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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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* 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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." 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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.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 



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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. 



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{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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 
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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 



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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 



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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« 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. ^ 



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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. «)& 



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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." 



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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* 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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- 



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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 



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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, 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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"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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MtrHaOow Eve; or^ The Test of Futurity. 



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 



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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 



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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, 



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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 . 



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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 



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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 



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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^ 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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." 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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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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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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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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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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. 



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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- 



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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- 



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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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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. 



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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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(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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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- 



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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. 



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\ 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 



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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 



^ 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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* 



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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.'* 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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 



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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/ 



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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 



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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- 



> 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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^ 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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 ! 



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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 



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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 — 



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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. 



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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- 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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." 



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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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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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, 



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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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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 



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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- 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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. 



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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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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- 



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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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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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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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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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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 



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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 



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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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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 



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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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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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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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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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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- 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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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^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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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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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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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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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." 



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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 



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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 



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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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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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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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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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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 



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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 



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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 



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/ 



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- 



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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- 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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- 



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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. 



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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?" 



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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 



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£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. 



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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 



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^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- 



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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 : 



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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 ^ 



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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 ! 



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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,- 



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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, 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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- 



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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. 



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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. 



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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* 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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* 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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' 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 ?* 



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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. 



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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. 



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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. 



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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- 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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. 



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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- 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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- 



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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. 



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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, 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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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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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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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"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. 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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// 



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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 ; 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 . . 



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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 



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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^ 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. , 



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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. 



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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* 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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, 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 : 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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.'" 



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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 



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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. 



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"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. 



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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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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, 



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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. 



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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- 



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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.* 



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** 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 



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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 



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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 



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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." 



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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- 



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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 



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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. & 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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, 



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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«- 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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^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, 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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-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 



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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- 



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&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 



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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. 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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^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 



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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 



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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- 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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&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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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^ 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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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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- 



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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- 



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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- 



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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- 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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*' 



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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* 



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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 



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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« 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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''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 



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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- 



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^ 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 



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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 



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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; 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 : 



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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." 



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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. 



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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?" 



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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. 



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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 



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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," 



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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 



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<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- 



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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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JEcce JSbmo* 



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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&ce Bomo. 



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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£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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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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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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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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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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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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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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£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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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- 



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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" 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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^ 



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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. 



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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 



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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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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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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 



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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 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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." 



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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! 



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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, 



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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- 



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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; 



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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 



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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.. 



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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 



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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* 



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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. 



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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 



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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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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 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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^ 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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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7%« Ptarl JlecUaet. 



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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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." 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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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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. 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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* 



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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 



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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- 



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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." 



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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- 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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&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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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- 



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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* 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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." 



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"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." 



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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? 



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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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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 



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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- 



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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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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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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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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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* 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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. 



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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, 



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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. 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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<^ 



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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. 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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- 



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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 



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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, 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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. 



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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 



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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 



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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.' 



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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." 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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 



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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.^* 



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^ 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 



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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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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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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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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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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 



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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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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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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 



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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." 



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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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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. 



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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- 



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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 



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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. 



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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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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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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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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 



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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 



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