
Most undoubtedly, to do good by stealth
is highly praiseworthy; but there is no
reason why the blush which arises on
iinding it fame should necessarily be a
painful blush. Far better that it should
be a glow of pleasure.
More than forty years have now elap-
sed since these prizes for virtue were in-
stituted, during which period more than
seven hundred persons have received
the reward of their exemplary conduct
The French Academy which distri-
butes the prizes, has decided (doing
violence to the modesty of the recipients )
to publish their good deeds to the
world. After the announcement of
their awards, a livret or list in the
form of a pamphlet is issued, recount-
ing each specific case with the same
simplicity with which it was performed.
These lists are spread throughout all
France and further, in the belief that
the more widely meritorious actions are
known, the greater chance there is of
their being imitated.
The awards made by the French
Academy up to the present day to
virtuous actions give an average of
about eighteen per annum. These
eighteen annual " crowns " have been
competed for by more than seventy
memorials coming from every point of
France, mostly without the knowledge
of the persons interested. In short,
since the foundation of the prizes, the
Academy has had to read several
thousand memorials.
To Monsieur V. P. Demay (Sec-
retary and Chef des Bureaux of the
Elaine of the 18th Arrondissement of
Paris) the idea occurred of collecting
the whole of these livrets into a volume,
so as to furnish an analytical summary
of the distribution of the prizes through-
out the empire, and of appending to it
flowers of philanthropic eloquence
culled from the speeches made at the
Academic meetings. The result is a
book entitled " L^ Pastes de la Vertu
Pauvre en France," <* Annals of the
Virtuous Poor in France."
No one, before M. Demay, thouglit
of underti^ing the Statistics of Virtue.
The subject has not found a place on
any sdentific programme, French or
international ; whether through forget-
fulness or not, the fact remains indis-
putable. And be it remarked that the
seven hundred and thirty-two laureats
to whom rewards have been decreed,
represent only a fraction of the num-
ber of highly deserving persons. In
aU their reports ever since 1820, the
French Academy has declared that it
had only the embarrassment of choos-
ing between the candidates while
awarding the prizes, so equaUy meri-
torious were their acts. Therefore, to
the seven hundred and thirty-two
nominees ought to be' added the two
thousand four hundred and forty com-
petitors whose cases were considered
during that period, making altogether
a total of three thousand one hundred
and seventy-two instances of conduct
worthy of imitation which had been
brought to light by the agency of the
prizes.
The book, not more amusing than
other statistics, is nevertheless highly
suggestive. Serious thought is the
consequence of opening its pages. It
18 a touching book, and goes to the
heart. After reading it, many will
feel prompted to go and do likewise
by some effort of generosity or self-
deniaL In any case, it cannot be
other than a moralizing work to bring
to light so many instances of devotion,
and to set them forth as public exam-
ples.
In some of his speculations our
author, perhaps, may be considered as
just a little too sanguine. Certainly,
if there are tribunals for the infliction
of punishment, there is no reas(»i why
tribunals should not exist for the con-
ferring of recompenses. How far
they are likely to become general, is a
question for consideration. Also, it is
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Statistics of Vtrtue.
783
trne that newspapers glre the fullest
details of horrid crimes* while they
are brief in their usual mention of
meritorious actions. But before M.
Pemay, somebody said, ^ Men's evil
manners live in brass, their virtues
wo write in water ;*' and it is to be
feared he is somewhat too bright-vis-
ioned a eeer, when he hopes that,
through Napoleon the Third's and
Baron Haussmaun's educational meas-
ures, coupled with the influence of the
Montyon prizes, ''at no very distant -
day, the words penitentiary, prison,
etc, will exist only in the state of
souvenirs — painful as regards the
past, but consolatory for the future.*'
To give the details of such a multi-
tude of virtuous acts is simply impos-
sible. M. l)emay can only rapidly
group those which present the most
striking features, and which have ap-
peared still more extraordinary — fot
that is the proper word — than the
others, conferring on their honored
actors surnames recognized throughout
whole districts. It is the Table of
Honor of Virtuous Poverty, crowned
by the verdict of popular opinion.
Among these latter are (the parenthe-
ses contain the name of their depart-
ment) : the Mussets, husband and
wife, salt manufacturers, at Chateau
Salins, (Meurthe,) sumamed the Se-
cond Providence of the Poor ; Suzan-
ne Gr^ral, wife of the keeper of the
lockup house, at Florae, (Lo^zre)) snr-
named the Prison Angel ; David La-
croix, fisherman, at Dieppe, (Seine-In-
ferieure,) sumamed the Sauveur, in-
stead of the SatweteuTf the rescuer,
af^er having pulled one hundred and
seventeen people out of fire and water
— he has the cross of the Legion of
Honor; Marie Philippe; Widow
Gambon, vine-dresser, at Nanterre,
(Seine.) sumamed la M^re de bon
Secours, or Goodv Helpful; Madame
Langier,' at Orgon, (Bouche-du-
Bhone,) sumamed la Queteuse, the
Collector of Alms.
In the spring of 1839 almost the
whole canton of Ax (Ari^) was vis-
ited by the yellow fever, which raged
for ten months, and carried off a sixth
of the population. It, was especially
malignant at Prades. Terror was at
its height; those whom the scourge
had spared were prerented by their
fears from assisting their sick neigh-
bors, menaced with almost certain
death. Nevertheless, a young girl,
Madeleine Fort, who had been brought
up in the practice of good works, ex-
erted herself to the utmost in all direc-
tions. During the course of those ten
disastrous months she visited, consoled,
and nursed more than five hundred
unfortunates ; and if she could not save
them from the grave, she followed
them, alone, to their final resting-place.
Two Sisters of Charity were sent to
help her; one was soon carried off,
and the second fell ill. The euro died,
and was replaced by another. The
latter, finding himself smitten, sent for
Madeleine. One of the flock had to
tend the pastor. Those disastrous
days have long since disappeared;
but if the traveller, halting at Prades,
asks for Madeleine Fort's dwelling,
he will be answered, ** Ah ! you mean
our Sister of Charity ?"
Suzanne Bichon is only a servant
Her master and mistress were com-
pletely ruined by the negro insurrec-
tion in St Domingo ; but the worthy
woman would not desert them — she
worked for them all, and took care of
the children. On being offered a bet-
ter place, that is, a more lucrative en-
gagement, she refused it with the
words, '^ Tott will easily find another
person, but can my master and mis-
tress get another servant]" The
Academy gave their recompense for
fifteen years of this devoted service.
Her mistress wanted to go and take
a place herself; she would not hear of
it, making them believe that she had
means at her command, and expecta-
tions. But all her means lay in her
capacity for work, while her expecta-
tions were — Providence. It is not to
be wondered at that she was known
as Good Suzette.
Such attachments as these on the
part of servants are a delightful con-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
734
atatMc8 of Virtue.
trast to what we commonlj see in the
course of our household experience.
They can hardlj be looked for under
the combined regime of register-offices,
a month's wages or a month's warning,
no followers, Sundays out, and crino-
line.
We look for virtue amongst the
clergy. The deyotion, self-denial, and
resignation often witnessed amongst
them are matters of notoriety. Never-
theless, it is right that one <^ its mem-
bers should find a place on a Hat like
the present. In 1834, the Abb6 Ber-
tran was appointed cure of Peyriac,
(Aude.) He was obliged, so to speak,
to conquer the country of which he was
soon to be the benefactor. For two
years he had to struggle with the ob-
stinate resistance which his parishion-
ers opposed to him. His evangelical
gentleness succeeded in vanquishing
every obstacle ; henceforth he was mas-
ter of the ground, and could march on-
ward with a firm step. At once he con-
secrated his patrimony to the restora-
tion of the church and the presbyter.
He bought a field, turned architect,
and soon there arose a vast building
which united the two extremes of life
— old age and infancy. He th^i
opened simultaneously a girls' school,
an infant school, and a foundling hos-
pital He sought out the orphans be-
longing to the canton, and supplied a
home to old people of cither sex. To
efiect these objects the good pastor
expended seventy thousand francs,
(nearly three thousand pounds,) the
whole of his property : he left himself
without a sou. But he had sown his
seed in good ground, and it promised
to produce a hundred-fold. Rich in
his poverty, his place is marked beside
Yinoent de Paul and Charles Bor-
romeo.
Goodness may even indulge in its
caprices and still remain good. Mar-
guerite Monnier, sumamed la Mayony
(a popular term of aflfection in Loiv
raine,) seems to have selected a curious
specialty for the indulgence of her
charitable propensities. It is requisite
to be infirm or idiotic to be entitled to
receive h^r benevolent attentions.
When quite a child, she selects as her
friend a poor bHnd beggar, whom she
visits every day in her wretehe4i^
hovel* She makes her bed, lights her
fire, and cooks her food. While going
to school, she remarks a poor old wo-
man scarcely able to drag herself
along, but, nevertheless, crawling to
the neighboring wood to pick up a few
dry sticks. She foUows her thither,
helps her to gather them, and brings
badk the load on her own shoulders.
Grown to womanhood, and married.
Marguerite successively gives hospi-
tality to an idiot, a crazy person, a
cretin, several paralytic patients, or-
phans, strangers without resources,
and even drunkards, (one would wish
to see in their falling an infirmity
merely.) Every creature unable to
take care of itself finds in her a ready
protector. Such are her lodgers, her
cUents, her customers I Ever cheer-
ful, she amiAes them by discourse
suited to their comprehension. Ail
around her is in continued jubilation,
and Marguerite herself seems to bo
more entertained than any body eUe.
It' may be said, perhaps, that a person
must be bom with a natural disposi-
tion for this kind of devotedness.
Granted ; but his claim to public gratis
tude is not a whit the less for that.
Catherine Vemet, of Saint^Grer-
main, (Puy-de-ddme,) is a simple lace-
maker, who, after devoting herself to
her family, has for thirty years devoted
herself to those who have no one to
take care of them. Her savings hav-
ing amounted to a sufficient sum for
the purchase of a small house, she con-
verted it into a sort of hospital with
eight beds always occupied. Situated
amongst the mountains of Anveigne,
this hospital is a certain reftige for
perdtu, travellers who have lost their
way. It is an imitation of the Saint
Bernard ; and if it has not attained its
celebrity, it emanates &om the same
source, charity.
In looking through the lists and
comparing the several departments of
France, it would be hard to say that
Digitized by CjOOQIC
&iiUsttc$ of Virtue.
785
one department ib better than another ;
because their population, and other im-
portant influential dircnmstances, yary
uuneneely between themselTes. But
wtiat strikes one immediately, is the
great preponderance of good women
— rewarded as such— over good men.
Thns, to dip into the list at hazard, we
have — ^Meuse, one man, five women;
Seine, thirty-one men, ninety-eight
women; Loire, twq men, six women ;
C5te-d'0r, three men, eleven women ;
and so on. The nature of the acts
rewarded — also taken by chance — are
these: reconciliations of families in
vendetta, (Corsica;) maintenance of
deserted children; rescues from fire
and water ; faithiiilness to master and
mistress for sixteen years; adoption
of seven orphans for fifteen years;
maintenance of master and mistress
fallen into poverty ; devotion to the
aged ; nursing the sick poor ; killing
a mad dog who inflicted fourteen bites.
When "inexhaustible charity" and
^ succor to the indigent" are mentioned,
one would like to know whether they
consisted inmere alms-giving Probably
not ; because by " charity" Montyon
understood, not the momentaiy impulse
which causes us to help a suffering
fellow-creature, and then dies away,
but the constant, durable affection
which regards him as another self, and
whose device is ** Privation, Sacriflce."
In the period, then, between 1819
and 1864 seven hundred and seventy-
six persons received Montyon rewards,
two hundred and eleven of whom were
men, and five hundred and sixty-five
women. In M. Demay^s opinion, the
disproportion ought to surprise nobody;
for if man is gifted with virile courage,
which is capable of being suddenly in-
flamed, and is liable to be similarly
extinguished, woman only is endowed
with the boundless, incessant, silent
devotion which is found in the mother,
the wife, the daughter, the sister. This
dear companion, given by God to man,
is conscious of the noble mission allot-
ted her to fulfil on earth. We behold
the results in her acts, and in what
daily occurs in &milies. Abnegation,
with her, is a natural instinct. ^ She
may prove weak, no doubt ; she may
even go astray : but, be assured, she
always retains the divine spark of
charity, which only awaits an oppor^
tnnity to burst forth into a brilliant
fiame. Let us abstain, therefore, from
casting a stone at temporary error;
let us pardon, and forget,. Our char-
ity will lead her back to duty more
efficaciously than all the moral stigmas
we could possibly inflict."
The years more fruitful in acts of
devotion appear to have been 1851,
1852, and 1857, in which twenty-
seven and twenty-eight prizes were
awarded. Their cause is, that previ-
ously the Academy received memorials
from the authorities only. But after
making an appeal to witnesses of
every class and grade, virtue, if the
expression maybe allowed, overflowed
in all directions. Lives of heroism
and charity, hidden in the secrets of
the heart, were suddenly brought to
the light of day, to the gte&i surprise
of their heroes and heroines. During
the same period there were distributed,
in money, three hundred and sixty-
fourthousand francs, 6iixteen thousand
pounds ;) in medals, tour hundred and
eighteen thousand five hundred and
Giij francs, (sixteen thousand seven
hundred and forty-two pounds ;) total,
seven hundred and eighty-two thou-
sand five hundred and fifty francs,
(thirty-two thousand seven hundred
and forty-two pounds.) The Montyon
prizes are worth having, and not an
insult to the persons to whom they
are offered. The sums of money
given range as high as one, two, three,
and even four thousand francs ; the
medals vary in value from five and
six hundred to a thousand francs : but
even a ^^e hundred franc or twenty-
pound medal is a respectable token of
approbation and esteem. In some few
cases, both money and a medal are
bestowed.
It may be said that the persons to
whom tfiese prizes are given would
have done the same deeds without
any reward* True; and therein lies
Digitized by CjOOQIC
786
The Ohritiim Or&wn.
their merit. And ought moiMy to be
given to recompense virtaooB acts?
Yes, most decidedlj ; because it will
confer on its recipients their greatest
possible recompense — the power of
doing still more good. Money gifts
are not to be depreciated so long as
there are oi*phans to sustain, sick poor
tonurse^and infirm old age to keep
from starvation.
Finally, is charity the growth of
one period of life rather than of
another ? On inspecting the lists, we
find children, six, twelve, thirteen years
of age, and close to them octogenariaDs,
one nonagenarian, one centenarian!
If noble courage does not want for ful-
ness of years, it would appear not to
take its leave on their arrival.
[OlIQDIAL.]
THE CHRISTIAN CROWN.
BT JOEN S^TAOK.
Ten centuries and one had trod
Jerusalem, since when,
In mortal form, the Son of God
Died for the sons of men.
n.
And they who in the Martyr found
Their Saviour, wailed and wept,
That gorgeous horrors should abound
Where Christ the BlessM slept
From dam'rous towns, and forests' hush.
As cascades from the gloom
Of caves, crusaders eastward rush
To win the holy tomb.
rv.
Their corselets, steel and silver bright,
'Neath swaying plumes displayed,
Now dance, like streams, in lines of light.
Now loiter on in shade.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The ChrUHan Crown, 737
Their crosses glow in every form
Inspiring vale and mart,
As through earth^s arteries thej swarm,
Like blood back to the hearL
Tis mid-daj of midsummer^s heat ;
Faith crowns the live and dead :
Jemsalem is at their feet.
Brave Godfrey at theur head.
vn.
Within the walls, the ramparts ring
As proudly they proclaim
Great Godfrey de Bouillon as king !
A king in more than name*
Yitu
The ruby-budding crown to bind
About his heady they stood :
Another crown is in his mind ;
For rubies, blobs of blood.
IX*
^ No. no r and back the bauble flings,
^ No gold this brow adorns
Where willed He, Christ, the King of kings,
To wear a crown of thorns/'
Let not the glorious truth depart
Brave Godfrey handed down :
A king whose crown is in his heart,
Ne^ wear no other crown.
VOL. IIL 4*1
Digitized by CjOOQIC
738
Unconvicted; or. Old Hiomele^s ffeirSm
From The Loxnpt
UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELETS HEIRS.
CHAPTER Vn,
THE READD7Q OF THE WILL.
Nearino the brink of a diBCOvery,
jet dreading to approach the edge,
lest a false step should precipitate joa
into a chaos of darkness ; holding the
end of an intricate web in your hand,
yet not daring to follow the lead, lest
you should lose yourself in its mazes
— so I felt on the morning succeeding
my yisit with Detective Jones to Blue-
Anchor Ijane ; so, likewise, had that
astute officer and faithful friend ex*
pressed himself when we had parted
the night before.
*' You see, sir/' he said, " the whole
of 'What we have gathered this even*
ing may only mean that Mr. Wiimot
has got mixed up with this De Yos
or Sullivan in some -gambling trans-
action, who, hearing that he's left sole
heir to poor Thomeley'a fortune,
means to hold whatever Imowledge he
possesses as a threat over him to ex-
tort money. Then, as to what passed
at ^ Noah's Ark,' why, it may mean a
good deal, and it may just mean noth-
-ingy as not referring to the parties we
know of. I don't wish to raise your
hopes, sir; and until IVe consulted
with Inspector Keene and seen what
he's ferreted out, I wouldn't like to
say that we'd gained as much as I
thought we should from our move to-
night.'*
On my table I found a broad black-
bordered letter. It was a formal in-
vitation on the part of Lister Wiimot,
as sole executor, to attend old Thome^
ley's funeral on the following Tues-
day.
The intervening days were dark,
and blank with the blankness of de-
spair. Vigilant, energetic, and pen-
etrating as was that secret, silent
search of the detectives, no real due
was found to the mystery of the mur-
dered man's death; no %ht thrown
upon the black page in the history of
that fatal Tuesday evening, save what
our own miserable suspicions or falla^
cious hopes suggested. De Yos had
entirely disappeared from the scene,
leaving no truce of his whereabouts.
Wilmot's public movements, though
closely watched by the lynx-eyed
functionaries of the law, were perfect>-
ly satisfactory: and the housekeeper
remained closeted in her own room,
intent, apparently, upon making up
her mourning garments for her late
master, and fairly baffling liispector
Keene in his insidious attempts to
elicit a word further, or at variance to
what she stated at the inquest, by her
cool, collected, and straightfonvard re-
plies to his 'cute cross-questioning.
And yet, in concluding the short in-
terviews between Mr Inspector and
Merrivale, at which I was generally
present, af^er a silent scrape at his
chin, and a hungry crop at his nails,
he would still repeat with a certain
little air of quiet confidence, <* Good-
day, gentlemen. I think I am on the
scent."
Meanwhile the verdict at the in-
quest had gone foith and done its
work ; and Hugh Atherton was fully
committed for trial next sessions at
the Old Bailey. These were to take
place early in November, and the
thought of how terribly short a time
was left till then filled us with a fear-
ful, heart-sickening dread lest all,
upon which hung the issues of life or
death, could not be accomplished ia
so little space. True that a respite
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Uneonvioted; or^ Oid Thomdnf% Ifeirs.
739
might be asked^ and the trial post^
poned until the following sessions;
but upon what plea could the request
be preferred? Some evidence not
yet forthcoming. What evidence
could we hope for ? upon what future
revelaticm could we relj ? At present
there was nothing, absolutely nothing,
but our yague cox\jecture8, our blind
belief in the acateness of the police
oiEcers whom we were employing.
And Ada Leslie, what of her?
Every day, and twice a day, I went
to liydc-Park Gardens, sometimes
with Meirivolc, sometimes alone, ro-
pcatLag every detail, every minute
particular, every circumstance, and
goiag though everything with her
said or done by each one concerned.
It seemed to be her only comfort and
support, after that better and higher
consolation promised to the weary and
heavy-laden, and which both she and
Hugh knew weU how to seek.
" Tell me all," she would say — ^^ the
good and bad. I can bear it better if
I know nothing is kept back. To de-
ceive me would be no real kindness ;
and ifho has a better right to know
everything than I, who am part of
himself? Wo shall be man and wife
soon, in the sight of God and the
world, and then nothing can separate
us in other men's minds : but till then
I am truly and faithfully one with
him; and what touches him touches
me, only infinitely more because it is
for him. Don't you know what the
idyl says about the fame and shame
being mine equally if his ? But bet-
ter and holier words stiU have beer
spoken, and I say them oflen to my-
self now when I think of the time
which is coming : * They two shall be
one flesh."'
Strangely enough, though fully con-
scious of Atherton's danger, of the
awful position in which he stood, she
never seemed to take count for one
instant that the simple plea of inno-
cence on his part, and the belief of it
on ours, would not weigh one feather's
weight in the heavy balance of evi-
dence against him.
Since my encounter with Mrs. Les-
lie, that lady and I had been cold and
distant, conversing the least possible
within our power, and avoiding one
another by mutual consent. But ono
thing I noted, that come when I
would, early or late, with news or
without, alone or accompaaied by
Merrivale, whose visits seemed a
great comfort to Ada, Lister Wilmot
was certain to have forestalled mc,
and given in his version, either per-
sonally or by letter, of whatever had
happened. And I found the effect of
this was, that Mrs. Leslie was speak-
ing of Hugh as guilty, though " poor
Lister stiU persists in trying to think
him innocent;" and was publishing
about wherever she could tliat I had
volunteered to give evidence against
him. Ada took a different view of •
Wilmot's conduct
'^I think, guardian, that Lister is
almost mod," she said one day.
''He talks quite wildly sometimes
to mo. We neyer thought he had
a very clear head; and now he
seems to be so incoherent and contra-
dictory in all he says, and this confus-
es mamma, and makes her get wrong
notions about it all. But ho is so
kind and good to mc now. Once I
thought he didn't like me ; but ho is
quite changed now."
On the Saturday she was allowed
to see Hugh, now lodged in Newgate
Prison, She went with Wilmot and
her mother ; but she saw him alone,
with only the warder present CJon-
trary to my expectations, she was
cahner and happier, if one can use
such a word, knowing all the anguish
of the heart, than before. They had
mutually stren^hened and comforted
each other. She repeated to me a
great desd of what passed when I
saw her in the evening; but she. nev-
er said one word of what had passed
about myself; she never brought ma
any message ; and when I asked her
if Hugh had expressed a wish to see ^
me, she only replied, " No, he thinks '
it is best not — at least at present"
The same reply came through Mem-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
740
Unconvicted; or. Old T%omeU^9 Heirs.
valo, who seemed paszled by it ; the
same through Lister TTihnot, who
was offensively regretful for me. I
could not bear it, and I gave utter-
ance to the pent-up feeling which raged
within me. I told him that none of
his meddling was needed between my«
self and Hugh Atherton, and I hinted
that the role he had taken upon him-
self to play now would before many
days were over be changed in a very
unpleasant manner. A covert sneer
curled his thin lips, and there was an
evil light in his eyes, as he replied
that he was not afraid of any plot
that might be hatched against him,
and he could make excuses for my ex-
cited feelings "As to myself,** ho
concluded^ " I am prepared for ever^
thing:'
Tuesday, the day appointed for
tlie burial of Gilbert Thomeley, at
last arrived ; and those invited to at-
tend assembled for the time in Wim-
polo street to pay their tribute of ho-
mage to the man who had swept his
master's office in his youth, and died
worth more than a million of money
in the Funds. They flocked thither
at the bid of his nephew and' reported
heir; his comrades on 'change, his
compeers in wealth, his fellow-citizens ;
those men who had passed through the
same evolutions of barter and ex-
change, of tare and tret, of selUng out
and buying in, of all that busy tu-
mult of money-making in which the
dead man lying in his silver-plated
coffin up.stairs, and covered by the
handsome velyet pall, had borne his
share even to the fullest. For Wil-
mot had given orders for the funeral
to be conducted on a scale befitting
the magnificence of the fortune which
his uncle left behind him; and the
management of the affair had been
placed in the hands of an undertaker
whose reputation for conducting peo-
ple to their grave with every mourn-
ful splendor of state and style was
irreproachable. But amid those fun-
eral plumes, those heavy trappings,
those sombre mantles, those long hat-
bands and Bcar& of richest silk, there
was no eye wet with sorrow, no brow
shadowed l^y regret, no heart that
was heavier fcnr the loss of the one
going to his grave. It was a funend
without a mourner. On Lister TVil-
mof s face was the half-conoeaied tri-
umph and elation, under an affected
grief too evidently put on for the dull*
est man to believe in ; and the only
one who would have mourned, nay
who did mourn, for the murdered
man, lay in his cell within the waUs
of Newgate, stigmatized with the
brand of wilful murder of him* So
the gloomy pageant set out with its
hearse-and-foury its dozen monmifig«
coaches, its string of private carriages
belonging to the rich men invited there
that day. So we went to Kensal
Green and laid Gilbert Thomeley in
the new vault prepared for him, IfOMdj
and alone— ^ dust to dust* ashes to
ashes"-«-until the resurrection.
When the last solemn words bad
been read over the open grave and
the earth thrown with hollow sound
upon the coffin, we turned to deparL
A greater portion of the large assem-
bly dtsperaed in their carriages on
their yarions ways^and a few were
asked to return to Wimpole street
and be present at the reading of the
wilL Whether bidden or not, I had
a reason for beidg there likewise, and
had made up my mind what to do;
but to my surprise Mr. Walker
came up as we were - leaving the
cemetery, and invited me in Wilmof s
name to go back with them*
In the diningroom where the in-
quest had been held we gathered
once again — some dozen of Thome-
ley's oldest acquaintances, the two
doctors, the rector of the parish with
his three curates, myself, the house-
keeper, and the other servants of the
dead man's household. The guests
grouped themselves in different knots
round the room, talking and gossiping
together on the money market, the
state of the country, of trade, of poll*
tics, of I know not what, but mostly
of the past and future concerning the
house in which we were aiwemblfld, of
Digitized by CjOOQIC
UnconvicUd; or, (ML Thomde^s Heirs*
741
the murdered and the supposed mur-
derer, whilst we waited Ibr Lister
Wilmot and his two lawyers. The
servants placed themselves in a row
near the door, the housekeeper some-
what apart behind the rest, as if
shrinking from notice. Yerj striking
she looked in her deep mourning,
gown, fitting with perfect exactitude,
her Ught hair streaked here and there
with silver threads braided beneath a
close tulle-cap, very pale very self-
possessed, but with that dangerous
look in the cold blue eyes and pecu-
liar motion of tise eyelids which Mer-
rivalehad described as **a scintillat-
ing light and a shivering."
In less than a quarter of an hour
the three came in — ^Thomeley's ex
ocutor and two lawyers ; Smith, the
senior partner — one of those pompous
old men who are met up and down
the world, embodying, only in a wrong
sense, the conception of a late spiritu-
al writer of " a man of one idea,*' that
idea being self— carrying in his hand
a large parchment folded in familiar
form and indorsed in the orthodox
caligraphy of a law-office. The hum
of conversation ceased as they enters
ed and advanced to the top of the
room, where a small table was placed,
upon which the lawyer deposited the
document. I glanced roimd the room.
All eyes were turned upon the three,
who were now seating themselves at
the table in question, with the eager
curiosity of men going to hear news.
The expression of triumph upon Lis-
ter Wamot's face had deepened yet
more visibly; but underneath I fan-
cied I perceived a lurking anxiety,
and especially when his eye fell with
a quick, sharp glance upon myself,
and then as quickly koked away.
The two lawyers appeared very full
of their own importance, and were
very obsequious to their new client.
Lastly I looked at the housekeeper.
Two hectic spots now burned upon
her singularly pale cheeks, andher lips
were ttghdy compressed ; her hands,
delicate and white for a woman in her
position, waadeied restlessly over
each other. Pernaps it was but veiy
natural agitation, for those who had
served so long and faithfully were no
doubt expectii^ to be remembered in
the will of their late master.
"Are you ready, Mr. WilmotT
asked Smith, wiping his gold specta-
cles and adjusting them on hi^ nose.
Wilmot bowed assent; and the
lawyer unfolding the parchment, read
in loud, high, nasal tones, "• The last
will and testament of the late Gilbert
Thomeley, squire, of 100 Wimpole
street, in the parish of St. Mary-le-
bone, London, and of the Grange,
TVamside, Lincolnshire."
A dead silence reigned throughout
the room ; as the saying is, you might
have heard a pin drop. One thing
only was audible to my ear, sitting
a few feet distant, and that was the
heavy pant of the housekeeper's
breathing. Smith read on.
The said Gilbert Thomeley be-
queathed to his nephew, Hugh Ather-
ton, the sum of £5000, free of legacy-
duty; to his housekeeper an annuity
of £100 per annum for life; to his
butler and coachman annuities of £50
per annum for life, all free of legacy-
duty, and £20 to the other servants
for mourning, with a twelvemonth's
wages ; to his nephew, ListQr Wilmot,
the whole of his landed property, all
moneys vested in the Funds, all per-
sonal property, furniture, carriages,
horses, and plate, as sole residuary
legatee.
This was the gist and pith of Gil-
bert Thomeley's will, which further
bore date of the 19th of August in the
present year, and was witnessed by
William Walker, of the firm of Smith
and Walker, and Abel Griffiths, Smith
and Walker's clerk. By it Lister
Wilmot came into an annual income
of something like £100,000; by it
Hugh Atberton was cut off with a
mere nominal sum from the joint in-
heritance which his uncle had from
his boyhood upward in the most un-
equivocal manner and words taught
him to expect. A murmur of sur-
prise ran through the company assem-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
742
Unconvicted; or, Old Thomele^s Heirs*
bled. The eqnal position of the two
nephews with regard to their uncle
had been too publicly known for the
preseni declaration not to excite the
most unbounded astonishment. So cer-
tain did it seem that the cousins would
be co-heirs of Thomeley'a enormous
wealth, that whispers had gone about
pretty freely of that being the motive
which induced Hugh Atherton to com-
mit the crime imputed to him — the
desire of entering into possession of
the old man's money. I gathered the
thought in each person's mind by the
broken words which fell from them.
" Then why did he do it ?" I heard one
of the curates whisper to the other,
and I knew that they thought and
spoke of Hugh, believing him to be
guilty.
I waited for a few minutes after
Mr. Smith had finished his pompous
delivery of this document, purporting
to be the last will and testament of
the late Gilbert Thomeley, and then I
rose from the remote comer where I
had placed myself and confronted the
two lawyers.
" Gentlemen," I said, " I take leave
to dispute that will which has just
been read."
A thunderbolt falling in the midst ot
us could not have had a more astound-
ing effect than those few words.
" Dispute the will !" shouted old
Smith, purple in the face.
"Dispute the will!" echoed Wal-
ker.
"Dispute the will I" reverberated
all round.
" God bless my soul, sir 1" contin-
ued Smith, rising from his chair and
literally shaking with excitement,
"what do you mean by that? Dis
pute this will!' striking the open
parchment with his closed hand;
" upon what grounds, Mr. Kavanagh
—upon what grounds and by what
authority do you dare to dispute it,
made by us^ witnessed by uf, and
which we know to be the genuine and
latest testament of our late client?
What do you mean by it ?"
" I dispute that wiU on the ground
of there existing another and a later
will of Mr. Thomeley; and I dis-
pute it on the part of those in whose
favor it is made. Gentlemen, I have
a statement to make, to the truth of
which I am prepared to affix my
oath."
Involuntarily I glanced at Lister
Wilmot. He was deadly pale; but
be returned my gaze very st^idily, and
I noticed the same evil light in his
eye as I had once before seen. Smith
drew himself up and settled his thick
bull-throat in his white choker, whilst
lus junior partner ran his hand through
his hair, and seemed to prepare him-
self for whatever was coming with a
sort of ^ Do your worst — I don t care
for you" air.
" I hold in my hand," I continued,
^ a memorandum from my joumal, and
dated October 23, 185—, last Tues-
day, gentlemen ; and I beg your par-
ticular attention to the extract I am go-
ing to read to you — *' Received a note
from Mr. Gilbert Thomeley, of 100
Wimpole street, requesting me to call
on him this evening. Went at seven
o'clock; made and executed a mUfov
the same, under solemn prcmiise not
to reveal the transaction until afler
his funeral had taken place. In case
of my death, to leave a memorandum
of the same addressed to Mr. Hugh
Atherton. Saw the will signed by
Mr. Thomeley and witnessed by his
footman and coachman. Made mem-
orandum of same for H. A., as de-
sired. Put it with private papers,
addressed to H. A.' That will, gen-
tlemen, being of later date, will, if
forthcoming, upset the will just read,
and which is dated two months
back."
There was a profound silence for
some moments, broken only by the
two servants. Barker the footman and
Thomas the coachman, who both mur-
mured in low but distinct tones, " Right
enough, sir ; we did put our names to
that there dockiment."
^I don't quite understand your
< statement,' Mr. Kavanagh," said
Smith at last, with an air which plain*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or^ Old TThomeUf/s Heirs*
743
ly Bald, " And I consider myself in-
sulted by your making it."
^It is quite plain and Btnugbtfor-
\rard, Mr. Smith, though, of course,
you are taken by surprise. Allow
me to hand you this copy of the mem-
orandum I have read to you, and to
Tvhich I have signed my name."
^But where is that ^ill, sir?
Statements and memoranda go for
nothing, if you can't produce your
proofs ; and the will itself is the only
proof."
"Where it is," I replied, "is best
known to Mr. Wilmot, or yourselves,
or to both. I never saw it after leav-
^Ir. Thomeley's study on the evening
ofthe2Sd."
The two lawyers turned simultan-
eously to Wihnot.
"Did you know anything of this
transaction, sir ?" asked Walker.
" Only so far as came out at the in-
quest yesterday. Where is the will?
I ask* Let Mr. Kavanagh produce
it."
There was a world of defiance in
his glittering eyes as ho rose and
faced me.
" Yes," he cried again, with a hard,
ringing voice, " let Mr. John Kavan-
agh produce iL"
" Gently, Mr. Wihnot,'* said Walk-
er in an insinuating voice. "Allow
us to deal with this matter ; it is real-
ly only proper that we should."
" Only proper that we should,'*
echoed old Smith in his peculiar nasal
twang*
But Lister Wilmot waved them
both imperiously aside; and advanc-
ing a step forward, he said with an
evident effort to control himself:
" I don't see, Kavanagh, what you
can gain by bringing forward this ab-
surd statement. Of course we all im-
agined that the mysterious business
upon which you saw my deceased un-
cle the last evening of hia life was in
some way connected with making his
will; and Mr. Smith, Mr. WaJker,
and myself searched through his pa-
pers with the utmost care, and with
this idea in our minds ; but no will,
no codicil, no letter, nor memorandum
of later date than the one just read
could anywhere be found. Knowing
what an eccentric character he was,
we came to the conclusion that, if any
will posterior to this were made, he
had destroyed it immediately after-
ward. — ^Is this not so ?" he turned to
the two lawyers.
**It is so," answered Walker, for
self and partner. "We made the
minutest investigation, and were all
three together when the seals were
removed which had been placed on
everything by the police in charge of
the house. Nothing could have been
tampered with."
I was fairly baffled, and stood con-
sidering what was the next best thing
to do, when an old gray-headed man
stepped forward and said that, if ho
might suggest, it would be satisfactory
to hear in what particulars the deed I
had drawn up differed from the one
just made known.
"Yes,'* said Wilmot, with some-
thing like a sneer ; " let us hear what
were the contents of this will which
you say you drew up."
"Wilmot," I answered, "the one
whom that will, to my mind, most
affected, for reasons which will pres-
ently be obvious to all who listen to
me now, was the only one who loved
the old man in life whose remains we
have just followed to the grave — ^tho
only one who, I know, mourns his
death with all the sincerity of his true
and noble heart. In his presence I
would never publicly have dragged
forward a history which is full of sin,
of sorrow, of remorse. But he lies in
a felon's cell, charged, through a dark
mysterious combination of events, and
I firmly believe a deeply-laid scheme
to work his ruin, with a felon's crime.
In his interest therefore, first of all, I
must speak. There is also that of
another concerned, who comes before
most of those present as a complete
stranger ; whether to o/^ I know not.
— Grentlemen, I, like you, believed
until this day week that Gilbert
Thomeley died childless and a bache^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
744
Unconvicted; or. Old Thomehy^t Ileirg.
lor. Fire-and twenty years ago he
married a young and beautiful girl, an
orphan, but possessed of an immense
fortune. He married her for her
money. It was a joyless mairiage,
without love, without happiness. One
son was bom to them, and shortly
after the young vnfo died. The boy
grew up an idiot, hated, loathed
by his father, who sent him far away
from his sight, and who for more than
fifteen years before he died never saw
his child's face. Remorse at last
seems to have surged up in his heart,
and he took a resoltttion to make what
reparatiott he could for his past ne-
glect. Tbis is all which the deceased,
Mr. Thomeley, confided to me in plain
words ; at the rest I can only darkly
guess; but that much more might
have been told which never passed
his lips, that some terrible secret of
the past remains still unrevealed, I
am bound to say I feel convinced
from the manner in which that little
was revealed to me. Grentlemen, the
will which I executed last Tuesday
evening, and saw witnessed by the
two servants now present, after be-
queathing £10,000 a year to his neph-
ew, Hugh Atberton, left the whole and
entire of Gilbert Thorneley's proper-
ty, landed, personal, and in the funds,
to his idiot son, Francis Gilbert Thome-
ley, now living ; and constituted Hugh
Atherton as sole guardian of his cou-
sin. With the exception of the same
small legacies to the domestics of his
household, no other bequest whatever
was made ; no other name mentioned.
This will was executed as a tardy
reparation for some wrong done to his
dead wife."
There was the sound of a dull, heavy
fall, and a cry from one of the women
in theroom. Mrs. Haag, the house-
keeper, had fainted away.
CHAPTEK vni.
XSiSFBCTOn K£ENE SEES DAYUaHT AT
LAST.
''And pray, may I ask who was
left executor in tins wonderful wUl,
since that item seems to have been
omitted from an otherwise well-con-
cocted story?" said Mr. Walker, as
soon as the housekeeper had been
carried out of the room, and order re-
stored.
^ Mr. Atherton and myself were
named executors."
" For which little business," he con-
tinued with unutterable irony, ''you
were doubtless to receive some tmoB
compensation?"
" You are mistaken," I replied quiet-
ly ; " my name is not otherwise men-
tioned than as being appointed to act
with Hugh Atherton. No legacy was
left to me, and I did not even receive
the usual fee for drawing up the wilL
I mention this to remove any false im-
pression which my previous statement
may have given."
^ Most disinterested conduct on your
part, I am sure, Mr. Kavanagh," was
the reply in the same sarcastic tones.
" It was, however, probably understood
that the securing £10,000 a year to
your friend would not pass unrewarded
by him."
I was losing my temper under the
man's repeated insults, and an angry
reply had risen to my lips, when Wil-
mot interposed. He had entirely re-
gained his usual self-possession, and
more than his usual confidence. Evi-
dently, he had resolved to change his
tactics, and treat me civilly.
"We don't wish to dispute your
word, Eavanagh, but you must own
there is some excuse for our unbelief.
Here are all three of us — ^Smith,
Walker, and myself — ^ready to take
oath that no other will save the docu-
ment just read was or is to be found
amongst my late uncle's papers ; not
so much as a hint of such a thing ex-
isting. And here are you, without a
shadow of proof in your hand, statmg
that a will, posterior to this one lying
here, was made by you on the evening
previous to my uncle's death. The
natural inference drawn is, that that
will must now exist ; we know it does
not exist, or we must have found it,
unless my uncle destroyed it immediate-
Digitized by GoOglC
Vncanvtcted; or^ Old Thomde^$ Heirs*
745
\j afVer it was made, namely, before he
went to bed this day week. Do I put
the case clearly and fairly, gentle-
men P' he continued, turning to the
assembled company.
The same old gentleman who had
spoken before now again advanced* *' I
have known Gilbert Thomeley,** he said,
** more than thirty years ; but that he
was ever married, or had a child living,
is as great news to me as to any here
present who had known him but as a
recent acquaintance. Still, if what
Mr. Kavanagh says be true— and no
ofience to him — that son of whom he
speaks must be living now, and must
be found. You, Mr. Wilmot, have
asked, as proof of this strange state-
ment being true, where is the wiU ? I
now ask likewise, as proof of its genu-
ineness, where is the heir ? Where is
the son of my old friend ? % Where is
Francis Gilbert Thomeley ?**
I was fearfully staggered by the
question. Never before had it oc-
curred to me that there would be a
difficulty in finding the poor idiot when
the time came for him to enter upon
his inheritance. No doubt, no. passing
misgiving, had crossed my mind but
that, along with the will I had drawn
np, papers would be left and found,
giving all-sufficient information of his
whereabouts. For the first time the
thought flashed across me that perhaps,
after all, I had not acted wisely in
maintaining the silence which had been
exacted f om me by solemn promise.
And that solemn promise ! What had
been old Thomeley's motive in exacting
it ? Why should he wish such inevita-
ble risks to be run, as he, a shrewd
man of the world, would know must be
run, of that final will being suppress-
ed by the parties interested in the other
one lodged at his lawyers' ? Of what,
of whom, had he been afraid ? Was
the secret and mystery of the wOl in
any way connected with the secret and
mystery of the murder? As these
questions crowded themselves upon me
during the brief moment which suc-
ceeded the last speaker's queries, I
looked round nnconsciously on the ea-
ger, curious faces turned upon us, the
actors in this scene ; and suddenly my
C3'e lighted upon a little man dressed
in a dapper black suit, with a profu-
sion of curly brown hair, and long
beard, standing behind a group near
the door. His eyes were fixed on
mine — sharp, intelligent, piercing, black
eyes — ^with an expression in them
which plainly bespoke a desire of at-
tracting my attention ; eyes that were
familiar to me, whilst the rest of the
man's face and appearance was that
of a stranger. Then one hand was
lifted to his lips, and I saw him give
a voracious bite at his nails. In a
moment light broke upon darkness^
and I knew him in spite of flowing
wig and beard, in spite of ftmeral black
and well-fitting clothes, to be Inspector
Keene. I suppose he saw a gleam of
intelligence pass over my countenance,
for he began a series of evolutions on
his closely-cropped fingers, and I, luck-
ily, could spell the words : " Close this ;
see Merrivale." I seized the idea,
and turning to Wilmot and his law-
yers, I said, "This matter is too
serious to be dealt with otherwise than
in legal form and place. Mr. Merri-
vale or myself will communicate with
Messrs. Smith and Walker. There is
nothing further to be said at present;*'
and I left the room, exchanging
another glance with the inspector, who
I knew would quickly follow me.
Nor was I mistaken. I drove to
Merrivale's, and whilst in full tide of
relating what had transpired in Wim-
pole street, the little man arrived,
still in mourning trim, but minus his
wig and beard; and I am bound to
confess that, despite the seriousness •
of the moment, I was almost over-
powered by the ludicrous change which
the doffing of those appendages had
wrought in him — ^he looked so like
a broom that had had its bristles cut
short off.
" You are a clever fellow, Keene,**
said Merrivale ; ^ how upon earth did
yon contrive to pass muster amongst
those city swells ?"
The inspector bowed to the compli*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
746
Vhcanvieted; or. Old Tkomde^s Heirs,
ment, but seemed no waj abashed.
" I showed the inside of your purse,
Mr. Merrivale, There was no diffi-
culty in sight of Aat, Please go on,
Mr. Kavanagh, and IH wait.'
I concluded in as few words as
possible, anxiously desiring to hear
what Keene had to say ; and immedi-
ately that I had finished, Merrivole
turned toward him :
"What do you think of it all, in
heaven's name ?"
Mr. Inspector scraped his chin, and
waited some moments before replying,
his bright keen eyes glancing alter-
nately from one to another of us. " If
I wore to tell you, sirs, all I thinky
you'd be tired of hearing me, for I've
been thinking as hard as my brains
could go for' the last week past. If
you'd have made a friend, Mr. Kav-
anagh, of Mr. Merrivale or your
humble servant in the matter you just
now revealed, it might have helped
me not a trifle — ^not a trifle. How-
ever, I believe you did it for the best ;
and after all I think we'll be even
with them yet But it is as confound-
edly black a business as it ever fell to
my lot to deal with ; and I've had
businesses, gentlemen, as black as —
well, as old Harry himself. You see
there's three points to follow up ; and
if we can tackle one securely, why, I
consider we shall tackle ail, for I
believe they hang together. " First,"
checking it off on his thumb, " there's
the murder ; and the point there is to
find who really bought that grain of
strychnine which the chemist has
booked. It rests between master and
man to reveal; and I incline to the
latter, and have my eye on him.
Never tell me,'* said the detective,
warming with his subject, "that
neither of them don't know ; I tell
you one of them does know, and my
name's not Keene if I don't have
it out of them yet. That's one
point, an't it, Mr. Merrivale?" Merri-
vale assented. "Then the second,"
checking number two off on his stumpy
fore-finger, " includes four parties, and
their connection with each other ; the
man I>e Voa or Sullivan, the man
O'Brian, IVIr. Lister Wilmot, and the
housekeeper."
" The housekeeper, Mrs. Haag T' I
exclaimed.
" Yes, sir ; Mrs. Haagy if that's her
name."
"You think it is not?"
" I know it isn't."
" You know it ?"
"I do. When Jones showed me
his notes, and repeated to me what
you and he had heard in Blue- Anchor
Lane last Thursday night, I smeU a rat^
Mr. Kavanagh, and I followed my
nose, sir. Whenl said I was on the
scent, I meant it. From that hour I
wrote down in my note-book, 'Mrs.
Haag, alias Bradley — Bradley, aUas
O'Brian; her husband, escaped con-
vict from New South Wales.' For
Jones indentified that man by a
description in the hands of all of us in
the force. To have taken him there
and then would simply have been
madness, and insured your both being
murdered in that villainous hole. But
to follow out the connection between
the housekeeper and him, him and
Sullivan, Sullivan and Mr. Wilmot, is
another point, an't it, Mr. Merrivale?"
Again Merrivale assented, his
usually impassible face now stirred
with the deepest, most anxious in-
terest
"Is * Sullivan' De Vos's right
name ?" he asked.
" I believe it is, sir. He's thoroughly
Irish; but O'Brian isn't, though he's
taken an Irish name. Sullivan's been
known to the police also in his time,
and I fancy there's a little matter in
the wind which might introduce him
again to us. They've both had their
warning, though, from some quarter,
and are in ssde hiding somewhere or
other as yet."
" Have you more to tell us about
O'Brian P'
"Nothing more, sir, at present.
There's some dark secret and mystery
hanging over him — a terrible story, I
am a&aid; but I can't speak for
certam just noWd — ^Mr. Kavanagh,"
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or, Old I7u>r7ieleifs Heirs.
747
suddenly glancing up at me, " did you
never see a likeness to any one in Mr.
Wilmot?*'
«No, not that I know of. We
have often said he was like none of
his relatives living, that was his uncle
and cousin. Have you T*
**Ifs fancy, sir, no doubt. His
mother died when he was very young,
didn't she? and his father ? "
"Mrs. Wilmot died soon after his
birth. His father I never heard of.
He was a mauvais sujet^ I believe."
**Ahr The inspector drew a long
breath and relapsed into one of his
silent moods, during which the process
of scraping and gnawing was resumed
with avidity.
^ And your lihird point 7* said I, to
arouse him.
" My third point, gentlemen,** wak-
ing up lively, and dabbing at his
middle finger, "which, considering
Mr. Atherton's position at the present
moment, seems to be the least import-
ant or pressing, is, nevertheless, the
one I am for pursuing immediately, —
to find this heir of whom mention has
been made, Mr. Thorneley's idiot son."
** Surely there is no hurry about
that !" we both exclaimed.
"It would appear not, gentlemen,
perhaps to you, but there does to me.
Supposing," said the detective, leaning
forward, and speaking very mucli
more earnestly than he had hitherto
done — ^'^ supposing that the will you
made, Mr. Kavanagh, was stolen, (hen
secreted or destroyed on the night of
Mr. Thomeley's death, that being
what I might call the dead evidence
of the truth of what you stated publicly
to-day, and supposing the parties who
suppressed that will knew of the
whereabouts of the heir, they would,
I conclude, be equally anxious to sup-
press the living evidence also — to get
him out o^^way. Do you follow
me, gentlemen ?**
" Yes, yea,** we both exclaimed, for
we felt he had a purpose in speaking ;
" you are right"
" Tlien, sirs, we must prosecute a
search for this poor idiot fellow. I
see my way at present very dimly and
darkly; but something tells me that
on our road to find Mr. Francis
Gilbert Thomeley we shall find also
other links in the broken chain wc
are trying to piece together.*'
"How do you propose setting to
work, Keenc?* asked Merrivale
" Mr. Atherton, being situated as he
is, cannot act ; it is therefore for Mr.
Kavanagh to take it upon himself,
being named executor. I have ascer-
tained that Mr. Thomeley never went
near his place in Lincolnshire. Why?
Because his son lived there. Do you
follow me, Mr. Kavanagh ?"
** I do. You think I must visit the
Grange immediately?*
*' Yes, sir."
Light then at last seemed to be
gleaming on our darkness ; not only a
glimmer, but a full bright ray. There
was consistency and connection in all
that the inspector had put before us,
though only as yet, to a great degree,
in supposition. Merrivale, agreeing
with me that he would send us on no
wild-goose chase, it was settled I
should go down by the five-o'clock
express train.
In less than an hour I was standing
at King's Cross Tenninus, and five
minutes past five I was whirling away
from London at the rate of thirty
miles an hour. At Peterborough we
stopped for half-an-hour to change
carriages, and I went into the waiting-
room to get some refreshment. It
was very full, for numbers of pas-
sengers were travelling by that train to
be present at some local races, and for
some minutes I could not approach
the counter. At last I contrived to
edge in next to a rather tall man, very
much enveloped in wraps, wearing a
travelling-cap and blue spectacles. I
asked for a cup of coffee and a sand-
wich. Every one knows the degree
of heat to which railway coffee is
brought ; and waiting awhile for the
sake of my throat before drinking it, I
suddenly bethought myself of setting
my watch by the clock in the room.
I put up my glass to look for it ; it
Digitized by CjOOQIC
748
Unconvicted; or^ Old Thomde^s Hdrg.
was at the opposite end, and I turned
my back upon mj tall neighbor whilst
altering the watch. When I turned
round he was gone. I finished mj
coffee and paid for it. Bah! how
roawkish a taste it had left in mj
mouth ; what stuff thej sell in England
for real Mocha! So I thought as I
stepped out on the platform and
wak'ed up and down, awaiting the
train and reading in a sort o\ dreamy,
unconscious manner the . advertise-
ments and placards covering the
walls. Taylor Brothers, Parkins and
Gotto, Ileal and Son, Mudie's Library,
and all the rest, so well known Ha !
what is thb? "Mubdeb: £100
Reward,** for information leading to
the detection of the murderer of
Mr. Gilbert Thomelcy ; and beneath,
another, " Reward of £50 offered for
the apprehension of Robert Bradley,"
(dicis O'Brian, escaped convict, with
a full description of his personal
appearance appended. " Inspector
Keene's work,*' thought I to myself.
One solitary female figure stood before
me, reading the placard ; a neat trim
figure, clad in deep mourning garments,
ipotionless, mute, and absorbed as it
were in the interest of what she was
perusing. What »vas it that made
me start and shiver as my eye fell
upon that statue-like form ? wliat was
it that, amidst an overpowering and
unaccountable drowsiness creeping
over me, seemed to sting me into life
and vigilance? The answer was
plain before me: staring at me with
wildly-gleaming eyes, with a face
startled out of its habitual calmness
and self-possession, with fear and rage
and a hundred passions at work in
her countenance, was old Thomeley's
housekeeper. "Mrs. Haag!" I ex-
claimed; <^nd almost as I spoke, a
change sudden and rapid as thought
took place in her, and she regained
the cold passionless expression I had
noticed that same afternoon.
^ The same, Mr. Kavanagh ;'' and,
inclining her head, she was passing
on.
** Stay 1** I said, catching her by the
arm. "What arc you doing here?
Where are you going T*
"By what right do you ask me,
sir ?■' was the reply in very calm and
perfectly respectful tones.
"By what right!*' I cried with
headlong impetuosity. " By the best
right that any man could have — the
right of asking, or saying, or doing
anything that may help me to detect
tlie guilty and clear the innocent
Woman, there is some deadly mystery
hanging around yon, some guilty
secret in which you have played your
part, and which, by the heavens aboTe
us, I will unearth and bring to light I
I will, I will!**
What was the matter with me?
My brain was dizzy; the lights, the
station, the faces around me, the
woman I was addressing, seemed to
be going round and round, and I
became conscious that my speech was
getting incoherent.
"You have been drinking, Mr.
Kavanagh," I heard a hard voice
saying to me, with a slight foreign
accent. Then a bell rang, and I was
hurried forward by the crowd who
were flocking on the platform ; hurried
on toward a train that had come into
the station whilst I had been engaged
with the housekeeper. I remember
entering a carriage and sinking down
on a cushioned seat; then I lost all
consciousness, until I heard a voice
shouting in my ear, *^ Your ticket, sir,
please."
I started up.
"Where am IP'
" Lincoln ; ticket— quick, sir.*'
I handed out my ticket.
"This is for Stixwould, four sta*
tions back on the line. Two extra
shillings to pay."
" Good heavens ! I must have been
asleep. How am I to get back ?"
" Don't know, sir ; no train to-
night."
The money is paid, the door banged
to, and we are shot into Lincoln
station at nine o^clock. There was
no help for it now but to make my
way to the nearest hotel, and see what
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or^ Old Ttvomde^fs Jleirs.
740
mefuis were to be had of retarning to
Stixwoald — ^the nearest station to the
Grange, and that was ten miles from
it— or else pass the night here and
take the earliest train in the morning.
I bade a porter take mj bag, and
show me to some hotel ; and I followed
him, shivering in every limb, mj head
aching as I had never felt it ache
before — sick, giddj, and scarcely able
to draw one foot aflter another. Then
I knew what had happened to me ; it
flashed across me all in a moment*
That man, disguised and in spectacles,
standing next to me at the refresh-
ment-counter at Peterboroogh, was
De Vos, and he had dragged my
coffee. I felt not a doubt of iu
In ten minutes we stopped at the
Queen's Hotel, and after engaging a
room, I despatched a porter for the
nearest doctor. To him I confided
^the object of my journey, what I
believed had occurred to me, and the
necessity there was for my taking
such prompt remedies as should
enable me to recover my full strength,
energies, and wits for the morrow.
Following his advice, after swallowing
his medicine, I relinquished all notion
of proceeding that night on my jour-
ney, and went to bed. The next
morning I awoke quite fresh and well;
but what precious hours had been
lost ! hours sufficient to ruin all hope
of my journey bearing any fruits, of
finding even a shadowy clue to the
tangl^ web that seemed closing in
around us. And Hugh Atherton lay
in prison* and Ada, my poor sor^
rowful darling, was breaking her heart
beneath the load of misery which had
come upon her. By eight o'clock I
had started for Stixwoul^ and in half
an hour alighted at that small station.
I was the only passenger for that
place, and I had to wait whilst the
train moved off for the solitary porter
to take my ticket. Just as the bell
had rung, a man passed out from
some door and went up to one of the
carriages. ^ Could you oblige me
with a fusee, sir?" 1 heard him say.
Some one leaned forward and hand-
ed out what was asked for ; it was the
tall man in spectacles who had stood
next to me at Peterborough station.
The train moved off just as I rushed
forward, rushed almost into the arms
of the other man who had asked for
the fusee. Wonders would never cease I
It was Inspector Keene.
"Thank God, it is you !"
"Yes, sir — ^myself. In a monient
— ^I must telegraph up to town ;" and
he ran into the office.
"Now, sir," ho said when no came
out, " what has happened to bring you
here this morning from Lincoln ?"
I told him, and expressed my
astonishment at seeing him.
"We heard last night that Mrs.
JIaaff had left London and taken her
ticket for this place. I took the night
mail to look after the lady and warn
you, su". Now we had best post off
directly for the Grange. I've already
ordered a fiy and a pair of horses.
We'll bribe the num, and be there in
something less than an hour and a
half.
"That man you .tpoke to in the
train was De Vos,*' I said when wo
had started
"I know it, sir. He was sent to
watoh you, I suspect ; and treat you to
that little dose in your coffee.'^
"And the housekeeper?"
" Oh ! she, I imagine, is safe ahead
there at the Grange. At any rate,
she has not returned up the lino;
every station has been watched, and
they would have telegraphed to
me.'*
O the dreariness of that drive I
Bain poured down from the leaden,
lowering sky and concentrated into
a thick midst over the dismal wolds.
Patter, patter, slush, slush, as we
drove along the wet miry roads, the
horses urged on to the utmost of their
wretched, broken-down speed; and
the damp chill air penetrating the old
rotten vehicle and entering the very
marrow of one's bones* So we arrived
at last before a low stone lodge that
guarded some ponderous iron gates.
A gaunt ill-favored man came out at
Digitized by CjOOQIC
750
Unconvicted; or, Old Thomek^fs Heirs.
the sound of the wheels, and stored at
us in no friendly manner.
" Whar are ye from?" ho called
out.
" From Mr. Wilmot,** answered the
inspector.
" Dunna blicvc ye. Orders is for
ne'run to go up to the house.''
Kecne opened the door of the fly
and sprang out.
"Look here, my man," ho said,
producing his staff; "I'm a jDO^ice-
officer from London, and I've come
down here about the murder of your
master. Open the gate in the name
of the hiw !"
The man stared, pulled the keys
out of his pocket, unlocked the gates
and threw them open. The inspector
jumped up beside the driver and bade
him go on.
A short avenue, lined on cither side
^th magnificent trees, brought us to
the gate of extensive but ill-kept
pleasure-grounds, and so to the stone
portico of the Orange. A peal of the
bell brought an old woman to the door,
who peered out suspiciously, and
demanded what we wanted.
" I am a detective-officer from Lon-
don, and have a warrant for searching
this house ;" and Keene putting the
old hag aside, we passed into the
hall.
" Ye mun show me yer warrant or
FU have ye put out agin in double-
quick time," she said, scowling at the
inspector. For reply the staff of
office was again out of his pocket in a
twinkling, and flourished before her
eyes.
" You take yourself off and show us
over the house instantly, or it will be
the worse for you."
The woman cowered, and muttering
to herself, led the way across the
spacious hall, and threw open a door
on the left. The house apparently was
a low rambling building of ancient date,
with panelled walls and high case-
ment-windows. "We traversed several
rooms, bare in furniture and that
struck one with a sense of utter cheer-
Ie8snes8_and want, of .comfort.. This,
then, was the desolate isolated house
which Gilbert Thomeley had owned
and yet shunned so carefully during
life ; this was the place where his idiot
boy had probably dragged on the
greater number of his miserable yeanB.
But 1 need not dwell upon our search
through the house.
High and low Lispector Keene
ranged; looking into cupboards and
dark closets, sounding the panelled
walls and poking at imaginary trap-
doors. With the exception of the old
crone, who accompanied us, and a
great tabby cat lying before the
kitchen-fire, no trace of living soul
was visible.
"Where's young Mr. Thomeley?"
said the inspector to her when oar
visitation was made.
" Never heard on him."
"Who lives here?"
" Only myself."'
" Where's the lady who came here
yesterday evening ?"
A curious gleam shot from the old
woman's eyes.
" Dunno ; no lady here."
"I shall take you into custody, if
you won't tell."
" Then you mun do it — ^Tse nothing
to say."
Keene turned to me.
" Our visit has been useless, sir. I
used the threat, but I can't take the
woman on no charge i there is nothing
left but to—"
Hark I what sound was that which
rang out upon our ears, which made
our hair stand on end, and our hearts
stand still I Shriek upon shriek of
the most horrible, wild, unearthly
laughter pealing from somewhere
overhead. The old woman made a
dash forward to the staircase, and
called some name that was drowned
in the echoes of that terrible mirth.
But in a second we had bounded past
her and up the flight of stairs, and
there, at the far end of the corridor,
gesticulating and jabbaing at us as
we approached him with all the fearful,
revolting madness of idiocy, was tho
man in whose features was stamped
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted} or^ Old ITiomele^t Hein.
751
the perfect likeness of old Gilbert
Thomeley.
CHAPTES rx.
THB THIAL.
InspcCiOr Keene's third point had
been followed up and worked out:
Francis Gilbert Thomeley, the lost
heir was found; and the living evi-
dence in favor of the will I had mode
was in our actual possession. That it
should be so seemed a merdful inter-
position of Providence ; for we had
little doubt but that it had been in-
tended I should, under the influence
of the Btupefjing drug administered
by Do Vo3, be delayed on my journey,
and so give time for him or the house-
keeper, or both, to visit the Grange
and effect whatever purpose they had
in view. What had defeated them, or
caused their failure, remained as yet
a mystery. Equally mysterious was
the way in which both the conspira-
tors had managed to elude the vigil-
ance of the police ; and bitter seemed
the Inspector's disappointment when,
on arriving in London, he found no
intelligence awaiting him of either
man or woman. We brought up the
poor idiot with us ; and I took him to
my own chambers, engaging a proper
attendant to take charge of him, re-
commended by the physician whom I
called in to examine him. He seem-
ed to be perfectly harmless, and tract-
able as a child, but totally berefl of
sense or reason, amusing himself with
toys, picture-books, and other infantile
diversions, by the hour. We tried to
get some coherent account oF himself
from him, but to no purpose ; he knew
his name and the name of the old
man and woman who had been his
sole guardians and companions, ap-
parently for years. But beyond that,
no information could be eHoited ; and
to all questions he would reply with
some sort of childish babble or jabber.
This was the heir to old Thomeley's
immense wealth.
There now remained the two other
points marked by the Inspector to fol-
low up. Oh ! how time was fast rushing
on! — ^time that was so precious for
life or death — and so little done as
yet toward clearing away all that
mountain of condemning evidence
which would infallibly, in the eyes of
any English jury, bring sentence of
death upon the suspected murderer.
The question forever rang in my
ears, " Who bought that grain of
strychnine on the 23d of October P'
Upon the discovery and identification
of that person both Merrivale and
myself, as also the counsel whom ho
had engaged for the defence, felt
everything would hang. But up to
the present moment, except in our
own minds, not the shadow of a clue
could be found. The 16th November,
the day appointed for the trial of
Hugh Atherton, approached with ter-
rible nearness ; and our confidence in
all but God's mercy and justice was
ebbing fast away. After finding and
bringing the lost heir to London, I
wrote to Atherton by Merrivale, de-
toiling all that old Thomeley had con-
fided to me, the contents of the will,
2md ray jom*ney into Lincolnshire. I
wrote, entreating him to see me ; to
let no cloud come between us, who
had been such close friends from boy-
hood, at such a moment; to turn a
deaf ear to all infiuence that might
suggest that I was acting otherwise
than I had always done toward him.
I wrote all the bitter sorrow of mj
heart at havmg been forced involun-
tarily to give evidence that might bo
turned against him; all the self-it>-
proach I felt for not having yielded to
his wish of returning home with mo
that terrible evening.
He answered me in cold distant
words, that under the circumstances
it was best we should not meet ; that
IVferrivaJe would act for him in all as
he judged best ; that he did not wish
to be disturbed again before his trial.
I showed the letter to Merrivale, and
he told me he could not make it out,
for that Hugh was quite unreserved
with him on all points save this, and
Digitized by CjOOQIC
752
Vhamvicted; OTy Old ThomcUifB Heirs,
to CYC17 Baggestioii he Had made io
him of seeing me, he hod invariably
given the same replj, and declined to
enter upon the Bubjcct. Then I had
recourse to Ada Leslie ; but she onlj
obtained the same result.
^I told him, guardian," she said,
" how true you were to him, how eai'-
nest and indefatigable in doing all jou
could for him, how sure I was that
jou loved him better than any thing
on earth. But all the answer I got
was, * No, Ada ; not better than any-
thing. Don't let us say anything more
on the subject' What can he mean ?
for I am sure he meant something
particular.**
TVas it hard to look in her face,
meet her clear trusting eyes, and ans*
wer back, " Tou were right, Ada ; he
is laboring under some delusion?"
Were they false words I spoke, my
own heart giving them the lie ? Thank
Grod, no. I was true to her, true to
him.
The time between my journey into
Lincolnshire and the day of the trial
seems, on looking back,* to be one
dead blank, inasmuch as, do what we
would, we were no nearer the solution
of the mystery after those three weeks
of research and watchfulness than we
were on the morning sacceeding the
murder. There were the prolonged
conferences of lawyera with counsel, of
counsel with prisoner, of both with the
detectives; and day by day I saw
Merrivale's face growing more care-
worn, stem, and anxious; I saw both
Inspector Keene's and Jones's baffled
looks; and — worse, far worse than
all — ^I saw Ada Leslie wasting away
before me, withering beneath the
blighting sorrow that had iailen upon
her young life. Oh ! the terrible an-
guish written upon that wan, worn
face that would be lifted up to mine
each time I saw her, the unspeakably
(>ainful eagerness of her tones as she
would ask, ^ la there any news ? ' and
the touching calmness of her despair-
ing look succeeding the answer which
blasted the hopes that kept cruelly
liamg in her breast only to be crushed I
So the morning |Of the 16th of
November dawned upon us. For the
defence Merrivale bad engaged two of
the most acute lawyers and mast elo-
quent pleaders then practising at the
English bar, Seigeaat Donaldson and
Mr. Forster, Q. G They were both
personal friends of Hugh Athertoo,
both equally convinced of his inno-
cence. On the part of the Crown the
Solicitor-General^ Sergeant Butler,
and a Mr. Frost were retained — all
eminent men. The judges aitting
were the Lord Chief-Justice and
Baron Watson. Although we arrived
very early, the Court was crowded to
sufibcation ; and it was only by help
of the police-officers and authorities
that wc could find entrance, although
engaged in the principal case coming
on. Special reporters of the press,
for London and the country, were
eagerly clamoring for seats in the re-
porters' bench; and even foreign
journals had sent over their ^own
correspondents," such a general atir
and sensation had the murder of Gil-
bert Thomeley made far and near.
Two or three trivial cases of em«
bezzlement and stealing came first be-
fore the Common Sergeant, whilst
preparations for the one great trial
were made, the witnesses collected,
and the counsel on either side hoUUng
their final conferences. At a quarter
to eleven the Chief-Justice, followed
by his brother judge, entered amidst
profound silence and took his seat.
They were both men who had grown
old and gray in the admmistration of
justice, who had for years sat in judg-
ment upon the guilty and the not
guilty*-men whose ears were familiar
with the details of almost eveiy
misery and crime known to human
nature — ^men who had had their own
griefs and trials ; and on the venera-
ble face of the superior judge many a
deep furrow had been left to tell its
tale, whether engraven by private sor-
row, or sympathy for the mass of woe
and Bufiering which passed so con-
stantly before his eyes. I had the
honor of being personally acquainted
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Uhcofwicted ; or. Old Thamde^s ffetrs.
753
with hie lordship. How well I ro-
membered an cv^ening, not bo long
ago, spent at his house with Hugh
Athcrton; when he, that eminent
judge, that distinguished lawyer, had
come up to me and talked of Hugh,
of his talents, his eloquence, his grow-
ing reputation ! I remembered the
sad, wistful expression of his eye as it
dwelt upon my friend, and the tone of
his voice, as he said with a deep sigh,
*• If my boy had lived, I could have,
wished him to have been such a one
as he" He remembered it also, if I
might judge from the sorrowful gravi-
ty of his countenance. I was standing
beside Merrivale beneath the prison-
er's dock, facing the ju^e^s chair;
and in a few moments there was a
rustle and stir throughout the court,
and I saw the Chief-Justice pass his
hand before his eyes for a brief sec-
ond. Then was heard the loud harsh
voice of the clerk of the court address-
ing some one before him :
" Philip Hugh Atherton, you stand
there charged with the wilful murder
of your uncle, Mr. Gilbert Thomeley.
How say you, prisoner at the bar —
are you guihy or not guilty ? '
A voice, low, deep-toned, and thril-
ling in its distinctness, replied : *^ Not
guilty, my lord; not guilty, so help
me, O my God !" and turning round,
once again my eyes met those of Hugh
Atherton.
A great change had been wrought
in him during tho last three weeks, he
had grown so thin and worn ; and
amongst the waving masses of his
diirk hair I could trace many and
many a silver thread. Twenty years
could not have aged him more than
these twenty days passed in that
felon^s cell, beneath the imputation of
that savage crime. Who could look
at him and think him guilty ; who
could gaze upon his open, manly face,
80 noble in its expression of mingled
firmness and gentleness, in its guileless
innocence and conscious rectitude of
purpose, and say, ^That man has
committed murder" ? My heart went
out to him, as I looked on his familiar
VOL. HI. 48
face once more, with all the love and
honor with which I had ever cherish-
ed his friendship.
A special jury were then sworn in.
All passed unchallenged; and the So-
licitor-General rose to open the case
for the prosecution, and began by re-
questing that all the witnesses might
be ordered to leave the court. It is
needless to say that I had been sub-
pcensed by the crown to repeat the
wretched evidence already given at
the inquest ; needless also to say that,
not being personally present during
the whole trial, I have drawn from
the same sources as before for an ac-
count of it
We had been given to understand
that no other witnesses than those ex-
amined before the coroner would be
called against the prisoner; why
should they want more? They had
enough evidence to bring down con-
demnation twice over. On. the part
of the defence I have before said up
to that morning nothing fresh had
been discovered that could in any way
be used as a direct refutation of what
had already been adduced, and would
be brought forward again on this day.
Affcer tho examination of the medi-
cal men I was called into the witnessr
box, and examined by the Solicitor^
General To my former evidence I
now added an account of what had
passed between myself and the mur-
dered man on the evening* of the 2dd,
the contents of the will, my journey
to the Grange, and the discovery of
Thomeley's idiot son. I likewise gave
an account of my visit with Jones to
Blue-Anchor lane. I noticed that this
was iU-received by the Crown counsel ;
but the judges overruled the Solici-
tor-GeneraVs attempt to squash my
statements, and insisted upon my hav-
ing a full hearing. At tlie end Seiv
geant Donaldson rose to cross-ques-
tion me.
''Did Mr. Thomeley mention in whose
favor his previous will had been made ?''
''He did not Simply that he in-
tended the will drawn up then to can-
cel all others."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
"54
Vncanmeted; or. Old TkonuAti^t Heirt,
^ Can yon remember the words in
T^hich ho alluded to his wife and son?"
"Perfectly; I wrote them in the
mem<H«iidam addressed to Mr. Ather-
ton, and which Mr. Merrivale baa
commonieated to yon."
The Chief-Justice: *^ Read the ex-
tract, brother Donaldson."
Sergeant Donaldson read as fol-
lows : ^ ^ Five-and-twenty years ago
I married one much younger than
myself, an orphan living with an aunt,
her only relative, and who died short-
ly after our marriage. My ruling
passion was speculation ; and I mar-
ried her, not for love, but for her for-
tune, which was large; I coveted it
for the indulgence of my passion.
She was not happy with me, and I
took no pains to make her happier.
Few knew of our marriage. I kept
her at the Grange till she died. Only
/and ofw other person were with her
at her death. She gave birth to one
child, a boy. Ho grew up an idiot,
and I hated him. But I wish to make
reparation to my dead wife in the per-
son of her son — ^not out of love to her
memory, but to defeat the plans of
others, and in exptatton of me wrong
done to her. I have never loved any
one in my life but my twin-sister,
Hugh Atherton's mother: and him
for her sake and his own.' And then,
my lord, follow the instructions for the
will given to Mr, Kavanagh." To
the witness: '*Did Mr. Thomeley
give you any clue to the * other per^
son* who was with him at hLs wife's
death r
"NoneatalL"
"When you met the prisoner in
Yere street, did he say he was going
to visit his uncle then?"
" No ; on the contrary, he seemed
anxious to oome home with me. I
should imagine it was an after-
thought."
"Mr. Wilmot has stated that you
volunteered to give evidence against
the prisoner: is it so?"
" No ; it is most false. I was sur-
prised by detective Jones into an ad-
mission; and when I found that it
would be used against Mr. Atherton^ 1
did all in my power to get (^attend-
ing the inquest'*
BeSxamined by the Solicitor-Gen-
eral: "It was against your consent
that the prisoner was engaged to yonr
ward Miss Leslie, was it not ^^
" Against my consent I Assuredly
not She bad my consent from the
beginning."
" You may go, Mr. Kavanagh."
The witness who succeeded ma was
the housekeeper. It was observed
that she did not maintain the same
calmness as at the inquest ; but her
evidence was perfectly consistent,
given perhaps with more eagerness,
but differing and varying in no essen-
tial point from her previous deposit
tions.
Questioned as to whether she had
been aware of Mr. Thomeley's mar-
riage, replied she had not, having al-
ways been in charge of his house in
town, first in the city and afterward
in Wimpole street. He had often
been from home for many weeks to-
gether, but she never knew where be
went.
Cross-examined. — Could swear she
had poured no ale out in the tumbler
before taking it into the study — ^Bar-
ker had been with her all the time —
nor yet in the room.
Sei^eant Donaldson : " Now, Mrs.
Haag, attend to me. How long have
you been a widow ?"
« Fifteen years."
" What was your husband ?"
' " A commercial traveller. He was
not successful, and I went into service
soon ai>er I married.''
" Had you" any children ?'*
" One son. He died.''
" When ?"
" Years ago.''
" How many years ago?"
" Twenty years ago.''
"Is Haag your married name ?"
"Yes."
" Did you bear the name 'of Brad-
ley?"
" I never bore such a name* I am
a Belgian ; so was my husband."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Vkcantneied; oTj Old Tkamde^s Heir$.
755
A^ paper was here passed in to Ser-
geant Donaldson, and handed bj him
to the jadges.
The Chief- Justice: <<This is a cer-
tificate of marriage celebrated at Plj-
raouth between Maria Haag, spinster,
and Robert Bradley, bachelor, dated
June, 18299 and witnessed in proper
l^al form."
Witness : ** I know nothing of it.
Mjr name is Haag bj marriage* I
am very faint ; let me go awaj.*
A chair and glass of water were
brought to the witness. In a few mo-
ments she had recovered and the
cross-examination was renewed.
^ How came it that yon were met
in the middle of Yere street, when, by
your own showing, you must then have
turned out of the street before Mr.
Kavanagh could have overtaken
your
'' Mr. Kavanagh did not meet me.
I liave fm said before. I went
straight home after passing him and
Mr. Atherton at the chemist's shop.
He is mistaken."
" "What took you to Peterborough
on the 80th of last month T'
" I went to visit a friend at Spald-
ing."
** How was it, then, that you return-
ed to London by the twelve o'clock
train the following day — ^I mean ar-
rived in London at that hour ?''
Witness hesitated for some time,
and at last looked up defiantly.
" What right have you to ask me
such a question ? '
Baron Watson: ^You are bound
to answer, Mrs. Haag.'*
Witness confusedly? "I did not
find my friend at home.**
Sergeant Donaldson: ^"Do you
mean to say you took that jouniey
with the duuice of finding your friend
away ?"
«Idid.'*
To the Chief-Justice : « My Iwd, I
am informed by Inspector Keene, of
the detective service, that Mrs. Haag
never visited Spalding at all; that she
took a ticket for Stixwould, at which
station she got out, and from which
station she retunied the following
day."
Baron Watson : ^ I don't see what
you are trying to prove, brother Do-
naldson."
^ I am trying to prove, my lord, that
Mrs. Haag is not a witness upon whose
veracity we can rely."
The Chief-Justice: << Yon must be
well aware, Mrs. Haag, that the mys-
tery of this second wiU, and discovery
cf your late master's son, bear direct
influence upon the charge of which the
prisoner is accused. I think it highly
necessary that you should be able to
give a clear account of that journey of
yours on the SOth of last month. For
your awn sake, do you understand ?"
Witness violently : " Of what do
you suspect me ? I have related the
truth.**
Sergeant Donaldson : ^ Excuse me,
my lord, I shall call two witnesses pre-
sently who will throw some light upon
this person's movements. I have no
further questions to put to her
now."
Barker the footman and the other
servants were next examined, and de-
posed as before, with no additions nor
variations.
Mr. Forster in cross-examination
drew from the cook a yet more confi-
dent declaration that she had heard
footsteps on the front-stairs leading
from the third to the second fioor on
the night of the murder. Also that
the housekeeper had ^ gone on awful
at her for saying so ; but she had
stuck to her word and told Mrs. 'Aag
as she wasn't a-gouig to be badgered
nor bullied out of her convictions for
any 'onsekeeper ; and that afterwards
Mrs. 'Aag had come to her quite soft
and civil, your lordships, and said,
^ Here's a suverin, cook, not to men-
tion what you heerd ; for if you says a
word about them steps, why,* says she,
* yottll just go and put it into them
lawyers* *eads as some of us did it,*
says she. But a oath's a oath, my
lordships ; and a being dose and con-
fined k what I could never abide or
abear ; and that's every bit the truth,.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
756
Uneonvided; or, Old ThomeUys Heirs.
and here's her saverin back again,
which I never touched nor broke
into."
Baron Watson: "On your oath,
then, jou deckre jon heard a footstep
on the front-etairs during the night
of the 23d but you don't know at what
hour?"
" As certain sure, my lord, as that
you are a sitthi' on your cheer."
After eliciting a few more confirma-
tory details, the witness was dismissed
and Mr. Wilmot called. Nothing fur-
ther was got out of him than what he
had stated before the coroner. Either
he was most thoroughly on his guard,
or he really was, as he professed to be,
ignorant of his cousin Thoiiielcy's ex-
istence up to the day of the funeral ;
ignorant of the contents of his uncle s
will, until it was opened at Smith and
Walker's; totally unacquainted with
the man Sullivan or De Yos ; innocent
of having written the note seized upon
the boy in Blue- Anchor Lane by de-
tective Jones, all knowledge of or
complicity with which he absolutely
and solemnly denied.
Questioned as to his motive for say-
ing that Miss Leslie had been refused
the consent of her guardian, Mr. Ka-
ranagh, to her marriage, replied he
had been distinctly told so by Mrs.
Leslie, who had mentioned also that
Mr. Kavanagh was attached to Miss
Leslie himself, and had tried to make
her break off the engagement.
Inspector Jackson and Thomas Da-
vis, the chemist, next gave evidence.
The latter was cross-questioned by
Sergeant Donaldson. Could not swe^ir
he did not leave the shop on the even-
ing of the 23d between the time when
he had sold the camphor and nine
o'clock, his supper-hour; had tried
hard to recollect since attending at the
inquest, and had spoken to his wife
And his assistant. The former thought
iie had; that she had heard him go
into the back-parlor whilst she was
down in the kitchen ; the latter had
said he had not left the shop until nine
o'clock. Ck>uld swear he had sold no
strychnine himself that day. The en-
try was, however, in his own hand-
writing. He had talked over the mat-
ter repeatedly with James Ball, his
assistant, but had gathered no light on
the subject. The latter had l^n in
a very odd state of mind since then.
The murder seemed to have taken
great effect upon him. He had be*
come very nervous, forgetful, and ab-
sent ; and he (Davis) had been obliged
to admonish him several times of late,
that if he went on so badly he must
seek another situation.
James Ball replaced his master in
the witness-box. He looked very hag-
gard and excited, and answered the
questions put to him, in an incoherent,
unsatisfactory manner, very different
from his conduct at the inquest. Ad-
monished by the Ghicf-justice that he
was upon his oath and giving evidence
iu a matter of life and death, had cried
out passionately that he wished he had
been dead before that wretched even-
ing. — Ordered to explain what he
meant, became confused, and said he
had felt ill ever since the inquesL
Cross-questioned by Mr. Forester :
** Docs your master keep an errand-
boy ?"
"Ycs.'^
" Was he in the shop on the even-
ing of the 23d ?"
" I don't remember."
^ Oh ! you don't remember I Do you
remember receiving a letter on the af-
ternoon of the 24th containing a Bank-
of-England £10 note ?"
" I did not receive any letter."
" But you received what is called an
'enclosure' of a £10 note, did you
not?'
No answer.
" Did you hear my question, sir ?
Did you or did you not receive it ?— on
your oath, remember !"
No answer.
The Chief-Justice : " You must an-
swer that gentleman, James BalL"
Still no answer.
The Chief-Justice : ** Once moro I
repeat my learned brother's question.
Did you or did you not receive that
£10 note on the 24th of October last?
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Unconvicted; or, Old Thomde^t Heirs,
757
If you do not answer, I shall commit
you for contempt of court.'*
Witness, defiantly : *» Well, if I did,
what's that to any one here ? I sup-
pose I can receive money from my
own mother."
Mr. Forster : " Tou know very well
that it did not come from your mother,
hut that it was hiAsh-money sent you hy
the person to whom you sold the grain
of strychnine on the evening of the 23d."
The Chief-Justice: "Is this so?
Speak the truth, or it will he the worse
for you."
Witness (in a very low voice) : " It
is."
Mr. Forster : " Who was the person ?"
"I don't know — indeed I don't;
but it wasn't Ae," (pointing to the pri-
soner.)
" Was it a man or a woman ?'
** A woman."
*'Was it the housekeeper?"
"I don't know."
The Chief-Justice : " Let Mrs. Haag
be summoned into court."
The housekeeper was brought in and
confronted with the witness. She was
unveiled, and she looked Ball steadily
in the face, the dangerous dark light in
her eyes.
The Chief-Justice : " Is that the
person?"
" No ; I can't identify her." (The
witness spoke with more firmness and
assurance than he had done.)
Mr. Forster, to Mrs. Haag : ** Is
this your handwriting ? ' (A letter is
passed to her.)
" No ; it is not"
" On your oath ?"
« On my oath."
"You can leave the court, Mrs.
Haaff."
"Now, witness, relate what took
place about that strychnine."
" A lady came into the shop that
evening, just before that gentleman
came in for the camphor, and asked
for a grain of strychnine. I refused
to sell it She said, ' It's for my hus-
band ; he's a doctor, and wants to try
the effect on a dog.' I said, * Who is
he T She said, < He's Mr. Grainger,
round the comer, at the top of Vere
Street.* I knew Mr. Grainger lived
there — a doctor. I thought it was all
right, and gave her one grain of strych-
nine. I said, ' I shall run round pre-
sently and see if it's all right' She
said, * Very well ; come now if you
like.' I made sure now more than
ever that it was all right. She paid
me and left the shop. I told my mas-
ter of selling it, along with a lot of
other medicines. In the morning I
heard that Mr. Thomeley had been
poisoned by strychnine, and in the
afternoon I received by post a ten-
pound note and that letter." — (Letter
read by Mr, Forster : " Say nothing,
and identify no one. You shall receive
this amount every month.") — "I
guessed then it was from the person
who had bought the strychnine, and
that they had murdered old Thomeley.
I am very poor, and my family needed
the money. That is all."
Mr. Forster : " I have nothing ftir-
ther to ask."
The Chief-Justice : " Remove the
witness, and let him be detained in
custody fijr the present."
The Solicitor-General : " This, my
lord, closes the evidence for the pro-
secution."
Sergeant Donaldson * then rose to
address the jury for the defence.
TO BK CX}IITI5DJO.
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I
J
758
JPiroUem of the A^
[oaioiHAL.]
PROBLEMS OF THE A6E«
n.
THB TRINTTT OfF PERSONS IKCLT7BBD IN
THE ONE DIYIKB ESSENCE.
The full explication of the First
Article of the Creed requires us to
anticipate two others, which are its
complement and supply the two terms
expressing distinctly the relations of
the Second and Third Persons to the
First Person or the Father, in theTrini*
ty. " Credo in Unum Deum Patrem,"
gives us the doctrine of the Divine
Unity, and the first term of the Trini*
ty, viz., the person of the Father.
^ £t in Unum Dominum Jesum Chmt-
um Filium Dei Unigenitum, et ex Pa«
tre natum ante omnia ssBcula ; Deum
de Deo, Lumen de Lumine ; Deum
Verum de Deo Vero ; Genitum non
Factum, consubstantialem Patri, per
quern omnia facta sunt:'' gives us the
second term or the person of the Son.
^ Et in Spiritum &mctum, Dominum
et Yivificantem, qui ex Patre Filio-
que procedit, quicum Patre et Filio
simul adoratur et conglorificacur :"
gives us the third term or the person
of the Holy Spirit Both these are
necessary to the explanation of the
term ** Patrem." The proper order is,
therefore, to begin with the eternal^
necessary relations of the Three Per-
sons to each other in the unity of the
Divine Essence, and then to proceed
with the operadons of each of the
Three Persons in the creation and
consummation of the Universe.
Our purpose is not to make a direct-
ly theological explanation of all that is
contained in this mystery, but only of
so much of it as relates to its credibil-
ity, and its position in regard to the
sphere of intelligible truth. With
this mystery begins that which k
properly the objective matter of reve-
lation, or the series of truths belonging
to a supeiwintelligible order, that is,
above the reach of our natural inteUi-
gence, i»x>po0ed to our belief on the
veracity of Giod. It is usually con-
sidered the most abstruse, mysterious,
and incomprehensible of all the
Christian dogmas, even by believers ;
though we may perhaps find Uiat the
dogma of the Licamation is really
farther removed than it from the
grasp of our understanding. Be that
as it may, the fact that it relates to
the very first principle and the prim-
ary truth of all religion, and appears to
confuse oar apprehension of it, name-
ly, the Unity of God— causes us to re-
flect more distinctly upon its incom-
prehensibility. Many persons, both
nominal Christians and avowed unbe-
lievers, declare openly, that in thdr
view it is an absurdity so manifestly
contrary to reason that it is absolute-
ly unthinkable, and, of course, utterly
incredible. How then is the relation
between this mystery and the self-
evident or demonstrable truths of
feason adjusted in the act of faith
elicited by the believer? What an-
swer can be made to the rational ob-
jections of the unbeliever? If the
doctrine be really unthinkable, it is
just as really incredible, and there
can be no act of faith terminated up-
on it as a revealed object. Of course,
then, no inquiry could be made as to
its relation with our knowledge, for
that which ir absurd and incapable
of being intellectually conceived and
apprehended cannot have any relation
to knowledge. It is impossible for
the human mind to believe at one and
the same time that a proposition is
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Problems of the Age.
759
directlj ooatraty to reason, and also
revealed by God. No amount of ex-
trinaic evidence will ever convince it.
Human reason cannot saj beforehand
what the truths of revelation are or
ought to be ; but it can saj in certain
respects what they cannot be. They
cannot be contradictory to known
truths and first principles of reason
.and knowledge. Therefore, when
they are presented in such a way to
the mind, or are by it apprehended in
such a way, as to involve a contradic-
tion to these first truths and princi-
ples, they cannot be received until
they are difierently presented or ap-
prehended, so that this apparent con-
tradiction is removed. This is so
constantly and clearly asserted by the
ablest Catholic writers, men above all
Buspicion for soundness in the faith,
that we will not waste time in proving;
it to be sound Catholic doctrine.* Of
course all rationalists, and most Pro-
testants, hold it as an axiom already.
If there are some Protestants who
hold the contrary, they are beyond the
reach of argument
The Catholic believer in the Trini-
ty apprehends the dogma in such a
way that it presents no contradiction
to his intellect between itself and the
first principles of reason or the prim-
ary doctrine of the unity of the divine
nature. God, who is the Creator
and the Light of reason, as well as
the author of revelation, is bound by
his own attributes of truth and justice,
when he proposes a doctrine as obliga-
tory on mith, to propose it in such a
way that the mind is able to appre-
hend and accept it in a reasonable
manner. This is done by the instruc-
tion given by the Catholic Church, with
whi<£ the supernatural illumination of
the Holy Spirit concurs. The Catho-
lic believer is therefore free from those
crude misapprehensions and miscon-
ceptions which create the difficulty in
the unbelieving mind. He appre-
hends in some degree, although it may
be implicitly and confusedly, the real
* See among others, Archbishop BCannliig oa the
Tomporal MImIoh of Xb» Uoljr Ohott.
sense and meaning of the mystery, as
it is apprehensible by analogy with
truths of the natural order. What it
is he apprehends, and what are the
analogies by which it can be made in-
telligible, will be explamed more fully
hereafter. It is enough here to note
the fact This apprehension makes
the mysteiy to him thinkable, or capa-
ble of being thought That is, it
causes the proposition of the mystery
in certain definite terms to convey a
meaniog to his mind, and not to be a
mere collocation of words without any
sense to him. It makes him appre-
hend what he is required to assent to,
and puts before him an object of
thought upon which an intellectual act
can be elicited. It presents no con-
tradiction to reason, and therefore
there is no obstacle to his giving the
full assent of faith on the authority of
God.
It L9 otherwise with one who has
been brought up in Judaism, Unitarian-
ism, or mere Rationalism ; or whose
merely traditional and imperfect ap-
prehension of Christian dogmas has
been so mixed up with heretical per-
versions that his mature reason has
rejected it as absurd. There is an
impediment in the way of his receiv-
ing the mystery of the Trinity as pro-
posed by the Catholic Church, and be-
lieving it possible that Grod can have
revealed it He may conceive of the
doctrine of the Trinity as affirming
that an object can be one and three in
the same identical sense, which de-
stroys all mathematical truth. Or he
may conceive of it, as dividing the di-
vine Bubstanoe into three parts, form-
ing a unity of composition and not a
unity of simplicity. Or he may con-
ceive (^ it as multiplying the divine
essence, or making three co-ordinate
deities, who concur and co-operate
with each other by mutual agreement
These conceptions are equally absurd
with the first, although it requires
more thought to discern their absurd-
ity. It is necessary then to remove
the apparent absurdity of the doctrine,
before any evidence of its being a re-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
760
Problems of the Age.
vealed trath is admissible. The first
miscoDception is so extremely crude,
that it is easily removed by the simple
explanation that unity and trinity
arc predicated of God in distinct and
not identical senses. The second,
which is hardly less crude is disposed
of by pointing out the explicit state-
ments in which the simplicity and in-
divisibility of the divine substance in
all of the Three Persons is invaria-
bly affirmed. The third is the only
real difficult, the only one which can
remain long in an educated and in-
structed mind. The objection urged
on theological or philosophical grounds
by really learned men against the
dogma of the Trinity, is, that it im-
plies Tritheism. The simplest and
most ordinary method of removing
this objection, is by presenting the ex-
plicit and positive affirmation of the
church that there is but one eternal
prmciple of self-existent, necessary
being, one first cause, one infinite
substance possessing all perfections.
This is sufficient to show that the
church denies and condemns Trithe-
ism, and affirms the strict unity of
Grod. But, the Unitarian replies, you
hold a doctrine incompatible with this
affijrmation, viz., that there are three
Divine Persons, really distinct and
equal. This is met by putting for-
ward the 4erm6 in which the church
affirms that it is the one, eternal, and
infinite essence of Grod which is in
each of the Three Persons. The
Unitarian is then obliged to demon-
strate that this distinction of persons
in the Godhead is unthinkable, and
that unity of nature cannot be
thought in connection with triplicity
of person. This he cannot do. The
relation of personality to nature is too
abstruse, especially when we are
reasoning about the infinite, which
transcends all the analogies of our
finite self-consciousness, to admit of a
demonstration proving absolutely that
unity of nature supposes unity of per-
son, and vice versa, as its necessary
correlative. The church affirms the
unity of substance in the Grodhead in
the clearest manner, sweeping away
all ground for gross misoonceptions of
a divided or multiplied deity; but
affirms also trinity in the mode of
subsistence, or the distinction of Three
Persons, in each one of whom the
same divine substance subsists com-
pletely. This affirmation is above
the comprehension of reason, but not
contrary to reason. Even tlnitarians,
in some instances, find no difficulty in
accepting the statement of the doc-
trine of the trinity made by our
great theologians, when it is distinct-
ly presented to them; and in the
beautiful Liturgical Book used in
some Unitarian congregations, the or-
thodox doxology, " Glory be to the
Father, and to the Son, and to the
Holy Ghost," has been restored.
The absurd misconception of what
the church means by the word Trinity
being once removed, the evidence that
her doctrine is revealed, or that God
affirms to us the eternal, necessaiy dis-
tinction of three subsistences in his in-
finite being, becomes intelligible and
credible. Reason cannot affirm the
intrinsic incompatibility of the proposi-
tion, Grod reveals himself as subsisting
in three persons, with the proposition,
there is one Grod ; and therefore cannot
reject conclusive evidence that he does
so reveal himself through the Catholic
Church. For aught reason can say,
he may have so revealed himself. If
satisfactory evidence is presented that
he has done so, reason is obliged, in
consistency with its principles, to exam-
ine and judge of the evidence, and as-
sent to the conclusion that the Trinity is
a revealed truth. This is enough for all
practical purposes, and as much as the
majority of persons are capable of.
But is this Ibe vUimatum of reason ?
Is it not possible to go further in show-
ing the conformity of the revealed
truth with rational truths ? Several em-
inent theologians have endeavored to
take this further step, and to oonstruct a
metaphysical argument for the doctrine
of the Trinity. Some of the great con-
templatives of the church, who are real-
ly the most profound and sublime oihex
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Problems of the Age.
761
theologians and philo6opher8> have also
through diyine illuminatioa appeared
to gain an insight into the depths of
this mystery. For instance, St. Igna*
tins and St Francis de Sales both af-
firm that the trath and the mutual hai^
monyof all the divine myBterieilwere
made evident to their intelligence in
contemplation. In modem times, Bos-
suet, Lacordaire, and Dr. Brownson
have reasoned profoundly on the ra-
tional evidence of the Trinity, and a
Boman priest, the Abbate Mastrofini,
has published a work entitled ^ Meta*
physica Sublimior," in which he pro-
poses as his thesis. Given divine revela-
tion, to prove the truth of all its dogmas
by reason. The learned and excellent
German priest Gihither attempted the
same thing, but went too far, and fell
into certain errors which were censur-
ed by the Boman tribunals, and which
he himself retracted. It is necessary
to tread cautiously and reverently, like
Moses, for we are* on holy ground, and
near the burning bush. We will en-
deavor to do so, and, taking for our
guide the decisions of the Church and
^e judgment of her greatest and wisest
men, to do our best to state briefly
what has been attempted in the way of
eliciting an eminent act of reason on
this great mystery, without trenching
on the domain of faith.
First, then, it is certain that reason*
cannot discover the Trinity of itself.
It must be first proposed to it by
revelation, before it can apprehend its
terms or gain anything to reason
upon. Secondly, when proposed, its
intrinsic necessity or reason cannot be
directly or immediately apprehended.
If it can be apprehended at all, it
must be mediately, or through analo-
gies existing iti the created universe.
Are there such analogies, that is, are
Uiere any reflections or representa-
tions of this divine truth in the
physical or inteUectual world fnm
which reason can construct a theorem
parallel in its own order with this
divine theorem ? Creation is a copy
of the divine idea. It represents
God as a mirror. Does it represent
him, that is, so &r as the human
intellect is capable of reading it, not
merely as he is one in essence, but
also as he is three in persons?
Assuming the Trinity as an hypothe-
sis, which is all we can do in arguing
with an unbeliever, can we point out
analogies or representations in crea-
tion of which the Trinity is the ultimate
reason and the infinite original? If
we can, do these analogies simply
accord and harmonize with the hypo*
thesis that Grod must subsist in three
persons, or do they indicate that this
is the most adequate or the only con-
ceivable hypothesis, or that it is the
necessary, self-evident truth, without
which the existence of these analogies
would be unthinkable and impossible ?
Do these analogies, as we are able to
discover them, represent an adequate
image of the complete Catholic dogma
of the Trinity, or only an inadequate
image of a portion of it ?
It is evident, in the first place, that
some analogical representation of the
Trinity must be made in order to give
the mind any apprehension whatever
of a real object of thought on which it
can elicit an act of faith. The terms
in which the doctrine is stated, as for
instance. Father, Son, Holy Spirit,
eternal generation, procession or
spiration, person, etc, are analogical
terms, representing ideas which are
otherwise unspeakable, by images or
symbols. It is impossible for the
mind to perceive that a proposed idea
is simply not absurd, without appre-
hending confusedly what the idea is,
and possessing some positive appre-
hension of its conformily to the logical,
that is, the real order. Every distinct
act of belief in the Trinity, therefore,
however mdimental and imperfectly
evolved into reflective cognition, con-
tains in it an apprehension of the
analogy between it and creation. If
we proceed,, therefore, to explicate this
confused, inchoate conception, we
necessarily proceed by way of expli-
cating the uialogy spoken of, because
we must proceed by explaining the
terms in which the doctrine is stated,
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762
PrMeau of A€ Age.
which are mialogifwl ; and bj pointing
oul what the analogy is which the
tenns designate. What is meant hj
calling God Father, Son, and H0I7
Spirit? Why is the relation of the
Son to the Father called filiation?
Why is the relation of the Holy Spirit
to both called procession? The
Nioena-Constandnopolitan and Athi^
nasian Creeds, all the other defini-
tions of the church respecting the
Trinity, and all Catholic theology
deduced from these definitions and
from Scripture and tradition by
rational methods, are an explication
of the significance of these analogical
terms* The only question which can
be raised then, is, in regard to the
extent of the capacity of human reason
to discern the analogy between
inward necessary relations of the
Godhead, and the outward manifesta*
tion of these relations in the creation*
The hypothesis of the Trinity assumes
that this analogy exists, and is to some
extent apprehensible* We will now
proceed to indicate the process by
which Catholic theologians show
this analogy, beginning with those
terms of analogy which lie in the ma-
terial order, and ascending to those
which lie in the order of spirit and in*
telligence*
First, then, it is argued, that the law
of generation in the physical world, by
which like produces like, represents
some divine and eternal principle*
Ascending from the lower manifesta-
tion of this law to man, we find this
physical relation of generation the
basis of a higher filiation in which the
soul participates. Man generates the
image of himself, in his son, who is
not merely his bodily offspring, but
similar and equal to himself in his
rational nature. As St. Paul says,
the principal of this paternity must be
in God, and must therefore be in him
essential and eternal. But this prin-
ciple of eternal, essential paternity,
within the necessary being of Grod, is
the very principle of distinct personal
relations.
Agab,the multiplicity of creation
indicates that there k some principle
in the Divine Nature, corresponding
in an eminent sense and mode to this
multiplicity* The relations of number
are eternal truths, and have some
infinite transcendental type in God*
If ikm^ were no principle in the
Divine Nature except pure, abstract
unity, there would be no original
idea, from which God could proceed
to create a universe ; which is neces-
sarily multiplex and constituted in an
infinitude of distinct relations, yet all
radically one, as proceeding from one
principle and tending to one end.
Here is an analogy indicating that
unity and multiplicity imply and pre-
suppose one the other.
These two arguments combine
when we consider the law of genera-
tion and the principle of multiplicity
as constituting human society and
building up the human race. Society,
love, mutual communion, reciprocal
relations, kind ofikes, diversity in
equality, constitute the happiness and
wellbemg of man ; they are an image
and a participation of the divine beati*
tude. All the good of the creature,
all the perfections of derived, contin*
gent existences, have an eminent tran-
scendental type in God. Love, friend-
ship, society, represent something in
the divine nature* If there were no
•personal relations in God, but a mere
solitude of being existing in a unity
and singularity exclusive of all plural-
ity and society, it would seem that,
supposing creation possible, the ra-
tional creature would copy his arche-
type, be single of his kind, and find
his happiness in absolute solitude*
It is otherwise, however, with the
human race* The human individual
is not single and solitary. Human
nature is one in respect of origin and
kind, derived from one principle
which is communicated by generation
and exists in plurality of persons. So-
ciety is necessary to the perpetuation,
perfecti<m, and happiness of the
human race* This society is oonsti*
tuted primarily in a three-fold relation
between the &ther, the mother, and
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PrMemi of ike Age.
768
the child, which makes die family;
and the family repeated and multiplied
makes the tribe, the nation, and the
race. Taking now the hypothesis of
three persons in one nature as consti-
tuting the Godhead, it is plain that
we have a clearer idea of that in God
which is represented and imitated in
human society, and which is the arche-
type cf the life, the happiness, the
love, existing in the communion of
distinct persons in one common nature,
than we can have in the hypothesis of
an absolute singularity of person in
the deity. That good which man en-
joys by fellowship with his equal and
his like, is a participation in the
supreme good that is in God. In that
supreme good, this participated good
must exist in an eminent manner.
God must have in himself infinite, all*
sufficing society, fellowship, love. He
must have it in his necessary and
eternal being, for he cannot be depen-
dent on that which is contingent and
created. Supposing therefore that it
is consistent with the unity of his
nature to exist in three distinct and
equal persons, not only is the analogy
of his creation to himself more manifest,
but the conception we can form of the
perfection of his being is more com-
plete and intelligibie.
There is another analogy in the
intellectual operation of the human
mind. The intellectiTC faculty gene-
rates what may be called the interior
word, or image of the mind, the arche*
type of that which is outwardly ex-
pressed in a philosophical theory, a
poem, a picture, a statue, or a work
of architecture. Through this word,
the great creative mind lives and
attains to the completion and hap-
piness of intellectual existence. It
loves it as proceeding from and identi*
cal with itself. Through it, it acts upon
other minds, controls and influences
their thought and life ; and thus the
spirit proceeding from the creative
mind, through its generated word, is
the completion of its inward and out*
ward operation* Thus, ai^e the
theolo^ans, the Father contemplaHng
the infinitude of his divine essence
generates by an infinite thought, the
Word, or Son. Being infinite and
uncreated, his necessary act is infinite
and uncreated, in all respects equal to
himself, and therefore the Word is
equal to the Father; possesses the
plenitude of the divine essence, intel-
ligence and personality. The divine
act of generation is not a purely ihtel*
lectual cognition, but a contemplation
in which love is joined with knowledge.
The Father beholds the Son, and die
Son looks back upon the Father, with
infinite love, which is the spiration of
the divine life. This spiration or spirit,
proceeding from the Father and the
Son, is the consummating, completing
term of their unity, and contains the
divine being which is in the Father
and the Son in all its plenitude ; con-
stitutmg a third person, equal to the
first and second. The operation of a
limited, finite, created soul presents
only a faint, imperfect analogy of the
Trinity, because it is itself limited, as
being the operation of a soul partici-
pating in being only to a limited ex-
tent. Individual existences possess
each one a limited portion of being.
But in God, it is not so. There is no
division in his nature, because the
eternal, self-existing cause and princi-
ple of its unity is a simultaneous
cause of its absolute plenitude by
which it exhausts all possible being.
This plenitude of being is in the eter-
nal generation of the second person,
and the eternal spiration of the third
person in the Godhead, on account of
the necessary perfection of the most
pure act in which the being of God
consists ; wherefore personality is pre-
dicable, as one of the perfections of be-
ing, of each of the three terms of
relation in God. The wordof human
reason and its spirit, are not equal
to itself, or personal, because of the
limited and imperfect nature of human
reason, and its operations. The Word
or Son of the Eternal Father, and the
Holy Spirit, are equal to him and
personal, because the Father is Gk)d,
and his act is infinite*
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PrMem$ of the Age.
This prepares the waj for a difier-
ent method of presenting tha argu-
ment from analogy, based on the con-
ception of Grod as achu purissimus, or
most pure act. This is clearly and
succinctly stated by Dr. Brownson as
follows :
" The one, or naked and empty unity, even
in the Unitarian mind ia not the eqaivalcnt
of God. When he says one, he still asks,
one what ? The answer is, one God, which
im)>ric8 even with him something more than
unity. It implies unity and its real and nec-
essary contents as living or actual b^ng.
Unity is an abstract conception formed by
the mind operating on the intuition of the
concrete, and as abstract, has no existence
out of the mind conceiving. Like all abstrac-
tions, it is in itself dead, unreal, null. God
is not an abstraction, not a mere generaliza-
tion, a creature, or a theorem of the human
mind, but one living and true God, existing
from and in himself, aM eiin ae. He is real
being, being in its plenitude, eternal, inde-
pendent, self-living, and complete in himself.
To live is to act To be eternally and infin-
itely living is to be eternally and infinitely
acting, is to be all act; and hence philo-
sophers and theologians term God, in schol-
astic language, most pure act, actut purim-
mm. But act, all act demands, as its essen-
tial conditions, principle, medium, and end.
Unity, then, to be actual being, to be eter-
nally and purely act in Itself, must have in
itself the three relations of principle, medi-
um, and end, precisely the three relations
termed in Christian theology Father, Son,
and Holy Ghost — the Father as principle,
the Son as medium, and the Holy Ghost as
end or consummation of the divine life.
These three interior relations are essential to
the conception of unity as one living and true
God. Hence the radical conception of God
as triune is essential to the conception of
God as one God, or real, self-living, self-suf-
ficing unity. There is nothing in this Tiew
of the Trinity that asserts that one is three,
or that three are one; nor is there anything
that breaks the divine unity, for the triplici-
ty asserted is not three Gods, or three divine
beings, but a threefold Interior relation in the
interior essence of the one God, by virtue of
which he is one actual, living God. The rda^
tions are in the essence of the one God, and
are so to speak the living contents of his
unity, without which he would be an empty,
unreal abstraction ; one — ^nothing." *
Tliere is still another way of stat-
ing the argument, founded on the nec-
essary relation between subject and
object. In the rational order, subject
• Brownson's Bevl«w, July, 184B, pfx SM,S9T.
is that which apprehends and object
that which is apprehended. Intelli-
gence is subject and the intelligible
is object The mere power or ca-
pacity of intelligence, if it is conceiv-
ed of in an abstract manner as exist-
ing alone without relation to its object,
must bo conceived of as not in actual
exercise. Intelligence in act implies
something intelligible which terminates
the act of intelligence. Even supposing
that the object of the intelligence is
identical with the subject, that is, that
the rational mind contemplates itself
as a really existing substance, never-
theless there is a distinction between
the mind considered as the subject
which contemplates, and the mind
considered as the object which is con-
templated. The reason contemplated
must be projected before itself and re-
garded as an object distinct from the
contemplating reason in the act of
contemplation. The eye which sees
objects external to itself, does not act-
ually see or bring its visual power into
act until an object is presented before
it; and the individual does not be-
come conscious that he can see or is
possessed of a visual faculty, except
in the act of seeing an object. The
eye cannot see itself imm^ately by
the mere fact that it is a visual organ,
but only sees itself as reflected in a
mirror and made objective to itself.
God is the absolute intelligence and
the absolute intelligible, as has been
proved in a previous chapter. He
contemplates and comprehends him-
, self, and in this consists his active be-
ing and life. Thus in the divine be-
ing there is the distinction of Bulject
and object God considered as infin-
ite intdligence is subject, and consid-
ered as the infinite intelligible is his
own adequate object The hypothe-
sis of the Trinity presents to us God
as subject for intelligence in the per-
son of the Father, as object, or the in-
telligible, in the person of the Son.
The Son is the image of the Father,
as the reflection of a man's form in the
mirror is the image of himself. The
eternal generatioa of the Son is the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ProUems of the Age,
765
eternal act of the Father contemplat-
ing his own being, and is terminated
upon the person of the Son as its ob-
ject As this act is within the divine
beingf the image of the Father is not a
merely phenomenal, apparent, unsub-
stantial reflection of his being, but
real, living, and substantial. The Son
is consubsiantial with the Father.
The being of God is in the act of in-
telligence or contemplation, whether
we consider God as the subject or the
object in this infloite act, that is, as in-
telligent and contemplating, or as in-
tcUigible and contemplated. The con-
summating principle of love, com-
placency, or beatitude, which com-
pletes this act, vivifies it, and unites
the person of the Father with the
person of the Son in one indivisible
being, is the Holy Spirit, equal to the
Father and the Son, and identical in
being, because a necessary term of the
most pure act in which the divine life
and being consists. All that is with-
in the circle of the necessary, essen-
tial being of Grod, as most pure, intel-
ligent, living act, is uncaused, self-
exlstcnt, infinite, eternal. By the
hypothesis, we must conceive of God
as subsisting in the three persons,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, in or-
der to conceive of him as 6ns in actUj
or in the state of actual, living, con-
crete being, and not as a mere ab-
straction or possibility existing in
thonght only ; as infinite intelligenoe,
and the adequate object of his own in-
telligence, self sufficing and infinitely
blessed in himself. Therefore the
Father is Grod, the Son is God, and
the Holy Ghost is God. It is only
by this triplicity of personal relations
that the unity of God as a living, con-
crete unity, or the unity of one, abso-
lute, perfect, infinite being, containing
in himself the actual plenitude of all
that is conceivable or possible, can
subsist or be vividly apprehended.
Therefore there cannot be, by the
hypothesis, a separate and distinct
Godhead in each of the three per-
sons, since triplicity of person enters
into the very essential idea of God-
head. The hypothesis of the Trinity,
therefore, absolutely compels the mind
to believe in the unity of God, and
shuts out all possibility that there
should be more Gods than one, be-
cause it shuts out all possibility of im-
agining any mode or form of necessa-
ry being which is not included in the
three personal reladons of the one
Grod. Unity and plurality, singulari-
ty and society, capacity of knowing,
loving, and enjoying the true, the beau-
tiful, and the good, and the adequate ob-
ject of this capacity, or the true, beauti-
ful, and good in se, the subject and
the object of intell%ent and spiritual
life and activity, intelligence and the
intelligible, love and the loved, bless-
edness and beatitude, subsist in him in
actual being, which is infinite and ex-
hausts in its most pure act all that is
in the uncreated, necessary, self-exist-
ent principle of being and first cause.
The adequate reason and type of all
contingent and created existences is
demonstrated also to be in the three
personal relations of the one divine
essence, in such a way, that the hypo-
thesis of the Trinity, as a theorem, sat-
isfactorily takes up, accounts for, and
explains all discoverable truths as
well in regard to the universe as in
regard to God.
This last statement indicates the
answer which we think is the most
correct one to the question proposed
in the beginning of this chapter, as to
the full logical force of the rational
argument for tl&e Trinity. That is,
we regard it as a hypothesis which in
the first place is completely insuscep-
tible of rational refutation. In the
second place, contains certain truths
which are established by very strong
probable arguments and analogies.
In the third place, suggests a concep-
tion of God which harmonizes with
all the truth we know, or can see to be
probable, and at the same time is more
perfect and sublime than any which
can be made, excluding the hypothe-
sis. We do not claim for it the char-
acter of a strict demonstration. To
certain minds it seems to approach
Digitized by CjOOQIC
766
ProhUms of the Age*
vciy near a demonstration^ probably
becaase their intellectual power of
Tision is unusuallj acute. To others
it appears nearly or quite unintelligible.
Probably but few persons comparar
tiyely can grasp it in such a way as to
attain a true intellectual insight into
the relation between the doctrine of
the Trinity and philosophy. Yet all
those who have thought much on
the doctrine, and who find their great
difficulty in belieying it to consist in a
want of apparent connection with other
truths, ought to be able to appreciate
the philosophical argument by which
the connection is shown. They must
have an aptitude for apprehending
arguments of this nature, otherwise
they would not think on the subject so
intently. All they can justly expect
is that the impediment in their minds
against believing that the doctrine is
credible, or not incredible, supposing
it revealed, should be removed. This
is done by the arguments of Catholic
theologians. If the doctrine be re-
vealed, it is credible ; that is, an in-
telligent person can in perfect consist-
ency with the dictates of reason as-
sent to the proposition that God has
revealed it, and that it is therefore
credible on his veracity. The ground
of the positive and unwavering assent
of the mind is in the veracity of God,
and remains there, no matter how far
the reasoning process may be carried ;
for without the revelation of Grod, the
conception of the Trinity, supposing
it once obtained, would for ever remain
a mere hypothesis, though the most
probable of all which could be con-
ceived.
As already explained, it is only by
a supernatural grace that the mind is
elevated to a state in which it cleariy
and habitually contemplates the object
of faith as revealed by Grod. By di-
vine faith, the intellect believes with-
out doubting the mystery of the three
persons in one divine nature, and in-
corporates this belief into its life, as a
vivifying trutb and not a dead, inert,
abstract speculation or theorem. When
it 18 thus believed, and taken as a cer-
tain trath, the intellect, if it is capable
of apprehending the argument from
analogy, may be able to see that the
Trinity is really that truth which is
the archetype that has been copied in
creation, and is indicated in the analo-
gies ah'eady pointed out It may see
that one cannot think logically unless
he is first instructed in the doctrine
of the Trinity and proceeds from it as
a given truth or datum of reasoning.
Thus, he may by the light of faith
attain an elevated kind of science, or
eminent act of reason, which really
rests on indubitable principles. Yet
it will not be properly science or
knowledge of the revealed mysteries,
since one of these indubitable princi-
ples on which all the consequences
depend, is revelation itself, which
really constitutes the mind in a cer-
titude of that which on merely rational
principles remains always inevident
Probably this is what is meant by
those who maintain that the Trinity
can be rationally demonstrated. Given,
that the Trinity is a revealed truth, it
explains and harmonizes in the sphere
of reasoq what is otherwise inexpli-
cable. It is the same with other re-
vealed truths, and to prove that it is
so is the principal object of this essay.
Presented in this light, the Catholic
dogma of the Trinity vindicates it3
claim to be a necessary part of re-
ligious belief; an essential dogma of
Christianity, revealed and made obli-
gatory for an intelligible reason, and
essential to the formation of a com-
plete and adequate theology and phi-
losophy. It is no longer regarded as
a naked, speculative, isolated propo-
sition; to which a merely intellectual
assent is required by a precept of au-
thority, and which has no living rela-
tion to other truths or to the practical,
spiritual life of the souL It is shown
to be a universal and fundamental
truth, the basis of all truth and of the
entire real and logical order of the
universe.
This can be shown much more
easily, and to the majority of minds
more intelligibly, in relation to the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PrMeiM of the Age*
767
other truths of Christianitj, than to
those truths which are more recondite
and metaphjsicaL It is necessary to
an adequate explication of the creation,
of the destiny of rational existences,
of the supernatural order, of the char-
acter and mission of Christ, of the
i*egeneration of man through him, and
of his final end or supreme and eter-
nal heatitude and glorification in the
future life, as will be shown hereafter.
Deprived of this dogma, Christianitj
is baseless, unmeaning, and worthless ;
and is infallibly disintegrated and re-
duced to nihilism, by the necessary
laws of thought. This is true also of
theism, or natural theology. And
this suggests a powerful subsidiary
argument in a different line of reason-
ing, proving that the doctrine of the
Trinity is necessary to the perfection
and perpetuity of the doctrine of the
unity of God.
The same universal tradition which
has handed down the pure, theistic
conception, and has instructed man-
kind in the true, adequate knowledge
of God, has handed down the Trinity,
and traces of it are even found in
heathen theosophy and the more pro-
found heathen philosophy. Wherever
the doctrine of the Trinity has been
preserved, there the clear conception
of the one God and his attributes has
been preserved. And where this doc-
trine has been corrupted or lost, the
conception of Grod as one living being
of infinite perfection, the first and final
cause of all things, has passed away into
polytheism or pantheism or scepti-
cism. Wherever Crod is apprehended
as the supreme creator and sovereign,
the supreme object of worship, obe-
dience, and love, in Intimate personal
relations to man, he is apprehended
in the personal relations which Bubsist^
in himself, that is, in the Trinity. His
interior personal relations are the
foundation of all external personal re-
lations to his creatures. This is even
true of Unitarians, so long as they re-
tain the Christian ethical and spiritual
temper which connects them with the
Christian world of thought and life,
and do not slide into some form of in-
fidelity. They retain some imperfect
conception of the relations of Father^
Son, and Holy Ghost, and in propor-
tion as they become more positive
in religion, they revive and renew
this conception. The effort to make
a system of living, practical theistic
religion is feeble and futile, and what
little consistency and force it has is
derived from the conception of the
fatherhood of God borrowed from
Christian theol<^y; but imperfect
without the two additional terms
which constitute the complete con-
ception of the Trinity. All this is a
powerful argument for a Theist or a
Unitarian in favor of the divine origin
and authority of the Catholic dogma.
The instruction which completes the
inward affirmation of God in the idea
of reason, and is the complement of
the creative act constituting the soul
rational^ must be from the Creator.
He alone can complete his own work.
It is contraiy to all rational concep-
tions of the wisdom of Gk>d to sup-
pose that he has permitted that the
same instruction which teaches man-
kind to know, to worship, to love, and
to aspire after himself, should hand
down in inseparable connection with
the eternal truth of the unity of his
essence, the doctrine of the threefold
personal relations within this unity, if
this were an error diametrically its op-
posite, and not a truth equally neces-
sary and eternal.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
768
Cairo and the Franciican Mtuiani an the Nile.
From The Month. •
CAIRO AND THE FRANCISCAN MISSIONS ON THE NILE.
On the 25th November, 186—, a
small but crowded steamer was seen
ploughing its way through the waves
at the entrance to the port of Alexan-
dria. Its living freight was of a mot-
lej description : there were the usual
proportion of Indian passengers — ^In-
dian officera returning with their wives
af^er sick-leave ; engineer officers go-
ing out to lay down the electric tele-
graph—one of whom, young in years
but old in knowledge, whose distin-
guished merit had already raised him
to the first place in his profession, was
never again destined to ^sec his native
shores. Then there were others seek-
ing health, and about to exchange the
damp, foggy climate of England for
the warm, dry, invigorating air of Nu-
bia and the Upper Nile. They had
had a horrible passage, in a small and
badly-appointed steamer, of which all
the port-holes had to be closed on ac-
count of the gale, leaving the wretched
inhabitants of the cabins in a state of
suffocation difficult to describe. So
that it was with intense joy that the
jetty was at last reached ; and in the
midst of a noise and confusion impos-
sible to describe, the passengers were
landed on the dirty quay, and were
dragged rather than led into the car-
riages which wete to convey them to
the hotel. It was the feast of St
Catharine, the patron saint of Alex-
andria, to whom the great cathedral is
dedicated; and in consequence the
town was more than usually gay.
Towards evening a beautiful proces-
sion was formed, and Benediction sung
in the cathedral, which is served by
the Lazarist fathers. It was the
best day to arrive at Alexandria, and
the prayers of the virgin saint and
martyr were earnestly invoked by
some of the party for a blessing on
their voyage and a safe and happy re-
turn.
To one who has been for a long
time in the East, Alexandria appears
a motley collection of ha]f European,
half Arabian houses, and the refuse
of the populations of each ; but on
first landing, eveiything appears new,
beautiful, and strange. The long files
of camels, the veiled women, the vari-
ety of the dresses are all striking;
but the one thing which even the most
hackneyed Nile traveller cannot fail
to admire is the vegetation. Enor-
mous groves of date-palms and ba-
nanas, with an nnderwood of poncet-
tias, their scarlet leaves looking like
red flamingos amid the dark-green
leaves, and ipomeas of every shade —
lilac, yellow, and above aU turquoise-
blue — climbing over every ruined
wall, and exquisite in color as in form,
delight an eye accustomed to see such
things carefully tended in hothouses
only, or paid for at the rate of five
shillings a spray in Covent Garden.
The sisters of Charity of St. Vincent
de Paul have two very large establish-
ments here— one a hospital, to which
is attached a large dispensary, at-
tended daily by hundreds of Arabs;
the other a school and orphanage of
upwards of 1000 children. There
^are thirty-seven sisters, and their work
is bearing its fruit, not only among
the Christian but the native population.
To our English travellers the very
sight of their white " comettes** was
an assurance of love and kindness and
welcome in this stnuige land ; and it
was with a glad and thankfxd heart
that they found themselves once more
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Cairo and the Franci$ean Missions on the 2/ile,
769
kneeling in their chapel, and felt that
no bond is like that <k charity, uniting
as in one great family every nation
upon earth.
After a couple of days' rest, oar
English party started by the railroad
for Cairo. This journey was not as
commonplace as it sounds ; for at each
Station the train was besieged by
Arabs, clamoring for passages, be-
tween 300 and 400 at a time ; so diat
it required all the efforts of the guards
and their dragoman to preyent their
carriage being taken from them by
main force. The beauty of Cairo is
the theme of every writer on Egypt
and the Nile ; but it would be impos-
sible to exaggerate its extreme pic*
turesqueness, the exquisite carving of
its mosques and gateways ; ihe orien-
tal character of its narrow streets and
bazaars and courts ; the beauty of the
costumes, and of the fretted lattice
casements overhanging the streets;
the gorgeous interior fittings of the
mosques, one of which is entirely lined
with oriental alabaster; the magnifi-
cent fountains in the outer courts of
each ; the graceful minarets — all seen
in the clearness and beauty of this
perfectly cloudless sky, leave a pic-
ture in one*s mind which no subse-
quent travel can efface. Outside the
town is a perfect ** city of the dead ;"
all the pashas and their families are
interred there, and people *^live
among the tombs,** as described in the
Gospels; while on Fridays the Mo-
hammedans have services there for
their dead, *^ that they may be loosed
from their sins ;" one of those curious
fragments of Christianity which are
continually cropping out of this strange
Mohammedan worship.
One of the most interesting expe-
ditions made by our travellers was to
Heliopolis. They passed through a
sandy plain fiill of cotton, date-palms,
and bananas, and by a succession of
miserable native huts, (which consist
of mud walls, with a roof of Indian
com, and a hole left in the wall for
lig^t,) until they came to an obelisk,
and from thence to a garden, in the
VOL. lu. 49
centre of which is a sycamore tree,
carefully preserved, under which the
Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph are
said to have rested with the iniant
Saviour on their flight into Egypt
It is close to a well of pure water,
and surrounded with the most beauti-
fhl roses and Egyptian jasmine. The
Mohammedans have the greatest ren-
eration for the <' Sitt Miriam,'' as they
call the Blessed Virgin. They prore
her immaculate conception frofkn the
Koran, and keep a fast of fifteen days
before the Assumption ; therefore no
surprise was felt at seeing the care
with which this grand old tree is tend-
ed and watered by them.
Another expedition made by the
travellers was to Old Cairo, where,
near the famous Nilometer, is the Cop-
tic convent and chapel built over the
house of the Blessed Vir^n and St.
Joseph, where they are said to have
lived for two years with otu: Blessed
Lord. There are some very beautiful
ancient marble columns and fine olive-
wood carvings, inlaid with ivory, in
this church, and a staircase leads down
to the Virgin's House, which is now
partly under water from the rise of
the Nile. It is curious how persist-
ently all early tradition points to this
spot as the site of our Saviour's Egyp-
tian sojourn, and it was with a feeling
of simple faith in its authenticity that
one of the party knelt and strove to
realize this portion of the sacred in-
fancy. .
There are three Catholic churches
in Cairo, the cathedral being a fine
large building. The sisters of " the
Grood Shepherd'* have also a large
convent near the cathedral, and an ad-
mirable day-school and orpluinage.
Many dark-eyed young girls whom
our travellers saw kneeling at benedic-
tion there had been re^ued by the
kind Mother from worse than Egyp-
tian slavery. The condition of the
"fellahs," or lower orders, in Egypt,
is appalling from its misery and deg-
radation; and the good sisters have
veiy uphill work to humanize as well
as christianize these poor children*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
770
Cairo and the Franeitctm MUtunu on Ae 2Kk*
Nothing can be more wretdied than
the position of the women, eFpedallj
throughout Egypt. If at all good-
looking, thej are brought up for the
harems; if not, thej are kept as
^hewers of wood and drawers of
water ;" and the idea of their having
$oul$ seems as little believed by the
Mohammedan as by the Chinese,
wliose incredulity on the subject the
Abb6 Hue mentions so amusingly in
his missionary narrative.
Before leaving Cairo ^kie English
ladies were invited to spend an even-
ing in the royal harem, and according-
ly at eight o'clock found themselves
in a beautiful garden, with fountains,
lit by a multitude of variegated lamps,
and conducted by black eunuchs
through trellis-covered walks to a
large marble-paved hall, where about
forty Circassian slaves met them and
escorted them to a saloon fitted up
with divans, at the end of which re-
clined the pasha's wives. One of them
was singularly beautiful, and exquis^
itely dressed, in pink velvet and er>
mine, with priceless jewels. Another
very fine Bgure was that of the moth-
er, a venerable old princess, looking
exactly like a Rembrandt just come
out of its frame. Great respect was
paid to her, and when she came in,
eveiy one rose. The guests being
seated, or rather squatted, on the di-
van, each was supplied with long pipes,
coffee in exquisite jewelled cups, and
sweetmeats, the one succeeding the
other, without intermission, the whole
night. The Circassian slaves, with
folded hands and downcast eyes, stood
before their mistresses, to supply their
wants. Some of them were very
pretty, and dressed with great richness
and taste. Then began a concert of
Turkish instruments, which sounded
unpleasing to English ears, followed
by a dance, which was graceful and
pretty ; but this again followed by a
play, in which half the female slaves
were dressed up as men, and the coarse-
ness of which it is impossible to de-
scribe. The wife of the foreign min-
ister kindly acted as interpreter for
the English ladies, and through her
means some kind of conversation was
kept up. But the ignorance of the
ladies in the harem is unbelievable.
They can neither read nor write;
their whole day is employed in dress-
ing, bathing, eating, drinking, and
smoking. The soiree lasted till two
in the morning, when the royalty with-
drew, and the English ladies returned
home, feeling the whole time as if
they had been seeing a play acted
from a scene in the Arabian Ni^^ts,
so difficult was it to realize that such
a way of existence was possMe in
the present century.
The Sunday before they left, curioe-
ity led them after mass to witness the
gorgeous ceremonial of the Coptic
Church. The men sat on the ground
with bare feet, the women in gidleries
above the dome, behind screens. The
patriarch — who calls himself the suc-
cessor of St. Mark, and is the leader of
a sect whose opinions are almost identi-
cal with those condemned by the coun-
cil of Chalcedon as the Eutychian
heresy — ^was gorgeously attired in a
chasuble of green and gold, with a sil-
ver crosier in one hand, (St George
and the dragon being carved on the
top,) and in the other a beautiful gold
crucifix, richly jewelled, wrapped in a
gold-coloi*ed handkerchief, which every
one stooped to kiss, Afler the read-
ing of the gospel and the creed, the
people join^ with great fervor in the
litanies ; and then began the consecra-
tion of the sacred species, which lasted
a very long time. The holy eucharist
was given in a spoon to each commu-
nicant, the bread being dipped in the
wine, and the patriarch laying his
hand on the forehead of each person
while he gave the blessing. At the
same time, blessed bread stamped with
a cross, and with the name of Christ,
was handed round to the rest of the
congregation, like the pain henit in
village churches in France. The
Copts boast that there has never been
the slightest alteration in their reli-
gious rites since the fourth centu-
ry, and they are undoubtedly the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Cairo and the JFirmcHcm MaianM on the Nik.
771
onlj desoendonts of the ancient
£gyptiaiM.
The following morning a portion <^
our travellen started by train for Sues,
across a waving, billowy*looking tract
of interminable sand. Except the
^ half-way hoose," (a miserable shed,)
there is no human habitation all Che
way, and nothing to be seen but long
files of camels slowly wending their
way across the desert. Aflter enjoy-
ing for a few minutes the first sight of
the Red Sea, the consul obligingly
lent them horses to ride to the Lesseps
Canal, which was then completed to
within six miles of Suez. Upward of
5000 Arabs had been pressed into the
seryioe by the pasha, and the poor
creatures were toiling under the burn-
ing sun, with no pay and wretched food,
and, when ni^ht came, sleeping under
the banks. The mortality among them
was fiightful ; but it was in this way
that the pasha paid for his shares!
Our travellers tasted the water, the
first that had ever been brought to
Suez, except by camels, or, of late, by
the water-train. It is difficult to real-
ize the fact of a town of this size being
entirely without fresh water until now,
which accounts for the absence of the
least kind of vegetation. The next
morning a steamer took our party early
to the wells of Moses, about nine miles
up the gulf, where they landed, being
carried through the surf by the Chinese
rowers. Each of the wells is enclosed
in a little fence, and belongs to a Suez
merchant. It is a wonderful spot, so
green and so lovely in the midst of
such utter desolation. There are dates
and banians, roses and pomegranates,
salads and other vegetables, all growing
in the greatest luxuriance. Long
strings of camels fded across the sand
on their way to Mount Sinai, and the
coloring of the mountains was exquis-
ite. The shore was covered with coral
and shells. Af^er spending an hour
or two there, and reading the Bible ac-
count of the spot, our travellers re-
tamed to the ship, and went across
the gulf to see the exact place where
the Israelites crossed the Bed Sea
when pursued by Pharaoh. The view
was beautiful, and the Hill of Barda
stood out brightly with its jagged
points dear and purple agunst the
glowing sky. The Catholics have a
small church at Suez> but are building
a larger one, as their mission is great*-
ly on the increase.
Our travellers returned that even-
ing to Cains and for the first time
s^>t on board their boats, or dc^
bieh. The first sensation was of dis-
comfort at the smallness of the cabins ;
but soon they got used to their floating
homes, and the beauty of the weather
enabled them to live all day long on
the awning-covered poop ; so that they
soon ceased to feel cramped and un-
comfortable. The following day, the
wind being contrary, Latifa Pasha, the
head of the 4^i^ty, gave them a
steamer to tow them up to Gizeh, from
whence they were to visit the Pyra-
mids. The excessive depth of each stone
makes the ascent an arduous one for
women; but the view amply repays
one for the exertion. On one side is
the interminable desert ; on the other,
the fertile " Land of Goshen." Owing
to the recent inundations, the party
had continually to dismount from
their donkeys and be carried across
the water on men's backs. The next
few days passed quickly, our travel-
lers landing every morning to walk
and sketch, while the men were ^' track-
ing'^ along the shore, and making ac-
quaintance with all the people and
places of interest as they passed.
At El-Atfeh was a remarkable der-
vish of the tribe they had seen ^ danc-
ing" in Cairo, who showed them his
house, in the court of which was the
tomb of his predecessor, hung with
ostrich-eggs, canoes and other votive
offerings, but hideously painted in
bright green. At Bibbeh there was
a very fine Coptic church, with a pic*
ture of SL George and the Dragon,
who is the favorite saint throughout
the East, and venerated alike by
Ouristian and Moslem. Again, on
their way to Minieh, they passed by a
fine Coptic convent on the top of a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
772
Cairo and tke Franeiaean MKmoru om ike Mis.
cliff, and two of the monks ■warn to
the hoatfl to ask for ahns and offerinjVBy
which are never reilised them. On
the 20th December they reached
Sawada, which is a village somewhat
inland^ bat containing a large Coptic
convent and church, served hy six
priests, and with a congregation of up-
wards of 1000 Christians. It was
also an important borial-place, and
there were maltitodes of little domes
looking like children's sand-basins
reversed, but each surmounted with a
cross. One of the ladies was sketch*
ing this picturesque village from a
palm^^rove at the entrance of the
principal gateway, when a venerable
priest approached her and made that
sign which in the East is the freema*
sonrj of brothertiood — the sign of the
Cross. The lady instantly responded,
and tlie old priest, joyfuUy clapping
his hands, led her into the church,
showing her all its carious carvings
and decorations, and several very
ancient mss. There are some fine
mountains at the back, in which the
gentlemen of the party discovered
some wolves. The next day brought
them to Benl-Hassan. The caves,
which are about three miles from the
shore, were originally used as tombs
by the ancient Egyptians, and are
covered with paintings and hierogly-
phics ; bat their chief interest arises
from their having been the great
hiding-place of the Christians during
the persecutions, and also used as cells
by St Anthony, St. Macarius, and
other anchorites. A little farther on,
near Manfaloot, is the cave of St
John the Hermit, venerated to this
hour as such by the natives. On
Christmas-day our travellers arrived
at Sioot, and found there a Catholic
church served by the Franciscan mis-
sion, which is under the special pro*
tection of the Emperor of Austria,
who has sent some very good pictores
for the altars there. The mass was
reverently and well sang, and about
150 Catholics were present After
mass, the Italian padre gave them
coffee. He had been educated at the
^ Propaganda,** but had been twenty-
four years in Egypt ; so that he had
almost forgotten erery language ex-
cept Arabic He said that they had
now obtained a union with the Copts,
and a Coptic mass followed the Latin
one. The mission had been establish-
ed at Sioot foar years before, by the
intervention of Said Pasha, bat had
encountered great opposition at first
from the Moslems. Two bodies of
Christian saints with iJl the signs of
martyrdom had been lately discovered
in the caves above the town ; bat the
Mohammedans would not allow die
Christians to have them. The good
old Franciscan had studied medicine,
and thus first made his way among the
people. Now he seems to be univer-
sally respected and beloved.
Our party rode through the dirty
bazaars of this so-called capital ii
Upper Egypt, and ascended to the
caves. But the "^ City of the Dead,**
a little beyond the town, is mourafiilly
beautiful and silent It is composed
of streets of tombs, of white stone or
marble, the only sign of life being the
jar of water left in front of each, to
water the aloes planted in picturesque
vases at the gate of each tomb. A
whole poem might be written on the
thoughts suggested by those silait
streets. It was this ''City of the
Dead" which is said to have occasi<m-
ed the valuable lesson given by St
Macarius to the young man who had
asked him '' how he could best learn
indifference to the world s opinion 1"
He directed him to go to this place,
and first upbraid and then flatter the
dead. The young man did as he was
bid. When he came back, the saint
asked him ^ what answer they had
made?" The young man replied,
« None at all." Then said St Maca-
rius : ^ Go and learn from them nei*
ther to be moved by injuries or flatter-
ies. If you thus die to the world and
to yourself, you will begin to five to
Christ.*'
Here for the first time our travellers
realiced the horrors of an Egyptiaa
conscription. A number of villagers
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Cairo and the IVcmci^em M$iion$ dn the 2lil^.
778
coming in to the Sunday^s market
were at once Beized, chained together,
and thrown on the ground like so much
** dead stock/' to be packed off on
hoard a goremment vessel, when the
fall complement had been secured.
The screams and howls of their wives
and daughters, throwmg dirt on their
heads and tearing their hair, in token
of despair, when their frantic efforts
to release them from the recruiting-
sergeants were found ineffectual, were
most piteous to hear. The poor fel-
lows rarely survive to return to their
homes ; and their pay and food are so
miserably small and scanty, that to be
made a soldier is looked upon as worse
than death. They maim themselves
in every way to escape it— cutting off
their forefingers, putting out their eyes,
and the like. Scarcely a man on board
the boats is not mutilated in this man-
ner. In the evening, behig Christmas-
day, all the boats were illuminated
with Chinese lanterns and avenues of
palms ; while the sailors made crosses '
and stars of palm-leaves, to hang over
the cabin-doors. A beautiftil moon«-
light night added to the effect of these
decorations, as the party rowed round
the different dahahieks, and the ^ Ades-
te fidelis" sounded softly across the
water. The following morning, after
early mass, a favorable wind carried
them on to Ekhnim, where there is
also a Catholic Franciscan missionary
and church. The priest was a Nea^-
politan, and bad begun his labors at
Suez. His only companion was a na-
tive Copt, who had been educated at
the Propaganda. They had about
five hundred Catholics in their congre-
gation, and a school of about fifty chil-
dren. The church was of the fifteenth
century, and nnder the protection of a
Christian sheik, to whom our travel-
lers were introduced, and who cour-
teously invited them into his house.
The courtyard of the Catholic church
was crowded with native Christians
who had escaped from the conscrip-
tion, and were safe under the roof of
the priest. The sheik conducted his
guests to his house, the only good one
in Ekhnim, and furnished more or less
in European style, as he had been at
Cairo, and attached to the household of
the la(e viceroy. They sat on the
divan, with pipes and coffee, talking
Italian with the priest, when the sheik,
as a great honor, allowed them to see
his wife, and afterward his daughter,
a bride of thirteen, married to the son
of the Copt bishop. She was dressed
in red, as a bride, with a red veil and
a profusion of gold ornaments and
coins strung round her neck and arms.
The sheik and the whole population
escorted our travellers back to their
boats with every demonstration of
respect, and then the prindpal chiefs
witii the priests were invited to come
on board and have coffee, which they
aoceptedv The Franciscan father had
been for seven years at Castellamare,
and felt the change terribly, but said
that the climate was good, and that
the comfort of feeling he was work-
ing for God strengthened his hands
when he was inclined to despond. He
complained of the lamentable ignor-
ance of the Coptic priests, who knew
nothing of the history of their inter*
esting old churches and convents, and
only tell you ** they were built before
their Others were bom!" The two
large Coptic convents formerly exist^
ing in the mountains above the town
are deserted; but their church at
Ekhnim is the oldest now remaining
in Egypt, and fiill of curious carving
and very ancient pillars.
On New Year's day our travellers
arrived at Denderah, and spent it in
the wonderful temple of Athor. The
heat was very .great, and it required
some courage to attempt to sketch.
At five the following morning the
boats arrived at Keneh, and some of
the party went on shore to mass, that
being also a Franciscan station. The
church is small, but very nicely kept ;
the place is, however, unhealthy, and
the good Franciscan father was very
low at the mortality among his com-
rades. He has lately started a school
and has about twenty children; but
his Hfe is a rery desolate one, having
Digitized by CjOOQIC
774
%ti»ro €n$i ^ FroHekeam M$gioM$ an tke SOb.
no European to speak to, oit noj oae
to ijmpathise in bis work. Afber
mass he took oar trarellers to see the
asaking. of the goofehiy or water-bot*
ties, wideh are so famous throughout
Egypt, and are made solel j in this
place, of the peealiar clay (^ the dis-
trict, mbced with the ashes of the hal-
feh grass. Thej are beautiful in
form, and keep the water deUcioosIj
cool. After a breakftist of coffee and
excellent dates at the sheik s house^
the party rei^mbarked, and arrived
that evenmg at Negaddi. Here again
thej found a Catholic mission* The
superior. Padre Samuele, had been
laboring there for twentj-three years.
He was of the Lyons mission, and
was the only one who had surriFed
the climate. Four of his brethren had
died within the last twelTemonth, and
he had just dag a grave for the last*
They had a large and devout coi^^re*-
gation, and a sdiool oi one hundred
and fifty children, and had been build-
ing anew church of very fine and
good proportioos. But now the good
fother has to labor and Hre alone. He
said* however, that he had written to
Europe ftir fresh workers, whom he
was anxiously expecting. Negaddi is
remarkable for its tnrreted pigeon-
hoQses, painted white and red, which
form an amusing contrast to the mis-
erable nmdholes in which the mhab-
itants live. The following, evening
found our travellers at Thebes. The
town itself is a surprise and dis-
appointment There are literally no
shops, no bazaar, no houses but the
two or three bekm^i^ to the consuls,
and boilt in the midst of the temples.
But the said temples are unrivalled
for interest and beauty. Karnae,
either by daylight or moonlight, is a
thing apart from ail others in the
world for vastness of conception and
magnificence of design. ^ There were
giants in those days.'' The same may
be said of the Tombs of the Kings,
of the Vocal Memnon, of the Mem-
nouium, of Medemet Haboo, and the
rest The marvel is, what has become
of the people who created such thizigs;
who had broQ^ clvilisatioa, arts, and
manufactares to such perfection that
nothing modem can surpass them* Is
it not a lesson to our pride and our
materialism, when we think of them
and of ourselves, and then see the d^
graded state of the modem Egyptian,
the utter extinction of the commonest
art or even handicraft among them, so
that it is scarcely possible, even in
Cairo, to get an ordinary deal table
made with a drawer in it ? There is
no Catholic mission at Thebes, but a
Coptic bishopi who received oar trav-
ellers very kin^y, showed them his
church, and gave them coflfee on a ter-
race overloddng the Nile. This even-
ing was ^ twelfth-night," and the boats
were again iUumioatod and d&conied
with palms, the whole having a bean-
tiful effect reflected in the water.
AQer spending a week at Thebes,
4>ur tmvellers sailed on to Assouan,
visiting the temples of Esneh, Edfoo,
and Komom-Boo on their way, and
coming into the region of crocodiles
and pelicans, and c^ the Theban or
dom palm — ^less graceful than the date
palm, but still beautiftil, and bearing
a large, nut-like fruit in fine hanging
clusters. Between Edfoo and Thebes
are shown some caves, in one of which
St. Paul, the first hermit, passed so
many years of penitence and prayer.
He was discovered by St. Antony in
hb old age, when tempted to vain-
gloiy, God having revealed to him
that Uiere was a recluse more perfect
than himself, whom he was to go into
the desert and seek. A beautiful pic-
tore in the gallery at Madrid by Ye-
lasqoes repres^&ts the meeting of the
two venerable saints, the dinner
brought to them by the raven, and the
final interment oi St. Paul by St. An-
tony in tiie doak of St. Athanasius,
the lions assisting to dig the gra?e I
Assouan is, as it were, the gate of
the Cataracts, and is on the borders of
Nubia, the great desert of Syene be-
ing to the left of the village. The
Nubian caravans were tented on the
shore, and tempting the Euro-
peans with daggers, knives, ostrich-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Cairo and the IhmeiteoH MMam <m the NtU.
775
eggs, poisoaed arrows, rltmooeros hide
shields, lances and monkejs. The cli-
inate was delicious. There is no
country in the world to be compared
with Eg}i>t at this time of the year,
because, in spite of the heat, there is a
lightness and eichilaration in the air
wliich makes every one well and hun-
gry. To an artist the coloring is
equally perfect. No one who has not
been there can imagine what the sun-
rises and sunsets are, especially the
after-glow at sunset No artificial
red, orange, or purple can approach
it. Then the gracefulness of the palms
on the banks, the rosy color of the
mountains, the picturesque sakeels or
water-wheels, and the still prettier
shadoof, with its mournful soun^ which
seems as the wail of the patient slave
who works it day and night, and there-
by produces the exquisite tender green
vegetation on the banks of the river,
due to this artificial irrigation alone —
all are a continual feast to the eye of
the painter. And if all this is felt
below Ajssouan, what can be said of
Phil»— beautifiil Philae— that " dream
of loveliness,** as a modern writer
justly calls it ?
Our travellers, while waiting for
the interminable arrangements with
the Reis of the Cataracts, took the
road along the shore ; and af^r pass-
ing thrcfbgh a succession of curious
and picturesque villages, arrived at
one called Mahatta, where they hired
a little boat to take them across to the
beautiful island. Bocks of the most
fantastic shapes are piled up on both
sides of the shore ; but when once you
have emerged from these into the deep
water, "Pharaoh's Bed" and the
other temples stand out against the
sky in all their wonderful beauty.
PhilflB was the burial-place of Osiri«,
and ^' By him who sleeps in Philn^'
was the common oath of the old Egyp-
tians. The temples are too well known
by drawings to need description ; but
what is less often mentioned by trav-
ellers is that the larger one, originally
dedicated to the sun, was used for a
long time by the Christians as a church.
Consecn^on oi>osse8' are deeply en-
graved on every one of these grand
old pillars ; and at one end is an altar,
with a cross in the centre, in white
marble, and a piscina at the side, with
a niche for the sacred elements ; and
above this recess is a beautiful cross
deeply cut in the stone, together with
the emblem of the vine. The cross is
also let into the principal gateways.
There was an Italian inscription com-
memorating the arrival of the first
Boman mission sent by Gregory XVI.,
and a tablet in French recording the
arrival of the French army there
under Napoleon in 1799, signed by
General DavousL
The gentlemen of the party decided
to pitch their tents in the island till the
question of the passing of the Cataracts
was decided ; and while this operation
was gomg on, one of the ladies sat
down to sketch. She was quietly
painting, luxuriating in the beauty
and silence around her, and watching
the sun setting gloriously behind thi
•temple, when all of a sudden a deep bell
boomed across the water and was re-
peated half-a-dozen times. It was the
" Angelus.'' Even the least Catholic
of the party was struck and impressed
by this unexpected sound, so unusual
in a country where bells are unknown,
and the only call for prayer is from
the minaret top. Instinctively ihej
knelt, and then arose the question
"Where could the bell come from?'
There was no sign of habitation or
human beings either on the island it-
self or on the opposite shores, and the
dragoman himself was equally at fault
At last, on questioning the boatmen,
they found that behind some hills a
short distance off was a convent-*^
sort of " convalescent home" for the
sick monks of the Barri mission. The
English lady decided at once to go and
see it, and on arriving at the long low
stone building, found that the Fran-
ciscan father, who was almost its sol-
itary occupant, had just returned from
the White Nile, being one of a mis-
sion to the blacks in the Barri country,
a month's journey south of Khartoun.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
776
Oairo cmd the Frcousiieak Jliiuions an the NSe.
He had been at death's door from
fever ; and on leaving Khartoun for
Phihe, an eighteen days' ride on cam-
els, had been attacked bj djsentery,
and left for -dead in the burning des-
ert by the caravan; onlj a faithful
black convert remained by bis side,
and he felt that his last hour was
come; when the. arrival of poor Cap-
tain Speke, on his way home from one
of his last explorations, changed the
state of things. With true Christian
charity our countryman at once or-
dered a halt, and devoted himself to
the nursing and doctoring of the dying
monk ; so that in a few days he was
so far recovered as to be able to re-
sume his journey, and arrived safely
at Phil». He said he owed his lifte,
under Grod, entirely to the kindness of
this Englishman ; and his only anxiety
seemed to be to show his gratitude by
doing everything he could for those of
his nation. He invited our travellers
to take up their abode in the convent,
and gave them a most interesting ac-
count of the missionary work of his*
order. They have chartered a small
vessel, which they have called the
^ Stella Matutina," and which pHes up
and down the river, and enables them
to visit their stations on each bank.
But they have every kind of hardship
to encounter from the treachery or
stupidity or positive hostility of the
different tribes, from the intense heat,
and above all, from the deadly malaria
which had carried off seventy of their
brothers in three years. But there
are ever fresh soldiers of this noble
anny ready and eager to fill up the
ranks.
The ladies rode home by the way
of the desert, and reached their boats
in safety. The next morning, at five
o'clock, the same road was resumed by
two of the party who were anxious to
to reach the convent in time for the
early mass. They met nothing on
their seven-miles' ride but a hyssna,
who was devouring a camel which they
had lef^ dying the night before. The
little convent chapel was very nice ;
and among the vestments sent by the
and worked by the
ladies of the Leopoldstadt mission, one
of the party recognized a court-dress
which had been presented for die pur-
pose by a Hungarian friend of hers at
Kome. It was strange to find it again
in the depths of Nubia. The mass
was served by two little woolly-haired
negro boys from the good old father's
school, whose attachment to him was
like that of a dog to its master. He
was in some trouble as to finding
clothes for them, i The Nubians dis-
pense with every thing of the kind
except a fringed leathern girdle round
the loins, decorated with shells. The
children have not even thaL How-
ever, in the dahabieh a piece of roh-
dodendron-pattemed chintz was found,
carefully sent from England for the
covering of the divans ; and with that,
certain articles of dress were manu-
factured, gorgeous in coloring, and
therefore perfect in native eyes, how-
ever ludicrous and incongruous they
might appear to Europeans. The fol-
lowing day was fixed for one of the
boats to go up the cataracts, and the
party started early for what is called
the " first gate," to see the operation.
No one who has not lived for some
months with this " peuple criard," as
Lamartine calls them, can imagine the
din and screaming of the Arabs as
each dangerous rapid is paased ; the
Beis all the dme shouting and storm-
ing and leaping from one stone to the
other like one possessed. But the as-
cent is child's play compared to the
descent. So many accidents have
happened in the latter, and so many
boats have been swamped, that the
captains now insist on the passengers
landing on an island near, while their
boats rush down the rapids. It is a
beautiful sight, the way those appar-
ently unwieldy vessels are steered,
and clear the rocks as it were with a
bound, amidst the frantic yells and
cheers of the whole population. A
number of men, for a trifling bak-
sheesh, swam down the. current on
logs; one with his little child before
him ; but an Englishman, attempting
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Cairo and the Fremc%$ean MUttcru on the Nik.
irt
to do it a year or two ago, was caught
in the whirlpool and instantly drowned.
After watching this exciting operation,
the party dined together at Phils in
their tent, and then rowed round and
round the island by moonlight, which
exceeded in loveliness all they had
hitherto seen ; the vividness of the re*
flections were beyond beh'ef ; and read-
ing or writing was easv in the brilliant
light-
Our traveller availed herself of the
kind Father Michael Angelo's propo-
sal, and slept at the convent. He gave
them some curious arms, and hippopot-
amus-teeth from the White Nile, and
some ostrich-eggs arranged as drink-
ing-vessels, with shells and leather
strips : his sole furniture in his native
tent. The English, in return, gave
him a quantity of medicines, which he
eagerly accepted for his mission, to
which he was hoping to return. After
early mass the next day, he escorted
them to see the Island of Biggeh with
its picturesque temple, and then to the
quaiTies of Syene, where an uncut
obelisk of great size still remains em-
bedded in the sand. ' Some idea was
entertained in England of using it for
Prince Albert's monument; but the
difficulty of carriage and the distance
from the river would make its transfer
almost impossible. Far simpler would
be the proposal of taking the Luxor
obelisk, already given to the English
by Mehemet Ali, the sister one to that
successfully transported to Paris by
the French. It is a thousand pities to
leave it where it is, and to miss the oc-
casion of adding so unique and valua-
ble a monument to our art-treasures.
This, the last day of our travellei*'s
Btav at Assouan, was spent in making
a few last purchases, visiting the old
castle overlooking the river, and ex-
ploring the island of Elef^bantine, which
offers beautiful sketching. But the in-
habitants are even more importunate
as beggars than their confraternity at
Thebes; and it required all the elo-
quence of the good priest to prevent
Uieir appropriating the contents of the
travellei's paint-box. She purchased
from them many strings of bright
beads, which constitute their sole idea
of female dress. A curious funeral
took place in the evening, an empty
boat being carried for the dead man,
who was buried with his arms and his
spear ; while a funeral dii^ was sung
over him by his tribe. It was curious,
as being identical with the hiero-
glyphics of similar scenes in the tombs
of the kings. Many of the customs
of these people are purely pagan ; for
instance, when an Arab makes his cof-
fee, he pours out the first three cups
on the ground as a libation to the sheik,
who first invented the beverage. The
slave-trade, though nominally abolish-
ed by the viceroy, is carried on vigor-
ously at Assouan. The governor goes
through the form of confiscating the
cargo and arresting the owners of the
ship ; but, af^er a few days, a hand-
some baksheesh on the part of the
slave-owner and captain settles the
matter ; and their live cargo is trans-
ported to Cairo, there to be disposed
of in the harems or elsewhere.
To the Catholic traveller in this
country nothing can be more melan-
choly than the utterly degraded condi-
tion of the people, who are really very
little removed from the brute creation.
Years of ill-usage, hardship, and
wrong have ground down the Fellah
to the abject condition of a slave;
and the utter extinction of Christianity
among them seems to preclude all
hope of their rising again. Yet Egypt
was once the home of saints. From
Alexandria, the sat of all that was
most learned and refined, the see of
St. Athanasius, and St. Alexander,
and St. Cyril, and St. John the Al-
moner, and a whole string of holy patri •
archs, bishops, and martyrs, up to the
very desert of Syene, peopled with
anchorites, the whole land teemed with
saints. And now, the little handful of
Franciscan fathers, scattered here and
there, sowing once more the good seed
at the cost of their lives, is all that re-
mains to bear witness to the truth.
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778 li^ Witt is JDme.
[OMQOUl.]
THY WILL BB DONE
My soul a little kingdom is,
TVTiere God's most holy will
Shall reign in undivided sway^
Potent and grand and stilL
1^11 kneel before the crystal throne,
And kiss the golden rod ;
O i)eaoe unspeakable, to bow
Beioj^ the will of God I
What though my weary feet should fail.
My tongue refuse to praise,
God knows my soul will steadfastly
Still follow in his ways.
It;
The time has come, my soul, the time has eome
To prove the depth of thy ofl^vaunted love ;
A sullen gloom hangs round us like a fog,
And lowering olouds are drooping from above«
Would it were light, or dark, not this grey gkx>m ;
Would that the terror of some sudden crash
Might break this stifling, dumb monotony I
O for some deaf^miug peal or blinding isah I
Weary and old and sick, like ancient Job,
I crouch in haggard woe and scan the past,
Or drag the leaden moments at my heels,
Mocking wise fools who say that life runs fast
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Thy WiU he Done. 779
Nothing to conquer now — ^no call for strength ;
Naught to contend with— onlj to wait and bear,
And see mj withering powers and blighted giils —
No room to act — nothing to do or dare : .
Speak now, mj seal, if thou hast aught to say
If thou seest light or an j hope of day.
in.
Fret not this holy stillness with thy crie*—
Patience, perturbed clay !
Ltest thou should'st drown the voice of the All^wise
With clamorous dismay.
Thinkest thou that clouds and mists are less God's work^
Than sun or moon or stars ?
His will is good, whether it bind the free
Or sunder prison bars.
His hand has measured out each feather^s weight
Of this most grievous load ;
He bore the cross we bear, his heart, like ours,
Once in life's furnace glowed.
We shall in heaven sing a psalm of joy
For every earth-wrung moan ;
One little hour more, the work well done.
And we are all God^s owoi
CONTKA&T8.
There is no Booad of anguish in the air,
Bees hum, birds sing, the breeae 18 balmy-sweet
And from the bkxHning hawthorn overbtiad
A rosy shower drof^th at my feet.
No jnatter I God be praised^-some untried heart,
Sweet with the dewy fireshoeas of life's da^vn,
Is gathering a glad presage of success
From this bright, pitiless, jresplendent mom.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
780
7%6 Jkdutinal Jrtt of Ow Ancutors,
[from the Irish Indottrial lla<axliie.]
THE INDUSTRIAL ARTS OF OUR ANCESTORS.
BT M. HAYERTY, JSSQ.
ARTS OF CONSTBUCTION.
In considering the building arts, as
practised bj the inhabitants of this'
country in past ages, we must neces-
sarilj divide the subject according to
epochs. The ethnologist would of
course begin with his favorite scien-
tific classification of the Stone, the
Bronze and the Iron periods ; but this
division is, to saj the least of it, a
very arbitrary, very indefinite, and
very doubtful one. It leaves mucli
too wide a scope for imagination, and
ofi'ers no satisfactory explanation of
social development ; and the foUowing
obvious and natural order of periods,
in the present instance, will answer
our purpose, namely :
1. The Pre-Christian period, ex-
tending from some indefinite epoch of
the pre-historic ages, down to the
establishment of Christianity in Ire-
land, in the fifth century; 2. The
early Christian period, extending from
the last-mentioned epoch to the com-
mencement of the Danish wars, in
the beginning of the ninth century;
8. The period of obscurity and bar-
barism into which this country was
plunged by those fierce and long-pro-
tracted wars, and from which it be^
gan to emerge in the reign of Brian,
and ailer the battle of Oontarf, in
1014; 4. The period which followed
that just mentioned, and which ex-
tends beyond the Anglo-Norman in-
vasion until the native Irish ceased
to act as a distinct people; and, 6.
The period which was inaugurated by
the aforesaid Anglo-Norman epoch,
and descended to modern times, em-
bracing the ages, first of noble Gothic
abbeys, and feudal keeps of Norman
barons, and walled towns; and then
of the fortified bawns and strong soli-
tary towers of new proprietors, in the
Tudor, Stuart, and WiUiamite times.
In the first of these periods there
was no stone and mortar masonry
known in Ireland, nor was there any
knowledge of the arch. Of cyclopean
masonry — ^masonry in which huge
stones were frequently employed, bat
never any cement — some stopendous
and wonderful examples belonging to
this first period still remain ; but there
was no cemented work. This we
may take as absolutely certain, not-
withstanding the notions of some
modem antiquaries about the supposed
pre-Christian origin of Uie round
towers. This pagan theory of the
round towers is a pure creation of
what we may call the conjectural
school of Irish antiquaries. The
ancient Irish never dreamt of it It
was suggested at a time when scarcely
anything was known of the original
native source of Irish history; and
it has seldom been advocated except
by those who are either still unac-
quainted with these sources of our
history, or else who are carried away
by false ideas of early Irish civiliza-
tion, and visionary theories of ancient
Irish fire-worship and Orientalism;
for all which there is not the slightest
foundation in the actual history of the
country. It is right that this should
be distinctly understood : without en-
tering into lengthened arguments on
the subject, which would be out of
place here, it ought to be quite suffix
cient for any rational person to know,
that the character of all the remains
of undoubted pagan buildings in
Ireland is utterly inconsistent with the
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7%« Ihduttfiat Arts of Our Ancestors.
781
sopposition that the same people who
built them also built the round tow-
ers ; and that such knowledge as we
actually possess of the manners and
customs of the pagan Irish shows the
absurdity of the notion that the
round towers were built by them.
The passages of ancient Irish writings
which may be adduced to show that
the round towers were built by
Christians are extremely numerous,
^vhile there is not one single iota of
eridence in the written monuments of
Irish history, either printed or xs.,
for their pagan origin — nothing, in
fact, but wild, unsupported conjecture
and imagination. And such being the
case, and all the writings and re-
searches of such distinguished Irish
historical scholars as Petrie, O'Dono-
van, and O'Curry, who have passed
away, and of Wilde and Todd, and
Graves and Reeves, and Ferguson,
etc., tending to overturn the visionary
theories of Irish antiquities, of which
the round tower phantasy has been
the most noted, it is time to abandon
this last remnant of a false and ex-
ploded system.
What, then, are the remains which
we have of the buildings or structures
of the ancient Irish belonging to the
first, or pagan, period? They are
various, and exceedingly numerous.
In the first place, there are the raths,
or earthen forts, with which the whole
face of the country is still absolutely
dotted. These raths were the dwell-
ing-places of the Irish, not only in-
deed, in pagan times, but much more
recently. They were originally rather
steep earthworks, surrounded by a
ditch, and topped by a strong ps^ing
or stockade; sometimes there was a
double or treble line of intrenchment,
and within the inner fence the family
or families of the occupants dwelt in
timber or hurdle houses, of which,
from the perishable nature of the ma-
terials, no traces of course remain.
The cattle, too, were driven for safety
within the inclosure, when it was
known that an enemy was abroad;
and it is probable that the position of
a great many of the raths on a slop-
ing surface was selected for purposes
of drainage, seeing that the cattle
were so frequently to be inclosed. It
is also worihy of note, that these
earthen forts were always polygonal,
generally octagonal, and we have
never seen one of them actually
round; although it would have been
much easier to describe the plain cir-
cle than the regular polygonal figure
adopted.
When the inclosures were con-
structed of stone; they were called
cahirs or cashds* It has been stated
by antiquaries that the stone forts
were built by the early Irish colonists,
called FirbolgH, and the earthen forts
by the subsequent colony of Tuath
de Danaans; but it is probable that
each colony built their strongholds of
the mateiials which they found most
convenient. In the rich plains of
Meath, where there are very few sur-
face stones that could have been em-
ployed for the purpose, we* find none
but earthen forts ; and in the Isles of
Arran, where there is little Indeed be-
sides solid rock, the Firbolgs neces-
sarily constructed their famous duns
of stone. These vast Firbolg duns
of Arran must have been impregnable
in those days, if defended by suflBl-
cient garrison; and their size and
number in a place so small and barren
show that almost the whole remnant
of the race must have been compelled
by hard necessity to seek shelter there
against their pressing foes. It would
also appear that the abundant supply
of stone induced the occupants of
those Arran forts to substitute stone
houses in their interior for the habita-
tions of timber and wattles used else-
where; as we here find numerous
remains of the small beehive houses,
called cloghanesy formed by the over-
lapping c^ flat stones, laid horizontal-
ly, until they meet at top, thus roofing
in the house without an arch. Both
dogbanes and forts are built, of
course, without cement; and no one
could for a moment imagine that the
Round Tower^ of which a portion still
Digitized by CjOOQIC
782
The Jkdustrial ArU of Our Jnoesiars,
remaios in the largest islaod, ooald
poesiblj have been the work of the
same masons.
The style of building is the same
in the Duns of Anm ; in Staig Fort,
in Kerry ; in the Greenan of Aileach,
in Donegal ; and in general in any of
the primitive cahtrs or ccuhdtty wher-
ever they exist in Ireland ; nor is there
any material difference between these
and the similar structures to be found
in Wales — ^such as the Castell-Caeron
over Dolbenmaen, in Caernarvonshire.
The same Irish word, Saor, (pro-
nounced Seer,) originally signified
both a carpenter and a mason ; and in
an Irish poem, at least eight hundred
and %Siy years old, we have a list of
the ancient builders, who ei'ected the
principal strongholds of pafi;an times
in Ireland : such as — ^*' Casruba, the
high-priced cashel-builder, who em-
ployed quick axes to smoothen stones ;"
and '^Rigriu and Garvon, son of
Ugarv, the oashel-builders of Aileach,"
and ^' Troiglethan, who sculptured im-
ages, and was the rath-builder of the
Hill of TaYa ;" while every one famil-
iar with the native Irish traditions
has heard the name of Grubban-Saor,
to whose skill half the ancient castles
of Ireland were, without any refer-
ence to chronology, supposed to owe
their strength.
An Irish antiquary of the seven-
teenth century, who enjoyed the friend-
ship of Sir James Ware, writes as if
he believed that the ancient pagan
Irish understood the use of cement, al-
though, as he confesses, no vestige of
stone and mortar work by them re-
mained in his day. But his mode of
aligning, as it will be perceived^ is
very inconclusive. After enumerating
several of the ancient raths and cash-
els of Ireland, he writes : " We have
evidence of their having been built
like the edifices of other kingdoms of
the times in which they were built ;
and why should they not ? for there
came no colony into Erin but from the
eastern world, as from Spain, etc.;
and it would be strange if such a defi-
cieocy of intellect should mark the
parties who came into Ireland, as that
they shouki not have the sense to form
their resideoees and dwellings after
the manner of the countries from
which they went forth, or through
which they travelled." [See Intro-
duction to Dudley Mac Firbis's great
'^ Book of Genealogies^'' translated in
« O'Curipr's Lectures," pp. 222, etc]
It is quite certain that the early co-
lonizers of Ii*eland, to whom Mac
Firbis thus alludes, were a portion of
that great Celtic wave of population
which passed from East to West over
Europe, leaving the same earthem
mounds and cyclopean stone struc-
tures behind as monuments wherever
they went ; but it is equally certain,
that if these ancient colonies visited
Assyria, and Egypt, and Greece in
their peregrinations, as Mac Firbis
believed they did, they did not carry
with them Assyrian, or Egyptian, or
Grecian masonry or architecture into
Ireland. The raths and cashels which
they constructed were exceedingly
simple in their character, and in very
few indeed of the former is there the
slightest grace of stonework to be
discovered. Caves were very often
formed under the raths ; and Mac
Firbis states that under the rath of
Bally O Dow da, in Tireragh, he him-
self had seen *^ nine smooth stone cel-
lars,'* and that its walls were stUl of
the height of "a good cow -keep.'
Nor were the contents of the ancieot
Irish dwellings less simple than the
buildings themselves ; for we find by
the Brehon Laws that " the Seven val-
uables of the house of a chieftain
were— a caldron, vat, goblet, mug,
reins, horse-bridle, and pin ;'' the first-
mentioned articles indicatmg clearly
the usages of hospitality, which al-
ways formed the predominating insti-
tution of the Irish. The same book
of Brehon Laws refers to '' a house
with four doors, and a stremn through
the centre, to be provided for the sick"
-—such, apparently, being the ideas at
that time of what a hospital should
be.
It is hard to s^y when the popular
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I%e Industrial Jrts &/ Our Jneeston.
783
notion originated which attribates the
ancient ratlis and mounds to the Danes.
It is quite dear that Mac FirbiB knew
very well thej were not Danish, thou^
the idea must have prevailed when he
wrote, (▲.». 1650;) for his contem-
porary, Lord Castlehaven, speaks of
withdrawing his troops, during the
civil war of 1645, within one of the
"J>anish forts," which were so nume-
rous in the country ; and such was the
fashion of attributing all our antiqui-
ties to a people who had impressed
the memory of the nation with such
terrible and indelible traditions of
themselves, that even Archdeacon
Lynch, thp author of ^ Cambrensis
Eversus," supposes the Danes to have
been the builders of the round towers.
Dr. Molyneux, who wrote toward the
close of the same century, treats us
to a whole book about '^ the Danish
Forts and Mounds;" but we know
perfectly well that the Danes of Ire-
land resided only in the seaport towns
and their vicinities, and had no dwell-
ings, and consequently no raths or
mounds in the interior of the country.
Besides the earthen and stone forts,
which, it must be remembered, were
inhabited in the early Christian as
well as in the pagan times, and down
to a period which it is impossible now
to define, we have several remains of
the early Irish habitations, called
cranogues* These were small stock-
aded and generally artificial islands,
in the smaller lakes, and were only
accessible by means of boats, ancient
specimens of which, hewn out of a
single tree, have been found in the vi-
dnity of the cranogues in recent times.
Some of these cranogues are known
to have been occupied in comparative-
ly modem times ; and the strong tim-
ber stakes by which they were gener-
ally surrounded are« in a few instances,
still found singularly fresh, and with
indications of having been connected
by a strong framework.
Of the state of the boildhug arts in
Ireland during the early Christian pe-
riod we are enabled to form a tolera-
bly acct|rate idea, both by the large
number of remains still es]sting,jand
by the notices cm the subject whicn we
find in historical documents. Many
of the very earliest Christian edifices
devoted to religion in Ireland wera
built of stone ; but it is clear, never-
theless, that the national fashion was
to construct them of timber ; and this
fashion the Irish had in common with
the Britons, or, we should rather say,
with the- Celtic nations generaHy.
Strabo says the houses of the Grauls
were constructed of poles and wattle
work ; and we learn from Bcde, that
among the Britons building with stone
was regarded as a characteristic Ro-
man practice. We know that both in
Ireland and Britain there was a na«
tional prejudice in favor of the custom
<^ employing tnnber to construct their
churches. The first three churches
erected in Ireland — ^those, namely,
constructed by St. Palladius in his un-»
successful mission immediately before
St Patrick — ^were of oak. Long after
this time, in the sixth centuiy, St. Co-
lumba lived in a wooden cell in the
island of Hy, as his biographer, St.
Adamnan, relates; and the use of
timber for their religious edifices was
much in favor with the Columbian
monks wherever they settled. So late
as the year 1142, when St Malachy
was building the church of the famous
Cistercian Abbey of MdHfont, in
Louth, he received some opposition
from one of the local magnates, be-
cause he had undertaken to erect it in
an expulsive and solid manner of
stone ; the argument of this person
being, that <<they were Scots, not
Frenchmen,'* and that a wooden ora-
tory in the old Irish fashion would
have sufficed.
It is a curious drcumstance con-
nected with this Abbey of Mellifont,
that it is the only Irish edifice of a date
older than the Anglo-Norman period
in the ruins of which Dr. Petrie dis-
covered any bricks to have been used ;
and we know that it was erected by
monks whom St Malachy had sent to
study in the monastery of St Bernard,
in France; whence the allusion ta
Digitized by CjOOQIC
784
Tke hdustrial ArU of Our Aneesion.
Fi^nchmen made bj the Irishman who
had objected to the style of the build-
iDg. Still it is plain that the ecclesi-
astical edifices of stone were reiy nu-
merous in the country at that very
time ; for a few years after St Gre-
lasius, the Archbishc^ of Armagb,
caused a limekiln of vast dimensions
to be constructed) in order, as the an-
nalists say, to make lime for the re-
pairs of the diurches of Armagh
which had Been allowed to fall into
decay.
The primitive wooden churches
were, at least in some instances, con-
structed of planed boards, and were
thatched with reeds, the walls being
also frequently protected by a cover-
ing of reeds, for which, in later times,
a sheeting of lead was sometimes sub-
stituted. This use of lead sheeting
became very general in England ; but
we may presume that it was empbyed
in comparatively few cases in Ireland.
Sometimes, instead of boards or hewn
timber, wattles were employed, and
these were plastered with mud, the
wattles being formed of strong twigs
interlaced. We shall presently see
that the use of wattles for building
purposes was in vogue in Ireland up
to comparatively modem times. It is
stated in the life of St. Patrick , that
when that apostle visited Tyrawley, in
the county of Sligo, finding that tim-
ber was not abundant, he erected a
church of mud— so ancient is the
custom of employing that material for
building in Ireland — b, material, how-
ever, which never could be rendered as
suitable for the purpose in our moist
climate, as it is found to be in some of
the southern portions of Europe.
From the very introduction of
C3iristianity, we repeat, stone and
mortar were frequently employed for
the building of churches in Ireland.
A building of this description was al-
ways called in Irish Damhliag, a word
literally signiiying ** stone church.**
This term is stiU preserved in the
name of Duleek in the county of
Meath, where the old stone church so
calledi and which is supposed, on good
authority, to have been the very first
such edifice erected in Ireland, is still
in good preservation ; it was built by
St. Kienan, a disciple of St. Patrick,
who died in 490 ; and its age is thus
established beyond any doabt. The
stone building, or Dtxmhliag, as Dr.
Petrie has remarked, is always latin-
ised by the old Irish writers tempfum,
ecelesioj or hasilica ; while the wooden
building is simply called oraiaritmu
The ancient Irish churches are al-
most invariably small, seldom exceed-
ing 80 feet in length, and not usually
being more than 00 feet. The great
church or cathedral of Armagh was
originally 140 feet long ; but this was
almost a solitary exception. The
smaller churches are simple oblong
quadrangles, while in the larger ones
there is a second and smaller quad-
rangle at the east end, which was the
chancel or sanctuary, and which is
separated from the nave by a lai^e
semicircular arch. The entrance door
was always originally in the west
end, and square-headed, the top lintel
being generally formed of a single
very large fiat stone ; but in every in-
stance the square-headed western door-
way was in process of time built up,
and another doorway, in the pointed
style, opened in the south wall, near
its western extremity. The windows
are extremely small, and very few,
generally not more than three, two of
which are in the sanctuary, and all be-
ing in the south wall ; they are fre-
quently triangular-headed, formed by
two fiat stones leaning against eadi
other ; and it is probable that in many
cases they were never glazed. The
sides of the doorways and windows
are inclined, in the manner of the cy-
clopean buildings — a style of architec-
ture with which they have more than
one point in common ; for enormous
stones are frequently used, the single
stone being made to form both fitces of
the walL Polygonal stones are em-
ployed, without any attempt to build
in courses; and even fiat stones are
often placed at angles, when, with the
aid of very little skill, they might have
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The LkduttriaH Arts of Our Ancestors.
785
been placed borizontslly; while an-
other singular featare often to be ob-
served in the oldest Irish stone
churches is, that the side walls and
ends are built up independently, and
not bound together at the comers bj
aftj interlapping stones. AU these
peculiarities are to be found, in a very
marked degree, in the extremely curi-
ous specimens of seventh and eighth
century buildings in the South Islands
of Arran ; and, with the exception of
some Christian cloghanes, and some
stone-roofed oratories like those near
Dingle, all these early Christian
edifices have been built with lime ce-
ment.
From the rudeness of the masonry
in the buildings of the early Christian
period, a very curious argument has
been- adduced in favor of the Pagan
origin of the Round Towers. Some
persons, in fact, do not hesitate to ar-
gue that, as the Round Towers fre-
quently exhibit a better style of ma-
sonry than the ruined churches in
their neighborhood, they must have
been erected by some earlier race of
builders, thus adopting the very oppo-
site to the correct and natural conclu-
sion which the premises would sug-
gest. Such persons must have a very
misty idea of Irish history ; they do
not appear to be aware that there is
no country in Europe, except Greece
and Rome, of which the ancient his-
tory can boast of such a clear and
consecutive series of written and tra-
ditional annals as that of Ireland.
This is the acknowledged opinion of
the most learned investigators. There
is, then, no room whatever for any
such conjectural race or epoch as that
which the theory in question would
suppose in Irbh history ; there is no
room for such wild hypotheses as may
be framed, for instance, to account for
the remains of extinct civilized races
in the interior of North America* Any
one who has the singularly distinct
chain of ancient Irish chronicles pre-
sent to his mind must be aware of this
facty and must know perfectly well
that there was no mysterious unknown
VOL. in. 60
race in Ireland before the introduction
of Christianity who could have built
the round towers— even if it were
probable that such a race would have
built these, and left no other fragment
of stone and mortar work in the land !
As to the disparity sometimes to be
observed in the masonry of the towers
and the ancient churches beside them,
it can be explained without any such
absurd hypothesis. It is clear from
the mouldings of the windows, and
other architectural details, and even
from the statements of our annalists,
that some of the Round Towers are
not older than the eleventh or twelfth
century, and consequently their ma-
sonry might well be superior to that of
churches built some four or five hun-
dred years before them. But, even
when the builders were contemporary,
they were not such dull craftsmen as
not to have understood perfectly well
that a more careful style of workman-
ship was required in an edifice which
they should cariy to a height of 120
or 130 feet than in one of which the
walls would not exceed 10 or 14 feet
in elevation. In fact, a little consid-
eration must show any enlightened
man that the theory to which we have
referred is utterly untenable.
Mr. Parker, a high authority on
questions of architectural antiquity,
has, in his valuable series of papers
on the subject in the ^' Gentleman^s
Magazine," thrown considerable light
on Lish mediaeval architecture. One
point, of which he has been decidedly
the first observer, is, that all the details
of an ancient building in Ireland sel-
dom or never belong to the period at
which the building was, according to
record, erected. This is an extremely
carious fact; and there can be no
doubt of Mr. Parker's accuracy on
the point ; but it appears to us that he
invariably finds his remark verified in
castles and abbeys of the Anglo-Nor-
man period in Ireland. To what,
then, is the peculiarity to be attributed ?
Could the architects have been Irish,
and could they have adopted their prin-
ciples from the study of older edifloes-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
786
The jBulu$trial Ari$ of Our Ancettart.
in England? On this point we are
not aware that he oomes to any con-
elusion ; but, in describing the inter-
e6tin<r details of Cormac^s Chapel, on
the Rock of Cashel— one of the most
valuable remains of uiediieyal archi-
tecture in the empire, and which was
built some fiflj years before the An-
glo-Norman invasion — he says, '^ It is
neither earlier nor later in style than
buildings of the same date in Eng-
land ; and with the exception of a few
particulars, agrees in detail with them."
From this we may conclude, that be-
fore the arrival of the Anglo-Normans
the Irish architects were fully up to
the contemporary state of their art,
though subsequently the Anglo-Irish
fell into the anachronisms which Mr,
Parker so frequently points out.
When Henry II. resolved on spend-
ing the Christmas of 1171 in Dublin,
there was no building in that old cap-
ital of the Ostmen sufficiently spacious
to accommodate his court; and a
pavilion was accordingly constructed
for the purpose of plastered wattles,
in the Irish fashion, on a site at the
south side of the present Dame street
This mode of constructing houses must
have been very convenient in times
when the face of a country was liable
-every other year to be devastated by
war, and when it would have been
'folly to erect a habitation intended to
.be permanent. The destruction of all
the dwellings in a territory at that
itime, was not quite so ruinous a catas-
trophe as it might seem to us, es-
pecially as it was a very usual thing
.to have the granaries under ground.
The employment of wattles for one
purpose or other, in the construction
of buildings, appears to have been
very long retained in Ireland ; and they
.Beem to have been constantly used by
the masons as centering in the building
of arches, as may be seen from an ex-
amination of any of the ruined abbeys
.or castles throughout the country,
iwh»*e the impression of the inter-
woven twigs will always be found in
the mortar of the vaulted roofs and
arches. Mr. Parker appears to have
been particularly struck by this cir-
camstoDce, which, however, is iamiliar
to every Irish antiquary ; but he tells
us that he has found the same thing in
a few instances in England.
A French gentleman, who travelled
through Ireland in 1644, has left us a
curious account of the mode of con-
structing their habitations employed
at that time by the rural populadon.
He writes : ^^ The towns are bui^t in
the English fashion, but the houses in
the country are in this manner : two
stakes are fixed in the ground, across
which is a transverse pole, to support
two rows of rafters on the two sides,
which are covered with leaves and
straw. The cabins are of another
fashion. There are four walls the
height of a man, supporting railers,
over which they thatch with straw
and leaves ; they are without chimneys,
and make the fire in the middle of the
hut, which greatly incommodes those
who are not fond of smoke. '
The writer goes on to describe the
fortified domiciles of the gentry. He
says : " The castles or houses of the
nobility consist of four walls extremely
high, thatched with straw ; but, to tell
the truth, they are nothing but square
towers without windows, or, at least,
having such small apertures as to give
no more light than there is in a prison ;
they have little furniture, and cover
their room with rushes, of which they
make their beds in summer, and of
straw in winter ; they put the rushes
a foot deep on their fioors, and on
their windows, and many of them or-
nament the ceilings with branches."*
("The Tour of M. De la Boullaye le
Gouz.)
This description is applicable to
those numerous, solitary, and gloomy
buildings called castles, the ruins of
which are so conspicuous in every part
of the country, and a considerable
number of which were erected by the
Undertakers, in the reign of James I. ;
while it must be confessed that the
mode of constructing the hovels of
the peasantry, as described in the pre-
ceding extract, has not undergone
much improvement, up to the present
day, in many parts of Ireland.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perioo the Sad.
787
Translated from the ^)aolih.
PERICO THE SAD; OR, THE ALVAREDA FAMILY.
CHAPTEB XIII.
A TEMPESTUOUS Digbt covered the
sky with flying clouds, which were
rushiDg further on to discharge their
torrents. Sometimes they separated
in their flight, and the moon appeared
between them, mild and tranquil, like
a herald of concord and peace in the
midst of the strife.
In the short intenrals, during
which this placid light illumined earth
and heaven, a pale and emaciated
man might have been seen making
his way along a solitary road. The
uncertainty of his manner, his appre-
hensive eyes, and the agitation of his
face, would have shown clearly that
he was a fugitive.
A fugitive indeed ! for he fled from
inhabited places ; fled from his fellow-
men; fled from humaa justice; fled
from himself and from his own con-
science. This man was an assassin,
and no one who had seen him fleeing,
as the clouds above ¥v ere fleeing before
the invisible force which pursued them,
would have recognized the honorable
man, the obedient son, the loving hus-
band and devoted father of a few
days since, in this miserable being,
now fallen under the irremissible sen-
tence of the law of expiation.
Yes, this man was Perico, not seek-
ing a peace now and for ever lost, but
fleeing from the present and in dread
of the future.
He had passed days of despair and
nights of horror in the most solitary
places, sustaining himself on acorns and
roots ; shrinking from the light of day,
which accused, and from the eyes of
men, that condemned him. But no
darkness could hide the images that
were always before him, no silence
awe their clamors. His unhappy
sister; his disconsolate mother; the
bereaved old man, his father's friend,
haunted his vision ; the reprobation of
his honorable race oppressed his soul ;
and more appalling than all these, the
solemn, mournful, and warning note of
the passing bell, which he had heard
calling to Heaven for mercy upon his
victim, sounded continually in his ears.
In vain pride insinuated, through its
most seductive organ, worldly honor,
that he had, and that not to vindicate
himself would have; been a reproach ;
that the injuries were greater than
the reprisal.
A voice whicli the cries of passion
had silenced, but which became more
distinct and more severe in proportion
as they, like all that is human, sank
and failed — the eternal voice of con-
science, said to him, ^^O that thou
hadst never done it !"
There came, borne upon the wind,
an extraordinary sound, now hoarser,
now failing and fainter, as the gu sts
were more or less powerfuL What
could it be ? Everything terrifies the
guilty soul. Was it the roar of the
wind, the pipe of an organ, or a voice
of lamentation?* The nearer Perico
approached it, the more inexplicable
it seemed. The road the unhappy
man was following led toward the
point from whence the sound pro-
ceeded. He reaches it^ and his ter-
ror is at his height when, unable to
distinguish anything — ^for a black
cloud has covered the moon — ^be hears
directly above his bead the portentous
wail, so sad, so vague, so awful !
AJ; this moment the clouds are bro-
ken, and over all the moonlight falls,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
t88
Penco the Sad,
clear and silveiy, like a mantle of
transparent snow. Every object
comes out of the mystery of shadows.
He sees reija asleep in its valley like
a white bird in its nest. He lifts his
eyes to discover the cause of the
sound. O hoiTor! Upon five posts
he sees five human heads! From
these proceed the doleful lamentation,
a warning from the dead to the
living.*
Ferico starts back aghast, and per-
ceives, for the first time, that he is not
alone. A man is standing near one of
the posts. He is tall and vigorous, and
his bearing is manly and erect. He
is dressed richly after the manner of
contrabandists. His bronzed face is
hard) bold, and calm. He holds his
hat in his hand, inclining uncovered
before these posts of ignominy a head
which never was uncovered in human
respect ; for it is that of an outlaw,
of a man who has broken all ties with
society, and respects nothing in the
world. But this man, although im-
pious, believes in God, and although
criminal, is a Christian, and is pray-
ing
When from an energetic and indo-
mitable nature, emancipated from all
restrain, there issue a few drops of
adoration, as water oozes from a rock,
what do you call it unbelievers ? Is it
superstitious fear? To this man fear
is a word without a meaning. Is it
h3rpocrisy? Only the heads of five
dead men witness it. Is it moral
weakness ? He has strength of soul
unknown in society, where all lean
upon something; he stands alone.
Is it^a remembrance of infancy, a
tribute to the mother who taught him
to pray ?
There exists no such memory for
the abandoned orphan, who grew up
among the savage buUs he guarded.
What is it then that bends his neck
and detains him to pray in the pres-
ence of the dead ?
After some moments the man eon-
* Various witnesses hare testified to this M^htftd
phenomenoDfirhlch is natanlly explained, the sound
being oaiMed hy the wind passing through the throat,
month, and ears of heads placed as located abore.
eluded his prayer, replaced his hat,
and turning to Ferico said,
" Where are you going, sir ? *
Ferico neither wished nor was able
to answer. A vertigo had seized him.
"Where are you going, I say?"
again asked the unknown.
Ferico remained silent.
"Are you dumb?* proceeded the
questioner, " or is it because you do
not choose to answer ? If it is the
last," he added, pointing to his gun,
" here is a mouth which obtains replies
when mine fails.*'
Ferico's situation rendered him too
desperate for reflection, and the brand
of cowardice which had been stamped
upon his forehead, still burned like a
recent mark of the ignominious iron.
He therefore answered instantly, seiz-
ing his firelock.
" And here is another that replies in
the tone in which it is questioned.*'
The intentions of the unknown
were not hostile, nor had he any idea
of carrying out his threat, though be
did not lack the courage to do it. An-
other so daring as he did not tread tbe
soil of Andalucia. But the arrogance
of the poor worn youth pleased instead
of ofiending him.
" Comrade," he said, "I always like
to take off my hat before drawing my
sword, but it suits me to know with
whom I speak and whom I meet on
the road. You must have courage to
be walking here; for they say that
Diego and his band are in this neigh-
borhood, and you know, for all Spain
knows, who Diego i6 ; where he puts
his eye he puts his ball. The leaves
tremble upon the trees at sight of him,
and the dead in their graves at the
sound of his name."
All this was said without that An-
dalucian boastftilness, so grotesquel^r
exaggerated in these days, but with
the naturalness of conviction^ and the
serenity of one who states a simple
truth.
** What do I care for Diego and his
band?" exclaimed Perico, not with
bravado, but with the most profoand
dejection.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
PericoihB Sad.
789
As with failiag Toiee he pronounced
these words, he tottered and leaned
his head upon hia gun.
'' What has taken jou ? What is
the matter?^ asked thestianger, no-
tidng his weakness.
Perico did not xeplj, for so great
was his exhaustion and such the effect
of his recent emotions that he feU
down senseless.
The unknown knelt down heside
him and lifted his head. The moon
shone full upon thc^t face, beautiful
notwithstanding its mortal paleness,
and the traces of passion, anguish, and
grief which marred it.
^He is dead,*' said the stranger to
himself, placing his rough hand upon
Perioo*s heart The heart which, a
few days before, was as pure as the
skj of May. ^No," he continued,
^ he is not dead, but will die here, like
a dog, if he is not taken care of."
And he looked at him again, for he
felt awakening in hi& heart that noble
attraction which draws the strong to-
ward the weak, the powerful toward
the helpless ; for let skeptics say what
they will, there is a spark of divinity
in the breast of every human creature.
He rose to his feet and whistled.
He is answered by the sound of a
brisk gallop, and a beautiful young
horse, witlx arched neck and rolling
mane, comes up and stops before his
mast^, turning his fine head and bril-
liant eyes as if to offer him the stirrup.
The unknown raises the inanimate
Perico in his robust arms, throws him
across the horse, springs up beside
him, presses his knees gendy to the
animid's flanks, and the noble creature
darts away, gayly and lightly, as if un-
conscious of the double weight
CHAPTSB zrv.
In a solitary hostel, standing like a
beggar beside the highway, £e inn-
keeper and his wife woe seated before
their fire, in the dull tranquillity of
persona as accuetomed to the altema-
ti<His of noisy life by day and com-
plete isolation by night as the inhab-
itants of marshy places are to their
intermittent fevers.
^May evU light on that h^-
skuUed sailor who took it into nia
head that there must be a new world,
and never stopped till he ran against
it,'' said the woman. ^ Had not the king
already cities enough in this ? What
good has it done? Taken our sons
off there, and sent us the epidemic
Do say, Andres, and don't ait
sleeping there like a mole, if it has
been of any other use."
" Yes, wife, yes," answered the inn-
keeper, half' opening his eyes, ^'the
silver comes from there.'*
^ Plague take the silver !" exclaim-
ed the woman.
'^ And the tobacco/' added the hus-
band, slowly and lazily, again closing
his eyes,
^' A curse upon the tobacco!" said
the wife angrily. " Do ybu think, you
unfeeling father, that the silver or the
tobacco are worth the lives they cost
and the tears? Son of my soul!
God knows what will become of him
in that land where they kill men like
chinches, and where everything is
venomous, even the air !"
They heard at this moment a pecu-
liar whistle. The innkeeper, spring-
ing to his feet, caught up the light and
ran toward the door, exclaiming, ^ The
captain I"
As he presented himself on the
threshold, the rays of the lamp fell
upon a man on horseback, with an-
other man that looked like a corpse
lying across the horse in front of him.
^Help me take this fellow down,"
said the rider, in the rough tone of a
man of few words. M
The innkeeper handed the lamp to V
his wife, who had approached, and
made haste to obey.
^< Mercy to us I A dead man T' said
she. "For the love of the Blessed
Mother, sir, do not leave him in our
house I'
^ He is not dead," said the horse-
maoy " he i» sick ; nurse him up — that
Digitized by CjOOQIC
790
P^srieo Ae Sad.
18 wbat women ore good for. Here is
money to pay for the cure."
Saying this, he threw down a pieee
of gold, and disappeared, the resound-
ing and measured gallop of his horse
dying away gradually in the distance.
•* If this is not a cool proceeding I"
grumbled Martha. "What will you
bet that he, with bis own hands, has
not put the man in this state ? and he
takes himself off and leaves him on
ours! ^Tou cure him!' as if it
were nothing to cure a man who is
dead or dying ! As if this inn were
an hospital ! The bully thinks he has
only to command, as if he were the
king!"
^ Hush !** exclaimed the innkeeper,
alarmed, ^mU you be still, long-
tongue! Talk that way of Diego!
Women are the very devil ! What is
the use of grumbling, since you know
there is nothing for it but to do as
these 4)eople tell us! Besides, this
is a work of charity, so lef s be about
itJ'
They prepared, as well as they
could, a bed in a garret. '
"He has no sign of blow or
wound,'* said Andres, as he was un«
dressing the patient; "so you see,
wife, it is a sickness like any other."
"Look, look, Andres!" exclaimed
Martha ; " he has the scapular of our
Lady of Carmel around his neck*
And as if the sight or influence of
the blessed object had awakened in
her all the gentle sentiments of Chris-
tian humility, or as if the sacred pre-
cept, "Thy neighbor as thyself," ut-
tered by the brotherhood in united de-
votion, had resounded clearly, she be-
gan to exclaim: "You were right,
Andres, it is a work of charity to as*
sist him, poor fellow 1 How young he
is, and how forsaken! His poor
mother! Come, come, Andres, what
are you doing, standing there like a
post? Go! hurry! bring me some
wine to rub his temples; and kill a
hen, for I am going to make him some
broth."
" So it is," soliloquized Andres, as
he went out — ^"at fin*, woukbl
liav« bim in the faoose; now she will
turn the house out of the windows for
him. That's the way with womea.
It is hard to uuderstand them*"
On the following night, a man of
evil face and repugnant aspeet osme
to the inn. Thisman had been in the
pem'tentiary, and was nicknamed the
convict
" God be with you, sir," said the
innkeeper, with more fear than cordi-
ality, " what mi^t be yonr pleaanreF"
"A whim of the captain's, curse
him ! for haven't I come to ask after
the sick, like the porter of a convent ?"
"He is not doing very well,"
answejred the innkeeper ;" he is in a
raging fever, is out of his mind, and
talks of a murder he has done— of
dead men's heads.'
" Ho 1 so then he is a man that can
handle arms," said the convict. " Let*s
have a look at him."
They mounted to the garret, and
the innkeeper cohtinued :
" All day longi have been in a cold
sweat with fear. There have been
people in the house, and even sokUecs
— if they had heard him i"
The convict, who had been examin-
ing the delicate and wasted form of
Perico, interrupted with a movement
.of disdain.
" Well, if he makes too much noise
for yon, quarter him upon the king." *
" No, indeed !" cried Martha, "jmxkt
unfortunate ! I have a son in Amexica
who may be at this very hour in the
same condition, abandoned by every
one, and calling, as this one calls, fear
his mother. No, no, sir, we shall not
desert him. Neither Our Lady, whose
scapular he wears, nor L"
" Buy bun sweetmeats," said the
convict, and went down.
" What news ?' he asked of the inn-
keeper.
" They say that a reward is to be
offered for Diego's head."
"What?" asked the convict again,
with quick and nnusnal interest The
innkeeper repealed what be had said.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perieo the Sad.
791
The convict considered a moment, and
thai oootinued,
"< Where do they think we aire ?"
^' Near Despenapeiros*"
" Are they after us ?*
^ Yes, there is a cavaky company at
Sevilla, one of infantry at Cordoba,
and another of the mountain soldiery
at Utrera."
^ There will be some shoes worn
out before they see our faces, and if
they do get to see them it will cost
them dear.''
" Yes, yes," Andres replied ; " we
know that whoever puts himself in
Diego's way may as well look for his
grave; but then — ^there may be so
many of them . . » ."
<' Perhaps you would like to get a
erack of my fist on your bogle ?" said
the bandit.
" Not at all," said Andres, retreat*
ing a step or two.
^< Put more ballast in your tongue
then — and hurry up with the bread
—quick now !'
Andres hastened to obey. The
bandit was gomg away when he heard
Martha's voice calling after him.
^^ It slipped my mind — ^you take this
money," she said, handing him the
piece of gold. ^ Give it to the cap-
tain, and tell him that what I do for
this lad I do for charity, and not for
interest."
'' I shall be sure to ^ve him such a
reason. He accepts ' No' neither when
he says give, nor when he says take ;
but to settle it between you, I will keep
the money ;" and setting spurs to his
horse, he disappeared.
^ You have done a wise thing !'* said
the innkeeper impatiently. "^ Will the
money, you foolish good-for-nothing, be
better in the hands of that big thief
than in ours ? . Women ! — ^ill hap to
IhemI Only the devil understands
them."
^ I understand myself and God un-»
derstands me," said the good woman,
letomiqg to the garret.
CHAPTER XT.
The care of the innkeeper^s wife and
the youth and robust constitution of
Perieo vanquished the fever. At the
end of a fortnight he was able to rise.
Perieo evinced all his gratitude to
Martha in a manner more heartfelt
than fluent.
" You must not thank me " said the
good woman, ^ for truly, the face I put
on when I saw you brought was not
one of welcome ; but I have taken a
liking to you. because I see that you
are a good son and a good Christian."
Perieo hung his head in deep grief
nnd humiliation. His physical weak-
ness had deadened in him the blind
and furious impulse which had exalted
him, as such impulse does sometimes
exalt gentle and timid natures to a
point past the Lmit which strong-
minded and even violent men re-
spect
All that effervescence which caused
such a surging of his passions, as gas
causes the juice of the grape to fer*
ment, had ceased, as the foam subsides
upon the wine, leaving reflection,
which, without duninishing the great-
ness of his wrongs, condemned his me-
thod of redressing them.
All the horror which the future in-
spired returned to Perieo with return-
ing strength, and it was not lessened
when Andres, taking the occasion one
day when his wife was about her work,
said to him :
" My friend, now that you are re-
covered yoii must seek your living
somewhere else, for — ^the more friend-
ship, the more frankness, sir — when
you were out of your head you talked
of a murder you had committed. If
it is true, and they find you here, v^
shall suffer for it, and that will not m
right ; the just ought not to pay for
sinners; well-regulated charity, let
Martha, who pretends to know better,
say what she will, begins at home.
Nobody but that pumpkm-headed wi&
of mine is capable of sustaining that
Christian chari^ begms with one's
neighbor. As to me, I tell you the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
792
JP&tco ih4 Sad.
truth, I vpant nothing to do with just-
ice, for she has a heavy hand."
Perico did not reply, but went
with tearful eyes to take leave of
Maxtha. The good soul felt his de-
parture, for she had become fond of
him. The memory of her son bad
attached Martha to the unfortunate
young man, and the memory of bis
own mother bad drawn Perico to-
ward the woman who acted toward
him a mother's part.
He took bis gun, and was going out
when be met the convict,
"Which way?* said the robber.
*'Do you clear out in this fashion,
without so much as May God reward
you I to the compassionate soul who
picked yon up ? This isn't the right
thing, comrade. Besides, where can
you go hereabouts? Are you in a
hurry to be put in the lock-up T'
Perico remained silent ; he neither
thought nor reasoned — ^had no will of
his own. " Courage ! and come along,''
proceeded the convict. ** Here we are
taking more trouble to help you than
you will take to let yourself be helped.''
Perico foUowed him mechanically.
" Look, Martha," said Andres, see-
ing Perico at a distance in company
with the robber, "look at your pet
—and what a jewel he is, to be sure 1
There he goes with the convict."
"And what of it?" responded Mar-
tha. " I tell you, Andres, that he is a
good son and a good Chrisdan.'*
<*An impostor and a vagabond,
that has eaten up my hens — ^and you
see where he is going, and yet say
that he is good 1 The devil only un-
derstands women I"
Perico and the convict, making
their way through thickets and difl£
cult places, came at last to an eleva-
tion, upon which stood the captain
leaning on his gun, and guarding the
slumbers of efght men, who were lying
around him on the slope. Near him
grazed his beautiful horse, which lifted
its head from time to time to regard
its master.
" Here is this young man,^' said the
eonvict as they drew near.
WithoQt changing his position, the
captain slowly turned his eyes and
exanuned the new arrival from head
to foot. His Bcnttiny finished, he
asked,
" Are you a fugitive from justice ?*
Perico inclined' his head, bnt did
not answer.
" There is no cause for fear,*' pro-
ceeded his questioner, and presently,
in brief phrases, added,
"Men have fatal hours, and of
these some are as red as blood and
some as black as darkness itself.
One is enough to destroy a man, and
turn his heart to a stone which has
neither pulse nor feeling, only weight.
He remains lost, for the past is past,
and there is nothing to do but bear it
with pluck. Life is a fight, in which
one must look before him, like a brave
man, and not behind, like a poltrooo."
" I cannot do it," exclaimed Pezico
vehemently. " If you knew — "
The captain, with an imperative
gesture, extended his arm to silence
him, and continued*
" Here, each one carries his own se-
crets within himself, a sealed packet,
without awakening in the others either
curiosity or interest* If you have no-
where to go, stay with us ; here we
defend all we have lefl, our life. 'Mine
I do not guard because I value it,
but to keep it from the headsman.''
" But you robl" said Perica
" We must do something," responded
the bandit, returning, like a tortoise,
into his bard and impenetrable shelL
Perico neither accepted nor refused
the proposition, he remained without
volition, an inert body ; chance dis-
posed of his wretched existence, as
the winds dispose of the dry and heavy
sands of the desert.
OHAPTEB ZYI.
But while Perieo, after the occur-
lences which we have related, was
dragging out a miserable existence
among a band of criminals, what be-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Peni» Ike Sad.
798
came of the other individnals of this
family ? To what extremes had the j
been carried bj resentment, grief,
despair, and revenge ? x
Pedro, from the fatal day on which
he lost his son, had shut himself in his
own house with his sorrow. The
parish priest and some of his fnends
went from time to time to keep him
company — ^not to console him, that was
impossible, but to talk with him about
his trouble, like those who relieve
yeasels of the bitter water of the sea,
not to right them but to keep Ihem
from sinking. They had tried to per*
saade him to renew his intercourse
with the fiunily of Perico, but without
success.
^ No, no,'* he would answer on such
occasions. ^I have forgiven him
before God and men ; but have to do
with his people as though it had not
been, I cannot."
*' Pedro, Pedro, that is not for-
giveness," said the priest. ^ It is the
letter but Dot the spirit of the law."
^Father," replied the poor man,
''God does not ask what is impos-
sible."-
^ No, but what he requires is possi-
ble."
^ Sir, you want me to be a saint, and
I am not one; it is enough for me
to be a good Christian, and foigive.
Have I molested themi Have I
sought justice? What more can I
do?"
" Pedro, * returning good for evil,
wise men walk in peace.' "
" Mercy, mercy, father I why shave
BO close* as to lay bare the brains?
God help and favor them ; but each in
his own house, and God with us alL"
Maria had hidden herself with her
daughter in the retirement of her cot>-
tage, covering the despair and shame
of the latter with the sacred mantle of
maternal love, her only refuge from
the unanimous disapproval and con-
demnation which she justly merited.
The unfortunate victims, Anna and
Elvira, remained alone, but sustained
in their immense affliction by their re-
ligion and their oonadence. Maoj
months passed in this way. At length
two Capuchins came to the village to
hold a mission. These missions were
instituted for the conversion of the
wicked, the awakening 4>f the luke-
warm, the encouragement of the good,
and the consolation of the sorrowful.
The missionaries preached at night,
and the church was filled with people
who came to hear the word of God,
which teaches men to be pious and
humble.
The good Maria succeeded in per-
suading her daughter to go to the mis-
sions, and Rita, hard, bitter, and self-
ish, in her shame and desperation,
found in them repentance, with tears
for the past, penance and humiliation
for the present, and for the future the
divine hand, which lifts the fallen one,
who, bathed in tears, and prostrate in
ashes, implores its help. One night
the subject of the sermon was the
forgiveness of injuries. Magnifioent
theme I Holy and sublime beyond
all others 1 The earnest preacher
knew how to improve it, and the be-
lieving people how to understand it.
At the conclusion the good mission-
ary knelt before the cruc^x, and with
fervent zeal and ardent charity pro-
mised the Lord of mercy, in the name
of that multitude kneeling at his feet,
that on the succeeding night there
should not be in the temple a single
hard and unreconciled heart A burst
of exchunations and tears confirmed
the promise of the devoted apoatle*
The day which followed was one of
peace and love, according to the spirit
of the evangeL The most deeply-root-
ed enmities were coded ; the most irre-
concilable foes embraced each other in
the streets ; the angels in heaven had
cause for rejoicing.
Pedro went to see Anna. Terrible
to the unhappy man was the entering
into that house. He approached Anna
and embraced her in sUence. The af«
flicted mother shook, and tried in vain
to overcome her emotion. But when
Pedro turned toward Elvira, as she
stood wringing her thin hands, worn
to a shadow and bathed in teani— when
Digitized by CjOOQIC
^94
Perico the SeuL
he pressed to his paternal heart her
whom he had looked npon and lored as
a daughter, all his grief broke forth in
the cry : ^' Daughter I daughter I 70a
and I loved him V
Rita, also, went to Annans to beg
for that which Pedro went to carry.
When she found herself in the pre-
sence of the mother-in-law she had
outraged, she fell upon her knees. ^ I, *
she exclaimed, beating her breast,
^ have been the cause of all I I have
not come to ask a forgiveness I do not
deserve, but to beg of you to repri-
mand without cursing me." When
she tamed to Elvira, it was not enough
to remain on her knees, she bent her
face to the floor, moaning amidst her
sobs. '^ Since you are an angel, for-
give!"
Maria supported her prostrate child,
and implored Aima with her looks
and tears. Anna and Elvira, without
a word of reproach, raised and em-
braced her who had done so much to
injure them ; striving all they could
from that day to reanimate her, for
she was the most wretched of the
three, because the guilty one.
All the people looked with charity
upon the woman who had sincerely
and publicly repented, for although
the society called cultivated finds in
religious demonstrations another cause
for vituperation, adding to the condem-
nation of faults which it never forgets
the reproach of hypocrisy upon those
who turn to God, the people, more
generous and more just, honor the
open evidence of penitence and humil-
iation. Therefore, when they saw
Rita abase herself and weep, their in-
dignation was exchanged for compas-
sion, and the epithet ^ infamous 1" for
the pitiful words " poor child !"
Tiua was because the common peo-
ple, though they know not what phi*
lanthropy means, know well, because
religion teaches them, what is Ghristiaa
charity.
CHAPTSB xyn.
To Perico, the life Into which he
found himself drawn by necessity, and
by the vigorous influence Diego ex-
ercised over him, was one of misery;
Diego also had been drawn into a lifo
of crime by a terrible misfortune ; bat
having entered, he adopted it as a
warrior does his iron armor, without
heeding either its hardness or its op-
pressive weight Perico followed Ins
wicked companions while he detested
them. He was like the silver tish of
some peaceful inland lake which,
caught by some fatal current, is car-
ried away into the bitter and restless
waters of the sea, where it agonises
without the power to escape. At
times, when a crime was committed
under his eyes, he wished in his des-
peration to end his torments at once,
by giving himself up to justice ; bat
shame, and want of energy to overcome
it, held him back. The others hated
him, and sumamed him ^' The Sad,"
but he was sustained by Diego's pow-
erful protection. Diego felt attracted
toward the man whose life he had
saved, and who was, he felt, good and
honest For the rough and austere
Diego was of a strong and noble na-
ture that had not yet descended to the
lowest grade of evil, which is hatred
of the good.
In one of their raids, when the band
had approached Tas Yentas, near
Alocaz, a spy arrived in breathless
haste from IFtrera, telling them that a
company of mountain soldiery had
just left the latter place in the direc*
tion of Tas Yentas, informed of their
whereabouts by some travellers ihey
had lately pillaged.
They made haste to take refuge in
an olive grove, but had hardly entered
it when they were surprised by a troop
of cavalry. A deadly contest then
commenced, sustained by these meo,
who were fighting for th^ lives with
terrible bravery.
*< Perico," said Diego^ "now or
never is the occasion fo prove &at
70a do not eat your bread withoot
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perieo ih9 Sad.
795
earning it This ii a fair fight At
them, if jaa are a man T
On hearing these words, Perioo^
confused, and like a drunken man,
threw himself in the way of the balls,
firing upon the poor soldiers — ^men
who were sacrificing everything for
the good of society, which, in its ego-
tism, does not even thank them ; for it
happens to them as to the confessors
and doctors, who are laughed at in
health, and anxiously called upon when
there is any danger. One of the ban-
dits was kiDed, two of the soldiers
wounded, and a ball of Perico's, fired
at a great distance, killed the com-
mander of the troop. The consterna-
tion which' followed this catastrophe
gave the robbers an opportunity to es-
cape. They fled beyond Utrera,
passed through the haciendas of La
Chaparra and Jesus-Maria, and ar-
rived exhausted at nightfall in Yalo-
brega. This valley, not far from
AlcaU is s urrounded by ridges and olive
slopes. In the most redred part of it,
on the margin of a brook, are still
standing the ruins of a Moorish castle
called Marchenilla. Men and horses
threw themselves upon the turf at the
baae of these solitary ruins. They
quenched their thirst in the brook, and
when night set, in lighted a fire, and
all except Diego and Perieo lay down
to sleep.
** An evil day, Corso," said Diego,
caressing his horse, which lowered
and then lifted his beautiful head as if
to assent to his master's words, and say
to him, ^ What matter since I have
saved you ?"
" I treat thee shamefully, my son,'*
continued the chief^ who loved bis
horse the more fondly because he
loved no other creature. The horse,
as if he had understood, neighed gaily,
and, rising on his hind feet, balanced
himself, and then dropped down
upon all four beside his master, pre-
senting his head to be caressed.
>" What wiUbeocHne of thee if lam
taken?' said the robber, leaamghis
head against the neck of the animal,
which DOW stood motionless.
^ Tmly,' said Diego, seating him-
self by the fire in front of Perieo, ^ it
is to you we owe our escape to-day
with so little loss."
" To me V* asked Perieo snrprised.
** Yes," answered the captain ; " the
troop was commanded by a brave
officer, who knew the country, and did
not mean child's play. The son of
the Countess of Yillaoran. He would
have given us work if you had not
killed him."
<* God have mercy on me !" ex*
claimed Perieo, springing to his feet
and raising his clasped hands to heav-
en. "What are you saying? The
son of the countess was there, and I
killed him?"
" What shocks you ?' replied Di^a
" Perhaps youthou^t we were firing
sugar-plums? Heavens!" he added
impatiently,^ you exasperate me I One
would take yon for a travelling player,
with all your attitudes and extrava-
gances. By all that's sacred, the con-
vict is right You missed your voca-
tion ; instead of dioosing a Hfe of free^
dom you should have turned friar.
Come I keep watch,'' he added, wrap-
ping himself in his mantle, and lying
down with a st<me under his head and
his carbine between his knees.
His words were lost upon Perieo.
The unhappy man tore his hair and
cursed himself in his despair. He
had killed the son of the mistress and
benefactress of bis uncles, his own
companion of childhood.
CHAFTSB XTin.
IJow vividly, during that gloomy
night did the tranquil scenes of his
lost domestic happiness present them-
selves to Perieo ! And for what had
he exchanged them? His present
frightful existence. All around him was
motionless. He saw in the sad mo-
notony of the night the changeless
monotony of his misery; in the lin
Digitized by CjOOQIC
796
PeriGO ih$ Sad.
burning before Jnm, his coosmnmg
conscience ; and in the cold and im-
penetrable obecnrity beyond, his dark
and cheerless future.
"Power of God!" he cried, •^can
I see and remember, and feel all this,
and yet live ?"
The red and wavering flame threw
from time to time a glare of light
across the strange wild forms of the
mins, presently leaving them in deep
shadow, appearing to take refoge
within, as a dying memory flashes up
and then buries itself in the oblivion
of the past He heard his own breath-
ing exaggerated by the silence, he saw
horrible shapes in the obscurity. Fin-
gers threatened him-— eyes glared at
him— reproachful voices accused him.
And no, he was not mistaken, by the
dearer light of the flames, now blown
by the wind, he saw, beyond a remnant
of wall, a pair of hard black eyes fixed
upon him. Startled, and doubtful be-
tween the imaginary and the real, Pe-
rico did not know whether he ought to
put himself under the protection of
heaven, by making the sign of the
cross, or to call for earthly help by
giving the signal of alarm*
Before he could act, there came
from behind the st<Hie' ruin a ruin of
humanity ; from behind the degrada-
tion of time, a wreck of human degra-
dation — ^an old, filthy, and disgusting
gipsy woman. The tint of the brown
woollen skirts which covered her flesh-
less limbs blended with that of the
ruin ; she wore about her neck a ker-
chief, and over her faded locks a black
cloth mantilla.
Perico was struck motionless as a
stone, or as if th# repulsive face had
been that of the Medusa*
^ Don't be uneasy,'^ said the vision,
approaching, ^ there is nothing to be
afraid of. I have not come with bad
motive, and you need not be on the
watch. I knew that you were here,
and have caused it to be rumored that
you were making your way in the
direction of the Sierra de Bonda, and
that people had seen you near Espera
and Villa-MarUn."
"But why have yoa come herel"
exclaimed Perico, instmctively alarm-
ed at the aspect of the woman.
" To put you in the way of securing,
at a stroke, a fortune ^at will last
yon your lifetime," she replied.
" That which yon are likely to ofier
does not inspire much confidence,"
said Perico.
" Why should I wish to harm you ?**
said the gipsy ; '^ and as to my looks, a
poor doak may cover a hail compan*
ion. I bring a treasure to your vezy
hands ; you have only to extend
them."
^ A treasure,*' said Perico, in whom
the word, instead of exdtingcovetous-
ness, only suggested the idea that the
woman was mad, ^a treasure, and
where is it ?**
The old wetch, who saw in the
question only what she expected to
find, avidity and thirst for gold, ap-
proached Perico as if she feared tho
breath of night might intercept her
words, and the anathemas of heaven
dissolve them in the air, and whispered
in his ear, ^ In the church."
Perico, utterly shocked, gave a
step backward, but recovering him-
self, rushed upon the woman like a
tiger, and pushing her with all his
might, exclaimed, ** Go !"
** I will not go," she said, unintimi-
dated ; "• I came to speak with the cap-
tain and the convict, and I wUl speak
with them."
In his anguish lest she should doit,
and to force her to go, Perico drew
a dagger and flashed its shining blade
in the firelight. The gipsy shrieked
and the robbers woke. -
<<What is this?" shouted ^go;
"what has happened? Perico, are
you gomg to kill a woman ?"
^ No, no, I do not want to kill her,
only to drive her away."
"And because," said the old
woman, " I have come so far, through
danger and fatigue, to put you in a
way to leave this slavish life you are
leading, like the Blond of Espera, who
committed one robbery so great that
he had enough to go beyond the seas
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
Perico the Sad.
797
and pass the rest of his days in com-
fort'^
The robbers grouped themselres
around her; the convict presenting
her with a fragment of the wall as a
seat
"Do not listen! do not listen!"
cried Perico, beside himself; " she pur-
poses a sacrilege I"
"Sir," said the convict to Diego,
" oblige that agonizing priest to hold
his tongue, he is like the dog in the
manger. Let this good woman speak,
and we shall know what she has to
saj — a regiment of horse couldn't
silence that dismal screech-owL"
Diego hesitated, but llnallj turned
toward the hag, and Perico, knowing
then that hope was lost, for the bandit
alwavs followed his first impulses,
rushed away, running hither and thith*
er among th& olives Tike a madman.
The gipsy had calculated everything,
and her measures were well taken.
The great advantages so exaggerated,
the cUfficulties so easily overcome, the
well-arranged precautions, upon which
she amplified so largely, produced their
effect The temptation which offers
flowers with one hand and with the
other hides the thorns, convinced some
and seduced others.
All the plans were settled, and the
hours and signals agreed upon, and
before the cocks, day's faithful sen-
tinels, announced his coming, the band
was on its way to the solitary hacien-
da of " El Cuervo," and the old witch
crawling like a cunning and venomous
snake to her den in the wood of Al-
cald, where in the depths of the earth
she had conceived the crime to which
amidst darkness and ruins she had
persuaded evil-doers — ^the crime which
was to be perpetrated in the temple of
God.
GHAFTSB XIX.
HeJlVILT passed the hours of the
succeeding day to the idle guests of
El Cuervo. All Perico's representa-
tions and prayers had failed to dissuade
Diego from his impious design. Diego
would never turn back ; and this stu-
pid tenacity in pursuing a course which
he knew to be wrong, had cost him
respect and honor, and was stiU to
cost him liberty and life. It had, more-
over, at the instigation of the convict,
forced Perico, who had at last resolved
to leave the band, to accompany it on
this atrocious expedition — tliat vile
man suggesting to Diego that there
was no other means of preventmg the
taint from denouncing them.
All mounted and at midnight reached
the ruined castle of Alcald. Diego
whistled three times. Directly after,
the gipsy, holding a dark lantern,
emerged from one of the vaults which
open at. the base of the castle. They
dismounted and followed her.
Perico would have escaped by flight
from the evil pass in which he found
himself, but his companions surround-
ed him and dragged him with them
whither the woman led. She, afler
saluting the robbers in a fawning voice,
opened with a picklock the door of a
rude court filled with rubbish and tim-
bers. From the court a postern leads
into the vestry, and through this the
sacrilegious band entered the church,
not without dread and trembling even
at the sound of their own footsteps.
What a sublime and tremendous spec-
tacle — a deserted temple in the dead
of night ! Under its influence even
the purest and most pious souls sink
in profound awe and devotion ; and no
amount of mcredulity is sufficient to
sustain the heart of bim who presumes
to violate it
How immense appeared those shad-
owy naves! How far above them
the corbels, which, upheld by giants of
stone, seemed almost lost in the mys-
terious gloom of a sky without stars !
There in a deep and lonesome niche,
stretched prostrate and mute, slept a
cold i:f&!^ upon a sepulchre. Its out-
lines were hardly discernible, but the
very obscurity seemed to lend diem
motion.
The high altar, still perfumed witii
the flowers and incense of the i
Digitized by CjOOQIC
798
JPwico the Sad.
ing, gleamed through the darkness.
The attar, centre of faith, throne of
charity, refuge of hope, shelter of
the defenceless, exhaustless source of
consolations, attracting all eyes, all
steps, all hearts* Before the taber-
nacle bnmed the lamp, solitary guar-
dian of the «acrar»tiiN----bumed only to
light it, for light is the knowledge <^
God.
Holy and mysterions lamp — contin-
ual holocaust — aflame, tranquil like
hope — silent, like reverence — ardent,
like charity — and enduring like eter-
nal mercy. The gleams and reflec-
tions of this light caught and relieved
the promiiicnt points of the carvings
and mouldings of the gilded altar-
piece, giving them the look of eyes
keeping religious watch* There was
nothing to distract the mind, the per-
fect fixedness, the unbroken stillness,
effected as it were a suspension of
life, which was not sleep— which was
not death, but the peacefulness of the
one and the deep solemnity of the
other.
Such was the interior of the church
of Alcald when the spoilers entered,
lighted by the gipsy's lantern and
dragging with them, by main force, the
unfortunate Perico.
" Let him go, and lock that door,'
said Diego.
" lie will shout and betray us," said
the others.
" Let him go, I say," retorted the
captain. " What can he do V*
** He can shriek/' answered Leon,
who, assisted by the gipsy, was strip-
ping the high altar of the silver fur-
niture which adorned it.
" Guard him, then," said the captain.
Two of the men approached Perico.
" Off with your hats, for you are in
God's house,"' he cried.
'^Gag him," commanded the cap-
tain, liesistanoe was useless. They
instantly stopped his mouth with a
handkerchief.
But notwithstanding the handker-
chief, which suffocated him, when
Perico saw that Leon and the gipsy
were breaking open the sacrarium he
made one desperate effort, and falling
on his knees shouted, ''Sacrilege!
Sacrilege I ! !" Terrible was the voioe
that resounded in the chapels, that
echoed like thunder along the vaults,
that awakened the grand and sonorous
instrument which on other occasions
accompanies the imposing De pro-
fundis and the glorious Te Ihum.
and died away in its metal tubes like
a doleful wail. It caused a moment
of cold terror to those miserable
wretches. Even Diego trembled !
*' Have mercy, Lord, have mer-
cy I' moaned the unhappy Perico.
"Make haste," said Diego, ''the
night is becoming clearer, and we may
be seen going out from here."
In fact, the clouds were breaking
away, and a ray of the moon falling at
this moment through a lofly skylight
kissed the feet of an image Of our
Blessed Lady.
** Curse the moon !'* exclaimed the
gipsy ; and frightened at seeing each
other by the clear and sudden illumina-
tion, they hastened the work of spoli-
ation. At last they left the church,
and the gipsy, when she had seen them
ride away loaded with riches, turned
and again hid herself in the earth.
Before the sun brightened the Gxr-
aida the robbt^rs reached the outskirts
of Seville with their booty, They left
their horses in an olive grove in
charge of the convict, and each entered
the city by a different gate, reuniting
in an out-of-the-way place which the
gipsy had indicated, where a silver-
smith, who was in the secret, received,
weighed, and paid for the valuables.
But when they returned to the place
where they had left the convict with
the horses, they found it deserted.
" That dog has sold us," said one.
"For what?" said Diego, "when
hts part, which is likely to be worth
more than his treason, is here.'*
"Perhaps he has seen people, and
has gone to hide in El Cuervo," said
another.
They set out in the direction of the
hacienda, avoiding roads and beaten
paths, and keeping within the shelter
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Ptrieo the Sad.
799
of the trees; bnt neither there did
they find the convict.
^ Mj poor Corso !" said Diego, and
ft bitter tear shone for a moment in
his eyes ; but instantly recovering him-
self he said, ^We are sold: but,
courage! and let us save ourselves.
Down the river; to the frontier; to
Ayamonte; to Portugal. Some day
I shall find him, and on that day
he will wish he had never been
born I"
They were leaving, when the gipsy
presented herself to claim her share
of the money. All assailed her with
questions respecting the disappearance
of the convict ; but she knew nothing,
and manifested much uneasiness.
" You are not safe here, and ought
to get away as soon as may be," she
said. '' The elder son of the Countess
of Yillaoran has sworn to avenge his
brother. He has got a troop from the
captain-general, and is out after you.
I am afraid he has surprised the con-
vict. As for me I am going, the
ground bums under my feet."
*' Oh ! that it would bum you up !"
exclaimed one.
" Oh! that it would swallow you!"
exclaimed another.
The old hag silently disappeared
among the olives, like a viper which
crawls away, leaving its venom in the
bite it has inflicted.
" A robbery in the house of God !'*
said the tirst.
" The sacrarium violated T' said the
other.
" Come, hold your tongues I" shout-
ed Diego. " Make the best of what
can't be undone. Let's be off."
But now they heard the tramp of
horses, and Perico, who had been
stationed to watch, came hastily in and
informed them that the convict was
coming. His arrival was greeted with
shouts of joy. He said that he had
seen a troop of horsemen, and had
hidden himself; that in order to re-
turn he had been obliged to make
large circuits. ^^ But, now," he added,
^we have no time to lose, they are
on our track. Here, captain, is Corso^
I have taken good care of him for
you ; I know how fond of him yoa
are."
Diego joyfully caressed the noble
creature vowing within himself never
again to be separated frcxn him.
They hastened their departure,
when, suddenly, before them, behind
them, above (heir heads, resounded a
formidable demand, ^^ Surrender to the
king!"
They were surrounded by a party
of cavalry. Two pistols were pointed
at Diego's breast, and a man held the
bridle of his horse. Diego cast his
eyes around him with no feigned com-
posure! Knowing the ability of the
horse, which he had trained to this
end, he drew his dagger with the
quickness of light, and cut the hands
which held the reins, pressed his knees
strongly against the animal*s sides, and,
caressing bis neck, cried, " Hey I Cor-
se, save your master !"
The noble and intelligent creature
];nade one effort, but fell back upon his
haunches powerless. He was ham-
strung I
Diego comprehended the blow, and
knew the hand that had dealt it.
Frantic with rage, he sprang to the
ground, but the traitor had disappeared
among the troop which crowded the
pass. They took Diego, who made no
useless resistance. As they left the
defile, tlie bandit turned his head, and
cast a last look upon the horse, that,
always immovable, foUowed him with
his large liquid eyes.
The soldiers disarmed the bandits,
and tied their arms behind their backs.
" Which is the one?" asked the Count
of Villaoran when he saw them to-
gether — ^ which is the one that killed
my brother?"
The robbers were silent at a look
firom Diego, who, though a prisoner
and bound, still awed them.
"Which was it?" asked th3 count
again, in a voice choked with rage.
" It was I," said Perico.
The count turned toward the droop-
ing youth, who had not before attract-
ed his notice ; but when he fixed his
Digitized by CjOOQIC
800
Pwieo the Sad.
eyes upon him a cij of horror escaped
his lips.
^ Yoa I Peiico Alvareda I Iniquity
without name ! Perversity without ex*
ample ! Poor Anna ! wretched mother
that hore you I Unfortunate little
ones 1 Unhappy Btta I Know, infa«
mons man,^ continued the count with
vehemence, ^ that your wife has work-
ed with incessant zeal and activity to
procure your pardon. She was al*
ways at the feet of the judges. Ven-
tura forgave you hefore he died. Pe-
dro has forgiven you. My poor bro-
ther was the zealous and tireless agent
of your friends. He obtained your
pardon of the king. AH were anxious-
ly seeking you, and ho more than all
the rest, and I — would to God I had
never found you !"
Diego, who saw the immense grief
which the coldness and pallor of de.\th
painted upon the changing countenance
of Perico, and noticed that he was tot-
tering, said to the count :
** Sir, do you see that you are kill-
ing him?"
^1 will not anticipate the execu-
tioner," answered the count, mountmg
his horse.
** Courage T murmured Diego in the
ear of the sinking Perico. ^ Look at
us. We are all gomg to die, and we
are all serene."
They entered Seville amidst the
maledictions of the populace, horrified
by their recent crimes. But the in-
dignation with which the crowd saw
the vile traitor who had sold his com-
panions, walking among them free,
was beyond measure.
This traitor was the convict, who by
betraying the others had bought his
own pardon, and obtained the reward
promised to the person who should se-
cure the arrest of the notorious robber
Diego, who had so long laughed at the
efforts of his pursuers.
CHAPTER XX.
Thb prison of Seville was at that
time badly situated, in a narrow street
in the most central part of the city.
It was an iU-lookmg structure, scaly
and mean; wanting in its style the
dignity of legal authority and the ont«
ward respect which humanity owes to
misfortune, even when it is criminaL
A few steps from this centre of hard-
ened wickedness and beastly degrada-
tion the street ends in the gnaid plaza
of San Franei9co—«a irregular ob-
long area, bounded by those edifices
which make it the most imposing plaza
of the famed deanery of Andoiuda,
On the right are the chapter-houses
whose exquisite architecture renders
them in the eyes of both SeviUans and
strangers the finest ornaments of the
city. On the left, forming a project-
ing angle, stands the regular and se-
vere edifice of the Audiencia, the tri-
bunal to which justice gives all power.
Surmounting it, like a signal of mercy,
is its clock— ten minutes too slow;
venerable illegality, which gives ten
minutes more of Ufe to the crii^inal
before striking the cruel hour named
for his execution. Thus all the laws
and customs of ancient Spain have
the seal of charity. Ten minutes, to
him who is passing tranquilly along
the road of life, are nothing; but to
him who is about to die, they are price-
less. Upon the threshold of death, ten
minutes may decide his sentence for
eternity. Ten minutes may bring an
unhoped-for but possible pardon. But
even though these considerations, spir-
itual and temporal, did not exist;
though this impressive souvenir of our
forefathers were notliing more than
the grant of ten minutes of existence
to him who is about to die, it would
still prove that, even to their most se-
vere decrees, our ancestors knew how
to affix the seal of charity. As such
it is recognized by the people, who un-
derstand and appreciate it, for it is one
of the customs which they hold in
highest reverence. O Spain! what
examples hast thou not given to the
world of all that is good and wise!
thou that to-day art asking them of
strangers I
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Perico the Sad.
801
On one side of the town4ml], form-
ing a receding angle, is seen the great
convent of San Francisco with its im-
posing church. The other fronts form
arches that, like stone festoons, adorn
the sides of the plaza. At the end
opposite the point first mentioned is
an immense marble fountain, of which
the flow of waters is as changeless
and lasting as the material of the basin
which receives it^
One day the plaza of San Francisco
and the streets leading to it were cov-
ered with an unnsual muldtude. What
drew them together ? Why were they
there ? To see a man die — but no,
not die ; to see a man kill his broth-
er ! To die is solemn, not terrible, when
the angel gently closes the sufferer's
weary eyes and gives his soul wings to
rise to other regions. But to see a man
killed, by a human hand, in travail of
spirit, in agony of soul, in tortures of
pain, is appalling. And yet men go,
and hasten, and crowd each other, to
witness the consummation of legal
doom. Bat it is neither pleasure nor
curiosity that attracts the awe-struck
multitude. It is that fatal desire of
emotion which takes possession of the
contradictory human heart. This
might have been read in those faces,
at once pale, anxious, and horrified.
An indistinct murmur ran through the
dense multitude, in the midst of which
rose that piUar of shame and anguish ;
that usurper of the mission of death ;
that foothold of the forsaken, which
no one but the priest treads voluntari-
ly — the fearfnl scaffold, built at
night, by the melancholy light of lan-
terns, because the men who raise it are
ashamed to be seen by the light of
Grod's sun and the eyes of their fellow-
men. The crowd shuddered at in*
tervals at the moumfnl strokes of the
beU of San Francisco, pealing for a
being who no longer existed except
to God, for the world had blotted him
from the list of the living. Its notes,
now rising to God in supplication for
a soul, now descending to mortals in
expressive admonidon, forming part of
the overwhelming solenmity which was
VOL. III. 61
inhaled with the air and oppressed the
breast, seemed to say. Die, guilty ones
die in expiatory sacrifice for this sin-
ful humanity. Only the pure and lim-
pid fountain continued its sweet and
monotonous song, unconscious as child-
hood and innocenoe of the terrors of
the earth. O innocence, emanation
of Paradise, still respired in our cor-
rupted atmosphere by children and
those privileged beings who have, like
faith, a bandage upon their eyes, that
they may believe without seeing, and
another upon their hearts, that they
may see and not comprehend; who
have, like charity, their heart in their
hand, and, like hope, their eyes fixed
on heaven, thou art always surround-
ed by reverence, love, and admiration,
which, as the daughter of heaven, thou
meritest.
There are two classes of charity :
one relieves material sufferings in a
material way. and with money — this is
beautiful and liberal, but easy, and a
social obligation. The other is that
which relieves moral anguish, morally.
This is sublime and divine.
Of the latter class, one that has not
been sujficiently praised by society,
which finds so many occasions for
censure and so few for eulogy, is the
Brotherhood of Charity. And who
compose this admirable congregation ?
Those, perhaps, who waste so much
paper and phraseology in favor of hu-
manity, philanthropy, and fraternity ?
No, not one of them condescends to
enter this corporation, which is formed
principally of the aristocracy of
those places where it has been estafi-
lished. The truth is, that between
theory and practice, as between saying
and doing, there is a great space.
In Seville, a short time after the
events related in the last chapter, sev-
eral gentlemen of distinction were seen
passing through &e streets, each hold-
ing out a smsJl basket, as he repeated
in a grave voice, <^ For the unfortunates
who are to be put to death."
Diego and his band were assembled
in the chapel of the prison, constantly
attended by some of the lM:otherhoo<^
Digitized by CjOOQIC
802
Perieo the SacL
who, learing their homes, their pleaa-
ureSj and their oooupadonsy came to
take part in this prolonged agonyy
consoling the last moments of these
sinful men ; anticipating their wishes
with more attention than those of kings
are anticipated, and pouring halsam
into the wound inflicted by the sword
of justice.
Two of the most xealons and de-
voted of the brotherhood, the Count of
Cantillana and the Marquis of 6re-
fiina, had been to the tribunal, which is
established and remains in session in
the jail whUe the condemned are be-
ing prepared and led to the scaffold,
and during the execution, to ask of it
the bodies of those who were to Buffer.
The following is the formula adopt*
ed by this noble and aflfecting Catholic
institution :
'' We come, in the name of Joseph
and of Nicodemus, to ask leave to take
the body down from the place of pun*
ishment." The judge grants the pray-
er, and they withdraw*
Each prisoner was accompanied by
his confessor--<a blessed staff to sustain
the steps that are turned toward the
scaffold.
When Perieo had finished his sacra-
mental confession, he said to the vener-
able religious who assisted him : << My
name is not known ; they call me ' Peri-
eo the Sad ;* but, since between earth
and heaven nothing is. hidden, my fa-
mily will, sooner or later, know my
fate. Have the charity, father, to
fulfil my last desire, and be yourself
the one to carry the news to my mo-
ther. Tell her that I died repentant
and contrite, and not so criminal as I
appear. An evil life is a ravine into
which one is drawn by the first crime^
That crime which has weighed and is
weighing so heavily upon me, I com^
mitted because I preferred a vain thing
which men call honor, and which has
sometimes to be bought with blood, to
the precepts of the gospel, which make
a virtue of forbearance and command
us to forgive. O &ther 1 how differ-
ent appear the things of life on the
threshold of the tomb ! Tell my poor
sister, whose brid^room I killed, that
I commend her to another and immortal
One, who will never deceive her.
Tell Pedro that I know he has for-
given me, as did his son, and that I
carry this consolation to the grave, and
my gratitude to Qod. Tell Bita that
I lived and died loving her, and that,
if I had lived, I never would have re-
minded her of the past, since she has
repented of it. Ask my mother-in-
law, who is BO good, to recommend me
to Grod .... and my poor children
• ... my orphans • • • . Oh ! if it
were possible that they might never
know .... the fate of their father
• • • • who • • . • blesses them • • ,**
Here his bursting heart found vent
in sobs.
The priest who heard him, con-
vinced of the innocence of his heart,
seeing how he had been surprised into
crime by all that exasperates and
blinds the reason of a husband, a broth-
er, and a brave man, and forced into
an evil life by circumstances, neces-
sity, and his natural want of fimmess,
felt as one who without means or pow-
er to save it sees a fair vessel dashing
to pieces at his feet.
Rita's constant and energetic move-
ments to discover the whereabouts of
Perieo, whose pardon, with the assist-
ance of charitable souls, she had ob-
tained from the king, brought her, with
her mother, that day to Seville. At-
tempting to pass the plaza of San
Frandsco they encountered the great
crowd which liad gathered there, and,
asking the cause of the tumult, were
shown the scaffold. They would have
retired, but could not for the press be-
hind them.
One of the condemned is approach-
ing; all burst mto exclamations of
pity— ^* Poor boy I This is the one
they call ' Perieo the Sad ;' they say
that his wife, a good-for-nothing, was
the ruin of him."
Rita's heart beats violently— the
criminal passes^— she sees — she re-
cognizes him. A shriek, another such
was never uttered, rends the air-^
heard in all the market-place.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Pwrieo ike Sad.
808
Perico stops: « Father,** he sayi,
« It is she 1 itiflmtar
*^ My son," replies the priest, ^ think
only of God, in whose presence yoo
are going to appear, contrite, recon^
oiled, and happy, carrying with you
your expiation."
^ Father, if I could only see her be-
fore I die ?*
** My son, think of the bitter panish-
ment and of the glorious iUnmination
yon are going to reoeiye from man,
who is the instrament of Grod in your
destiny." Ferico wishes to tnnu
** Forward I" orders the sergeant.
He mounts the scaffold and kneels
to the spiritual father, who with a calm
fiaee, but a heart sorely oppressed,
blesses him. He kisses the crucifix,
that other scaffold, upon which the
Man-Grod expiated the sins of others,
still turning his eyes toward the place
£rom which the yoice sounded that
pierced his heart ; seats himself upon
the bench ; the executioner, who stands
beh^d him, places the garrote around
his neck ; the priest intones the creed ;
the executioner turns the screw, and
a simultaneous cry, ^ Ave Maria puris-
simal" sounds in the plaza. With
this invocation to the Mother of God,
humanity takes leave of the condemned
at the moment that he is separated
from it by the hand of the law.
The executioner covers the face of
the victim with a black cloth, and the
black shadow of the wings of death
falls upon the hushed multitude.
Some compassionate persons carried
Rita away senseless. Her situation
was terrible beyond expression. The
convulsions wluch shook her left her
but few moments of conscioosness,
and in these moments she gave way
to her despair in a way so frightful
that they were obliged to hold her as
if she had been mad. For some
days it was impossible to move her.
At length her relatives brought a cart
to take her away. They Isud her in
it, upon a mattress, but not one of
them would accompany her for shame.
Maria went alone with her child, sus-
taining her head upon her lap^ Itita's
Umg blade hair fell around her like
a veil, covering her from the glances
of the indiscreet and curious. ^ There
goes," they said, as they saw her pass,
^the wife of the criminal, who by
her indiscretion sent him to the scaf-
fold." But the oxen did not hasten
their deliberate steps. It seemed as
if they also had a mission to fulfil,
in prolonging the punishment of re-
probati<m to her who hid provoked
it with so much audacity. Maria
went like a resigned martyr. Her
gentle heart had been made as it
were elastic, in order to contain with-
out bursting an immensity of suffer-
ing. From time to time Rita shud«
dered and broke into lamentations,
pressmg convulsively her mother's
knees. The latter said nothing, for
even she found no words of consola-
tion for such grief.
They reached the village as night
was coming on. The cart stopped be-
fore their house, and Rita was li^d
out.
She sees a window wide open in
her mother-in-law's house; through
tins window an unusual light is shin-
ing. She breaks away from the arms
that sustain her and rushes to the
grating. In the middle of the room
which she inhabited in happy times,
stands a bier. Four wax candles
throw their solemn light upon the
calm form of Flvira. She is as
white as her shroud ; her hands are
crossed, and through her right arm
passes a palm branch-^emblem con-
secrated to vii^nity. Thus in simple
grace, and in the attitude of prayer,
Hes the pious village maiden.
In the front part of that melancholy
room were still seen the withered
plants which on a happier day had
formed the mimic Bedilehem. At
the extremity of the room sita Anna,
as pale and motionless as the corpse
itself. On one side of her is Pedro,
and on the other the priest who ac*
companied Perico to the scaffold.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
804
IMeo tke Sad.
Years after the events we have re*
lated, the Marquis of went to
spend some days at one of the haci-
endas of Doe-HermanaB. One eren-
ing, when he was returning from the
estate of a relative, he noticed as he
passed near an olive-tree that the
overseer and the guard who accom-
panied him uncovered their heads.
He glanced upward, and saw nailed
to the tree a red cross. *< Has there
heen a murder in this quiet place?"
he asked.
"Yes, sir/' answered the guard,
<< here was killed the handsomest and
bravest youth that ever trod Dos*
Hermanas."
^And the murderer/* added the
overseer, *^ was the best and most hon-
.orable young man of the place.''
'^But how was that?" questioned
.the marquis.
*^ Tiirough wine and women, sir, the
cause of fdl misfortunes," replied the
guard.
And as they went along they told
the story we have repeated, with all
its circumstances and details.
" Do any of the family still live in
ithe place?*' asked the marquis, ex-
tremely interested in the recital.
"Uncle Pedro died that year;
Perico's wife would have let herself
die of grief, but the priest that assist-
ed her husband persuaded her to try
to live to fulfil die will of Grod and
her husband, by taking care of her
children ; but to stay here where every
one knew and loved her husband, she
must have had a brazen face indeed ;
she went with her mother to the sierra^
where they had relatives. One who
came from there awhile since, and
had seen her, says that she does not
look like the same person. The tears
have worn furrows in her cheeks ; she
is as thin as the scythe of death, and
her health is destroyed. Poor aunt
Anna died only the day before yester-
day. She looked like a shadow, and
widked bent as if she were seekmg
her grave as a bed o£ rest"
They had now reached the village,
and as they were* passing a laige
gkx)my building, the overseer said,
** This is her house.*'
The marquis paused a moment, and
then entered. An old woman, a rela-
tion of the deceased, lived alone in the
sad and empty house, over which, at
that instant, Uie moon cast a white
shroud.
*' How these vines are dying !" said
the marquis.
"• They wwe not so," answered the
woman, ^when that poor dear child
took care of them. They used to be
covered with flowers that flourished
like daughters under the hand of a
mother. But she closed her eyes,
never again to open them in this world,
the day she heard of her brother's
fate."
"OhT' exclaimed the gentleman,
^ what a pity I this magnificent orange-
tree is dead."
"Yes; it is older than the world,
sir, and was used to a great deal of
petting and care. After poor Anna
lost her children, neither she nor any
one else minded it, and it withered.''
"And this dog ?" asked the marquis,
seeing a dog, old and blind, lying in
one comer.
" The poor Melampo, from the time
he lost his master he grew melancholy
and bUnd. Anna, l^fore she died,
begged me to take care of him ; it was
almost the only thing the dear soul
spoke of; but there will be no necKl ;
when they took away her corpse he
began to howl, and since then he will
not eat." The marquis drew nearer.
Melampo was dead.
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AiriedJKoe.
805
From Th« Montlu
BURIED ALIVE.
^ It maj be asserted witboat beaita-
Cion, that no event is so terribly well
calculated to inspire the supremeness
of bodily and .mental distress as is
burial before death. The unendura-
ble oppression of the lungs; the
stifling fumes of the damp eiurth ; the
clinging to the death-garments; the
rigid embrace of the narrow house ;
the blackness of the absolute night;
the silence like a sea that overwhelms ;
the unseen but palpable presence of
the conqueror worm — ^these things,
with thoughts of the air and grass
above, with memory of dear friends
who would fly to save us, if but in-
fonned of our fate, and with conscious^
ness that of this fate they can never
be informed ; that our hopeless portion
is that of the really dead— *these con-
siderations, I say, carry into the heart
which still palpitates a degree of ap*
palling and intolerable horror from
which the most daring imagination
must recoil."*
I have chosen this sentence from a
writer whose forte is the terrible and
mysterious for my introduction, be-
cause it sums up, in a few expressive
words, the thoughts which arise in our
minds on hearing or reading the words
** Buried Alive." To avert so fearful
a doom from a fellow-creature would
surely be worth any trouble ; and yet
it is to be feared Aat the very honor
which the thought inspires causes
most of us to turn aside from it, and
to accept the comfortable doctrine that
such things are not done now, whaU
ever may have formerly been the case.
Were this true, I should not feel justi-
fied in bringing before the readers of
the ^ Month " a ghastly subject, which
could be acceptable only to a morbid
• 1. A. FM*t **Frem»taf« BvUL**
curiosity ; but it is unfortunately but
too certain that persons are now and
then buried alive, and that, therefore,
this fate may be possibly our own.
The subject is one which naturally
exdtes more attention abroad; for in
England the custom of keepmg de>
cea8ed relatives above ground for
many days after their death, has long
prevailed, and incurs the opposite
danger of injuring the health of the
survivors who thus indulge their grief.
We believe no important work has
ever been published in this country on
the subject ; for Dr. Hawe's pamphlet
ia not up to the present standard of
medical information, and contains in-
stances of very doubtful authenticity.
The tales of premature interment
which can be collected in conversation,
or occasionally noticed in the public
journals, are not very numerous ; few
of them are circumstantial enough to
have any scientific interest ; and some
prove the supposed fact by the hair
or nails having grown, and the body
having moved when in its coffin— n
things which are well known to hap-
pen now and then after death has
undoubtedly taken place, and being
therefore no proofs at all. After ex-
amination, I have, then, come to the
conclusion that no estimate of the fre-
quency of premature interment can be
obtained. Indeed^ the only statistics
which we possess are from Germany,
and they are not very reassuring. In
some of the largest towns of that coun-
try, mortuaiy chambers (in which the
dead are placed for some days before
burial) have long been established;
and we learn from a report of one in
Berlin, that in the space of only thirty-
months ten people, who had been snp«
posed dead, were there found to be
alive^ and thus saved from true death
Digitized by CjOOQIC
806
xMridtf ^aMv$»
in its most hoirible fonn. But in
France and Italy, eapeciaiij during
the summer months, the dead are
buried so very early that fears are
frequently eutertained. In France,
indeed, the law prescribes a delay of
twenty-four hours af^er death before
interment, and also requires a certifi«
oate of death from an inspector, who
in large towns is usually a physician
with no other employment (Je mideein
des mprts ;) but so many instances of
carelessness and of incapacity on the
part of the country inspectors haYe been
noticed, that the Chamber of Peers,
during Louis Philippe's reign, and
lately the Senate of the Empire, have
received many petitions praying for
an inquiry, and for further precautions.
To these the answer has generally
been, that the existing law provides
sufficient safeguards ; and in this the
Senate only followed the prevailing
opinion of men of science in France.
For, some years ago. Dr. Manni, a
professor in the Univei'sity of Bome,
offered a prize of 15,000 firancs, to
be given by the French Academy of
Sciences to the author of the best
essay on the signs of death and the
means to be taken to prevent prema-
ture interment. The prize was ob«
tained in 1849 by M. Bouchut, an
eminent physician in Paris, who, after
^ very detailed examination of the
question, came to these two conclu**
sions: first, that when the action of
the heart could be no longer heard by
means of the stethoscope, death waB
certain ; and secondly, that not a sin-
gle case of interment before death has
ever been clearly and satisfactorily
made out: and the learned body,
who awarded the prize to him, entire-
ly assented to these opinions. Since
that time, however, cases have been
quoted, by some French doctors of
note, in which the action of the heart
could not be detected, and yet life was
in the end restored. Their observa-
tions have been summed up in a
pamphlet by M. Jozat. This gave a
fi^h impulse to the subject ; and on
the 27th of Febraarjr last, M. de
Gourvol presented a petition to the
Senate of the same tenor as those
mentioned above. This would have
received the same answer as they did,
and the matter would have been again
shelved, if several of the senators
present had not quoted instances whidi
had fallen under their own observa-
tion, and in which death was escaped
only by some happy accident. Tbe
most remarkable of these was naiy
rated by Cardinal Dqnnet^ as having
happened to himsdf; and his stoiy
was copied into most English news-
papers at the time. It is, however,
so much to the purpose of this paper,
that I make no apology for quoting it
in his own words :
^In 1826, a young priest was sud-
denly struck down, unconscious, in the
pulpit of a crowded cathedral where
he was preachmg. The funeral knell
was soon after tolled, and a physician
declared him to be eextainly dead, and
obtained leave for his burial next day.
The bishop of the cathedral where
this event had occurred, hud recited
the ^ De Profundis' by the side of the
bier ; the coffin was being already pre-
pared. Night was approaching ; and
the young priest, who heard all these
preparations, suffered agonies. He
was only twenty-eight years old, and
in perfect health. At last he distin-
guished the voice of a friend of his
childhood ; this caused him to make a
superhuman effort, and produced the
wonderful result of enflJ[)Hng him to
speak. The next day he was able to
preach again."
This remarkable account, coming
almost from the grave, produced a
very great impression ; and, as is not
unusual in deliberative assemblies, the
Senate yielded to striking individual
cases what it had before refused to
ailment, forwarding the petition to
the Minister of the Interior, and so
implying that it considered the exist-
ing Jaw insufficient. The plan whidi
finds most favor in France is the es-
tablishment of ^mortuary houses,"
like those in Germany. Although
some of the highest authorities in
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Buried JUve.
807
France are opposed to thexn^ theie
can be no doubt, if the statistics quo*
ted abore are to be believed, that
thej would be the means of saving
many lives, espedallj in cases where
(as in hotels and lodging-houses) the
ftineKal is now hurried as much as
possible. The only precautions which
need be taken in England are of a
simple Idnd, and will be more evident
after the description I shall now pro*
ceed to give of the two diseased
states wMch most nearly simulate
death.
In the first of these, called eatalep»y^
the patient lies immovable and ap-
parently unconscious; the limbs are
rigid and cold; the eyes are fixed,
sometimes remaining open; and the
jaw sometimes drops. But the re-
semblance to death goes no farther;
the bee has not a corpse-like expres-
sion ; although the limbs are cold, the
head continues to be warm, or is even
warmer than when in the usual
state ; the pupils are never completely
dilated, and are, sometimes at feast,
contracted by exposure to light. The
pulse and breathing, although slow
and irregular, can always be noticed ;
and the muscles are so far stiffened as
to keep the limbs, during the whole
course of the attack, in the position
(however constrained and inconveni-
ent) in which they chance to be at the
time of seizure, or may be placed in
by bystanders during the fit. This
state of the muscular system is a de-
cisive proof that the case is one of
catalepsy.
Were this rare and curious disease
the only cause of error, the physician
called upon to discern in a given case
between life and death would have a
comparatively easy task ; but there is
a still rarer condition, which gives rise
to most of the lamentable mistakes
that are made ; the state of trance or
prolonged eyneope, is a far more per^
feet counterfeit of death. The patient
is motionless, and apparently unoon-
scious, although he is usually aware of
an that is passing around him; the
pulsation of the h^trt and arteries, and
the breathing gradually diminish in
force and frequency, until they become
at last quite imperceptible ; the whole
surface of the body grows cold ; and
all this may last even for many days.
How is one in such a condition known
not to be dead ? In the first place, it
is noticed that this disease is rare in a
previously healthy person ; it has been
generally preceded by some cause
producing great weakness, (especially
long-continued fevers, great loss of
blood, severe mental affliction, or bodily
pain.) It almost invariably, too, occurs
suddenly, without any preparation, and
of course without the signs which imme-
diately precede death.
Sometimes n^ere inspection will con-
vince the physician that the person is
still alive. Thus, the face, although
fixed, may not have the look of death ;
the mouth maybe finnly closed, the
eye not glased, and the pupil not en-
tirely dilated* Sopposing, however,
that every one of these signs of life
is absent, and that the puke and
breathing are imperceptible by the or-
dinary means of observation, careful
examination of the chest with a steth-
oscope will detect the heart-sounds, if
life be not quite extinct, in almost
every case. I dare not, in view of the
cases cited by M. Jozat, say that ab-
sence of the heart-sounds in this state
never occurs ; but all medical men
will agree with me that it must be ex-
ceedingly rare. It also seems to me
probable that, in the cases on which M.
Jozat relies, the movements of the
heart were so few and far between that
the chest happened to be ausculted
only during the intervals; at any
rate, it would of course be advisable
to make frequent and prolonged ex-
aminations before deciding that no
sound could be heard. The late Dr.
Hope suggested that the second sound
of the h^rt might be detected, al-
though the first was quite inaudible ;
but Sob is merely theoretical. Again,
although the surface of the body be
quite cold, it is probable that a ther-
mometer introduced far into the mouth
would show that some internal warmth
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808
Buried AUve,
remained in every case or trance. At.
a variable time after death the muscles
lose their ^ irritability/' (that is, their
power of ooDtracting under galvanic
stimulation ;) and this change is speed-
ily followed hj another — the stifihess
which is noticed all over the body. It
Is to be remembered that loss of mus-
cular irritabiHtj, and rigidity of the
whole body, may both be noticed and
yet the person be alive ; still, if these
two symptoms are not present at first,
and only appear soon after supposed
death, they will afford strong presump-
tion that the person is dead; which
will be strengthened if the skin be
slightly burned, and yet no bleb forms
in consequence.
Every one, however, of the signs
enumerated is open to exceptions ; al-
though, of course, the concurrence of
many, or of all, tending in the same
direction, will niake death or life al-
most certain ; but the ofdy absolutely
conclusive evidence of death is putre-
faction, which is sometimes much de-
layed by the previous emaciation of
the deceased, or by cold dry weather,
but which sooner or later removes all
doubt. The first indications of decay
are in the eyeball, which becomes flac-
cid, and in the discoloration of the skin
of the trunk ; its later ones are well
known to every one. One M. Man-
gin (who contributed a notice of
this subject to the *^ Gorrespondant"
for March 25th last, to which I am in-
debted for several facts I have men-
tioned) supposes that the buzzing,
humming noise which is heard over all
the body of a living person would
furnish a certain means of distinguish-
ing real from apparent death. He
does not seem to be aware that M.
Collongues, the principal authority for
what is called <^ dynamoscopy,^' has
found that this noise is absent in some
cases of catalepsy and trance, for which
it is proposed as a test Certain au-
thorities, both in England and France,
have thought that microscopal exam-
ination of tiie blood would be decisive ;
but unfortunately irregularity in shape
and indentation of the red disks (on
which they would rely) oocnr
times during life, and are only among
the earliest signs of putre&daon afler
death.
These, as far as I know« are the
only means which science has hitherto
suggested for distinguishing a living
body from a corpse ; and we have seen
(hat none of them, save putrefaction,
are invariably certain. In a doubtful
case, therefore, time should always be
allowed for this change to take place,
so that the body may be interred in
perfect security. If this is done under
the direction of a medical attendant
of ordinary information, relatives and
friends may be convinced that no mis-
take is possible ; and thdr plain duty
is to urge this salutary delay in the
very few cases where it can possibly
be required.
It is particularly important to urge
this delay, when necessary, in the case
of persons who have apparenUy died
of some contagious disease, and who
might otherwise have been buried alive.
It \ti! indeed, much to be feared that
persons in the collapse stage of cholera
have been sometimes buried as dead ;
espe^ally (Cardinal Donnet remarks)
when they are attacked in hotels or
lodgings, where a death from such a
cause would be particularly prejn-
diciaL
M. Mangin mentions one such case
of a medical student in Paris, who
apparently died of cholera in 1832,
and for whose funeral all preparations
were made, when a friend applied
moxas to the spine. He recovered con-
sciousness at once, and survived many
years ; and there is something grimly
amusing in reading that he told the
narrator: ^Je me suis chauffS avec
le hois de mon cercueU!" Those,
again, who have read Mr. Magnire's
«< Life of Father Mathew," will not soon
forget his graphic description of a simi-
lar case, in which Father Malfaew res-
cued a young man from the hospital
dead-hotfse during die same epidemic
at Cork, just as he was being wrapped
in a tarred sheet and placed in his
coffin.
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Buried AUve.
809
Poe, in the tale from which I hare
quoted aboTe, gives an instance of
baiial during tjphns feyer, probably in
one of the long periods of unoonscioas-
ness and immobility occasionally oo«
curringin that disease. Theunfbrtu**
nate man remained in the graye for
two days, when his body was disinter-
red by the ** body-snatchers," for the
purpose of enabling his medical atten-
dants to make a post-mortem examina-
tion. A casual application of the gal-
vanic current revived him, and he
was soon after restored to his friends,
alive and in good health. This is
said by Foe to have happened to a
Mr. Edward Stapleton, a London soli-
citor, in 1831. I bave been unable to
obtain any verification of this mar-
vel, but give it for what it may be
worth.
It is very remarkable that the state
of prolonged syncope, or trance, can
sometimes be produced by a mere
effort of the will. One of the best-de-
scribed cases is given by St. Augus-
tine.* It is that of a priest named
Restitutns, who used frequently, in or-
der to satisfy the curiosity of friends,
to make himself totally immovable,
and apparently unconscious, so that he
did not feel any pricking, pinching, or
even burning ; nor did he appear to
breathe at all. He used afterward
to say that '^ he could hear during* the
attack what was saiQ very loud by
bystanders, as if from afar." He
brought on the attack ^'ad imitatas
quasi lamentantis cujushbet voces;"
a sentence which is unfortunately of
rather uncertain meaning. Another
case is recorded by Dr. Cheyne, a
fashionable Bath physician of the last
century. A patient of his, one Col-
onel Townsend, in order to convince
Dr. Cheync's incredulity, one day vol-
untarily induced this state of death-
like trance **^ by composing himself as
if to sleep." He then appeared per-
fectly dead ; and neither Dr. Cheyne
nor another physician. Dr. Bayard,
nor the apothecary in attendance, could
••PeClT.nel,** ziT.cap.M.
detect any polsation at the heart or
wrist, or any breathing whatever. They
were just about to give him up for dead,
when, at the end of half an hour, he
gradually recovered*
But these performances arc quite
thrown into the shade by those of cer-
tain fakeers in India. Mr. Braid, in
his very interesting " Observations on
Trance, or Human Hybernation,'' col-
lected several of these almost incredi-
ble tales from British officers, who
spoke as having been themselves eye-
witnesses of them in India. In the
most wonderful of them Sir Claude
Wade (formerly Resident at the court
of Bunjeet Singh) says that he saw a
fakeer buried in an underground vault
for six weeks : the body had been twice
dug up by Hunjeet Singh during this
period, and found in the same position
as when first buried. In another case,
Lieutenant Boileau (in his ^ Narrative
of a Journey in Bajwarra in 1835")
relates that he saw a man buried for
ten days in a grave lined with mason-
ry and covered with large slabs of
stone; and the &keer declared his
readiness to be left in the toml^for a
twelvemonth. In all these cases it is
said that the body, when first disinter-
red, was like a corpse, and no pulse
could be detected at the heart or the
wrist; but warmth to the head and
friction of the body soon revived the
bold experimenter. Supposing that
the watch (which was carefully kept
up during each of these curious inter-
ments) was not eluded by some of the
jugglery in which Indians excel, we
have here proofs that the state of
trance cannot only be voluntarily in-
duced, but prolonged over a very long
time.
The rationale of such phenomena
is not very difficult to comprehend.
Sif. Augustine was undoubtedly right
when he explained the case that fell
under his own observation by the sup-
position that some persons have a
remarkable and unusual power of the
will over the action of the heart Dr.
Carpenter suggests that the state of
syncope could be kept up much longer
Digitized by CjOOQIC
eio
A CMc LagtmL — Iferve.
in a vault in a tropical dnnate) where
the bodj would not kwe too much of
its natural heat, than in more tempei^
ate countries; and Mr. Braid cam"
pares this condition to the slowness of
respiration and ciicalation during win-
ter in hyheniating animals. But
whaterer may be the explanation, I
cannot at least be accused of digres*
sion in ending this gloomy paper with
an account of men who are Tolantarilj
buried aliye.
Translated firom L« Correspondani.
A CELTIC LEGEND.— HERV6.
TO THB KEMOBT OF M. AT70USTIN THIEBRT.
BT a SK LA TILLEHARQU&
I WAS one day walking in the coun-
try with a book in my hand. It was
in a district of that land where La
Fontaine has said, ^fate sends men
when it wishes to make them mad."
Fate had not, however, sent me ttiere
in order to make me mad. I found,
on the contrary, in the charming
scenes which on all sides presented
themselves to my view, and in the
original population which surrounded
me, a thousand reasons for not sharing
the sentiment of the morose narrator
of fables. A peasant accosted me in
the familiar but at the same time re-
spectful style habitual to those of that
country, and, pomting to my book
with his finger :
<' Is it the Lives of the Saints,*' he
said to me, ^'that yon are rcfuling
there?"
A httle surprised at this address,
which, however, by no means explain-
ed my reading, I remained silent, Uiink-
ing of this opinion of the Breton peas-
ants, according to whom the " Lives of
the Saints " is the usual reading of all
those who know how to read ; and, as
my interlocutor repeated his question,
** Well, yes," I replied, to humor
his thought, ''there is sometimes
mention made of the saints in this
booL"
^ And what one's life are you read-
ing now ?'' he continued obstinately.
I mentioned at random the name
of some saint, and thought I had
quieted his curiosity, but I had not
satisfied his faith.
" What was he good for ?* he asked.
For an instant I stopped short;
what reply to ofier to a man who
judged the saints by their practical util-
ity? I turned upon him: ''And
your own patron," I replied, " what
maladies does he care ?"
"Oh I a great number," he said;
" those of men as well as those of ani-
mals. Although during his life he
was only a poor blind singer, he has a
beautiful place in paradise,! assure
you. The day he entered heaven the
sky was all illuminated." And, accom-
panying it with commentaries, be
chanted for me the legend of the
patron of his parish.
I knew it aU*eady by Latin and
French publications ; but I was well
pleased to collect it fresh from the
living spring of popular tradition. By
the aid of tMa later source and of the
written record, I have reconstructed
the account about to be read. It pre-
sents, if I do not deceive myself, a
somewhat interesting page in the his-
tory of Christian civilization in Armor-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A OMc Ltgendr^Ihrvi,
811
IcftytnthdsixtliceDtiirj; so judged tbe
great histomn, mj teacher and my
friend, to whom I dedicate it. Moral
truth shines through all the legend as
a light shines through a Teil.*
It was the custom of the Frank kings
to have a laige number of poets and
musicians at their court; tiiey oflen
had them come from foreign countries,
taking pleasure, mingled with a bar-
barous pride, in listening to verses
sung in their honor, of which they un-
derstood not a word. Among them
were seen Italians, Greeks, and even
Britons, who, uniting their discordant
voices with the singers of the German
race, emulated each other in flattering
the not critical ears of the Meroving-
ian princes. Welcomed to their palace,
after having been driven from his own
country by the Lombards, the Italian
Fortunatus has preserved for us recol-
lections of these singular concerts at
which, lyre in hand, he performed his
part whUe " the Barbarian,** he says,
^ added the harp, the Greek the in-
strument of Homer, and the Briton
the Celtic rote." The rote had the same
fate as the lyre ; it sought in Gaul an
asvlum from the invaders of the British
Isle, of whom it might be said with
equal truth as by the Italian poet of
the conquerors of his country, that
they did not know the difference be-
tween the gabble of the goose and
the song of the swan. The Meroving-
ian kings piqued themselves on hav-
ing more taste.
Among the Britons who took refuge
with them, and who continued to play
in Gaul nearly the same part that they
played in the dwellings of their native
chiefs, there was a young man, named
Hyvamion. This name, which signi-
* The moflt udent oompilfttSoa of tfib legend, writ-
ten six hundred yean after the death of Saint UervA,
which le placed on the 83d Jane in the year 56S,
exist* in the Imperial Library, in the portfolio of the
"Blanc-Bfanteaux." Mo 88, p. 851: the two more
modern are, one of P. Albert to Grand, who has taken
for his model Jaoqoes de Vorasiiie; the other by
Horn Lobineao, who hM flUleQ into the contrary
fies just judgment, had been given him
in his own country on the following
occasion : He was in a school where
he was only known as xhB petit savantj
and had for his teacher one of the
sages of the British nation, both
monk and poet, named Kadok, now
known in jAjmorica as Samt Cado« At
the end of the fifth century this success-
or of the last Latin rhetors of Albion,
instructed the young islanders in
grammar, rhetoric, philosophy, poet-
ry, and music, minglhig, as it appears,
with the methods of instruction trans-
mitted by classic antiquity, the tra-
ditions of the ancient Druids. The
master disputed one day with his little
scholar after the manner of the Druids,
the subject of debate being : What are
the eighteen most beautiftil moral vir-
tues ? Kadok indicated eighteen, but
he purposely omitted the principal,
wishing to leave to his pupil the plea-
sure of finding them out for himself.
" For my part," said the schokr,
*^ I believe that he possesses the eight-
een virtues par excdkncey who is
strong in trials and in tribulations ;
gentle in the midst of suffering ; ener-
getic in execution; modest in glory
and in prosperity ; humble in conduct ;
persistent in good resolutions ; firm in
toil and in difficulties; eager for in-
struction ; generous in words, in deeds,
and in thoughts ; reconciler of quar-
rels ; gracious in his manners and af*
fable in his house ; on good terms with
his neighbors ; pure in body and in
thought ; just in words and deeds ;
regular in his manners; but above
all, charitable to the poor and afflicted*"
"Thine the prize!** cried Kadok,
^ thou hast spoken better than I."
" Not so," replied the petit axowiUy
^'not so; I wished to carry it over
thee, and thou hast given a proof of
humility ; thou art the wiser, and thine
the palm.***
This just judgment brought good for-
tune to the young scholar. It pro>
cured for him the fine name by whidh
he was afterward designated, and.un*-
• "HyryrfamArchiMlcfjofWalaft,** liLp.4a
Digitized by CjOOQIC
81f
A Ckltie Leffendr^Bervi.
der which he is presented to us id the
Armorican legends.
Once passed over to the continent,
Hyvamion became henceforth only a
vagae remembrance in the minds of
the islanders. His countrymen knew
very little of his history, and it may be
believed that he woald have been
wholly forgotten had not a Cambrian
poet consecrated- to him three verses
recalling the memorable sayings of the
great men of his nation;
^ Hast thou heard," said he, ^ what
sang the petit savofU seated at table
with the bards V
^ The man with a pure heart has a
joyous countenance/'
The table which is here mentioned
is that of the Frank king Childebert.
Hyvarniou sat there for four years,
probably from the year 518 to the
year 517. In the midst of the de-
baucheries and the scandals of that
court he appeared calm and serene in
conscience and in countenance, and
like the children in the furnace, he
sang. His songs and his verses ren-
dei*ed him agreeable to the king, says
a hagiographer who charitably cLiims
that the bard *^ merited the esteem of
the king even more by his virtues than
by his talents." Whatever might be
the esteem of the murderer of the sons
of Chlodimer for the virtues of the poet
of his court, Childebert showed him-
self as generous to him as were the
island chiefs to their household min-
strels. But not precious 8tuf&, nor gold,
nor mead, the three gifts most dear
to a poet, could retain in the court
of Paris a young man in whose eyes
purity of soul and of body, regularity
of manners, and justice were among
the most beautiful of virtues.
Under pretext of returning to his
own country, where a brilliant and
decisive victory of Arthur over the
Saxons had restored security, he
asked permission of the king to leave
him. He departed loaded with
presents, even carrying, we are as*
sured, a letter to Kon-Mor, or great
chief, who governed Armorica in the
name of Childebert, in which the
king ordered that a ship should be
plaosd at the service of the British
bard.
Hyvamion had been three days at
the court of the Frank officer, and
the ship, which was to conduct him
to the British isle was ready to sail,
when three dreams, followed by a meet-
ing which he had probably made after
his arrival in Armorica, prevented his
embarkation. A young girl of the
country, as remarkable for her beauty
as for her talent for poelry and music,
appeared to him in his sleep. Seated
on the border of a fountain she sang
in a voice so sweet that it pierced his
heart. Somewhat troubled on awak-
ing, he drove away the dangerous
and too charming recollection ; but the
following night, the same young gurl,
more beautiful still, if possible, and
singing even more sweetly than be-
fore, appeared to him a second time.
" Then," says an author, " he serious-
ly feared that it was some wile or
snare of the spirit of fornication," and
the night coming, he prayed the Lord
to deliver him from this dream, if it
came not from him. <^ If on the con-
trary, it is thou who dost send it to
me," said he, " let me know clearly
what it is thou wouldst that I should
do.'
And he sought his bed. But be-
hold! scarcely had he slept than he
had a third dream. He saw a young
man surrounded with light, who enter-
ed his room and thus spoke to him:
^ Fear not to take for your wife her
whom you have seen seated on the
border of the fountain, and whom you
will see again. Like you, she is pure
and chaste, and Grod will bless your
love."
The Frank officer to whom the bard
related his dream, wished, without
doubt, to be agreeable to one recom-
mended by the king, and took upon
himself to realize the prophecy. He
proposed a hunting party to the young
man, where, he said, he would meet a
certam marvellous hare, called the
silver hare^ but with the secret pur-
pose of contriving a meeting with the
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A Cebie Legend.^^S'ervi.
818
young girl of his dream. His hope
was not deceived. As they entered
the forest where lodged the pretended
silver hare, they heard a voice singing
in the distance. The young man
tremhled and reined up his horse.
" I hear/' said he, *' I hear the voice
singing which I heard last night."
Without replying to him Sie royal
officer turned himself toward the part
of the forest whence the voice pro-
ceeded, and following a footpath which
wound along the side of a stream, they
reached a spring, near to which a
young girl was occupied in gathering
simples.
" The yoimg girl sat hy the foun-
tain,*' says a poet. ** White was her
dress, and rosy her face.
"So white her dress, so rosy her
face, that she seemed an eglantine
flower blooming in the snow.
"And she did naught but sing:
* Although I am, alas ! but a poor iris
0a the banks of the water, they call
me its Little Queen.
" The Lord Count said to the young
girl as he approached her, * I salute
you. Little Queen of the Fountain.
How gaily thou dost sing, and how
fair thou art !
" * How fair thou art, and how gaily
thou dost sing. What flowers are
those you gather there V
" * I am not fair, I sing not gaily, and
these are not flowers that I gather ;
" * These are not flowers that I
gather, but different kinds of salutary
plants :
" * One IS good for those who are
sad ; for the blind, the other is good ;
and the third, if I can And it, is that
which will cure death.'
"'Little Queen, I pray thee, give
me the first of these plants.'
"•Save your grace, my Lord, I
shall give it only to him whom I
shall marry.'
" * Thou hast given it ! Give it then,'
cried the royal officer, *Thou hast giv-
en it to this young man, who has just
come to ask thee in marriage.' *'
And the IMe Queen of the Foun-
tain gave to the baid, in pledge- of her
faith, the plant which produces
gaiety.*
If we may credit the legend, it was
even in the same mind that Bivanone,
as she was called, went to the foun-
tain; for she also had a dream the
preceding night, a dream altogether
like the bard's. She herself confessed
it, and if she had not avowed it, we
could divine it, "Those who love,
have they not dreams?' An qui
amanty ipsi sibi somnia fingunt ?
Seeing in this a certain proof of the
will of heaven, the Frank count*
brought the brother of Bivanone, an
Armorican chief, in whose manor the
young girl had lived since the death
of her &ther and mother, and having
related to him all that had passed, he
demanded of him his sister in mar-
riage for the favorite of the king.
Thus was settled this well-assorted
union, and the wedding w^s celebrated
at the court of the Frank count.
Tradition has described it in a man-
ner almost epic The small as well
as the great, the poor as well as the
rich, were guests at the feast ; church-
men and waiTiors, magistrates and
common people, arrived Uiere from all
sides. Neither wine, nor hydromel,
drawn from casks, was wanting to the
guests. Two hundred hogs were im-
molated, and two hundred fat bulls,
two hundred heifers, and one hundred
roebucks, two hundred buflalos, one
hundred black, one hundred white,
and their skins divided among the
guests. A hundred robes of white
wool were given to the priests, one
hundred collars of gold to the val-
iant warriors, and blue mantles
without number to the ladies. The
poor had also their part ; there was for
them a hundred new suits ; they could
not receive less at the marriage of a
poet who placed duty to them at the
head of the most beautiful virtues.
But in order worthily to do him honor
for himself— in order properly to cele-
brate the union of the Armorican muse
* The Breton taxi of the legend of Sftlni Hexr^, In
Terse appears in the fifth edition of tho Barwut
JBretM^ ChanttpopulabreBdslaBrttagne,
Digitized by CjOOQIC
8U
A CeUie L$gend.—Eerve.
with the genias of the island barda — a
hundred musicians did not seem too
man J — ^a hundred musicians who from
their high seats pkjed for fifteen dajs
in the court of the count In order
to complete this by an act destined to
crown the glory of the young couple,
we are assured the king of Uie bards
of the sixth century, the last of the
Dmids, the famous Meri, finally cele*
brated the marriage.
Be this as it may, in regard to an
honor which another popular tradition
appears to claim with more reason for
the heroes of another legend of the
same century, the wedding at last at
an end, the bride, accompanied by a
numerous suite, was coxiducted with
her husband to the manor of her
brother, and if the Armorican customs
of our days already existed at that
epoch, the minstrels at the wedding
played on their way a tender and
melancholy air, named tlie Air of the
EToning before the Festiyal, which al-
ways brought tears to the eyelids of
the bride.
^God console the inconsolable
heart, the heart of the girl on her
wedding night."
It is said that Riranone shed
several tears in the midst of her joy.
Had she not for ever bid adieu to the
sweet and simple girlish beliefs which
had surrounded her? to her dear foun-
tain, on the banks of which her com-*
panions the fairies danced at night in
white robes, with flowers in their hair,
in honor of the new moon ? to those
graceful dances which she herself,
perhaps, had led, and to her songs in
the wood ? to her salutary plants less
brilliant but more useful and more
durable than flowers? to the herb
which causes the union of hearts and
produces joy, which, wet in the waters
of the fountain by a virgin hand, she
had shaken upon the brow of the
man whom she was to take for her
husband? to the golden herb which
spreads light, and in opening the eyes
of the body and the mind, opens to
the knowledge of things of the
future? finally, had she not renounced
the search for the plant called the
herb of deaths which would be better
named the herb of life, because those
die not who onoe have found it ?
But no 1 ^ God console the incon-
solable heart, the heart of the girl en
her wedding night l" The spring of
the fountain will cease not to flow ; the
charming apparitions will desert not
its borders ; there shall be ever seen
there gliding through the night a lu-
minous shadow of which the moon
will be but an imperfect image — the
shadow of that immaculate Virgin
whom the Druids seem to have pro-
phesied when they raised an altar to
her under the name of the Virgin
Mother, and the white fairies of
Armorica less white, less pure than
she, bending before their patroness,
will sing Ave Maria I
No plant shall wither there, not the
lemon-plant which produces joy, for it
is at the foot of the cross of Jesus
Christ, that it will spring henceforth ;
it is to Him it owes its virtue, and
shall be called the herb of the cross ;
nor selago which gives light, for it is
from the aureole of the saints that it
borrows its rays, and to discover it, it
is necessary to be a saint ; nor, more
than all, the herb of life, for he has
shown it, he has given it as a legacy
to his disciples, to whom he has said ;
^ I am the life ; whosoever believeth
in me shall not die."
And no more than the living spring
which nourishes the herbs by its side
shall be exhausted that which sustains
the fruits of the Spirit ; the soul shall
not be stifled, it sludl be purified ; and
for a moment bent under regrets, as a
rose under the rain, the Druid muse
shall be transformed and awake a
Christian.
Bivanone so awoke ; God had con-
soled the inconsolable heart, the heart
of the girl on her wedding-night.
God consoles in his own way ; he
blesses in the same. Three yean
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Oekic Legend, — BervL
815
after their marriage, Biranone and
Hy vamion rocked the cradle of a cry-
ing infant whom they endeavored to
put asleep with their songs. Now
this infant was hllnd ; and in remem-
branoe of their sorrow they had named
him Suerv& or Hervij that is to say,
hitter or bitterness.
But, if his mother did not try upon
his eyes the better appreciated virtue
of the herb which should cure the
blind ; if she asked of her Christian
faith sorer remedies to give light to
her son, she found, at least, at the foot
of the cross, the herb which sweetens
bitterness; and her husband hunself
without doubt recollected that he had
said in his childhood that one of the
most beautiful of virtues is strength in
trials and tribulations.
Two years afterward this strength
was even more necessary by the side
of the cradle of the blind ; a single
hand rocked that cradle, a single voice
sang there — the other voice sang in
heaven. The father had already
found the true plant which gives
life.
With death, misery entered the
house of the bard, misery all the more
cruel that it had known only prosper-
ity. It is always in this way that it
comes to those who live by poesy.
Happily Providence is a more char-
itable neighbor than the ant in the
flEible. He did not fail the widow of
the poet who had been the friend of
the poor and afflicted. It was not from
the palace of the Frank count, hence-
forth indifferent to the fortunes of a
family his master had forgotten, nor
from the manor of Rivanone's brother,
which she charmed no more with her
songs, that assistance came. It came
from that cradle, watered with tears,
where slept a poor orphan. It is al-
ways from a cradle that Grod sends
forth salvation.
"One day the orphan said to his
sick mother, clasping her in his little
anns : * My own dear mother, if you
love me, you will let me go to
church ;
^ < For here am I full seven years
old, and to diiireb I have not yet
been.'
"'Alas! my dear child, I cannot
take you there, when I am ill on my
bed
^ < When I an^ ill of an illness which
lasts so long that I shaU be forced to
go and beg for alms.'
*^ 'Tou shall not go, my mother, to
beg for alms; I will go for jou, if you
will permit me.
" ' I will go with some one who will
lead me, and in going I will sing.
" ' I will sing your beautiful canti-
cles, and all hearts will listen V
"And he departed finally to sedc
bread for his mother who could not
walk.
"Now, whatever it was, it must
have been a hard heart that was not
moved on the way to church ;
"Seeing the little blind child of
seven years without other guide than
his little white dog.
" Hearing him sing, shivering, beat-
en by the wind and the rain, without
covering on his little feet, and his teeth
chattering with cold.^
It was the festival of All Saints, as
the legend tells us ; the festival of the
Dead follows it, and is pHfenged
during the second night of thiflnonth
which the Bretons call the Month of
the Bead, Having feasted the blessed,
every one goes to the cemetery to pray
at the tomb of his parents, to fill with
holy water the hollow of their grave-
stone, or, according to the locality, to
make libations of milk. It is said
that on this night the souls from Pur-
gatory fly through the air as crowded
as the grass on the meadow ; that they
whirl with the^ leaves which the wind
rolls over the fields, and that theu:
voices mingle with the sighs of nature
in mourning. Then, toward midnight,
these confused voices become more
and more distinct, and at each cottage
door is heard this melancholy canticle.
" In the name of the Father, of the
Son, and of the Holy Gliost, greeting
to you, people of this house, we come
to you to ask your prayers.
" Good people, be not surprised that
Digitized by CjOOQIC
816
A Cdtic Legend, — Hervk^
we have come to yoar door ; it is Jesus
who has sent us to wake you if you
sleep.
" If there is yet pity in the world,
in the name of God, aid us.
*' Brothers, relatives, friends, in the
name of God, hear us ; in the name of
God pray, pray ; for the children pray
not. Those whom we have nourished
have long since forgotten us ; those
whom we have loved have lefl us des-*
titute of pity.**
Bands of mendicant singers, poor
souls in trouhle, they also, wanderers
like those of the dead, go by woods
and graves, to the sound of funereal
bells, lending their voices to the un-
happy of the other world.
The blind orphan, who, from the
bed of his sick mother, went to kneel
on the couch of his dead father, com-
menced in their company his appren-
ticeship as a singer, and if it is believed,
as is claimed, that the chant des ames,
such as it has come to us, was com-
posed by a blind singer, under the in-
spiration of his father, whom he would
have delivered from pain, the blind
singer should be Herve, and the in-
spirer Hyvarnion.
Tlgpimpressiou which the sainted
child^oduced on the men of his time
is better founded ; it has lefl traces in
the popular imagination which have
been translated into touching narra-
tives :
'* The evening of All Souls, long
before the night, the cliild returned to
his mother, after his circuit.
"And he was very tired, so tired
that he could not hold himself on his
feet — ^all the route was slippery with
ice.
" So tired that he fell on his mouth,
and his mouth vomited blood, blood
with broken teeth."
Now these broken teeth did not
give birth to furious warriors, like
those of the dragon in the fable ; they
were changed into diamonds which
shone from far in the darkness.
Such is the language of the tradi-
tion. Can we better paint the songs
drawn forth by the sorrow of the son
of Hyvarnion, these songs of a Christ-
ian muse which cleared away the sha-
dows no less crowded than those of the
night of AU Souls ?
But; these shadows were not dissi-
pated instantly; the resistance made
to Christianity by the remains of Ar-
morican paganism is not less clear-
ly indicated in traditional recollections
than by the action and influence of the
little Christian singer.
As he passed the cross-roads of a
village where the inhabitants have to
this day preserved the sobriquet of
paganiz, that is to say, heathens, he
fell in the midst of a circle of young
peasants, who, interrupting their dance,
ran afler him, hooting at him, throw-
ing dirt upon hun, and crying : " Where
are you going, blind one, blind one !
Where are you going, blind brawler?*'
" Pm going out of this canton, be-
cause I must," replied Herve, "but
cursed be the race that comes from
you." And, indeed, the little mockers,
struck by the anathema, returned to
the dance, and they must dance, it is
said, to the end of the world, without
ever resting or ever growing, becoming
like those dwarfed imps .whom the
Armoricans adored, and whose power
the Breton peasants still fear.
Nature herself, that great Celtic
divinity, took the side of the imps
against Herv6, while the motiier of the
saint, in beholding him preaching the
gospel, could say with the church:
** How beautiful are the feet of those
who come from the mountams ! ' " The
granite earth on which he. walked, re-
fused to carry him, tearing his naked
feet, and no one," says the complaint,
"no one wiped the blood from his
wounds, only his white dog with his
tongue, who washed the feet of the
saint, and warmed them with his
breath."
Then, as he had cursed the mocking
spirits, the saint cursed also the stony
ground which would arrest his steps,
and it was rendered harder than iron ;
when, going, according to his promise,
into a district where the rocks were
Buch, the legend assures us, that " iron
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A CeMc LegenJLr-^HdrvL
817
Qor steel could ever pierce them," that
ifl to fOkjj the inhabitants were obstinate
and incorrigible barbarians, he return-
ed to the saint who inspired and en-
lightened him.
"My mother, for seven or eight
years I have gone over this country,
and have gained nothing from these
hard and cruel hearts.
^ I would be in some solitary place
where I should hear only songs ; where
every day, my mother, I should hear
only the praises of Ood."
« Thou wouldst be a cleric, my son,
to be later a priest ! Grod be praised!
How sweet it would be to me to hear
you say mass 1'*
'^ It is not, my mother, to be a priest ;
the priest's state is a great responsibil-
ity, and it frightens my weak spirit ;
besides the charge of my own soul I
should have the charge of other souk ;
but I would like far better to live my
life in the depths of the forest with the
monks, and to be instructed how to
serve God by those who serve him."
Rivanone agreed to the wishes of
her son ; the forest which he chose for
liis retirement was inhabited by one of
her uncles. Herv^ sought him, while
his mother asked an asylum for herself
of some pious women who lived in
community in another sohtary place,
having no intercourse with the world
except with the sick and infirm to
whom they were a providence.
m.
An ancient Breton ballad represents
a magician going over the fields of
Armorica at the dawn of day, accom-
panied by a black dog. I do not know
what Christian voice addresses him :
<* Where are you going this morning
with your black dog ?" *^ I go to find the
red tggy the red egg of the sea-ser-
pent, on the edge of the river in the
crevice of the rock."
Vain search! This egg, a sacred
symbol to the ancient priests of Graul
and other heathen worship, had been
crushed with the serpent of the Druids ;
VOL. VBL 5S
the day was about to appear and put to
flight the magician, darkness, and the
black dog. When, on the contrary,
Herv6 put himself, guided by his white
dog, on the way to his uncle's hermit-
age, the last shades of night had dis-
appeared, the day had risen, and he
was to find in the Christian school
more precious talismans than the egg
of the Draid serpent
'^ Saint Herv^ went to the school
the sun encircled his brow with a cir-
cle of light, the doves sang along his
road, and his white dog yelped for
joy.
^ Arrived at the door of the hermit-
age, the dog barked louder and louder,
so that the hermit, hearing it, came
forth to receive his niece's child.
« < May God bless the orphan who
comes in good faith to my school, who
has sought me to be my clerk ; my
child, may blessings be on thy head.' "*
This great unde of Herv^ was named
Gnrfoed ; like many other hermits he
brought up the children of Armorica.
Among the grammarians whoin he
made them learn by heart, the ecclesi-
astical vrriters indicate MartismuB
Capella, the author of the ^ Noces de
Mercure et de la Philologie," of^om
they make a monk, and among tlie
subjects of his instruction they special-
ly mention poetry and music. Music
took a sufiiciently high place in the
schools and in the tastes of that age,
as is proved by a synod assembled at
Yannes in the middle of the sixth
century, which believed it necessary
to call the attention of the Armorican
bishops to that point, and drew up an
article on the necessi^ of adopting,
in the whole province, a uniform
chant Besides, in introducing it
into the Christian ceremonies, and
giving it place even in the choir of the
temple, the church has shown the es-
teem which she has for this art
Herv6 perfected himself in it more
and more ; he even became so clever
in it, observe the hagiographies,
** that he took the prixe from all his
fellow-students."
• 8uu Brrtoa tegend of Silnt B«np«.
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818
A CMc Le^d.'^Herve.
Afler seven years oF stddj, passed
at a distance from his mother, he
wished to see her and reoeiyc new
force and new light from her counsels.
According to some, Gurfoed conducted
him to her ; according to the popular
legend, she came herself to seek her
son.
And she said on approaching
him :
"I hehold a procession of monks
advancing, and I hear the voice of
my son ; though a thousand were
singing, I should know the voice of
Herve ; I hehold my son dressed in
gray, with a cord of hair for bis belt.
God be with you, my son, the clerk ! '
** God be with you, my beloved
mother I God is good ; the mother is
faithful to her son. Coming from so
for to see me, although you could not
walk !''
^ And now that I have come, and I
see )ou, my son, what have you to
ask of me ?"
^^I have nothing to ask of you, my
mother, but the permission to remain
here to pray to God day and night,
that we may meet each other in para-
dise^
'*We shall meet in paradise or its
surroundings, with the help of God,
my son. When I go there you shall
have warning ; you , shall hear the
song of the angels."
'*In fact," continues the French
legend, ** the evening of her decease
and the next day, all those that were
near saw a brilliant ladder by the side
of her oratory, one end reaching to
the skies, by which angels ascended
and descended singing the most melo-
dious motets and canticles.''
The pious woman-poet, who had
givon to the church such a saint as
Herve, well deserved that God's angels
should sing, making a festival for her
last hour.
Herve, guided by Gurfoed, arrived
at ti)e bedside of his dying mother, in
time, if not to see her, (he could never
see her except in heaven,) at least to
receive her blessing, and to mingle his
canticles with those of the pious com-
panions of Rivanone, truly angelic
cbors.
rv.
After the death of his mother,
Herve returned to the hermitage of
his uncle ; but Gurfoed, wishing to live
a still more retired life, abandoned his
dwelling, and buried himself in the
forest. Aided by some pious men,
who, in order to work and pray under
his direction, had built their cabins by
the side of his, the saint continued to
hold the school of his predecessor.
This school prospered; and every
evening could be seen a crowd of
children coming from it, who assembled
there in the morning from all the man-
ors, as well as from all the surround-
ing cottages ; a crowd as noisy, says a
poet, as a swarm of bees issuing from
the hollow of an oak. The master,
being blind^ could not teach them their
letters; bu. he taught them canticles,
maxims in verse, religious and moral
aphorisms, without omitting those pre«
cepts of pure civility, so necessary to
coarse natures ; and while exercising
their memory he cultivated their under-
standing and their heart : he polished
their rude manners; he endeavored,
finally, to make men of them while
bending their restless natures under
the curb of bis discipline. Lessons of
wisdom were not clothed in other form
in those heroic times ; poetry and mu-
sic, inseparable from each other, had
always been considered by the ancients
as necessary to cultivation, not only on
account of the harmony which they
produced, but for utility, inslruction,
and civilization of the people. Herve
in taking them for the basis of his in-
struction, followed, without doubt, the
counsels of Aristotle. It is said that
Orpheus thus civilized people by liis
songs. Those of Hesiod have come
to us, and present us with valuable ex-
amples of that didactic poetry, the
first with all nations. But though
we have left us some poems of Saint
Herve, they are very few in number ;
the most were composed rather in his
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A Celtic LegencL — fferve.
819
spirit and according to his rules than
by himself. They give him the honor
of those aphorisms to which his name
is given, which, at least, have the
strong imprint of the instructiye poetry
of the monks ; they turn upon three
of the virtues which the religions prin-
cipally endeavored to inculcate in their
Ignorant pupils, idle and independent,
as are all barbarians, namely, the love
of instruction, the love of work, and
the love of discipline, elements which
are the strength of all civilized soci*
ety.
*< It is better to instruct a little child
than to amass riches for him/'
Saint Cado, the teacher of Herve's
father, said the same thing in other
terms, "There is no wealth without
study ;' and he added, '< There is no
wbdom without science, no indepen-
dence without science, no liberty, no
beauty, no nobleness, no victory with-
out science," and, giving to science its
true foundation, he thus terminated his
eloquent enumeration :
" No science without Grod."
The second axiom credited to Saint
Herve is this.: " He w.ho is idle in his
youth heaps poverty on the head of
his old age."
The Breton mariners have retained
the third maxim of which Saint Herv6
passers as the author : ^ The words of
Herve are words of wisdom," they
say ; " Who yields not to the rudder
wUl yield to the rock." I have also
seen attributed to him a moral song,
widely spread in Brittany, in which,
perhaps, there are several couplets of
his, but in any case modernized in lan-
guage and style.
" Come to me, my little children,
come to me that you may hear a new
song, which I have composed expressly
for you. Take the greatest pains in
order that you may retain it en-
tire."
" When you wake in your bed, offer
your heart to the good God, make the
sign of the cross, and say, with faith,
hope, and love :
'' ' My God, I give you my heart,
my body, and my souL Grant that I
may be an honest man, or that I may
die before the time.'
•* When you see a raven flying, re
member that the devil is as black as
wicked; when you see a little white
dove, remember that your angel is as
gentle as white.
^ liemember that God sees you like
the sun in the midst of thci sky ; re-
member that Grod can make you bloom
as the sun makes bloom the wild roses
of the mountains.
^ At night, before going to bed, re-
cite your prayers ; do not fail, so that
a white angel will come from heaven
to guard you until morning.
"Behold, dear children, the true
means of living as good Christians.
Put my song into practice and yon
will lead a holy life."
Such lessons, where were so effec-
tively found some of the practices
which make a man strong, that is to
say. Christians ; where there was so
much freshness and grace ; where the
sun, and the flowers, the birds and the
angels, all the most smiling images
were purposely united, captivated and
charmed the young barbarians. I
am no longer surprised if the bgend
assures us that Herv6 tamed the
savage beasts ; if it recounts that one
day he forced a thief of a fox to bring
back, " without hurting her," his hen
which he had carried off, and another
time a robber of a wolf who had
eaten up his ass-— others say his
dog — to serve and follow him like a
spanieL This new style of spaniel
was seen in a crowd of bas-reliefs
held in leash by the saints, and as
elsewhere mothers threatened their
children with the wolf, the Breton
Mothers frightened their brats with
Hervfft spanieL Orpheus is thus
represented followed by tamed tigers ;
and another bard, a haJf pagan, whom
we have seen before accompanied by
his black dog, is painted, running
through the woods with a wolf
which he calls his dear companion.
Tu Lupcj care comes. The poets of
the primitive times wei'e supposed to
be in a perpetual union with nature^
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880
A CMe Legend.— Hervi.
and to have reconquered the power,
lost since leaving the Gkmlen of £den,
of making all animalB obedient to
them. Hervd was considered to be
endowed with the same power; bnt
poetrj and music were not the only
form which the Christian gave to hk
charms. His true magic was prayer.
See how he chanted when he was ex-
posed to the snares or the ferocity of
animals or of men :
^^O God I deign to preserve me
from snares, from oppression, from
evil, from the fox, the wolf, and the
devU."
Not more than men and wild beasts,
could nature resist the force of his
prayer. Somewhat troubled in his
retreat, and above all in his humil-
ity, by the too noisy veneration of
the Armorican chiefs, who sent their
sons to him, he plunged into the forest,
as had Gurfoed, seeking the hermit-
age, and the counsels of his former
teacher; bnt the grass and fern had
effaced the path which led there, and
all Herv^'s researches had been in
vam, when he came to an opening in
the forest where a moss-KX>vered rock
was mised up on four stones; the
ruins of a cabin where the badgers
had made their nests, were seen near
at hand ; briers, thickets of holly and
thorns encumbefed the ground. Be-
fore these ruins the saint, struck with
a secret presentiment, prostrated him-
self^ his arms in the form of a croes,
and cried three times : '^ In the name
of God, rock, split; in the name of
God, earth, open, if you hide from me
my light." His prayer was scarcely
tenninated when the earth trembled,
the rocks split, and through the open-
ing came a soft odor, which revealed
to lum the sepulchre of him whom he
WM seeking.
Such is die popular narrative ; but,
if it is intended to show his power
over nature, it shows still more his
humility. It is exhaled from this
legend, as peHumes frcmi the tomb of
him whom he sought as lus light
I remember a song in which a kind
of Dmidess gives the assurance that
she knows a song which can make
even the earth tremble : after a fright-
ful display of magical science, she
finishes by saying, diat with the help
of her lights as she calls her mastei
she is able to turn the earth in the con-
trary way. Here it is the pagan
pride which vaunts itself; but a voice
from heaven is heard, ^If this
world is yours, the other belongs to
God!'* and the sorceress was con-
founded. Herv^, on the contrary,
who is humble, and who prays ; Herve,
who speaks, not in his own name, but
in the name of God, is heard and ex-
alted. It is verifying the words of
the Grospel : ^ And the humble shall
be exalted."
As he advanced in age, the saint
continued to realize this promise.
We have up to this moment seen him
glorified under the tatters of a vaga-
bond singer, as well as under the poor
robe of an instructor of little barba-
rians; we are now to see him as
an agriculturist, even architect, but
always all the strongest when he
would wish to appear weakest in
the eyes of men, always the greatest
when he would wish to be the low-
est.
The counsels which Herv6 had
gone to ask of his old teacher, he re-
ceived from his bishop, a wise and
holy man, who came £rom Britain to
the country of L6on. The bishop
juci^ed him worthy to be a priest, and
wished to confer upon him the eccle-
siastical character; but the hermit,
who from childhood had considered
himself unworthy of this great re-
sponsibility, persisted in his humble
sentiments, and he would consent to
be promoted ouly to the lowest or-
ders, to those called minor orders. It
is easy to believe that hi^ bishop in-
duced him to definitely fix his dwell-
ing somewhere with his disciples, and ^
to give to the Armoricans the example ^
of a sedentary life, of manual labor,
the cultivation of the earth, and
building, all things which are at the
foundation of all society, and which
the barbarians little lU^ed; for he
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A CdUe JLeffefuL^^Barve.
821
went to work to seek a place where
he could establish a small colony.
About half a centuiy beforei
another bard also blind, and his hair
whitened by age, joumejed in Armot-
ica from canton to canton, seated on
a small horse firom the mountains,
which a child led by the bridle. He
sought, like Herve, a field to cultivate
and in which he could build. Know-
ing what herbs were produced by good
ground, and what herbs by bad
ground, he asked from time to time of
his guide :
^ Seest thou the green clover ?"
And always the chUd replied :
^* I see only the fox-glove blossoms.''
For at that epoch, Armorica was a
wild country.
" Well, then, we will go farther," re-
plied the old man.
And the little horse went on his
way. At last the child cried out :
*^ Father, I see the clover bloom-
ing."
And he stopped. The old man dis-
mounted, and seating himself on a
stone, in the sun, he sang the songs of
labor in the fields, and of their cul-
ture in different seasons. This agri-
cultural bard was invested with a
venerated character by the ancient
Bretons. They regarded bun as a
pillar of social existence; but his
heart, open to the cultivation of
nature, was closed to the love of hu-
manity. With one of his brethren he
said willingly : ^ I do not plough the
earth without shedding blood on it/'
He thirsted for the blood of Christian
monks and priests, and he offered it
with joy as sacrifice to the earth. To
the wisest lessons in agriculture he
added the most ferocious predictions,
''The followers of Christ shall be
tracked; they shall be hunted like
wild beasts, they shall die in bands
and by battalions on the mouotain.
The wheel of the mill grinds fine ; the
blood of the monks will serve as
water/'
Scarcely sixty years had rolled
away, and these same monks whom
the bard cursed as asurpers of the
Celtic harp and as stealers of the chil-
dren of the Bretons, advanced peace-
ably over the ruins of a religion of
which he was the last minister, ready
to shed blood also, but their own ; ready
to perform prodigies, but of intelligence
and of love. Their chief was not on
horseback, he walked with bare feet,
(he went always unshod, says his his-
torian,) and having journeyed for a
long time, he spoke thus to his disci-
ples:
^ Know, my brothers, it wearies me
to be always running and wandering
in this way ; pray to God that he will
reveal to us some place in which we
can live to serve him for the rest of
our days."
They all commenced to pray, and
behold a voice was heard saying : ^ Gro
even toward the east, and where I
shall three times tell thee to rest, there
thou wilt dwelL" They commenced
then on the road to the east, and when
they had gone very far, having found
a field filled with high green wheat,
they sat down in its shade. Now, as
he was thus reposing, a voice waa
heard which said three times : ^ Make
your dwelling here.'' Filled with grat-
itude, they knelt to thank God, and
being thirsty with the heat and the
travel, the saint by his prayers ob-
tained a fresh fountain.
But the possession of the land was
not easy to obtain from the avaricious
proprietor, whom the French legend
charitably calls <'an honest man."
Herve demanded of him, however,
only a little comer in wluch to erect a
small monastery.
^ Bless my soul, bless my soul!"
cried the owner, ^ but my wheat is still
all green, and so if you cut it now it
will be lost."
"No, no," said Saint Herv6, "it
shall not be so, for as much wheat as
I cut now so much will I render to
you ripe and in the sack at harvest
time."
To this he agreed, and commenced
Digitized by CjOOQ IC
822
A OeUie Legend — Bene.
to cut down the wheat, which he tied
in bundles and sheafs and laid apart ;
and God so favored them, that at the
time of the harvest, these sheafs which
had been cut all green, not only be-
came ripe, but had blossomed and so
multiplied that where there had been
one there were now two. The owner
of the field seeing this, gave thanks to
God, who had sent these holy men to
him, and gave the whole field to the
saint*
Thus the toil and intelligence of the
monks made the earth render double
the ordinary crops, and, conquered by
such miracles, the barbarians, who,
moreover, did not lose anything, gave
willingly all that was asked of them.
The good religious from whom I
have borrowed the translation of the
preceding narrative even assures us
that the proprietor went so far as to
promise Herv6 to build him a beauti-
ful church at his own expense. This
new miracle, however, was only half
carried out; for we see Herv^, once
the land had been conceded to him,
going to work with his disciples to
procure the wood necessary for the
construction of his church and convent
He made a collection for this end, not
only in the country of L^on, but even
in ihe mountains of Aiez,and in Corn-
wall, visiting the manors of the chiefs
and the richest monasteries.
Everywhere, it is said, he was well
received, thanks to the benefits that he
spread along his passage, and all the
npbles to whom he applied caused as
many oaks to be cut down for him in
their forests, as he desired. It is,
however, probable, notwithstanding the
assertions of the legendaries, that he
found many but little disposed to
aid in the building of a Christian
church, and that all those whom he
visited did not show themselves very
eager to cut down the trees, so vener-
ated in Armorica ; for in the following
century, a council held at Nantes near
the year 658, attests that no one dared
hresik a branch or ofishoot of one.
The legend it«elf allows us to see im-
• Albert le Onmd.
perfectly some stumbling-blocks whidi
the holy architect found m his way ;
they must have torn his feet as cruelly
as those which we have seen him pun-
ish by hardening them, in the days
when he was a public singer. At first
there was a rude chief who passed
near him with a great train of men,
dogs, and horses, without saluting him,
even without looking at him ; again
there was another who did not beHeve
in his miracles, and said so out loud at
supper before a large company, and in
the face of the saint. At that same
banquet, at the commencement of the
repast, while Herv6 was singing with
the harp to bless the table, a new kind
of adversary, the frogs, commenced
also to sing, to defy him, to sing their
vespers, as a Breton poet explains it,
provoking the laughter of the guests.
At another banquet, a cup-bearer who
was a demon in disguise, one of those
who excited to intemperance, to glut-
tony, to idleness and noise, to discord
and quarrels, wishing to kill him,
served him, together with the other
guests, a beverage the effect of which
was to make them cut each other's
throats.
This evil spirit followed the holy
architect even to the midst of a monas-
tery, with the intention of deceiving
him more surely. Taking the tbrm of
a monk, he offered his services to help
him in building his church.
« What is thy name ?' Herv^ asked
of him.
^ I am a master carpenter, sir.*'
" Thy name, I tell thee," returned
the saint
'' Sir, I am a mason, locksmith, able
to work at any trade.'*
** Thy name ? For the third time,
I command thee in the name of the
living Grod, to tell thy name."
« Hu-Kan I Hu-Kan I Hu-Kan T
cried the demon ; and he threw him-
self , head foremost, from a rock into
the sea.
Thus did the Druid superstitions
vanish before Herv^, having for a mo-
ment resisted him, and sought to de-
ceive him under different disguises.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
A Celtic Legends — Hnve*
828
This Hu-Ean, that is to say, Ha the
genius, is no other than the god Hvt^
Kadam of the Cambrian traditions.
The devil who incites to idleness and
debauchery is the Celtic divinity cor-
responding to the Liber or Bacchus of
the Romans. There is in these frogs
who chanted their vespers a recollec-
tion of Armorican paganism. ^ The
saint silenced them as suddenly as if
he had cut their throat ' says a hagio-
grapher, adding, ^ he left voice but to
one, who ever since has continued to
croak."
Now, by a sort of prodigy of tra-
dition, a popular song, entitled the
" Vespers of the Frogs," has come to
us ; it is the work of the pagan poets
of Armorica, represented in com-
mon recitatives uuder the grotesque
figure of these beastly croi^ers. It
offers a summary of the Druid doc-
trines of the fourth century ; and it
seemed so necessary to the first Christ-
ian missionaries to destroy it, that they
made a Latin and Christian counter-
part, as if they would raise the cross
in the face of the heathen pillars.
One of these missionaries, Saint
Gildas, was so opposed to the pagan
music of his time that he qualified its
croaking with the sweet and gentle
music of the children of Christ ; and
his disciple Tali^in, the great poet
baptized in the sixth century, hushed
at a banquet, as Saint Herv6 had
done, the infamous descendants of the
priests of the god Bel, who wished
to put him to defiance.
The sound of Christian music was
to be heard from all the vaults of the
church, for the construction of which
Saint Herv6 had made so many jour-
neys. Twelve columns of polished
wood were erected to hold the low
and arched framework; three large
stones formed the altar; the spring
with which he had refreshed his dis-
ciples furnished the water necessary
t6 the sacrifice ; the wheat sown by
them, the bread for consecration ; and
the wines of some richer monastery,
more exposed to the sun, the euchar-
istic wine ; for it was an ancient and
touching custom that those who had
vine^anis gave wine to those who had
not, and in exchange, the owners of
bees furnished wax to those who
lacked it. Herv6, according to his
biographers, himself superintended
the workmen, or rather incited the
laborers by his words, and sustained
them by his songs. Like another
poet of antiquity, he built, with his
songs, not a city for men, but a house
for God.
VI.
The fathers of an Armorican coun-
cil of the fifth century terminated
their canons by these noble words:
"May God, my brethren, preserve
for you your crown." A last
fiower seemed wanting to that of
Herv^. He was now to obtain it.
The ^ poor shoeless child, the poet of
the wretched, the school-teacher of
little children, the wandering agricul-
turist, the mendicant architect, was to
become the equal — what do I say ? —
the corrector of bishops and kings.
At that time there reigned a Eon
Mor in Brittany, who had rendered
himself abominable to the men of that
country by his tyranny and cruelties.
Unable to endare him, they flocked in
great numbers from all parts of Armori-
ca to their bish<^, the blessed Samson ;
and as he saw them at his door, silent
and with lowered heads, he asked
them:
" What has happened to the coun*
try?"
Then answered the more respectar
ble among them :
" The men of this land are in great
desolation, sir.'*
" And why so ?" asked Samson.
*' We had a good chief of our owa
race, and bom on our own land, who>
governed us by legitimate authority ;
and now there has come over us a
foreign Eon. Mor, a violent man, an
enemy to justice, possessed of great
power; he holds us under the most
odious oppression ; he has killed our
national chief, and dishonored his
Digitized by CjOOQIC
824
A Odtie Legmi.—H0rvi.
widow, <mr qaeen. He would hare
killed their bod, had not the poor child
taken to flight and Bought refuge in
France."
The bi«hop, moved with pity, prom-
ised the deputies that he would aid
them, and seeking a means to re-estab-
lish their rightful chief, he resolved to
begin by striking the usurper with the
terrible arm of excommunication.
He therefore sent letters to all the
Armoricon bishops to unite with him
in devising some means of frightening
the tyrant The place of reunion
was a high mountain much venerated
by the bftrds and the people, named
the Run-bre, and situated in the heart
of the country governed by the Kon
Mor. Although only prelates should
have been present, Herve was sent
there, and even the venerable as-
j^embly were not willing to enter
into deliberation until he came, not-
withstanding the opposition of one
member of the meeting, less hum-
ble and less patient than the
others. This courtier bishop, as the
legend styles him, finding that Herv6
made them wait a long time, '^ Is it
proper that men like us," he exclaimed,
*^ should remain here indefinitely on
account of a wretched blind monk ?"
At this moment, the saint arrived.
His bare feet, his miserable hermit's
robe made of goatHskin, in the midst
of the men and horses richly apparel-
led, belonging to the prelate of the
court, drew perhaps a smile of proud
disdain to the lips of many. Hearing
the impious words of which he was
the object, the s^t was not irritated,
but said gently to the bishop : ^ My
brother, why reproach me with my
blindness ? Could not God have made
you blind as well as me ? Do you not
know well that he makes us as he
pleases, and that we should thank him
that he has given us such a being as
he has?" The other bishops, con-
tinues the legend, strongly rebuked
this one, and he was not long in feel-
ing the heavy hand of God ; for he
immediately fell to the ground, his
face covered with blood, and lost his
sight ; but the good saint, wishing to
render good for evil to this proud
mocker, prayed to God for the unfor-
tunate ; and then, rubbing his eyes with
salt and water, restored him fats sight ;
he gave him understanding also ; ac-
cording to the remark of another hagi-
ographer, understanding, that light
of the soul, obscured by pride, more
precious stUi and not less difficult to
recover than the light of the body.
Afler this they proceeded to the cere-
mony of excommunicating the great
chief of the Armoricans.
Standing on a rock, at the summit
of the mountain, a lighted taper in his
hand, and surrounded by the nine
bishops of Armorlca, each one holding
a blessed taper, the saint pronounced,
in the name of all, according to the
formula of the times, these terrible
words against the foreign tyrant:
'* We in virtue of the authority which
we hold from the Lord, in the name of
God the Father, of the Son, and of
the Holy Ghost, do dedare the great
diief of the Armoricans exoonmmni-
cated from the threshold of the holy
church of God, and separated from the
society of Christians ; that,lf he comes
not quickly to repentance, we crush him
beneath the weight of an eternal male-
diction, and condemn him by an ir-
revocable anathema. May he be ex-
posed to the anger of the sovereign
Judge, may he be torn from the herit-
age of God and his elect, that in this
world he may be cut off from the com-
munion of Christians, and that in the
other he may have no part in the
kingdom of God and his saints ; but
that, bound to the devil and his imps,
he may live devoted to the flames of
vengeance, and that he may be the
prey, even in this world, to the tor-
tures of helL Cursed be he in his
own house, cursed in his fields, cursed
in his stomach, cursed be all things
that he possesses, from his dog that
howls at his appearance even to his
cock who insults him by his crowing.
May he share the lot of Dathan and
Abiron whom hell swallowed alive;
the lot of Ananias and of Sapphira>
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A OeUic Legend^^Hervk.
who lied to the Apostles of the Lord,
and were stradL with instant death ; the
lot of Pilate and Judas, who were
traitors to God; maj he have no
other sepulchre than have the asses,
and maj these tapers which we ex-
tinguish be the image of the darkness
to which his soul is condemned.
Amen."*
The bishops repeated three times.
Amen ; and the president of the s jnod,
having extinguished under hi^ foot
the candle which he held in his hand,
all the prelates did the same. But this
djing candle, the image of the extin-
guished light of the great chief, was
not so easilj relighted as that of the
haughty prelate. Once the tyrant's
head was under the bare foot of the
mendicant monk, tyranny was dishon-
ored and humanity avenged.
Herv6 does not appear to have long
survived this great act of national and
religious justice, in which he perform-
ed the greatest part ; he saw, however,
the result, and could hail the dawn of
a noble reign which would assure,
without the diPusion of blood, say the
historians, the death of the usurper.
Another dawn was rising for the
saint.
It is related that being shut up in
the church which he had built, fasting
and praymg for three days, 8epai*ated
from his disciples and his pupils, the
heavens opened above his head, and
with the heavens his eyes were open-
ed to contemplate the celestial court.
Ravished to ecstasy, he chanted a
Breton canticle, which was later put
into writing, and has received its mod-
em form from the last apostle of the
Armoricans, Michel Le Nobletz.
'< I see heaven opened, heaven my
country 5 1 would that I might fly there
as a little white dove I
** The gates of Paradise are opened
to receive me; the saints advance to
meet me.
"I see, truly I see Crod the Father,
* This formoU of ezcommunicatloii of the tlxih
ctntory hM been disooreml and recently translated
bT H. Alfired Ram«, In an artfcle, the *' Melanges
d'Hlstoire et d'Archasologle Bretonne," a commend-
able pabllcation.
and his blessed Son^ and the Holy
Ghost
^ How beautiful she is, the Holy
Yiigin, with the twelve stars which
form her crown.
<< Each with his harp in his hand,
I see the angels and the archangels,
singing the praises of God.
^ And the vir^ns of all ages, and
the saints of all conditions, and the
holy women, and the widows crowned
byGodI
^^ I see radiant in glory and beauty,
my father and my mother ; I see my
brothers and my countrymen.
^Choirs of little angels flying on
their light wings, so rosy and so fair,
fly around their heads, as a hanno-^
nious swarm of bees, honey-laden in a
field of flowers.
<^ O happiness without parallel ! the
more I contemplate you, the more I
long for you ! "
The heavens did not dose again
until the canticle was finished, as if
they had taken pleasure in the song of
the predestined son of Hyvamlon and
Rivanone, who heard him with smiles
and called him to tliem.
yn.
Before the Revolution there was pre-
served in the treasury of the Cathedral
of Nantes a silver shsine, enriched
with precious stones, a present from an
ancient Breton chief. In great judicial
cases it was carried in procession to
the judges to receive the solemn vows
which they afterward made upon the
book of the Evangelists. A king of
France and a duke of Brittany, ^er
long wars, united under this shrine
their reconciled hands and swore to
live in peace.
At the same time there was seen,
in the depths of lower Brittany, in the
sacristy of a little country church, an
oaken cradle, with nothing about it
remarkable unless its age. The in-
habitants of the parish, however, vene-
rated it as much as the silver shrine.
The mendicant singers, above all, have
Digitized by CjOOQIC
826 LMfor CMd.
for it an especial affection. Thej love To-day tbeducal reliquary isno longer
to touch it with their great musical in- in existence. The metal, thrice conse-
HtrumenU, their traveller's goods, their crated by sanctity, justice, and royalty,
rosaries, their staffs, all that they have was stolen and melted down in that sad-
which is most precious. Kneeling be- ly memorable epoch when these three
fore this cradle, they kiss it with re- things, trampled under foot, were val-
spect, and arriving sad, they depart ued less than a bit of silver. But the
joyous. wooden cradle of the humble patron
Now, the silver shrine contained, of the singers of Brittany, that po^r
wrapped in purple and silk, the relics worm-^aten cradle, so like his fate on
of Saint Herv^. The oaken cradle earth, exists still, and more than one
was the same in which he slept to the mendkant having respectfully pressed
songs of the bard and bis poet-wife, his lips upon it, as in other times, goes
whom God had given him for father away singing with a clearer voice and
and motiier. a comforted heart.
From Once aWeek.
LOST FOR GOLD.
She stood by the hedge where the orchard slopes
Down to the river below ;
The trees all white with their autumn hopes
Looked heaps of drifted snow ;
They gleamed like ghosts through the twilight pale.
The shadowy river ran black ;
" It's weary waiting," she said, with a wail,
^ For them that never come back.
^ The mountain waits there, barren and brown,
Till the yellow furze comes in spring
To crown his brows with a golden crown,
And girdle him like a king.
The river waits till the summer lays
The white lily on his track ^
But it's weary waiting nights and days
For him that never comes back.
<' Ah ! the white lead kills in the heat of the fight.
When passions are hot and wild ;
But the red. gold kills by the fair fire-light
The love of father and child.
" 'Tie twenty years since I heard him say,
When the wild March morn was airy,
Through the drizzly dawn — ^ I m going away,
To make you a fortune, Mary.'
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Zoi^/or 60UL 827
<< Twenty BpringB, with their long grey dajs.
When the tide mns up the sand,
And the west wind catches the birds, and lays
Them shrieking far inland.
^ From the sea-wash'd reefs, and the stonny mull,
And the damp weed-tangled caves : —
Will he ever come back, O wild sea-gull.
Across the green salt waves ?
^ Tweiity summers with blue flax bells,
And the young green com on the lea,
That yellows by night in the moon, and swells
By day like a rippling sea.
'^ Twenty autumns with reddening leaveSi
In their glorious harvest light
Steeping a thousand golden sheaves,
And doubling them all at night.
" Twenty winters, how long and drear I
With a patter of rain in the street.
And a sound in the last leaves, red and sere ;
Bat never the sound. of his feet.
The ploughmen talk by furrow and ridge,
I hear them day by day ;
The horsemen ride down by the narrow bridge,
But never one comes this way.
And the voice that I long for is wanting ther,
And the face I would die to see,
Since he went away in the wild March air,
Ah ! to make a fortune for me.
^ O &ther dear I but you never thought
Of the fortune you squandered and lost ;
Of the duty that never was sold and bought.
And the love beyond all cost.
" For the vile red dust you gave in thrall
The heart that w as Go's above ; .
How could you think that money was all,
When the world was won for love ?
<< You sought me wealth in the strangei^s land,
Whose veins are veins of gold ;
And the fortune God gave was in mine hand,
When yours was in its hold.
" If I might but look on your face," she says,
'* And then let me have or lack ;
But it's weary waiting nights and days
For him that never comes back."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
I%e Soluium of Oe IfUe PnMem.
From The Doblin UnlT«nltj Iffagarina.
THE SOLUTION OF THE NILE PROBLEM.*
Fob some time the complaint of
those who have beeo everywhere, and
seen eveiything men of trayel and of
fashion ought to see,. has been that
the world is " used-up" for the tourist.
Where can he now go for a fresh sen-
sation 1 Asia and America remain
no more untrodden fields than Europe ;
and as for the isles of the farthest
sea, rich and idle ^ fugitiyes and vaga-
bonds" have braved as many dangers
among savage tribes as the early
missionaries, from impulse no nobler
than restlessness. TVhither next shall
they direct their strides ? Iceland stood
in favor for a year or two ; but the
cooks are bad there, and the inhabit-
ants speak Latin. Japan has novel-
ties, but bland Daimios are not trust-
worthy. The sightseeker has no relish
for being among a people who, on very
slight provocation, may perform upon
him a process akin to their own
^' happy despatch." In the exhaus-
tion of interest in mere horizontal
locomotion, the Cain-like race we form
part of try the efiect of ascension to
the highest and hugest cloud-cai^>ed
peaks ; but Matterhom accidents have
rather brought these mountains-of-the-
(full)-moon performances into dis-
favour. Pending the discovery of
some new wonder or feat, to occupy
many vacant minds and stir a few
energetic ones, and during the crisis
of a Continental war, the migratory
section amongst us must bear their
misery as best they can. It may eon-
sole them to hope that the flying-
machine will yet be perfected, and air-
sailing supersede Alpine climbing.
Probably it would be quite as exdt-
• " The Albert STTann, OxMt Basin of the Nile,
and ExploratioB of the Nile Soueee." By Samuel
White Baker, M.A., F.B.GA
JtOo. 18M.
ing, and it would not tire the limbs.
If there be one geographical problem
still left unsolved, it must be to find
the site of that cave of Adullam which
has sorely puzzled numbers of erudite
Parliamentarians, one of whom was
heard to make answer to a query re-
garding its locality that he ^ never
was a geographer." For the purpose
of stimulating the curiosity of the
gentleman, and of guiding him in his
search among the lore of school-boy
days, we may take from a book well
known a real, and not figurative, de-
scription of the Cave in which shelter
vras lately found by some forty way-
farers uncertain as to their route in
a difficult country. ''Leaving our
horses," says an Adullamite, who
long preceded them, ''in chaige of
wild , and taking one for a guide,
we started for the cave, having a fear-
ful goi^ below, gigantic clifis above,
and the path winding along a shelf of
the rock, narrow enough to make the
nervous among us shudder. At length,
from a great rock hanging on the edge
of this shelf, we sprang by a long leap
into a low window which opened into
the perpendicular face of the cU£
We were then within the hold of ,
and creeping half-doubled through a
narrow crevice for a few rods, we
stood beneath the dark vault of the
first grand chamber of this mysterious
and oppressive cavern. Our whole
collection of lights did little more than
make the damp darkness risible.
After groping about as long as we had
time to spare, we returned to the light
of day, fully convinced that with
and his lion-hearted followers inside, all
the strength of under could
not have forced an entrance.'' Next to
a search for the celebrated cave, we can
Digitized by CjOOQIC
7%e S6hai(m of the NOe ProUem.
829
imagine no geographical extravagance
eqaal to one for those Nile Sources
that have been the dream of ancients
and modems. The undertaking pos-
sessed an the attraction of freshness.
Your North-west passage is a mere
track through a waste, without the
possibility of novelty. What its dan-
gers and privations, its few monoto-
noas sights and events, were to half-A-
dozen navigators they would be to
half-a-dozen more« But in passing
upward to the hage plateau in Cen-
tral Africa where the Nile Basin lies,
itself again overtopped by the lof^y
range of the Blue Mountains, down
which giant cascades ceaselessly roU
in unwitnessed splendor, the travel-
ler encounters penis enough, but re-
lieved with a human interest. The
tribes he meets are many and unique
in their habits, strangely unlike each
other, withm short distances, and
having about them an extraordinary
mixture of an incipient civilization
with some of the most depraved of the
customs of savage life. In the jour-
ney, too, there is endless variety.
The expecUtiou up the river, with its
hunting episodes, its difficulties with
mutinous servants and uamen^ its de-
vices to appease native cupidifyand
circumvent native cunning, and its
encounters with those vilest of the
pursuers of commerce, the slave-tra-
ders, forms one part of the interest ;
and next come inland rides through
tangled forest shades, rude villages of
cone-shaped huts, suspicious hordes of
naked barbarians, to whom every new
face is that of a plunderer of slaves or
cattle, and ^ situations'* in which it is
impossible for the honest traveller to
escape sharp contests with a party of
Turkish marauders, for whose sins
against the commandment he would
otherwise be held responsible by the
relentless javelin-men of the desert*
All this offers adventure of a genuine
description to him who has the love of
it in his disposition ; and such a man
is Mr. Samuel White Baker. His
impulses are irrepressible: nature made
him a traveller. He is the modem
counterpart of those primitive person-
ages, the Columbuses of the times just
succeeding the flood, whose purpose-
less wanderings into far space from
the spot where the Mesopotamian
cradle of mankind was rocked,
peopled lands lying even beyond great
seas ; men whose feats were such that
the philosophers of five thousand yeara
after can hardly believe they per-
formed them. If Mr. Baker had been
a dweller in Charran, he would have
begged the patriarch Abraham to give
him camels, water-bags, and bushels of
com, and would have set off for the
eastem margin of the globe, and the
shores of the loud-sounding sea.
Arrived there, he would have burned
a tree hollow, and launched boldly
forth upon the deep, to go whither^
soever fortune listed.
All his life a traveller m the true
sense, Mr. Baker last conceived the
idea of securing for " England" the
glory of discovering the sources of the
Nile. This bit of patriotic sentiment
undoubtedly added to the zest of the
undertaking, to which, as has been
said, he was impelled by instinct He
is' a man of resolute wUl, and to think
and to do are with him simultaneous
acts. His preparations were instantly
in progress, and from that moment
his motto, come what might, was — ^For-
ward. Part of this perseverance no
doubt was due to the encouragement
of Mrs. Baker^a presence. Thftt lady
is the model explorer^s wife, and we
could wish for such a race of women
if there were any problems geographi-
cal left to be solved. She set out with
Mr. Baker from Cairo, determined to
go through all dangers with him, and
well knowing their nature; and she
successfully accomplished the task,
and has returned to share his renown.
To a full share of it she is really en-
titled ; for Mrs. Baker was much
more than a companion to her hus-
band on his wanderings. She assisted
him materially, not only tending him
when sick, not only conciliating the
natives by her kindness, but contri-
botittg to remove difficulties by wise
Digitized by CjOOQIC
830
The SoUaian of Oe 2Kk Problem.
counsel, bearing all hardships uncom-
plaioinglj, and — ^rare yirtue I — sub-
mitting to her lord's aathoritj when
he was warranted in deciding what
was best to be done, or left undone.
Mrs. Baker could also somewhat plaj
the Amazon when occasion required.
If she did not actually take the shield
and falchion, and go to the front of
the fight, she spread out the aims,
loaded and prepared the weapons,
and rendered brave and effectiTe aid
on an occasion when the Discoverer
of the Great Basin of the Nile was
likely to have become, if he did not
succeed in intimidating his foes by the
parade of his armory, a sweet morsel
for the palate of the Latookas. Mr.
Baker speaks with manly tenderness
of his wife, and the picture drawn of
her in his incidental references, will
gain for her hosts of friends among
his readers.
.The narrative is quiet until he
reaches Gondokoro. There, in March,
1863, be met Speke and Grant, who
wei*e descending the Nile, having
completed the East African expedi-
tion. When there the report reached
him on a certain morning that there
were two white men approaching
who had come from the sea. These
were the travellers from the Vic-
toria N'Yanza, the otJter^ and smaller,
source of the Nile. They had un-
doubtedly solved the mystery. Still
they had left something for Baker to
do, and candidly declared to him
that they had not completed the
actual exploration of the Nile sources.
In N. lat. 2° 17' they had crossed the
river which they had tracked from
the Victoria Lake; but it had there
(at Karuma Falls) taken an extra-
ordinary bend westward, and when
they met it again it was flowing from
the W.S.W. There was clearly another
source, and Eamrasi, Eingof Unyoro,
had informed them that from the
Victoria N'Yanza the Nile flowed
westward for several days' journey,
and fell into another lake called the
Luta N'Zige, from which it almost
immediately emerged again, and con-
tinued its course as a navigable river
to the north. Speke and Grant
would have tracked out this second
source had not the tribes in the dis-
tricts been at the time at fend, and
on such occasions they will not abide
the face of a stranger. Mr. Baker,
guided by their hints, set out to com-
plete what they had begun.
Gondokoro is n great slave-market
— ^Mr. Baker says "a perfect hell,"
"a colony of cut -throats." The
Egyptian authorities wink at what
goes on, in consideration of liberal
largesses^ There were about six hun-
dred traders there when Mr. Baker
visited it, drinking, quarrelling, and
beating their slaves. These ruf-
fians made razzias on the cattle of
the natives, who are a cleanly and
rather industrious race of the pictur-
esque type of savage. Their bodies
are tattooed all over, and an immense
cock's feather, rising out of the single
tuft of hair lefl upon their sha?eQ
crowns, gives them rather an impos-
ing appearance. Their weapons of
defence are poisoned arrows, with
which the traders at times make
deadly acquaintance. Of course Mr.
Baker had unforeseen difficulties on
setting out What traveller ever
started on an expedition vrithout
meeting with his roost irritating
obstacles at the threshold ? Mr.
Baker, however, was an old hand,
and it took a good deal to daunt
him. His escort were as trouble-
some a set of vagabonds as could have
been collected together probably in
Africa itself. He had a mutiny to
quell ere many days ; and it is at this
point wc come to see what sort of
man is our explorer. He is a mus-
cular Christian of the stoutest type.
Heavy fell his hand on skulls of
sinning niggers — it was the readiest
implement, and down went the offen-
der under the blow so signally that
his fellows saw and trembled^ 3Ir.
Baker was a great '* packer.'* His
asses and camels carried a vast amount
of stufi^, but so arranged and fitted
that no breakdown occurred in the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
ne Solution of the Nik ProUem.
881
mofit trying Bitoadons for man and
beast
The Latookas were the first race of
savages Mr. Baker encountered. They
are about six feet high, and muscular
and well-proportioned. They have a
pleasing cast of countenance, and are
in manner very civil. They are ex-
tremely clever blacksmiths, and shape
their lances and bucklers most skilful-
ly. One of the most interesting pas-
sages of the whole book is the author s
account of this tribe :
** Far from being the morose set of savages
that I had hitherto seeD, they are excess-
ively merry, and always ready for either a
langh or a fight. The town of Tarrangott^
contained about three thousand houses, and
was not only surrounded by iron-wood pali-
sades, but every house was individually for-
tified by a little stockaded courtyard. The
cattle were kept in large kraals in various
parts of the town, and were most carefully at-
tended to, fires being lit every night to pro-
tect them from flies, and high platforms in
three tiers were erected in many places, upon
which sentinels watched both day and night,
to give the alarm in case of danger. The
cattle are the wealth of the country, and so
rich are the Latookas in oxen, that ten or
twelve thousand head are housed in every
large town. . . . The houses of the La-
tookas are bell-shaped. The doorway is only
two feet and two inches high, and thus an en-
trance must be effected on all-fours. The
interior is remarkably clean, but dark, as the
architects have no idea of windows."
Mr. Baker notices the fact that the
circular form of hut is the only style
of architecture adopted among all
the tribes of Central Africa, and also
among the Arabs of Upper Egypt;
and that although there are variations
in the form of the roof, no tribe has
ever yet dreamt of constructing a win-
dow. The Latookas are obliged con-
stantly to watch for their enemy, a
neighboring race of mule - riders,
v/hose cavahry attacks they can hardly
withstand, although of war-like habits,
and accordingly —
** The town of Tarrangott^ is arranged with
several entrances in the shape of low arch-
ways through the palisades : these are closed
at night by large branches of the hooked
thorn of the bitter bush, (a species of mimosa.)
The main street is broad, but all others are
studiously arranged to admit only of one oow,
doglo file, between high stockades. Thus,
in the event of an attack, these narrow pas-
sages can be easily defended, and it would be
impossible to drive off their vast herds of
cattle unless by the main street. The large
cattle kraals are accordingly arranged in va-
rious quarters in connection with the great
road, and the entrance of each kraal is a
small archway in the strong iron- wood fence,
sufficiently wide to admit one ox at a time.
Suspended from the arch is a bell, formed of
the shell of the Dolape palm-nut, against
which every animal must strike either its
horns or back on entrance. Every tinkle of
the bell announces the passage of an ox into
the kraal, and they are thus counted every
evening when brought home from pasture."
The toilet of the natives is of the
simplest, except in one particular.
The Latooka savage is content that
his whole body should be naked, but
expends the most elaborate care on his
headdress. Every tribe in this dis-
trict has a distinct fashion of arranging
it, but the Latookas reduce it to a
science. Mr. Baker describes the
process ahd the result :
** European ladies would be startled at the
fact, that to perfect the coiffure of a man re-
quires a period of from eight to ten years !
However tedious the operation the result is
extraordinary. The Latookas wear most ex-
quisite helmets, all of which are formed of
their own hair, and are, of course, fixtures.
At first sight it appears incredible; but a
minute examination shows the wonderful
perseverance of years in producing what
must be highly inconvenient The thick
crisp wool id woven with fine twine, formed
from the bark of a tree, until it presents a
thick network of felt. As the hair grows
through this matted substance it is subjected
to the same process, until, in the course of
years, a compact substance is formed, like a
strong felt, about an inch and a half thick,
that has been trained into the shape of a hel-
met. . A strong rim of about two inches deep
is formed by drawing it together with thread,
and the front part of the helmet is protected
by a piece of polished copper, while a piece
of the same metal, shaped like the half of a
bishop^s mitre, and about a foot in length,
forms the crest. The framework of the hel-
met being at length completed, it must be
perfected by an arrangement of beads, should
the owner of the head be sufficiently rich to
indulge in the coveted distinction. The beads
most in fashion are the red and the blue
porcelain, about the size of small peas. These
are sewn on the surface of the felt, and so
beautifully arranged in sections of blue and
red, that the entire helmet appears to be
formed of beada, and the handsome orest
Digitized by CjOOQIC
882
lis Sohiti&n of the I/tle Ptohiem.
of polished copper, flunnoimted by ostrich
plumes, gives a most dignified and marUal
appearance to this elaborate head-dress.**
With Common), chief of the JjSr
tookas, Mr. Baker bad a Teligious oon-
versation. The savage was clever,
even subtile. He does not appear,
however to have shaken the faith of
the traveller. Probably had Mr.
Baker been a Bishop (Colenso) trained
in the theology of the schools, he might
have been driven crazy by this mid-
African counterpart of ^e famous
Zulu. The natives exhume the bones
of their dead, and celebrate a sort of
dance round them; and Mr. Baker
asked his Latookan friend —
** Have you no belief in a future existence
after death ? Is not some idea expressed in
the act of exhuming the bones after the flesh
IS decayed?"
Conunoro {log,) — ** Existence after death!
How can that be ? Can a dead man get out
of his grare unless we dig him out?"
" Bo you think a man is like a beast that
dies and is ended ?*'
Commoro. — *' Certainly. An ox is strong-
er than a man, but he dies, and his bones last
longer; they are bigger. A man*8 bonea
break quickly ; he is weak."
"Is not a man superior in sense to an
ox? Has he not a mmd to direct his ac-
tions?"
Commoro. — ** Some men are not so clever
as an ox. Men must sow com to obtain food,
but the ox and wild animals can procure it
without sowmg."
'* Do you not know that there is a spirit
within you more than flesh? Do you not
dream and wander in thought to distant
places in your sleep? NeTertheless, your
body rests in one spot How do yon ac-
count for this ?"
Commoro (laughing.) — " Well, how do you
account for it?"
"If you have no belief in a future state,
why should a man be good? Why should
he not be bad, if he can prosper by wicked-
ness?"
*• Comtnoro. — Most people are bad ; if
they are strong, they take from the weak.
The good people are all weak; they are
good because they are not strong enough to
be bad."
Extremes meet ; there are sages of
modem days whose much learning has
brought them up to the intellectual
?itch of the savage's materialism,
'hey might, ingenious as they are,
even take a lesson in sophistry from
the Latookan. When driven into a
comer by the nse of St. Paul's meta-
phor, the astute Commoro answered :
" Exactly so ; that I understand. But the
original grain does not rise again ; it rots, like
the dead man, and is ended. The fruit pro-
duced is not the same grain that was boned,
but the produiiion of that grain. So it is
with man. I die, and decay, and am ended ;
but my children grow up, like the fruit of the
grain. Some men have no children, and
some grains perish without fruit; then all
are ended."
Nevertheless, the Latookans oon-
tinye to dig out the bones o£ their
kindred^ and to perform a rite around
thenv which is manifestly a tradition
from the tune when a belief in the
immortality of the soul existed among
them.
It was impossible for Mr. Baker to
reach the Lake toward winch he
pressed without appeasing Kamrasi,
King of the Unyoi'os. But to do this
was not easy when bis stock of pres-
ents was getting low« and his men
were so few and weak as to inspire no
barbarian prince with the slightest
fear. Yet, though debilitated with
fever, his quinine exhausted, and Mrs.
Baker stricken down in the disease,
he pressed on with an unquenchable
zeal— one would almost write worthy
of a better cause. Finally, he was
abundantly rewarded. Hurrying on
in advance of his escort he reached
at la^t^ ere the sun had risen on what
proved afterward a brilliant day, the
summit of the hills that hem the great
valley occupied by the vast Nile
Source. There it lay ^^a sea of
quicksilver" far beneath, stretching
boundlessly off to the vast Blue Moun-
tains which, on the opposite sidd tow-
ered upward from its boscmi, and
over whose breasts 'cascades could be
discerned by the telescope tumbling
down in numerous torrents. Standing
1500 feet above the level of the Lake,
Mr. Baker shouted for joy that ** Eng-
land had won the Sources of the
Nile!" and called the gigantic reser-
voir the Albert N^annu The Vic-
toria and Albert Lakes, then, are the
Digitized by CjOOQIC
The Soluiiou of the Jfile ProUem.
88S
Nile Bources. dambering down the
steep— 4]is wife, just recovered from
fever, and intensely weak, leaning upon
him — ^Mr. Baker reached the shore
at length of the great expanse of
water, and rushing into it, drank
eagerly, with an enthusiasm almost
reaching the ancient Egyptian point
of Nile-worship.
Mr. Baker describes the Albert
Lake |» the grand reservoir, and the
Victoria as the Eastern source.
"The Nile, cleared of its mystery, resolves
itself into comparative simplicity. The ac-
tual basia of the Nile is included between
about the 22" and 89« east lon^tude, and
from S"* south to IS** north latitude. The
drainage of that vast area is monopolized by
the Egyptian river. . . The
Albert N'Tanza is the gi^at basin of the
Nile : the distinction between it and the Yio-
toria N^Tanza is, that the Victoria is a res-
ervoir receiving the eastern affluents, and it
becomes the starting-point or the most ele-
vated 90iurc« at the point where the river is-
snea from it at the Ripon Falls ; the Albert
is a reservoir not only receiving the western
and southern affluents direct from the Blue
Mountains, but it also receives the supply
from the Victoria and from the entire equato-
rial Nile basin. The Nile, as it issues from
the Albert N*Yanza is the eniire Nile ; prior
to its birth from the Albert Lake it is n<4 the
entire NUe.'*
'* . . . Ptolemy had described
the Nile sources as emanating from two great
lakes that received the snows of the moun-
tains in Bthiopia. There are many ancient
maps existing upon which these lakes are
marked as positive. There can be little
doubt that trade had been carried on between
the Arabs from the Red Sea and the coast
opposite Zanzitan in ancient times, and that
the people engaged in such enterprises had
penetrated so far as to have gained a know-
ledge of the existence of the two reservoirs.''
The interest of Mr. Baker's vol-
umes of course culminates with his
account of the Great Lake. He em-
barked in a canoe of the country, and
with his party in another, navigated it
for a long distance, encountering
storms and weathering them with a
skill and courage which show him as
cool and experienced a traveller on
#0a as on land. On his return over-
land he was again m perils oft. But
the same undying spirit which sup-
ported him through a dozen fevers
carried him through every danger tri-
umphantly. The English nation has
reason to be proud of such men, and
of such women as Mrs. Baker still
more. Devotion like hers honors
the sex. There is an end, however,
of Nile voyaging with the old object.
If the Victoria and Albert Lakes are
revisited it will be in pursuit of other
ends than mere geographical inquiry
or curiosity. Mr. Baker seems to
think that missionaries may be the
first to follow in the track he has
made, and it is a fact that next to pro-
fessional explorers (if even second to
them) those influenced by religious
zeal have made the most daring expe-
ditions into unknown regions. lav-
ingstone has done even more in an-
other part of Africa than Baker did
on the great level, which, as he thinks,
from its altitude, escaped being sub-
merged at any previous part of the
world's history, and may contain at
this moment the descendants of a pre-
Adamite race. On the ethnology of
the central Africans he can throw no
light, and his mere speculations are
worthless, but he is doubtless right in
considering that commerce must pre-
cede religious propagandism among
those races, if anything is really to be
done for their benefit. For commerce
there are large opportunities, if only
the abominable slave-trade, which
makes fiends of the natives, were
effectually suppressed. Mr. Baker
writes warmly on this point, and none
knows better the character and extent
of the evil. A more interesting book
of travel was never written than his
Albert NHfanza : in every page there
is fresh and vivid interest. The au-
thor, who is admirable in many things,
is a model narrator, and there is no
romance at all cqua] in attraction to
the simple and unvarnished, but full
and picturesque, account of his pro-
tracted and exdiing travels.
rOL, III. 68
Digitized by CjOOQIC
884
Ihree Women of Owr lime.
TtUMloted from the VteadL
THREE WOMEN OF OUR TIME.
EUOiNIE DE GUiBIK — CHABLOTTE BBONTB — ^BAHEL LEYIir.
BT GABRIEL CERKT.
It is now quite a number of years
since it became the fashion to studj
women, and writers of note have called
to life more than one who would have
preferred being left to oblivion under
her cold tombstone. Is it not enough
to have lived once even if we have
lived wisely ? " No one would accept
an existence that was to last forever,"
said a philosopher who had suffered
from the injustice of mankind.
It seems, for example, as if the hero-
ines of the seventeenth century must
smile in pity to see the pettiest actions
of their lives as well as the deepest
inspirations of their hearts given up
for food to the indiscreet curiosity and
vivid imagination of the eminent phi-
losopher who had so lovingly resusci-
tated them. And the intellectual wo-
men who came after them, are not
they not often wounded by the judg-
ments passed upon them by the most
inquisitive and fertile of critics?
In two works entirely devoted to
woman, v^fanUxUiste who was once an
historian, has tried to explain tiie best
means to insure happiness to the fairer
half of the human race, with a minute-
ness very tender in intention but often
quite repugnant to our taste. He states
in detail the hygienic care indispensa-
ble to creatures weak in body, feeble
in mind, and so helpless when left to
themselves that in truth there are but
two conditions in the world suitable for
them — to be courtesans if they are
beautiful, and maid-servants if they
are destitute of physical charms ; nay,
such is the arrogance of this literary
Celadon that he would assign to the
>vife an inferior position and leave the
husband to superintend not only basi-
ness affairs but household matters. In
short, when we i-ead these books we
seem to be attending a session of the
Naturalization Society, teaching the
public to rear and domesticate some
valuable animal much to be distrusted.
Not even the toilettes of the eigh-
teenth century have failed to arouse
the interest of two authors of our day,
who, displeased perhaps with the slight
success of their book, have now aban-
doned the range of realities for the
dreary delusions of a lawless realism.
In a work as long as it is tiresome,
they have described with feminine la*
cidity the various costumes of the la-
dies of the court of Louis XV., of the
Revolution, and the Empire.
A book has now appeared which,
according to its title, promises to show
us the "Intellect of Women of our
own Time," but in reality confines it-
self to giving three interesting biogra-
phies. Tlie author was already known
to the public through a romance which
reveals true talent ** Daniel Blady,"
the story of a musician, is written in
the German style, and shows an ele-
vation of sentiment, a straightforward
honesty of principle, and above all a
simplicity of devotion rarely to be met
with in the world. M. Camille Sel-
den admires modest women, incapable
of personal ambition or vanity, who
consecrate all the tender and enliven-
ing faculties of soul and reason to the
service of a husband, father, or brother,
and such a woman he portrays in
" Daniel Blady."
In order to represent fairly the wo
men of our day M. Selden has selected
Digitized by VjOOQIC
Tfuree Women of Our Ttme.
885
three different characters ; three names
worn modestly, nscfuUj, and honor-
ably ; three contrasts of position, rate,
doctrine, and education: a French
Catholic, an English Protestant, a
German Jewess : Eugtoie de Gu^n,
Charlotte Bronte, and Bacbel Vam-
liagen von Ense. They were all af-
fectionate, devoted, and self-forgetfnl ;
two of them married, and the French-
woman alone had the happy privilege
of restoring to God a heart and soul
tliat had belonged to no one.
"Eugenie de Gu6rin du Cayla was
born and bred ef\ province, although
of a truly noble family, of Venetian
origin it is said. Her mode of life was
that of a woman of the middle class
(hourgeoise) enjoying that compara-
tive case which we see in the country ;
a large house scantily furnished, a
garden less cultivated .than the fields,
and servants of little or no training,
who seem to form a part of the family.
MUe. de Guerin lost her mother
early, and having two brothers and a
sister younger than herself, became
burthened with the care of a house-
hold and family. Her letters and
journal show her to us as she was at
twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of
age, not one of those persons of morose
and frigid virtue who are good for
nothing but to mend linen and take
care of birds, but a woman of intelli-
' gent and unembarrassed activity. She
made fires, visited the poultry-yard,
prepared breakfast for the reapers, and
when her work was done, betook her-
self in aU haste to a little retreat which
she dignified with the name of study,
where she ran through some book or
wrote a ievr pages— always charming,
always strong — of a sort of journal of
the actions of her life. Eugenie's
especial favorite was her brother
Maurice, who was five years younger
than herself, and it would be impossi-
ble to speak of her without recalling
the passionate maternal tenderness
with which from her earliest youih
she regarded this brother whom she
had loved to rock and nurse in in-
fancy.
''I remember that you sometimes
made mc jealous,'' she wrote to him
one day, "' it was because I was a lit-
tie older than you, and I did not know
that tenderness and caresses, the
hearts milk, are lavished on the little
ones."
Devotion was the prmcipal motive-
power of Eugenie's actions; ardent
prayer and charity profoundly moved
her ; wind, snow, rain-storms, nothing
checked her when she knew that in
some comer of the village there were
miseries to be relieved, tears to be
wiped away. She felt sympathy with
all living creatures, even if they were
inanimate like trees and fiowers ; she
sighed when the wind bowed them
down; "she pitied them, comparing
them to unhappy human beings bend-
ing beneath misfortune," and imitating
the example of the great saint, Francis
of Assisi, she would gladly have con-
versed with lambs and turde-doves.
Mile, de Gu6rin pitied the educated
peasants who knew how to read and
yet could not pray. " Prayef to God,"
she said, " is the only fit manner to
celebrate any thing in this world."
And again, ^ Nothing is easier than to
speak to the neglected ones of this
world ; they are not like us, full of tu-
multuous or perverse thoughts that
prevent them from hearing." ^
She loved religion with its festivals
and splendors ; and breathed in God
with the incense and flowers on the
altar, nor could she ever have under-
stood an invisible, abstract God, a God
simply the guardian of morality as
Protestants beheve him to be.
Most women become useful only
through some being whom they love
and to whom they refer the actions
of their lives ; it is their noblest and
most natural instinct to efface and
lose themselves in another's glory.
Having no husband or children, MUe.
de Guerin attached herself to her bro-
ther Maurice, a delicate nature, a sad
Digitized by CjOOQIC
836
Three Women of Our TXme.
and gufieriag eoul, destincfl to sclf-de-
struciion, a lofty but unquiet spirit tbat
was never to iiiid on earth the satis-
faction and realization of hid hopes.
** You are the one of all the family,"
ke wrote to her, '^ whose disposition is
most in sympathy with my own, so far
as I can judge by the verses that you
send me, in all of which there is a
gentle reverie, a tinge of melancholy,
in short, which forms, I believe, the
basis of my character." MUe. de
Gu^rin's letters to her brother were
not only tender and consoling, but
strong and healthy in their tone. In-
deed, he needed them, for terrible were
his sufferings from the ill-will and in-
difference of others. He wrote and
tried to establish himself as a critic ;
but some publishers rejected him and
others evaded his proposals with vague
promises, until with despair he saw
every issue dosed to him, and knew
not what answer to make to his father,
who grew impatient at the constant
failure of his expectations.'
Though ignorant of the world, Mile,
de Guerin did not the less suspect the
dangers that Christian faith may en-
counter. One day, a voice that seemed
to oome %rom heaven told her that
Maurice no longer prayed; and then
we find her trembling and uneasy. ^^ I
have received your letter," she says,
^and I see you in it, but I do. not re-
oognize you ; for you only open your
mind to me, and it is your heart, your
soul, your inmost being that I long to
see. Return to prayer, your soul is
full of love and craves expansion ; be-
lieve, hope, love, and all the rest shall
be added. If I could only see you a
Christian ! Oh ! I would give my life
and everything else for that." . . Like
all persons who try to dispense with
the divine restraints of the precepts
of the gospel, poor Maurice struggled
in a dreary world; his sensitive and
poetic soul saw God everywhere ex-
cept in his own heart ; he longed some-
times to be a flower, or a bird, or ver-
dure; his brain and imagination ran
away with him, and his soul poured
itself forth witlu>ttt restraint, and lost
Its way through wandering from the
veritable Source of life.
This passion for nature led him to
write a work which shows genuine
power even if it be* unproductive; a
prose poem in which Cliristianity is
forgotten for the sake of fable and an-
tiquity. But thanks to liis sister's
prayers, Maurice was one of those
who return to God. He passed away
without agitation or suffering, smiling
on all, and begging his sister Eugenie
to read him some spiritual book. At
the bottom of his heart he had never
ceased to love Grod, and he returned
to him as a little child returns to its
mother.
Eugenie did not give herself up to
vain despair afler Maurice's death.
Thinking perpetually of him whom
she had loved so deeply, she busied
herself with the writings which he had
left behind him, and prayed for his
soul, recommending him also to the
prayers of her friends. She still ad-
dressed herself to hun, and oppressed
with sadness unto death, communed
with his absent soul, imploring him to
come to her. "Maurice, my friend,
what is heaven, that home of friends ?
Will you never give me any sign of
life ? Shall I never hear you, as the
dead are sometimes said to make
themselves heard? Oh! if it be
possible, if there exist any communi-
cation between this world and the
other, return to meT
But one day she grew weary of this
unanswered correspondence, and a
moral exhaustion took possession of
her. " Let tie cast our hearts into eter-
nity^^ she cried. These were her last
words, and she died, glad to see her
life accomplished, confiding in the
mercy of God, in his goo£)ess wKo
reunites the soub which he has
severed here below, but never has for-
gotten in their bereavement.
u.
Charlotte Brontd, (Currer Bell,)
whom M. Camille Selden offei*s to us
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Three Wimen of Our Time.
887
as a type of energy and virtue, was
the daughter of a country clergyman.
Sad was the childhood and sad the
youth of the poor English girl. Her
mother was an invalid, her father a
man of gloomy and almost fierce dis-
position, their means were so limited
as to border upon poverty, and as if
to complete the dreary picture, the
scenery about the parsonage was
*' austere and lugubrious to contem-
plate, like the sea beneath an impend-
ing tempest."
In England the clerical profession
is totally unlike the holy mission of
a Catholic clergyman. The ecclesi-
astical life there is a career, not a vo-
cation. ^'Mr. Bronte never left
home unarmed,'* a singular method of
preat^hing peace to the world and re-
conciliation among brethren. He was
a good fether, no doubt — almost all
Englishmen are so. But he kept his
family at a distance, and spoke to
them seldom, and then in a cuit and
supercilious manner. HQs morose
spirit did not relish the society of chil-
dren, and if he became the preceptor
of his little family, it was rather in
order to fulBl a duty and conform him-
self to custom, tha^ from a feeling o^
tenderness or even solicitude for their
future welfare. Thus the minister's
children lived amid influences which
were cold and serious, but upright,
and in a certain sense strengthening.
There are so many children in every
English family that parents of the
middle class are obliged to treat them
less as subordinates than as auxiliar-
ies. The children are less familiar
with their parents but more respectful
than among us ; life is not so easy and
gentle, education more masculme.
Independence is the goal toward
which all young English people tend,
and both girls and boys are early
taught that labor alone can lead them
to it. In France we long impatiently
for the time to shut up our children
in the high-walled barracks which we
dignify with the name of boarding-
s(£oois ; for it is extremely necessary,
we say, to be rid of idle, noisy boys.
Girls are generally educated at home,
but either through weakness or indif-
ference, they are treated with far too
much indulgence. ''Poor little
things!" we say pathetically; "who
can tell what fate awaits them in
married life?* for in this country we
so iar forget Christian duty as to make
marriage a necessity, an obbgation,
a matter of business, instead of seek-
ing therein, as the English do, a basis
of true happiness.
Children, educated as they are in
England, eairly acquire habits of ob=-
servation and reflection ; sitting
around the tea-table in the evening,
they listen to the conversation of their
^irandparents, and are often ques-
tioned upon the most serious subjects.
This is Protestantism, you say. Not
at all : it is the remains of the Christ-
ian spirit anterior to the Reformation.
This spirit is exhibited in habits as in
laws. If family life among us were
truly catholic, we should possess all
this and in greater perfection.
There is another practice in Eng-
land which is often beneficial, and
which we do not dare to adopt openly
in France. I mean the habit of writ^
ing out one's impressions. This
seems to be as natural in England as
thought ; and mothers, young girls, and
men consider it a duty to keep an ac-
count of the good ideas that occur to
them or of the interesting facts they
may observe.
In France, on the contrary, true
literary culture is closed to women,
and there is a general outcry when-
ever any woman takes the liberty of
publishing a work under her own
name. It is thought quite natural
that a young girl, with a dress out-
rageously decoUetie and her head
covered with flowers, should appear
upon a stage and sing a bravura ; bat
let her venture to write, and the world
accuses her of want of reserve.
A Frenchman has such a horror of
anything methodical and serious that
he prefers to educate his daughters
without thought or reflection, at
hap-hazard and with no provision for
Digitized by CjOOQIC
J
8d8
2%ree Women of Our lime.
the fiiture. Frenchwomen under-
stand eyerything without etudj, it is
Baid ; this may be true, and the merit
is not so great as to make it worth
while to deny the assertion. What a
superficial method ! what an incredible
way to acquire knowledge and judg-
ment!
Englishwomen on the contrary, de-
vote themselves to a regular course of
instruction ; they read a great deal,
making extracts and critical notes, and
thus avoid idleness and ennuij those
two terrible diseases that affect woman-
kind. Unfortunately abuses glide into
their reading, and novels or even
newspapers hold a place there which
they ought not to occupy. This is a.
fruit of Protestantism, of free inquiry,
and if our faith were firm and practi-
cal, we should know how to avoid the
abuse and accept the useful side of
this custom.
But there is again a situation which
Englishwomen meet with a better
grace than Frenchwomen — we mean
the misfortune of remaining un-
married at twenty-eight or thirty years
of age— of becoming old maids.
With us, as soon as a daughter comes
into the world we begin to think of
amassing her dower ; for it is the value
of this dower which is to secure a
good or bad marriage for her. We
persuade her that it is almost a dis-
grace to remain unmarried, bat by
a tacit agreement we conceal from her
the fact that marriage, as the Church
instituted it, is the union of two souls
equal in the sight ,of Grod, and that
in giving her hand to a man, she be-
comes half of himself and flesh of
his flesh. No, it is not a question of
heart or of duty ; she marries a man
whom she has known scarcely two
months, and her family triumphantly
congratulate themselves on being freed
from the unpleasant possibility of
liarboring an old maid. To avoid
this, some marriages are a mere sale,
a present shame, a future misery, and
a final sin.
As in England daughters have no
dower, and sons are valued much more
highly, young women are early pre^
pared not to marry, and are neither
sadder nor more unfortunate on that
account. Care of the little ones in
the family; that pleasant occupation
belonging by right to maiden aunts,
(tantes berceuseSy) study, attentive
observation of men and things, and
the consciousness of intellectual
worth, sustain the Englishwomen
until the moment, oflen distant, and
never to arrive for many a one, when
a good, sincere, and inteUigent man
shall unite her lot to his ; but as she
has self-respect and does not consider
loss of youth as loss of caste, she
does not accept the suitor unless she
knows him well and is certain that he
does not wish to take her or buy her
pour f aire unefin.
Charlotte, like Eug6nie and like
Bahcl, of whom we shall speak in
her turn, was rather insignificant in
appearance ; her features were irregu-
lar, her forehead prominent, and her
eyes small but deep and piercing in
expression. She was educated with
two of her sisters in a boarding-school,
where the regimen was hard and un-
healthy, the uniform coarse, and the
food insufficient and ill cooked. Mr.
Bronte turned a deaf ear to his
eldest daughter's complaints for a long
time, and did not decide to take his
children home until (me of them had
already sunk under the injudicious
treatment. Charlotte was then placed
with Miss W , with whom she lived
eight years as pupil and second teach-
er. And here M. Camille Selden
gives us some excellent remarks upoii
the difference existing between the
French lay penHon with its supple-
mentary course, and the English
boarding-school.
^ In the former, as in a well-dis-
ciplined army, eveiy movement, every
manoeuvre must be executed in union,
even the recess is subject to rules. In
the midst of her battalion of teachers
and sub-mistresses, the French direct-
ress, en grande tenue, resembles a bril-
liant colonel marching proudly at the
head of his squadron in a review.^*
Digitized by CjOOQIC
TkrM Women of Our Time,
889
^ The object of education in Eng-
land is at once simpler and gentler. It
is thought there to be the duty of a
woman, as of a man, to develop the
judgment bj study ; that reflection and
observation are equally necessary to
teach both sexes how to live wisely
and think justly. Therefore we never
hear of courses of study where under
the pretext of maternal education,
gentlemen in black coats give out
hribes for history, geography — nay,
even philosophy, to litde girls who
come there apparently to study under
maternal supervision, but in reality to
learn to receive company and dress
tastefully; in one word, to rehearse
the worldly comedy which a little later
they will be condemned to enact"
The author should have completed
his picture by giving an exact account
of our houses of religious education ;
but I think he knows little about them,
and cares little to get information con-
cerning them, which accounts for cer-
tain wants in his book.
Poor Charlotte Bronte was never
young, partly because of her childish
sufferings, but chiefly because of her
serious and inquiring nature, which
applied its powers to investigating and
analyzing the sources of everything.
She did not indulge in the childish
ideas of a school girl, and being free
from the dangerous enthusiasm that
imagination engenders, she understood
the full extent of human misery with-
out exaggerating it, and if she was de-
prived of illusions at least she was
spared disappointment. And yet she
suffered ; her vigorous soul, her fertile
intellect imprisoned in this common-
place situation, were stifled as in a
cage ; and to complete her misery
came religious terrors, frightful visions
of '* failing grace and impossible salva-
tion," until her awe-struck heart re-
coiled in affright.
Like all soula ardently loving good-
ness and thirsting from the true love,
she sighed af^er the bliss of heaven :
*< I would be willing,^' she exclaimed,
^ I would be willing to exchange my
eighteen years for gray hairs — or even
to stand on the veige of the grave, if
by that means I could be assured of the
divine mercy ;^' but alas 1 in the prac-
tices of that dry and personal religion
in which each one answers to himself
for himself, and whence confidence is
banished as a weakness, where should
she look for help ?
Meanwhile the circle of poverty was
drawing closer and closer about Char-
lotte and her sisters, and a thousand
thoughts sprang up in the brain of the
courageous girl: <^I wish to make
money, no matter how — if only the
means be honest ! nothing would dis-
courage me," said she ; ^' but I should
not care to be a cook — ^I should prefer
bf^ing housemaid.*' In the evening,
when every one else was in bed, she
used to meet her sisters in the little
parlor, and they would read to each
other their literary efforts in a low
voice. They decided with one accord
that Charlotte must write to Southey
and send him a book of her poems.
The poet saw no great merit in tiiese
effusions and tried to discourage Char-
lotte, giving her at the same time ex-
cellent moral advice upon the nothing-
ness of celebrity and the dangers of
ambition.
She decided then to make a journey
to Belgium in order to study French,
but she was almost immediately recall-
ed home. The old aunt who had kept
house during her absence was dead,
her father was becoming blind, and
her brother was subject to attacks of
delirium in which he threatened his
father s life. It was amid these terri-
ble calamities that Miss Bronte wrote
" Jane Eyre," the most powerful of her
novels.
The next plan was that she and her
sisters should all write together and
get a volume printed at their own ex-
pense under the names of Ellis, Acton,
and Currer BelL It may well be ima-
gined that this unfortunate book, sent
out like a foundling into the literary
world, met with no success, for if the
beginnings of any career are preca-
rious, the obstacles presented by liters
ature are insurmountable to any one
Digitized by CjOOQIC
840
liree Women of Our Time.
not poflsesBed of immense enezgy. We
know Charlotte vfell enough to feel
sore that she waa not a woman to
waste away in the dejection of sterile
disoouragement ; she began to write
again, and composed " The Professor.''
iJasI the poor little book travelled
about from publisher to publisher with-
oat finding rest anywhere ; and such
was the nalvet6 of its author, that in
her eageniess to send her rejected
book to each new bookseUer, she for-
got to remove the old postage stamps
^m the package — ^not an encour-
aging recommendation to any edi-
tor to accept the leavings of his eon-
frhrts!
It was at Manchester, during six
weeks that she passed there with her
father, who was forced to undergo
an operation for cataract, that Miss
Bronte finished '^ Jane £yre.'' Messrs.
Smith and Elder of London accepted
the manuscript without hesitation, and
from that time the obscure young girl
was a celebrity whom every one longed
to know and to receive.
Charlotte's literary success brought
a ray of joy into Mr. Bronte's melan-
choly household, but it was of short
duration. Twice within two months
the inhabitants of Haworth saw the
window-blinds of the parsonage closed,
and heard the bell toll a death-knell.
Charlotte 8 brother, prostrated by ex-
cesses, and consumed internally, died
in the course of fifteen minutes ; but
they were minutes of awful anguish ;
in the grasp of the death-agony the
dying man started to his feet, crying
out that he would die standing, and
that his will should give way only with
his breath. Her elder sister, Emily,
left home for the last time when she
followed his bier to the grave; and
another sister, the youngest and Char-
lotte^s well-beloved, Anna Bronte, sus-
tained herself awhile by dint of care
and tenderness, but her lungs were af-
fected and she soon began to languish ;
she too decUned and died.
Poor Charlotte now found herself
alone with her father who had lost five
of his six children. She devoted her-
self to writing, as much to distract her
grief as to deceive the long hours of the
day ; and hencefbrth her personality
presented two distinct faces. She was
a conscientious Englishwoman, a cler-
gyman's daughter attached to her du-
ties, and an authoress, ardent and active
in defence of her convictions, and not
without a certain obstinacy. ^ Her
success continued, and she was obliged
to submit to the exhibition to which
English enthusiasm and bad taste sub-
ject their favorites. Miss Bronte had
to go to dinner-parties, and to re-
unions of unlooked-for luxury and
splendor ; but the distinction that flat-
tered her most was being placed by
Thackeray in the seat of honor to hear
the first lecture of this celebrated au-
thor at Willis's Booms."
But solitude which had been the
foundation and habit of her life, ren-
dered her unfit for the world. Miss
Bronte had suffered too much to pre-
serve that serenity of temper and
freedom of spirit necessary to enable
one to talk easily and agreeably, and
often would she sit silent amid a cross-
fire of conversation all around her
^I was forced to explun," she said,
*<that I was silent because I could
talk no more."
Charlotte Bronte had arrived at the
age of thirty-eight years without hav-
ing had her heart touched with any
emotion stronger than dutiful afiection
for her family. But — ^and here prose
intrudes itself a little — her fisither had
a vicar, and what could an English
vicar do but be married? He loved
Charlotte, and moreover, she had be-
come a good match ; but on one hand
the fear of a refusal, and on the other
the dread of the embarrassment for a
clergyman of sharing the existence of
a literary woman, prevented him from
declaring his affections. At last, how-
ever, he took courage, and I ask myself
if this courage was not rendered more
attainable by Charlotte herself. At all
events she accepted his offer without
hesitation ; but her father, who was too
selfish to allow his daughter to occupy
herself with any one but himself, op-
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nree Womm of Our Time.
841
posed the marriage, and the enamored
▼icar left Haworth.
The privation that Mr. BrontS ex-
perienced aAer his yicar^s departore —
a privation that Miss Bronte's temper-
ament must have made him feel more
seasiblj — was such that he recalled the
enitor, and the marriage took place.
It was a dreary ceremony : no rela-
tions, no friends, so that the bride po-
sitively had no one to lead her to the
altar ; for her father had refused to be
present at the marriage for feaK^f
feeling agitated, faithful to the end to
the dry and egotistical line of conduct
he had marked out for himself.
The wife devoted herself bravely
to seconding her husband in the duties
of his ministry. She visited the poor,
had a Sunday-school, improvised pray-
ers and knew the Bible by heart She
was happy — but her happiness was of
short duration, for physical and moral
sufferings had exhausted her, and
she died just as life had become har-
monized according to her wishes.
A celebraled author, a strong and
courageous woman, aspiring after a
Christian life, she gave all that a heart
can give which is not possessed of the
true light ; and M. Selden is right in
saying at the close : ^ Charlotte is
better than her heroines." There are
few authors of whom one could say as
much.
m.
From England wiih its tnainiien
eampcute, and cold religious tenets,
M. Camille Selden takes us to Grer-
many, the land of sentiment and intel-
lectual research, and introduces us to
a Jewess in Berlin, that we may see
what a German sahn was at the end
of the eighteenth century.
Rahel Levin was only twenty years
old when she lost her father, a wealthy
Israelite, gloomy and violent in his
bearing at home, but amiable and at-
tractive in sociehr.
The young Kahel, endowed with
great intelligence and unerring tact,
united to a truly kind heart, was
valued and sought by every one as
soon as she appeared in society. She
was exceedingly amiable, full of an
obligmg good temper that made her
anticipate wishes, divine annoyances
in order to relieve them, and forget
herself in seeking to make others hap-
py. Rare too was her loyalty ; not only
was her soul incapiible of falsehood,
but of any want of sincerity. Her
husband who had the good taste not
to be jealous of his wife's superiority
and success, said of her <* that she did
not think to lose by showing herself
as Grod had made her, or gain by hid-
ing anything.'' '' Natural candor,
absolute purity of soul, and sincerity
of heart are the only things worthy of
respect — the rest is only external
regularity and conventionality," she
often said to those who lavished upon
her expressions of respect and admira-
tion.
Unhappily for Mile. Levin, circum-
stances concurred in alienating her
from her family. Her mother and
brothers, notwithstanding their ample
fortune, showed a rapacity worthy of
their race, and most unlike Rafael's
broad and generous ideas; and her
position would have been pitiable, but
for the illustrious friends who fre-
quented her mother's house. Among
them the young girl foigot the petty
meanness of her home life ; and inex-
haustible in ideas, perceptive faculty,
and wit, she handled the gravest sub-
jects with delicate skill, and almost as
if she were playing with them. Full
of unfailing good temper, she could
discuss the most varied, the most op-
posite subjects, without dogmatism or
eccentricity.
But this want of union with her
family, which had deprived her of the
domestic happiness so indispensable to
every affectionate woman had render-
ed her paradoxical and even a litde
sceptical See, for example, what she
wrote to her youngest sister, who had
consulted her about a proposal of
marriage : ^ The want of durability
in everything, and the inevitable sep-
aration between an object and its i
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842
I%ree Women of Our lime.
tiye, afford, you see, the final explana-
tion of all that is human. You do
not wish to belong to humanity ; very
well, destroy yourself. I feel quite
differently: only transitory things,
only what is human can tranquillize
and console me." How at variance
is this bitterness with the ardent hope-
fulness of the spiritual Eugenie de
Gu^rin I and how excellent a proof, if
we needed any new one, that true
happiness is unattainable without that
deep religious feeling which raises us
above all passing things! Charlotte
BrontS had at least that Protestant
severity which stifles all tender quail-
ing of the heart and soul, like a miser
trembling lest he should lose a farthing
of the merits of his sacrifice ; but poor
Rahel possessed only the intellectual
resources of the mind, and they can
do little for us.
Goethe, whose countrywoman she
was so proud of being ; Goethe, little
inclined to exaggerate the value of a
woman's mind, took pleasure in calling
her a generous girl. " She has pow-
ei'ful emotions and a careless way of
expressing them," he said : •* the bet-
ter you know her, the more you feel
youreelf attracted and gently en-
thralled."
But it was a long time before she
enthralled any one. At last one of
her friends, Va'mhagen von Ense, a
young man twenty-six years old, of-
fered her his hand. Let him describe
to us the charm of his first interview
with Rahel.
"From the first, I must say that
she made itie experience a very rare
happiness, that of contemplating for
the -first time a complete being — com-
plete in intelligence and heart, a per-
fect union of nature and cultivation.
Everywhere I saw harmony, equili-
brium, views as naive as they were
original, striking in their grandeur as
in their novelty, and always in accord-
ance with her slightest actions. And
all was pervaded with a sentiment of
the purest humanity, guided by an
energetic sense of duty, and height-
ened by a noble self-forgetfulness in
the presence, of the joys and griefs of
others.'*
Rahel was then thirty-six years old,
and this great disparity of age, added
to her want of beauty and fortune,
must have inspired her with doubts of
the duration of a feeling, which per-
haps her heart, accustomed to inde-
pendence, did not at first reciprocate.
But in Germany marriages are not
made as they are |n France ; people do
not many without knowing each other,
or with a precipitation which might
lead one to suppose that on both sides
there was something to conceal, or
that the intention was to make a good
bargain of duty.* According to the
fashion of their country the two friends
were betrothed, and were then forced
to separate.
" I am not afraid ; I will wait for
you ; I know you will never forsake
me,'' wrote the indulgent Bahel eight
years later, when a Frenchwoman
would have lost patience a thousand
times over.
In Prance, where dower, beau^,
name, or position^ rank before affec-
tion, such a separation would certainly
have proved fatal. Had he no cause to
fear that some one else might sup-
plant him with Rahel ? Was she un-
troubled by dread of the cruel dan-
gers that threaten and disturb the af-
fections ? Might not her heart, natur-
ally sceptical, and shaken by contact
with the world, distrust the effect of
opinion upon so young a man ? *^ But
true love has nothing to fear from
worldly talk or material consider^
ations; a whiff of a passing breeze
cannot destroy strongly rooted affec-
tions, whose living germ lies sheltered
in the depths of the heart" Such
love can wait, for it does not know
how to change. Such love was
RaheFs; was it Yamhagen^s? We
shall see.
Rahel was not an author, and Lad
no thought of publication ; it was only
after her death that her husband
sought some slight consolation in pub-
lishing her letters. These lettera-
which make three volumes, were writ^
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Ihree Women of Our Kme.
848
ten in the course of forty years, and
therefore thej reyeal the Cerent
phases of development in the joang
girl, the independent woman, and the
matron. Through the generous feel-
ings which she expresses, with a soul
sympathizing with all sorts of inters
ests, there pierces a certain delicate
irony which seems to find pleasure in
following out to the end any singular
or original idea: We feel painfully
that this woman has lost much, suffer^
ed deeply. In the life of Rahel the
Jewess, as in that of Charlotte the
Protestant, we discern the absence of
our Saviour's cross ; we see nowhere
the gentle vision of the Virgin Mother.
In one of her letters, Mile. Le\dn
describes the impression which a visit
to a Catholic convent had made upon
her mind. She had entered into the
services in the chapel like an artist :
'' I would gladly go there again, if it
were only to hear the music, and
breathe in the odor of the incense,''
said she. But the mortifications of
the religious seemed to her more
eccentric than touching; she pitied
them for having to fulfil the functions
of gardener and cook, to prepare
medicines and feel the pulse of their
patients. <' Without exception their
hauds looked coarse," she said, '* and
their masculine tread sounded like the
tramp of a patrol.^' And yet later
in life Rahel was to perform, volun-
tarily, the same work as these nuns,
and moreover she had a true senti-
ment of piety, which sometimes rose
to an expression of faith.
"In moments of suffering," she
wrote, "how happy faith makes me
feel ! I love to rest upon it as on a
downy pillow."
We read these words so full of sim-
ple piety, with a fiill heart, thinking
sadly how little assistance this woman
would have needed to become an ar-
dent convert to the true religion. It
is really surprising that she shoidd
not have sought out Christianity.
" Never try to suppress a generous
impulse, or to crowd out a genuine
feding," she wrote to a friend: "de-
spair or discouragement are the only
fruits of dry reasoning; examine
yourself carefully, and dread above all
things the decisions of wisdom unen-
lightened by the heart."
Rahel and Vamhagen hid agreed
to meet again one day ; but absence is
often fatal to the strongest ties, and
more than once this one was on the
point of snapping.
" A woman who has passed thirty,"
says our author, "may well fear
lest youth, proved by the parish regis-
ter, should win the day against youth
of mind and soul."
It would have been very hard to
find a rival to a woman so gifled as
Rahel; but the first moment of en-
thusiasm over, Vamhagen began to
think that his betrothed had been very #
prompt in her acceptance of the prom-
ises by which he had bound himself
when a young and inexperienced man ;
and perhaps his memory recalled cer-
tain confidences of ill-matched pairs,
who had assured him that generosity
is a snare.
" For nothing in the world, of course,
would he have renounced this affec-
tion of which he was proud; but he
thought that she would accept his
fidelity without his name, and he pre-
sumed to offer his devotion in lieu of
the projected union."
lUhel could not accept a compromise
as humiliating to her heart as danger-
ous to her reputation. She refused it,
but — and this was less dignified —
she refused sa^ly and plainly to free
VaiTnhagen from his engagement.
This was what she wrote :
"Bitterness at least equals suffer^
ing, when you, the single, solitary
soul who knows me thoroughly, would
turn away from me, or what is the
same thing, when yon would be false
to yourself, and forsake me: hard
words, my friend, but none the less
true. I must be severe to the only
being who has given me a right to
expect anything from him. lu you
alone had I hoped, and I think I
should insult you in saying that I had
ceased to hope."
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844
nree Women of Our Time.
To this bitter trial was added an-
other one, which was verj severe,
though merely connected with material
matters, especially for a person who
was no longer young. Half abandon*
ed, and half exphitie by her family,
Rahel had become poor. Valiant and
strong, she had long succeeded in hid-
ing from her friends the privations
which she imposed upon herself, in
order to maintain her household pro-
perly. She had just lost her mother,
and one of her brothers, who died
blessing her for her devotion, and
these afflictions must be added to the
money troubles, which increased every
day. Alas! there was no consoli^
don in this distress, for Rahel could
not say like the august daughter of a
great king, *»I thank God for two
things; fii-st, for having made me a
Christian, and next, for having made
me anhappy."
Economy was not her chief virtue,
and kindness, that luxuiy which she
could not live without, led her to de-
prive herself of the necessaries of life,
in order that her servants might want
for nothing. " It is mere selfishness,'*
she said, laughing ; " I prefer spoiling
them to spoiling myself."
The misfortunes of war completed
the ruin of her purse and her health.
She assisted her countrymen by col-
lecting contributions, and when money
failed, she paid with personal exer-
tions, fulfilling the admirable precept,
"When you have given everything,
give yourself." The vehemence of
her feelings exhausted her strength,
and her frail health gave way beneath
the excess of privation and fatigue.
She fell ill, and was forced to keep her
bed for three months.
Her resources were exhausted, and
poverty approached with great strides.
She decided to ask one of her broth*
ers, who was rich, to send her a little
money ; but he not only refused, but
took a cruel pleasure in taunting the
poor girl, with what he called her
crazy liberality.
For six months the war intercepted
all communications, so that she could
receive no tidings of him whom she
still called her betrothed. But thiB
anxiety was the last. On waking one
morning Rahel saw a letter which
had just been brought in, aud by a
sudden inspiration, worthy of one who
had never despaired, she guessed what
this note contained: "a living hope,
which never dies out in valiant souls,
cried out that at last she had grasped
happiness;" and the hope proved
true : ten days later she married Au-
gust Vamhagen, who having recov-
ered from his hesitation, fulfilled his
vows with a good wilL
"You will never repent marrying
me," she wrote to him, with naivete, a
little while before her marriage;
" Love me, or love me not, as God
wills; whatever happens I shall be
yours for ever, you can rely on me :
I am constant, as you have been
constant. Rahel shall never fail
you.'
Her husband was afterward made
Prussian minister, and Rahel as
ambassadress was once more sur-
rounded as in the pleasantest days of
her youth.
She was sixty-two years old when
the disease attacked her of which she
died. Vamhagen never left her, or
ceased trying to make her forget her
sufierings by reading the books to
her which she loved best ; and Htio-
rich Heine, learning that she was or-
dered to apply fresh rose-leaves to
her infiamed eyes, sent her his first
poems, lying at the bottom of a bas-
ket of exquisite roses.
Madame von Vamhagen had al-
ways loved the Bible, and, especially,
Jewess though she was, the New
Testament. She was never tired of
listening to the history of the sufferings
and death of our Lord Jesus Christ
One day finding herself more feeble,
she said, taking her husband's hand
and pressing it on her heart : " I feel
better, my friend. I have been think-
ing a long time of Jesus, and it seems
as if I had never felt as at this mo-
ment how traly He is my brother,
and the brother of all men. It has
Digitized by CjOOQIC
845
oomfoTted me." . . These were
her last words.
Do these women explain the wo-
men of our times f It is atleast dis-
putable; but we must recognize in
them three interesting characters. We
will not trj to compare them; the
differenoes between them are self-
evident ; and certainlj though Eug^iie
de 6u6rin, the Frenchwoman and
thQ Catholic, plajed in a worldly
sense the most obscure part, no person
of elevated yiews can contest the fact
that hers was the most beautiful life
of the three.
Vnm The Lunp.
HENRI PEEREYVE-
Thb Church of France sustained
a great loss when, in the flower of his
age, Henri Ferre}'ve was cut off.
Had his life been prolonged he would
doubtless have attained a high posi-
tion in the diocese of Paris, and done
a very great work. A memorial of
him — ^for it can hardly be called a
"Life" — ^has been recently given to
the world by his friend and confidant,
Pere Gratry of the French Oratory ;
and thus ihe record of this young
priest is now made immortal by the
eloquent pen of one of the greatest
spiritual writers in France. Henri
Perreyve was bom in April, 1831, and
died June, 1865. His was, therefore,
but a brief life — ^brief, but brilliant,
like a short, bright summer-day.
The comparison is not an inapt one.
The Ufe of this young man was, com-
pared to that of the minority of his
fellow-creatures, a bright and happy
one. No great exterior sorrows met
him during his earthly career; and
for the interior, there could not be
much real suffering for one who from
his early childhood had given himself
to God, and who followed the stand-
ard of his Divine Master with a cour-
age that could not be dismayed, with
an ardor which was never cooled.
He was a son of Christian parents,
who early discerned his genius, and
gave no opposition to the woikings of
Giod's grace in him. He was edu-
cated at the Lyc^ St Louis; but he
did not distinguish himself there. He
was, however, at the head of the cate-
chism-class in St. Sulpice ; for the
child's heart was given to God, and
he could not devote himself ardently
to secular studies until be had learnt
to consecrate even them to the service
of God. At twelve years old he
made his first communion. This
act, which is the turning-point in the
Hfe of so many, proved such to him.
In afler-years he thus described it :
"May 29, 1869.
"You know that I always date from my
first communion the first call from God to
the ecclesiastical state. This thought gives
me happiness. I can recall now, as if it were
yesterday, the blessed moment when, having
received our Lord at tlft holy table, I returned
to my place, and there kneeling on that red-
velvet bench, which I can see now, I promised
our Lord, with a movement of sincere affeo-
tion to belong to him alwa3r8, and to him only.
I feel still the kind of certainty I had from
that moment of being accepted. I feel the
warmth of those first tears for the love of
Jesus, which fell from my childish eyes ; and
the ineffiible shrinking of a soul, which for
the first time had spoken to God, had seen
him and heard him. Intimate and profound
joy of the sacerdotal espousals !''
As years passed on, he kept his
fitith with his Lord. NaturaUy sedc-
ing his friends from among those like-
minded with himself, he became soon
surrounded by and closely bound to
some of the most remaikable and de-
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846
Htnn Pttvtyvt^
voted men of the day. The Pfere
Gratry was the guide of his youth;
and amoDg those who followed his
direction were a group of young
ardent men, burning to deyote them-
selves to the cause of Grod and his
Church. Meeting a little later on
with the Pfere Petetot, they became
the foundation-stones of the newly-
revived French Oratory of St. PhiUp
Neri. Henri Perreyve was obliged,
however, before long, by the feeble-
ness of his healthy to withdraw from
the congregation; but he was 'ever
linked to it by the ties of the closest
affection. P^re Charles Perraud,
one of the Oratorians, was throughout
life his bosom friend. They learnt
together and prayed together, and
were called together to serve God in
the priesthood. Charles Perraud was
the first to attain this dignity; and
on the occasion of his saying his first
mass, Henri thus wrote to him.
"Hyeres, Dec. 16, 1857.
" May the Lord be with thee ! These are
the sacramental words of the deacon, the
only ones I have the right of addressing to
you, my dear friend and brother, before the
holy altar. I address them to you with all
the fulness of my heart, and with all the
deep meaning that befits these holy words.
Yes, may the Lord be with you, dear brother I
"With you this morning at the altar of
your first mass, to accept your bridal promise,
and reply to your perpetual vow by that
reciprocal love which passes all other love.
With you during the whole of this great day,
to maintain the perfume of celestial incense
in your soul, and the odor of the sacrifice
which has begun, but which — thanks be to
God I — has no ending. With you to-morrow,
to make you feel that joy in God has some-
what of eternity in it, and that it differs from
the joys of earth because we can taste it
constantly without ever exhausting it. With
you when, soon after your holy ecstasy of
joy, you will feel that you must be a priest
for men ; and you will go down from Mount
Tabor to go to those who suffer, to those
who are ignorant, to those who are hunger-
ing and thirsting for the true light and the
true life. With you in your sorrows to con-
sole you ; with you in your joys to sanctify
them; with you in your desires to make
them fruitful.
^' * Memor sit omtUs sacrificii tui, et holoeatu-
him tuum pingue fiat?
** With you, my Charles, if you are alone
in life, if our friendship be taken from you,
if you have to walk on leaning only on the
arm of a Divine Friend.
" With you, young priest, with you grow-
ing old in the conflicts of the priesthood,
and m the service of God and men. With
you on the day of your death, which shall
bring to your lips, by the hands of another,
that same Jesus who has so often been car-
ried to others by your trembling hands.
** my friend I I gather up all that my
heart can contain of happy desires, wishes,
and hopes for you. I gather them all up in
one single wish : May the Lord be with thee
always I
'' It will be the life of a holy priest on
earth ; one day it will be heaven.
'* The Lord be with thee 1
" My Charles, bless me ! I embrace yon
tenderly, and feel myself with you pressed
against the Heart of the Divine Master, be-
loved for ever.
" Henri pERaETVE."
Henri Perreyve was advancing
rapidly toward manhood when the
Providence of God threw him in the
path of one who was to exercise a
powerful infiuence over his ixiture.
While Henri was a boy at school.
Father Lacordaire held the pulpit of
Ndtre Dame; and it might truly be
said, "All Paris was moved." What
those wonderful conferences did to-
ward undoing the fatal spiritual havoc
wrought at the Revolution, and in sub-
sequent years, cannot be recorded in
any mortal history. It was given to
men to see somewhat of the result of
the labor ; but the seeds of eternal life
are scattei'ed broadcast by a preacher's
hand, and fall hither and thither un-
known to any but God.
Henri Perreyve, as a boy of thirw
teen, found his delight in listening to
the conferences. Six years passed by,
and found him still the attentive disci-
ple at the feet of the great master of
minds at that period ; but he was too
diffident and retiring to seek a personal
acquaintance. One day, however, a
friend insisted on introducing him.
Father Lacordaire was busy, and the
interview lasted but a moment; but
Henri Perreyve resembled the ideal
we may not unreasonably foi-m of the
young man on whom our Lord looked
and loved. Nature had been prodigal
of her gifts, and genius and innocence
lent additional charm to his exterior
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Jicnrt Jr9TTt^v$»
847
beant)r. Lacordaire's keen eye had
discerned the treasures that could be
developed in that ardent soul.
A few days after this hasty intro-
duction, Henri was astonished by the
entrance of the great Dominican into
his room.
" I received you very ill th» other
day," he said ; ^ I come to ask your
pardon, and talk with you."
From that day began the closest
friendship and intimacy between them.
They were literally like father and
son ; and at the death of Lacordaire
he bequeathed to his dear friend all
that a poor monk had to leave — ^his
letters and papers. Henri Perreyve
is said to have been the being on earth
best loved by Lacordaire. *' You shall
be,'* wrot3 the latter to him, " forever
in my heart as a son and as a friend."
Henri, by the pure devotion of his
early youth to God, had deserved
some great gift, and it was given to
him in the frieDdship of Lacordaire.
That the rest of his life was spent in
an earnest endeavor to imitate his
friend, we can scarcely wonder at
Had he lived, no doubt be would have
been a second Lacordaire; but the
" sword wore out the sheath," the frail
body could not sustain the burning
soul within. Lacordaire died in the
prime of life, Perreyve in the flower
of his youth.
A few more years from the fime we
are speaking of and he was made priest.
Work poured in on him. " The work
of ten priests was offered to him day
by day." He refused a good deal;
but what he reserved would have been
enough for three, and he had most fee-
ble health.
He was preacher at the Sorbonne,
director of the Conferences of St.
Barbe, " sermons everywhere, special
works on all sides, endless correspond-
ence, confessions, directions, reunions
of young people, incessant visits."
Frequent illness attacked him, and
obliged him to withdraw for a time from
his labors; but he returned to them
with new zest. Of his literary works
the one most generally admired is the
'^Joum6e des Malades." Here his
genius was aided by that personal ex-
perience of illness which enables a per-
son so readily to enter into the feelings
of another. But many can know and
feel the weariness and temptations
which beset a sick person, and be very
incapable of putting it into words, while
M. Perreyve's '* Joumee des Malades "
will comfort many a heart
His ^ RosaFerrucd," an exquisitely
written little biography, is already to
some extent known to our readers.
He likewise published ^Meditations
sur le Chemin de la Croix ; Entretiens
sur TEglise Catholique ;" and he edited
with the greatest care, and wrote an
introduction for, the celebrated Letters
from Father Lacordaire to young peo-
ple. He also wrote a " Station at the
Sorbonne," and " Poland," besides va-
rious little brochures.
The chief work of the Abbe Per-
reyve was the guidance and influence
over young men and boys.
The Conferences at St Barbe were
listened to by a most attentive audi-
tory of this class, and his power over
his hearers was large and increasing.
"He possessed in a rare degree,"
says Pere Gratry, *' that sacred art of
speaking to men, of speaking to each
one, and yet speaking to all. Hence
the universal success of his discourses."
One of the great orators of the day,
after hearing him preach at the Sor-
bonne, exclaimed, ^'He who has not
heard that, does not know how far
human eloquence can go."
The Count de Montalembert was
one day among the audience. He
wrote aflerward: **I have been
touched and delighted in a way I havo
not been for twenty years ; since the
time when he of whom you are the
worthy successor enchanted my youth
at N6ti-e Dame."
But as the Pere Gratry justly ob-
serves,' his success in colleges such as
the Lycee St Louis and St Barbe is
still more remarkable than that at the
Sorbonne. One secret of it might be
found in an acknowledgment that he
made to his friend. He had for these
Digitized by CjOOQIC
848
JiBHt'i jr€Tr6j^P€»
joung people snch a loTe, snch a re-
spect, such an idea of the possible fu-
ture of each soul, such an esteem of
the hidden treasures in each heart,
that he seemed to hold the key of their
souls, and to come before them as the
friend of each.
On one occasion he had to speak on
the most delicate and difficult topic it
was possible a priest could have to
deal with before such an assembly.
He told a story : he spoke of a death
which he had witnessed, a^ d of the
crime which had caused that death ; a
crime which is not punished by human
laws, but which works ruin and death
on all sides.
'^And this man," said he, with that
voice of his which thrilled to the hearts
of his hearers — ^ and this man is in
society honorable and refined ; perhaps
even not without religion. Gentle-
men, is this the honor that shall be
yours, and is this the religion which
you will have ?*
Never can those who heard liim
that day forget it ; they were moved
to the very depths of their souls, and
tears flowed from the eyes of those
who are not easily made to weep.
When he had concluded, many of his
aucUtors gathered around him said:
"Thanks, sur; you have opened our
eyes for ever,"
The popularity of M. Perreyve
survived even the setrere trial of
having to address the boys of the pre-
paratory school and the students of
St. Barbe at an hour on Sunday
which would otherwise have been at
their own disposal The sermon was
to be given every fortnight, aod the
audience the first time were in any-
thing but an amiable mood. The next
day a petition was sent up by them
that the sermons might be given every
week.
Thus his life passed awiiy ; and the
end hurried on all too rapiiUy for those
who loved him and hung upon his
words. His lungs were again affected,
and he passed the last winter of his
life m the south of France. There he
thought he had improved, and wrote
flattering aecoonts of himself ; bo tliat
when he returned to Paris on Pahn
Sunday, April the 9th, his family
and friends were in oonsteniation at
his altered looks. Doctors could not
reassure them, and the complaint
made rapid progress. It was a terri-
ble coaflnnation of his reUtives' fears
when they found he was unconsdoos
of his danger, and, like all those in the
same fatal disease, busy in making
plans for the future. He pknned
how he should resume his sermons at
the Sorbonne, even while he was too
weak to bear the tasting necessary for
his Easter Ck>mmunion ; and it was
with great difficulty, and leaning on
the arm of his friend the Abb6 Ber-
nard, that he communicated on May
Ist in the little chapel of our Lady of
Sion, dose to his home. He then
went into the country, where he rallied
for a short time, and then grew
rapidly worse. The news of his
change spread amongst those who
loved him because they knew him,
and those who loved him because they
knew his worth in the Church.
A " league" of prayers was organ-
ized for his recovery, and Henri began
to realize his state. He looked the
prospect calmly in the face. Fame,
opportunities for doing good, the love
and esteem of friends, were instantly
and willingly resigned.
'' I think of death, and accept it with-
out regret or fear. I am grateful for
all these prayers for me ; but I ' do
not desire life. I cannot pray with
that intention.''
Then he thought of his sins, and
his unworthiness, and of the Divine
Face he was about to behold ; and be
shrank back. He was reminded of the
mercy of God. "Truly,** he said,
^\ who have so often preached to
others the mercy of God ought to
trust in it myself.''
His greatest grief was the rarity of
his communions. He consoled him-
self by saying: "Missionaries are
oflen obliged to pass a long time with-
out communion, and then ooe feds
God aUo by privation."
Digitized by CjOOQIC
J20iin JrtfTtyfifB*
84»
A loveof mlHade begia to frrowon
him, for he was preparing himself to
be akme with God. When begged to
tij a new treatment, he consented,
saying, ^ I ask myself, as I often do,
what woold Fere Lacordaire have
done in my plaoe? It seems to me
he would faATe thought it an indication
of Providence.**
He returned to Paris ; and ev^ry
effort of medical science was made to
arrest the malady, but all in yarn.
An alarming fainting fit on the 14th
of June made his friends fear death
was nearer to him than they had
imagined, and the Abb6 Bernard
thought it right to warn him.
'* You surprise me," he sidd quietly.
^ I thought myself very ill, but not so
near death; but it is so much the
better; you must give me the holy
viaticum and extreme unoticHi."
The abb6 went to fetoh the blessed
sacrament and holy oils from St.
Sulpice, the parish church of their
childhood, of their first communion,
where they had prayed and wept to-
gether, where they had asked many
things from God, where they had to-
gether been consecrated priests.
There their whole Christian life had
run by; and now one had come to
fetch for the other divine succor for
his last hours. ^
The invalid insisted on rising, and
was dressed in his cassock to receive
the holy sacraments. Pere Gratry
and other friends were present. ^ I
can see him now,'' says the former,
<< as full of grace and energy as ever,
smiling as usual, and saying, ' I am in
perfect peace, dear father — ^in perfect
peace.' I shall remember that sight
all my life, thank Gtid; that noble
bearing, that face pale as marble,
those large speaking eyes, his tender
glance, and his last words, ' in perfect
peace.' " He made his profession of
faith, begged pardon of all whom he
had offended or scandalized, thanked
all for the kindness they had shown
him ; and implored them ^ not to say,
as was too often done, 'he is in
heaven ;* but to pray much for him
VOli^ lU. 04
after his death.*^ Then he said the
<<Te Deum'' in thanksgiving for all
the ibercies of his life ; and at hist he
said to his friend, ^ You cannot think
what interior joy I feel since you told
mo I was going to die."
The next day the Archbishop of
Paris came to see him. He would be
dressed in his cassock to receive the
visit, and would kneel for the bishop's
blessing. He then had a long private
conversation with him.
To this dying chamber came some
of the most celebrated names in Paris :
Pere P^t^tot, the Count do Monta-
lembert, the Prince de Brpglie,
Augustin Cochin, Mgr. Buguet, the
Vicar-general, the cur^ of St. Sulpice,
General Zamolski, and a hundred
others. One of them said, ^ We are a
long way off from knowing now what
he is. We shall know it one day."
<<I>ear friend," said he to Father
Adolphe Perreud of the Oratory, ^ we
shall not cease to work together for the
cause of God and his church. Before
you leave me, give me your blessing.''
^ On condition you give me yours,'*
said the Oratorian ; .imd blessing each
other, the friends parted for ever on
earth. His bodily sufferings were
severe. His bones were nearly through
his skin, and his cough shook him to
pieces. He grew weaker and weaker,
and at last the end came. ^ Give me
the crucifix, sister," said he to the
nursing sbter who attended on him ;
<< not mine, but yours, that has so often
rested on dying lips. If I die to-mor-
row, mother, it will be my first com-
munion anniversary." ^ Dear child,"
she answered, weeping, ''we were
both happy that day." "WeU," he
answered, " we must be still happier
to-morrow."
The agony came on ; he kissed the
crucifix again and again, murmuring,
"• Lord, have pity on me ; Jesus, take
me soon ; Jesus, soon." Suddenly a
great terror seized him ; his eyes were
dilated with fear, ganng at something
invisible to all around ; and he cried
out, " I am afraid, I am afraid."
The Abb6 Beroard said, " You most
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MO
SonneL
not fear God; abandon jounelf to
his mercy, and saj, In thee, Lord,
ha^e I hoped ; let me not be confotind-
ed for ever."
He looked at hhn and said, '^ It is
not God whom I fear ; oh ! no^ I fear
that they will present mj dying."
Then he grew calm.
The abb6 brought him the cross of
P^ Lacordaire, and said, ^ My God,
I love thee with all my heart in time
and in eternity.''
H>h ! yes, with all my heart," he said,
kissing the image of his Lord. It was
his last act and his last words.
^ Depart, O Christian soal !" prayed
his friends Charles and Adolphe Per-
read.
'* I absolve thee from all thy sins,"
said the Abb6 Bernard ; and in a few
minntes the last struggle was over,
and his soul was set free.
Among his papers was found the
foUowing :
**In &e name of the Father, Son,
and Holy Ghost. I die in the faith of
the Catholic Church, to whose service
since I was twelve years old I have
had the happiness of oonsecratzng my
life.
^ I tenderly bless my relations and
friends ; I implore all those who re*
member me to pray for a long time
for my sonl, that God, taming away
from the sight of my sins, may deign
to receive me into the place of eternal
rest and happiness. I bless once again
all those who are dear to me — ^my re-
lations, my benefactors, my masters,
my fathers and brothers in the priest-
hood, my spiritual sons, the number of
dear young people who have loved me,
all the souls to whom I have been
nnited on earth by the tie of the same
fiiith and the same love in Jesas
Christ."
The inscription on his tomb was
chosen by himself:
^ Lord, when I have seen thy glory,
I shall be satisfied with it"
These words were as a key to his
life. An insatiable, ardent desire for
God had possessed him, animated his ac-
tions ; and at last the veiy ardor of his
longings wore out the feeble body that
endosed so grand and beautiful a souL
from The DabUn UnlTenilj MugaiiiM.
SONNET.
TJpoir a rose-tree bending o'er a river
A bird from spring to summer gaily sang ;
For love of its sweet friend, the rose, for ever
lis beating heart with happy music rang,
In sunshine warm and moonlight by the shore.
Whose waves afar its voice melodious bore,
Blent with its own. But when, alas ! the sere
Grey autumn came, withering those blooms so dear,
Still full of love but full of si^ness too.
Changed the sweet song as changed the resets hue
Mourning each day some rich leaf disappear
Until the last had dropped into the stream,
Anguished by wintry breezes blowing keen.
Then, on the bough forlorn, mute as a dream.
Awhile the poor bird clung, and soon was seen no more.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Qtrdinal Ibiti,
m
from Once » Week.
CARDINAL TOSTI.
BT BE86IB BATHOB PABKB8.
It wbs in the afternoon of Fndaj,
the 2dd of March, that Borne heard of
the death of the ^ learned and vener-
«able Tofiti.'* This aged cardinal, long
the director of the great establishment
of San Michele, (which is a hospiti^
and school combined,) had attained to
nearly ninety years. Now he was
dead, and laid ont in state in his own
room at San Michele, whither we went
about five o'clock, and, threading the
vast corridors, which run round a
court blossoming with oranges and
lemons, ascending a long flight of
stone stairs, got into upper regions
filled with a perceptible hum, soldier
sentinels stationed by the opened doors,
who motioned us on from room to
room till we came to the last of alL
These rooms were perfectly empty of
all furniture, save a few book-ciases
under glass; but the yellow satin
walls of one, and the delicately-tinted
panels of another, showed that they
had but lately formed the private
apartments of him who was gone.
Three or four temporary altars were
erected in the «npty space, adorned
by tali unlighted candles. A thrill
crept over us as we neared that List
open door, a silent sentinel at either
side ; as we crossed the antechamber,
and came in a direct line with the
iq>erture, we saw a figure, splendidly
attired, reposing on a great sloping
couch of cloth of gold. The face of
this figure indicated extreme age ; the
brow was surmounted by the bright
scarlet berretta, which caught the light
fix>m the setting sun. The shrunken
frame was clothed in the soft purple
of its ecclesiastical rank. The hands
were crossed and held a crucifix; the
feet were turned up in new and
pointed shoes. There he lay, Car-
dinal Tosti, who for five-and*twenty
years was die handsomest of aU the
Sacred Conclave, and towered above
his brethren when they walked in
procession, drawing the admiration of
beholders.
There was no sound, as we knelt by
the dead man's couch; tlirough the
window could be seen the swift Tiber,
swollen by the reoent rains, and on the
other side of the river rose the green
slopes of the half-deserted Aventine,
with its few solitary churches, Santa
Sabina, Santa Alessio, and its gracious
crown of trees. Here had Tosti
dwelt for many a year, in rooms which
looked to the golden west. Here he
occupied himself with his books, and
with the school for industrial and
artistic pursuits which was due- to his
efforts at San Michele. I have never
seen anything so marvellously pic-
turesque and impressive as that dead
man, lying on his couch of doth of
gold, the closing scene of a long life»
which stretched back fav beyond the
wars of the first Napoleon, even to
the period when PapaLBome received
the royal refugees of the French
Bevolution.
Presently, a group of white-robed
priests entered, and began reciting the
office for the dead. This was the
signal for the gathering of a little
crowd of Bomans. Brown-oowled
monks> peasant women with their
children in arms, boys and girls with
large wondering dark eyes. To*
ge&er they crowded to the door of
tiie dead man's chamber, and knelt
upon the floor, so that above and be-
Digitized by CjOOQIC
852
Cardinal Thsti.
jond their bowed heads oonld be Been
that pale splendor upon its shining
couch. We left with reluctant foot-
steps, feeling a fascination in the
picture which it is hard to describe.
Late in the evening, an hour after
the Ave^ the corpse was to be oonvejed
by torch-light to Santa Cecilia, the
cardinaVs titular church; and at
Santa Cecilia we found ourselves in
the starry night The torches were
just entering tibe church as we drove
up ; and for some minntes the doors
were inexorably shut, and we feared
we had lost all chance of an entrance.
But we were presently admitted, and
saw indeed a striking scene! The
small church of Santa Cecilia in
Trastevere, famous as being built upon
the site of the young martyr*s dwelling,
was draped in black and gold from
ceiling to pavement, and where the
altar-piece is generally to be seen
was a great flat gold cross on a black
ground. The sanctuary was greatly
enlatged for the morrow's service, and
hung with l^ack; and in the nave,
not very far from the great portal,
rose a large empty couch, exactly
resembling that which we had seen in
the cardinal's private chamber. At
its foot was a low bier, whereon now
lay the same white image of a man
in its purple robes, and a group of
attendants crowded reverentialty
around it, flashing torches in their
hands, which formed a centre of Kght
in the dark church, reminding one of
the ftunons CcHreggio; only, instead
of the new-bom Babe, the illumination
of humanity for all time to come, was
the aged dead, no longer capable of
communicating the liYing light of in-
telligence or of faith, bniit lying in a
pale reflection under the torches, and
gathering into itself all the meaning
of the wlH^e scene.
We perceived that s<Hnething re-
markable was about to take place,
and retired discreetly behind a pillar,
that our accidental presence might at-
tract no notioe. llie truth was, that
the cardinal was abont to be laid out
for the great ftrnwal service of the
mmrow ; and by chance we had gain-
ed admission at this purely private
hour. The body was taken on the lit-
tle bier into the sacristy, and there wo
supposed that some change was made
in idle raiment; when it was brought
back the hands were gloved, and in-
stead of the scarlet berretta was a
plain skull-cap. Then, with difllculty
and much eonsnltation, but with per-
fect reverence of intention, the straight
image was lifted on to the great coudi ;
the assistant men being grouped cm
ladders, and an eager voluble monsig-
nore directing the whole. The lad-
ders, the torch-light, the mechanical
difficulty of the operation, again re-
minded me of one of those great de-
positions in which the aetaal scene of
the Cross is so vividly brought out by
art. At length the dead cardinal lay
placidly upon his cloth of gold, and
they fetched his ring to put upon his
hand, and his white mitre wherewith
to clothe his gray burs. We left
them performing the last careful of-
floes, making the strangest, the most
gorgeous torch-light group in the mid-
dle of that dark church that poet or
artist oonld conceive.
The next morning the Pope and the
College of Cardinals came to officiate
at the funeral mass. The square
court in front of Santa Cecilia was
filled with an eager crowd of Romans
and Fareitiefif with the splendid cos-
tumes of the Papal Guard, with pranc-
ing horses and old-shooed chariots,
gorgeoos with gilding and color.
They were much such a company of
equipages as may be seen in our Ken*
sington Museum, but so fresh and well*
appointed in spite of the extreme anti-
quity of their design, that oae felt as
if carried back to the days of Whitttnf^
ton, Lord Mayor of London. Into
Santa Cecilia itself we oonld not pene-
trate, by reason of the crowd and the
stem vi^lance of the soldiers, who^
attired in the red-and-yellow costome
designed by Michael Angdo, k^ a
considerable space in the nave empty
for the moment when the Pope shoald
walk from the altar to the bier. But
Digitized by CjOOQIC
JAeeOniy.
8M
through the open dooor we saw the
lights upon the black-draped altar and
in front of that gorgeous couch, with its
motionless occupant, his white mitre
being now the conspicuous point in the
picture. And when the Pope left the
dim church and came out into the sun-
sluney the brilliaat rays M upon his
Tenerable white hair and scarlet cap,
while the weapons flashed and the
crowd shouted, as he ascended his won-
derful chariot with the black horses,
and drove awaj.
MISCELULNY.
Microsecpic Plants the Cause of Ague.
— Omng to the prevalence of a^e in the
malarial district of Ohio and Mississippi,
Dr. Salisbury undertook a series of ex-
periments in 1802, with a view to deter-
mine the microscopic characters of the
expectorations of his patients. He com-
menced his experiments by examining
the mucous secretions of those patients
who had been most submitted to the
malaria, and in these he detected a large
amount of low forms of life, such as
aig88, fungi^ diatomacesBv and desmidiso.
At first he unagined that the presence of
these organisms might be accidental, but
;*epeatea experiments convinced him that
some of them were invariablpr associated
with ague. The bodies which are con-
stantly present in such cases he de-
scribes as being "minute oblong cells,
ei^er single or aggregated, consisting of
a distinct nucleus, surrounded with a
smooth cell-wall, with a highly clear,
apparentiy empty space between the out-
er cell-wall and the nucleus." From
these characters Dr. Salisbury concludes
that the bodies are not fungi, but belong
properly to the algse, in all probability
being species of the genus Palmella.
Whilst the diatomaoese and other organ-
isms were found to be generally present
the bodies Just described were not found
above the lavel at which the ague was
observed. In order to ascertain exactiy
their source, he suspended plates of glass
over the water in a certain marsh which
was regarded as unhealthy. In the wa-
ter which condensed upon the under sur-
face of these plates, he found numerous
palmella-like structures, and on examin-
ing the mould of the bog, he found it
fuu of similar organisms. From repeat-
ed researches Dr. Salisbury concludes :
(1.) Cryptogamic spores are carried aloft
above the sur&ce at nighty in the damp
exhalations which ajppear alter sunset
(2.) These bodies nse from thirty to
sixty feet, never above the summit of
the damp night-exhalations, and a^e is
similarly limited. (8.) The dav-aur of
ague districts is free from these bodies.
Use of Lime in Extracting Sugar. —
Peligot long aco demonstrated that ow-
ing to the insoluble nature of the com-
pound formed of lime with sugar, the
former substance would be a most valu-
able agent in the manufacture of the lat-
ter. Feligot^s suggestion is now b^ng
carried out on a large scale in MM.
Schrotter and Wellman^s sugar-factory
at Berlin. The molasses is mixed with
the requisite quantity of hydrate of lime
and alcohol in a large vat, and intimate-
ly stirred for more than half an hour.
The lime compound of suuar which sep-
arates is then strained oft; pressed^ and
washed with spirit All the alcohol used
in the process is afterward recovered by
distillation. The mud-like precipitate
thus produced is mixed witii water and
decomposed with a current of carbonio
acid, which is effected in somewhat less
than half an hour. The carbonate of
lime is removed by filtration, and the
clear liquid, containing the sugar, evapo-
rated, decolorized with animal charcoal,
and crystallized in the usual manner.
The sugar furnished by this method has
a very clear appearance, and is perfectiy
crystalline. It contuns, according to
polarization analysis, sixty-six per cent
of sugar, twelve per cent of water, the
remainder being uncrystallizable organic
matter and salts. The yield, of coursOk
varies with the richness and de^ee ot
concentration of the raw material; on
an average, thirty pounds of sugar were
obtained firodi one hundred- pounds of
molasses.
Digitized by CjOOQIC
854
New PiMieaHom.
£umian Cool iSeiMffvat.— Becent ez-
plorfttioDS and Burreys appear to ahow
that the Ruaaian coal resourcaa are much
Taater even than those of the United
SUtea of America. In the Oural dis-
trict coal has heen found in rarious
places, both in the east and west sides
of the mountain-chain ; its Talue being
greatly enhanced by the fiu;t that an
abundance of iron is found in the vicinity.
There is aa immense basin in the district
of which Moscow is the centre, which cor-
ers an area of one hundred and twenty
thousand square miles, which is there-
fore nearly as laige as the entire bitumi-
nous coal area of the United States.
The ooal region of the Don is more than
half as large as all of our coal measures.
Besides these sources, coal has lately
been discoTered in the Caucasus, Cri-
mea, Simbirdc, the Kherson, and in Po-
land.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
MsDxcAL Recollbctioks or THB Abmt
or THi Potomac. By Jonathan Let-
terman, M.D., late Surgeon U. S. A.,
and Medical Director of the Army of
the Potomac. New York : D. Apple-
ton k Co. 8to, pp. 194.
The preface to this Tolume announces
the intention of its author : ^* It is writ-
ten in the hope that the labors of the
medical officers of the army may be
known to an intelligent people, with
whom to know is to apprecuite ; and as
an affectionate tribute to many, long my
zealous and efficient colleagues, who, in
days of trial and danger which hare
passed, let us hope never to return,
evinced their devotion to their country
and the cause of humanity without hope
of promotion or expectation of reward."
It is a sketch of the Medical Department
ot the army of the Potomac under Dr.
Letterman*s administration, from July,
1862, to January, 1864, and affords a
concurrent view of the military move-
ments of that army during the period
specified.
Without infringing upon military de-
tails properly so called, an excellent gen-
eral idea is given of the battles fought,
and the strategic value of the great
changes of position which were executed
with such remarkable promptitude and
precision.
Dr. Letterman confines himself strict-
ly to the period of his own administra-
tion, and the account of the alterations
and improvements introduced under his
direction, and chiefly through his means,
in the working of the m^ical depart-
ment.
The system which he adopted became
the system substantially of all the ar-
mies of the tJnited States, and with oc-
casional modifications to suit particular
occasions has proved to be the best and
most efficient as well as manageable that
could have been devised. To Dr. Let-
terman belongs the great praise of hav-
ing studiously and laboriously perfected
the principles and details of these changes,
and succeeded in securing their recogni-
tion and enforcement
The total inadequacy of the old sys-
tem was painfully obvious to all compe-
tent and thoughtful observers at the
breaking out of the war. It was espe-
cially so to those who were placed in
responsible executive positions at the
front, while the authority in the rear
remained bound to its old ideas, and in-
capable of understanding the great issues
involved, and the expenditure of inde-
pendent intelligence and matSriel neces-
sary to accomplish any adequate result
The immediate consequence was an un-
necessary waste of life, of national
strength and resources, and an amount
of misery inflicted and suffering endured
which can never be computed and had
best now be dismissed for ever. These
causes led early in the war to the ap-
pointment of a young, vigorous, bold,
and undeniably able man as Surgeon-
General. He made a complete reforma-
tion in the department, and shared the
fate of reformers. He was sacrificed as a
victim to the genius of indifference^ neg-
lect, parsimony, and cruelty, which had
hitherto held undisputed or but feebly
disputed sway over the fidlen on battie-
fields and the sick of armies. This is
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New PuhUcadons*
855
not the time or place to discuss ex-Sur-
geon-General Hammond; but it is due
to him at all hands, that he bas prob-
ably been the means of mitigating the
horrors of war as respects the sick and
wounded, and promoting the sacred
cause of humanity in these particulars
to a greater degree than any man who
ever lived. The magnitude of the re-
forms accomplbhed, the magnificent
scale on which preparation was made,
and the courage to order the necessary
expenditures in the face of the time-hon-
ored but mean and timid traditions of
the Surgeon-Generars office, and the
habits of thought and action engendered
thereby in the bureaus of administration
and supply, cannot be appreciated until
some learned and philosophical physician
shall write the medical history of the
war from its humane and social points
of view.
We are disposed to give Dr. Letter-
man all the merit which his book would
seem to claim, and a much higher degree
of praise than his well-known modesty
would expect, but we cannot pass over
in silence the gigantic and unrequited
labors of his predecessor, Colonel Ohas.
S. Tripler, Surgeon U. S. A., the first Med-
ical Director of the army of the Potomac^
which paved the way for the improved
methods Dr. Letterman had the honor of
introducing. We are aware that many of
the most important were in contempla-
tion, and if we mistake not, the ambulance
system originated with Dr. Tripler. The
terrible experiences of the Seven Days
and the Chickahominy opened the eyes
of the military authorities to the tre-
mendous necessities of the case, and
made the work of medical reform com-
paratively easy. There is no teacher
like suffering, for Generals as well as
mortals.
The military mind is to a great degree
governed by the traditions of the middle
ages, when surgery was an ignoble be-
cause ignorant and consequently cruel
craft. The rights and privileges of rank
have been slowly and reluctantly con-
ceded, and every effort has been made
to deprive the surgeon of the dignity
which belongs to the combatant and a
participation in common toils and dan-
gers. These prejudices have given way
rapidly during the late war, where the
courage, skill, and self-sacrificing char-
ity of medical officers have been most
conspicuous. Many surgeons have proved
|heir manhood in most trying scenea,
and haye certainly stood fire as well as
the line and staff. The record of killed
and wounded places them on a level
with any staff corps in these respects.
Military prejudice in the regular army,
and the ignorance, stupidity, ^and arro-
gance of many Tolunteer officers, were an
obstacle to the medical department in
the beginning. They gradually gave
way under the steady pressure of intel-
ligence, courage, and determination, till
in the end ambulances became as much
respected as battery wagons, and every
able and good officer the friend, support-
er, and defender of the medical depart-
ment.
Dr. Letterman has done an excellent
service to his profession at large by his
book, which 16 another vindication of the
claims of legitimate medicine upon the
respect, confidence, and gratitude of the
public.
The work is well written and hand-
somely issued. It is a great subject, and
capable of being developed to a much ,
higher degree in extent and scope, which
we hope Dr. Letterman will have time
and opportunity to do.
The NBW-E5GLAin>BR, July, 1866.
This periodical emanates from the ven-
erable and classic shades of Yale Univer-
sity, and is edited by some of the younger
professors, two of whom are inheritors of
the distinguished names of Dwight and
Eingsley. It is marked by the refined
literary taste, polished style, and amenity
of spirit which are characteristic of the
New Haven circle of scientific and cleri-
cal gentlemen. There is very much in
the general tone of its principles and ten-
dencies which gives us pleasure and
awakens our hope for the future. We
may indicate particularly, as illustrations
of our meaning, the principle of the di-
yine institution and authority of govern-
ment; the sympathy manifested with an
ideal and spiritual system of philosophy,
and the decided opposition to the new
Bnglish school of anti-biblical rationalism.
There are several notices of recent
Catholic publications which are written
in a courteous style, contrasting very
favorably with that employed by most
Protestant periodicals. Dr. Brownson's .
*' American Republic" receives a respect-
ful and moderatelv appreciative notice.
The ''Memoir and Sermons of F.Baker''
is also honored with one winch is very
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JKw AcUmHtoM.
kind and sympathetiov expressing the
* intense and mournful interest" of the
writer in the bo<^ and still more in its
author, for which no doubt he will be
duly grateful, although we know of no
reason why his friends should go into
mourning for him during his lifetime.
The writer, after remarking that the ar-
guments contained in the book are chiofly
addressed to Episcopalians, and therefore
need not trouble any other Protestants,
throws out a couple of rejoinders to what
be supposes the author might say to these
last, if he were disposed. One of these
remarks is an assertion that the Paulists
and their brethren of the Catholic clergy
do not preach Christ Does the writer
really know nothing of the Catholic sys-
tem of practical religion except what he
has read in D*Aubign6 and the ^'Schon-
berg-Cotta" romance ? If not, we recom-
mend him to acquire more qorrect infor-
mation from our best writers. If he has
it already, we cannot understand how he
could make such a statement His wind-
ing-up apostrophe to the Paulists, **0
foolish Paulists, who hath bewitched you ?
you observe days and months and times
and years," is more witty than wise. The
Paulists observe, in common with other
Catholics, sixty days in the year as oblig-
atory, and of these fifty-two are observed
with much greater rigor than we insist
upon by the Congregationalists of New
Haven. When the writer gives us a
good explanation of his doctrine of the
Christian Sabbath in harmony with St
Paulas teaching to the Galatians, we will
cheerfully undertake the vindication of
the other eight holidays, and will en-
deavor to convince him that it is just as
reasonable to have handsome altars, sta-
tues, pictures, and flowers, in churches,
as it is to have fine churches, marble pul-
pits, frescoed ceilings, well-dressed cler-
gymen, and handsome houses with pretty
flower-gardens for these clergymen.
In our view, there is better work for
the learned scholars of New Haven to dp
than to indulge in light skirmishing with
Catholics and Episcopalians. They have
all the treasures of science and learning
at command, with leisure and ability to
use them. There are great questions
respecting the agreement between science
and revelation, the authenticity and cred-
ibility of the sacred books, the funda-
mental doctrines of philosophy and reli-
gion, pressing on the attention of every
man who thinks and cares about God
and his fellow-men. The people around
us are drifting rapidly into infidelitv and
sin. There is no remedy for this but a
reestablishment of first principles ; and
we would like to see our learned friends
apply themselves to this work. It may
justly be expected from 'such an old and
world-renowned university as Yale Col-
lege, that it should produce the most
scuid works, not merely in classic lore
and physical science, but in the higher
branches of metaphysics and theology.
J>r. Dwight was a great theologian, and
is so styled by DoUinger. Drs. Taylor
and Fitch were, both, able and acute met-
aphysicians. Since their day, we are
afraid that our friends have fallen asleep
in these departments. They set out to
reform Calvinism, to reconcile orthodox
Protestantism with reason, and to find a
method of bringing the practical truths
of Christianity to bear on men univers-
ally. In spite of their able and zealous
efforts in this direction, religious belief
and practice have been steadily on the
wane around them. As for morality,
the article on " Divorce,^' which we shall
make the topic of a separate article here-
after, makes disclosures which are in-
deed startling. We would like to have
them resume their work, therefore, once
more, from the beginning, and go back
to the most ultimate principles. In what
state was man originally created ? What
is the relation of the race to Adam?
What is original sin ? Whence the need
of a Divine Redeemer and a revelation ?
What are the means established by Jesus
Christ for the regeneration and salvaUon
of mankind ? What is the remedy for
the present deplorable condition of both
Christendom and heathendom? Of
course, the discussion of these funda-
mental questions will involve a thorough
sifting of the Catholic doctrines. We
are anxious to have it made, and when
the discussion is carried on upon funda-
mental grounds, a result may be hoped
for which cannot be gained by ^irmish-
ing around the outposts.
The clergy and people of New Haven,
and of Connecticut generally, have al-
ways been remarkable for their friendly
behavior toward Catholics. There has
never been any disposition to persecute
them, and, at present, the relations be-
tween the Catholic and non-Catholic sec-
tions of the population are just what
they should be in a land of religious
freedom. A judge in New Haven has
recently pronounced, in open court, his
decision that the Catholic religion is juafc
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65T
as much the religion of the state as the
Protestant; and the last Legishitare has
passed the most just and favcMrable law
regulating the tenure of church property
that exists in the United States. The
conductors of the ^ New-Englander '* will
surely join us in the wish that all the
people of the state may ere long become
one in the belief and practice of the pure
and complete Christian faith as Christ
revealed it
A Plea forthb Qubkv's Ekqlish. Stray
Notes on Speaking and Spelling, by
Henry AWord, D.D., Dean of Canter-
bury. Tenth thousand. Alexander
Strahan. — ^Thb Dban*s English. A
Criticism on the Dean of Canterbury's
Essays on the Queen's English. By
6. Washington Moon, Fellow of the
Royal Society of Literature. Fourth
edition. Alexander Strahan.
Among the critics of the English
press there seems to be but one opinion
concerning the merits of the two com-
batants in this literary joust ; that the
Dean is deservedly castigated, and .that
Mr. Moon is an unapproachable paragon
of literary efifulgence. However, this is
not to be wondered at These same
critics, and the English press to which
they contribute, sadly need a champion,
if we may believe his reverence of Can-
terbury. Gross inaccuracies in syntax,
unpardonable faults in style, and fre-
quently occurring examples of slip-shod
sentences would appear, from the *^ Plea
for the Queen's English," to be, on the
whole, characteristic of Uie modem Eng-
lish press.
, We, transatlantic barbarians that we
are, of course know nothing of the Eng*
lish language, and have not the pre-
sumption, we hope, to think that we
can either speak or write one faultless
sentence of the language which we in-
herit as a means of intercommunion
with our fellows. It is our duty to feel
"umble," and we do feel "umble."
But, while perusing these two books, we
have had an 'umble and an 'arty laugh
in the depths of our 'umiliation. It may
have been very sinful in us, we know,
but we could not help it As the youth-
ful culprit replied, when caught laugh*
ing in church, we say, 'umbly of course,
'« We didn't laugh, it Uughed itself I'^
At the risk of not being believed by
those who have not yet read these, two
books, we give the aitoondiog infomm-
tion that even an Bn^ishman, an edu-
cated En^shman, a dignitary of the
English diorch, a poet, whose vefses
we republished in America, (and, con-
found us, left out the u's,) not only
speaks and writes bad English, but also
on his own showing^ by the light of Mr.
Moon's volume, presumes to teach others
to do the same. Ves, these published les-
sons of the Very Rev. Dean, in speaking
and spelling, are so outrageously un-
grammatical, and so faulfy in style, that
we should not be surprised if the pre-
diction of ills antagonist would come
true, that henceforth people will speak
of bad English as Dean's English. Yet
with all its faults it is a useful book ;
and we think that neither Mr. Moon nor
the newspaper critics have done the
author justice. We do not like ** Dean's
English," and it is humiliating, even to
an American, to discover that he has
carelessly spoken or written it; but we
like the Dean's book better than we
do Mr. Moon's. We like the school-
boy's walk better than the school-
marm's. Mr. Moon's style is faultless-
ly prim and precise, and defies literary
criticism ; but we have felt, more than
once, a wish to take up some of his
exact sentences and give them a good
shaking, so as to get a little of the stiff-
ness out of them. The Dean has writ-
ten as most people speak; Mr. Moon
writes as nobody ever did or ever will
speak. We should write correctly, it is
true, but there is a comparison (however
paradoxical it may appear) even in cor-
rectness. Mr. Moon aims to write '^ most
correctly," and we -think that his style
is far less pleasing than it would have
been if he had simply written correctly.
There is such a thing as ^^ punctilious-
ness in all its stolidity, without any ap-
plication of the sound or effect of one^s
sentences." As is his style, so is his
criticism. Nothing escapes his eye ; the
want of a oomma, a sentence a trifle too
elliptical, a careless tautology, (Mr. Moon
would have us say — a carelessly written
tautological expression,) are blemishes at
which he turns away his face in rhetori-
cal disgust Nevertheless, we say again,
we like the Dean's book. It deserves to
be studied by all our young writers,
who need to be warned against the use
of many popular phrases, and have their
attention directed to common £iults in
construction. It is a lively, chatty book,
and keeps us in a good humor from the
flmt to the laat page.
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856
K(tw PuhKcatimu.
The sharp criticism of Mr. Mood is
well worth reading. It furnishes us
with an index to the blunders of the
Very Rey. Dean. So closelj has he ex-
amined these faults and calculate<l their
guilt, that he actually sums up for us,
in one instance, the number of possible
readings of one unfortunate sentence.
It contains only ten lines, and may be
read ten thousand two hundred and
forty different ways, as Mr. Moon shows
I1& Severely as he was attacked, and
despite certain personal innuendos, not
by any means creditable to his adrer-
sary, the good-natured Dean (we are
sure of his good nature, from his book)
comes off victor, in our opinion, by in-
Titing his enemy to dinner. When a
little time shall have healed the bruises
of the literary castigation he has re-
ceived, he will doubtless re-write his
book, and give us under another form
the profitable hints and helps which at
present need a more exact classification.
GosAS DB EspAf^A. Illttstratire of Spain
and the Spaniards as they are. By
Mrs. Wm. Pitt Byrne, author of
** Flemish Interiors,** etc. 2 vols.
12mo. Alexander Strahan, London
and New York. 1860.
The publications of Mr. Strahan are
well known for the taste and el^^nce
displayed in theur exterior dress. The
book before us merits a full meed of
praise in this respect ; but it is one of
the most wretched pieces of English
composition that has come under our
notice. It has a preface of forty pages,
which prefaces 'nothing, being in fact
nothing more than a few statistics of
railways, the army, the mineral and
other products of Spain, jumbled to-
eether, with no attempt at order or class-
ification. The first chapter, styled " in-
troductory," is jumble number two, on
national character, entertainments, man-
u&ctures, railways again, in&nticide,
education, authors and authoresses, so-
briety and smoking.
In the second chapter we are surprised
to find the authoress has not yet left
Dover. We thought we were in Spain
long ago. It is not until the middle of
the third chapter that we are permitted
to get to the frontier, and by this time
we confess we are tired of our gentle
guide, and decline going any further.
When we are conversing with an Eng-
lishman or an Englishwoman^ we prefiar
the Enelish language to that affected jar-
gon which consists in italicizing and
translating into a foreign language every
emphatic word. It is scarcely an exag-
geration to say that there are three or
lour such italicized foreign words,
French, Spanish, Latin, or Greek, on
each and every page of these two toI-
umes. Our readers may wish to sec a
specimen. " The first obstacle that met
us on this same bridge was a crowd of
{nimers in blouseS|" p. 26. "The ca-
thedral rather disappointed us, quoad its
outward aspect, and offers nothing wry
remarkable within," p. 27. *' There are,
it is true, some districts which present a
very curious and interesting picture en
bird's eye," p. 28. " One day it was a
fie9ta^ on which we made sure of admis-
sion, because the erUrU is Itbre on Sun-
days, and in all els€y a fietUi is synony-
mous with a Sunday ; and finally, at the
last attempt we made, on the right day,
hour, etc.,** p. 41, vol. ii. ^' Boleros and
Fandangos are national dances, but thev
are among the delanements of thtplehi^'*
p. 145, YoL iL Scattered here and there
through these intolerable pages we find
numerous examples of wit unequalled in
dreariness. Speaking of Spanish au-
thoresses the writer fiusetiously remarira,
"One or two have so far exceeded the
ordinary limits of female capacity in
Spain, as even to dip the tip of their hose
into the cerulean ink-bottle." Of the
domestic pottery she says: ^' There is
what we may call a jar-ring incongruity
between the roughness of the material
and the striking elegance of the form."
Aquatic gambculing at Biarritz, wo are
told, "is not the only gambling to be
seen there." A Tisit to the tomb of an
archbishop elicits the following: "It
is an object of great attraction, and ren-
ders the spot chosen by the archbishop
an excellent site for a tomb, as it cannot
ful to keep the memory of hiih whose
bones it coyers before all who frequent
the church, and there can be now little
left hesidei his bones. This is as it
should be. *De mcMrtuis nil nisi
honum,^ '*
Had the book been expurgated of the
hundreds of foreign words, and of all
these dead-and-alive puns, which de&oe
its pages, and the subiect matter been
arranged with the slightest view to or-
der, it would have been quite readable,
for the authoress is good-natured and
communicative, and has an eye for the
beautiful and the picturesque, as well as
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New PMUaiimt.
859
intelligence to appreciate the moral and
the useful; but, as it is, we think the
quotations we hare made from it are
quite sufficient to prore the justice of
our opinion ooncemmg it
Lettbbs of Euo^nib nsGuiBiN. Edited
by G. S. Trebutien. 12mo, pp. 468.
London : Alexander Strahan ; New-
York: Lawrence Kehoe. 1866.
Our readers have already been pre-
sented in our pages with seyeral articles
and notices of Eugenie de Gu6rin's char-
acter and writings, and they are doubtless
sufficiently familiar with both to waive
any further reflections upon either in this
place. The volume of letters before us
18) like her journal, a delicious literary*
repast, from which we rise with mind and
heart equally gladdened and refreshed.
Our space wUl not permit us to give but
one or two short extracts. ^^ 28d De-
cember, 1868. I write to you, dear
Louise, to the sound of the KadaUty to
the merry peal of bells, announcing the
sweetest festival of the year. It is, in-
deed, verv beautiful Uiis midnight eele^
bration, tnis memorial of the manger, the
angels, the shepherds, of Mary and the
infant ffesus, of so many mysteries of
love accomplished in this marvellous
night I shall go to the midnight mass, not
in hope of a pie, coffee, and such a plea-
sant dish as your nocturnal cavalier;
nothing of the kind is to be found at
Gahuzac, where I only enjoy celestial
pleasures, such as one experiences in
praying to the good God, hearing beauti-
ful sermons, gentle lessons, and, in a
quiet comer of the church, giving oneself
up to rapturous emotion. Happy mo-
ments, when one no longer belongs to
earth, when one lets heart, soul, mind,
wing their way to heaven I''
The following to M. de la Morvonnais
he must have received and read with in-
tense emotion:
Oatla, 28th Jolj, 1886.
Did you imagine, Monsieur, that I should
not write to you any more ? Oh 1 how misUken
you would have been t It w»8 your journey
to Paris, and, after that, other obstacles,
which prevented my speaking to you earlier
of Karie. But we will speak of her to-day ;
yes, let us speak of her, always of her ; let
her be always betwixt us. It is for her sake
I write to you : first of all, because I love her
and find it sweet to recall her memory ; and
then, because it seems to me that she is gkd
you should someUmee hear teims of expres-
sion that vividly reeaU her. I come, then, to
remuid you of that sacred resemblanoe so
sweet to myself when it strikes you. How I
bless God for havii^ bestowed it upon me,
and thus enabled me to do you some good !
This shall be my mission with regard to you,
and with what delight shall I fulfil it I
Do not say that there is any merit or act
of profound charity in thie acoeptatlon. My
heart goes out quite naturally toward those
who weep, and I. am happy as an angel
when I can console. You tell me that
your life will no longer have any bright
side, that I can elicit nothing from you
but sadness. I know this; but can that
estrange me— I, who loved the Marie you
weep ? Ah I yes ; let us weep over her ;
lean on me the while, if you wilL To
me it is not painful to receive tears: not
that my heart is strong, as you believe, only
it is Christian, and finds at the foot of the
cross enough to enable it to support its own
sorrows and those of others. Marie did the
same .... let us seek to imitate the saints.
You will teach this to your daughter beside
the cross on that grave whither you often lead
her. Poor little one I how I should like to
see her, to accompany her in that pilgrimage
to that tomb beside the sea, and under the
pines, to pray, to weep there, to take her on
my knees and speak to her of heaven and of
her mother. This would be a Joy to me : yon
know that there are melancholy ones.
We give only these little tastes of the
charming volume, which will find its
way, after the *' journal,*' into many a
circle, to afford in its perusal the most
unqualified delight to all its readers.
Thb Valley of Wtomxno ; the Romance
of its History and its Poetry; also
Specimens of Indian El<Muence. Com-
piled by a Native of the Valley. 1 2mo,
pp. 158. New York: R. H. Johnston
& Co. 1866.
"This little volume," says the author
in his prefatory note, **has not the
slightest claim to be either a history or
a study of romance." We are sorry
that it has not, for we cannot see that
(apart from the republication of Camp-
bell's " Gertrude of Wyoming") it has
the slightest claim to be anything else.
We thank the author, however, for giv-
ing us the following amongst the speci-
mens of Indian eloquence. It is part of
the reply of the celebrated chief Red
Jacket to a Protestant missionary^
"Brother, continue to listen. Tou say
you are sent to instruct us how to worship
Digitized by CjOOQIC
860
JSew PMieaamu.
the Great Spirit igreeably to his mlod, aiid
that if we do not take hold of the leligion
which yott teach, we shall be unhappy here-
after. How do we know this to be trae?
We understand that yonr religion is written
in a book. If it was intended for us as well
as you, why has not the Oreat Spirit given it
to us: and not only to us, but why did he
not give to our fordathen the knowledge of
that book, with the means of rightly under^
standing it? Budktr^ you
say that there is but one way to worship snd
serve the Great Spirit If there is but one
reliffion, why do you white people differ so
much about it ? Why not all ^gr€$^ a» you
€tm aU read tk$ hockt*
We should like to know what answer
the missionary made, or could make, to
that argument
ShAKX8PSARB*8 DXLDrSATIONS OF InSAH-
mr AHD SuiciDB. By A. 0. Kellogg,
M.D., Assistant Physician State Luna-
tic Asylum, Utica, N. Y. 12mo, pp.
204. New-York: Hurd and Hough-
ton. 1666.
Dr. Kellogg*s essays upon some of the
characters in Shakespeare are the evi-
dence of an expert in support and illus-
tration of the intuitire apprehension
and BcientiflG fidelity of genius to truth.
The difference between the creations
of genius and those of industry is, to a
certain degree, the difference between the
limning of the sea and the laborious
skill of the engraver. The mind gives
its unquestioning and conscious assent
to the psychological delineations of
Shakespeare, but it is doubtful if
Shakespeare ever made it a special sub-
ject of study. He was undoubtedly a
thorough reader of the ancient classics,
and a close and critical observer of the
persons and events of his own time, and
that we believe to have been the sub-
stance of his education, properly so
called.
The essay on Hamlet is the best, and
we ^uite agree with Dr. KellQeg*s con-
clusion on this much disputedsubject)
that the dramatist meant to describe a
mind unsettled by distress, and grad-
ually culminating in complete madness.
If we were allowed to draw a personal
conclusion from reading ibis book, we
should say that Dr. Kellogg is ad-
mirably adiapted for that department of
his noble profession whicn he has
chosen.
The volume is well printed and beaa-
tifully bound.
HoMis Wfthodt Havm. Being a De-
scription of the Habitations of Animals,
classed according to their Principles of
Construction. By Rev. J. G. Woody
M.A., F.L.S., etc. With new deagns
by W. F. Keyle and K Smith. Svo,
pp. 651. New York: Harper and Bro-
thers. 1866.
This is a delightful book, full of sden-
tifio knowledge communicated in the
most pleasing and attractive style. It is
admirably circulated to awaken a love
for natural science and original collection
and exploration. We consider this class
of studies of the highest value, espe-
cially on account of their reflex action on
the mind and character, and their power-
ful influence in the direction of morali^
and religion. We would suggest this
book as an admirable cue for prises in
our Catholic boarding-schools, and we
wish natural science were more prized
and cultivated in them than it at present
seems to be.
It is printed and bound in a very
handsome manner.
A Practical Gbaxm ab or thb Ekoush
Lanouaoi. By T. E. Howard, A.M.
Metropolitan Series. New York: D.
ft J. Sadlier k Ca 1866.
This is an excellent little manual for
our schools, and we doubt not that it
will come into extensive use.
It bears throughout the unmistakable
signs of having come from the hand of
an experienced teacher, from whose pen
books of this character must come to
possess any practical worth. The style
in which it is published is, to our think-
ing, and accordii^ to our experience,
unfit for a school-book. The copy sent
us would be in tatters in the hand of a
school boy before he had studied one
tenth of it
Digitized by CjOOQIC
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Digitized by CjOOQ IC
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Digitized by CjOOQIC
Digitized by CjOOQIC